Chapter 39

“They got a lot of nerve calling that there a ‘bed,’” I say, laughing.

“Technically, I think they call it a ‘berth.’”

“Technically, I’m pretty sure it’s called an ‘ironing board.’”

Eventually we find our way back to the two-chairs-and-a-table arrangement, although we’re just as happy snuggled up in the one chair. Glenwood isn’t but a three-hour drive from Denver, but the train takes more like eight to snake through the mountains, and we spend them pressed together, making very occasional chit-chat, but for the most part content to sip on the champagne he thought to bring and watch the trees scuttle past the window.

Naturally there’s a limit to how long we can sit flesh against flesh in a rhythmically rocking lounge chair and discuss current events. I’m astride his dick, working on bouncing him to climax, when the train slows into the station. “Glenwood Springs!” the conductor hollers, rapping on the cabin door.