Fantasies I [Anthology]

Alessia Brio, Leigh Ellwood, Bridget Midway, and Ann Regentin

Fantasies I Four Tales of Erotic Fiction by

Alessia Brio, Leigh Ellwood, Bridget Midway, and Ann Regentin

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Phaze Fantasies I

Phaze 6470A Glenway Avenue, #109 Cincinnati, OH 45211-5222

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. ISBN 978-1-59426-556-3 Fantasies I © 2007 by Alessia Brio, Leigh Ellwood, Bridget Midway, and Ann Regentin. All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Cover art © 2006 by Alessia Brio Phaze is an imprint of Mundania Press, LLC.

www.Phaze.com

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Alessia Brio, Leigh Ellwood, Bridget Midway, and Ann Regentin

Table of Contents ¡Pura Vida! Midnight Passions Service Recall Midnight Conversations About the Authors

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5 61 116 193 264

Phaze Fantasies I

¡Pura Vida!

Alessia Brio

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Alessia Brio, Leigh Ellwood, Bridget Midway, and Ann Regentin

Also by Alessia Brio Erotique fine flickering hungers Time Warp Coming Together: Special Hurricane Relief Edition with Will Belegon Amichu ArtiFactual San Diego Sunset Switch

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One Charlie descended the rolling metal staircase onto the tarmac at Juan Santamaría International Airport, shielding his eyes with one hand as he made his way into the terminal. Even though Stormy promised to meet him at the little café on the other side of Customs, he scanned the crowd for her anyway—eager to see her again. It had been several months since they parted company in Pittsburgh; he to promote his new company, and she to expand the presence of hers in Jamaica and Costa Rica. By the time he reached the terminal, the muggy tropical air had his shirt clinging to his back, but the cooled interior dried him quickly. His mind swirled with memories of their first encounter, nearly three years ago, when together they discovered the sensual delights of the Costa Rican rain. While ostensibly a business trip, both their private and public lives had been forever changed by the experience; their horizons expanded in ways neither anticipated. Stormy's advertising company now topped her former employer's for tourism-related accounts, and she partnered with Charlie's newlylaunched travel agency—¡Pura Vida!—whenever feasible. Together they explored exotic vacation destinations and documented the most sensual and serene aspects of their trips. Their business ventures dovetailed beautifully, and when they combined their creativity, they could make even a mosquito-infested swamp seem like the sexiest place on earth. The lucky folks who followed their travel advice invariably agreed, and their talents were in great demand—both individually and as a team. Her e-mail had simply read: Found an opportunity near Jaco. I need your advice (and I want your body). Come soonest. I guarantee it'll be worth your while. Charlie admired her moxie. Stormy didn't make requests; she gave directions—but she did so in an utterly compelling fashion. Knowing that she tolerated neither fools nor sycophants, he was

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pleased that—in spite of her wild successes—she still sought him out for both advice and sex. She could have anyone she chose, and she chose him. That fact would make any man feel good about himself. To be fair, his own accomplishments rivaled those of Stormy, and he had no shortage of offers to partner with other business—and personal—interests. Somehow, they all paled in comparison to the energy and innovation Stormy brought to both the boardroom and the bedroom. She challenged him in every way imaginable, and he realized very early in their relationship that he might never find a better partner with whom to explore new territory, both personally and professionally. Jess' uncanny intuition, Mia's diplomacy, Richard's encyclopedic knowledge of the sexual psyche, and Sam's organizational talents combined to complete their winning team's roster. If intimacy was the sun, they orbited it like planets—each independent, but each influenced by the pull of the others. Their paths crossed in varying combinations, but always cooperated to form a balanced system. While their interactions might seem seedy and tabloid-worthy to the unfamiliar, within their ranks they functioned much like a Heinlein family. Charlie spotted Stormy before she noticed him. She looked relaxed yet vibrant, sipping an iced mocha latte and chatting with a stunning young man as they awaited his arrival. Pietro, he assumed, their newest team member. When the Costa Rican government signed a long-term advertising contract, Stormy offered the former rainforest tour guide a job as manager of a local office—a move which pleased both the local business community as well as the entrepreneurial young tico. She met Pietro on the same fateful trip that brought her into his world, and Charlie suspected Pietro's would also never be the same. Stormy glanced at her cell phone and a small frown creased her brow. She rapidly punched its keypad with both thumbs and snapped it closed just as Charlie's phone beeped in the pocket of his jeans. "Where are you?" the text message read. He grinned and shot off a reply, watching her reaction as she received and read it. She stood and peered through the glass, searching for him with her hands forming parentheses around laughing brown eyes. When she spotted him, she pressed her lips to the glass, winked, and waved. Charlie fired off another text message and waited for her reply. He drew the stares of his fellow travelers as he laughed out loud at her response: "Yes, but he doesn't know it yet."

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It took another ten minutes to make it through the Customs line. The moment he stepped through the security checkpoint, Stormy pounced. Her arms wrapped around his neck and she breathed into his ear, "I've missed you!" Pietro hung back, looking a wee bit uncomfortable. Peeling Stormy off of him, Charlie extended his hand and introduced himself in halting Spanish, which earned him an appreciative nod and a brilliant smile. Gorgeous didn't even begin to describe the man! Stormy swore his looks had no bearing on her decision to employ him; that she chose him because his charisma and wit relaxed the stodgiest of government officials, and his resourcefulness enabled the office to capitalize on even the smallest business advantage. Charlie believed her, but he knew that she also appreciated his appearance a great deal. "Gracias, señor. Stormy was just telling me that ¡Pura Vida! topped its first quarter earnings by nearly thirty percent. That's very impressive for a brand new company!" Charlie grinned. "Yes, well, at least part of that is due to our alliance. We're still drawing a nice chunk of business from Stormy's Wetter Has Never Been Better campaign. Sex sells, mi amigo, regardless of what the fundamentalists would like us to believe. It's an inescapable—and wholly natural—part of who we are." "Careful." Stormy nudged Pietro's ribs with an elbow. "He's about to get preachy. Better change the subject or he'll be talking about sex all the way to the coast! The Right Reverend Charles Thomas delivering the sexual gospel." "Seeing as how it's one of my favorite subjects—correction: my all time favorite subject—I'd welcome that! He'd be preaching to the choir, though." Pietro gestured toward a battered 4x4 parked at the curb. "Shall we be on our way?" Stormy caught Charlie's eye and winked, like a predatory cat just toying with its prey before devouring it. Completely disregarding conservative business practices, the woman mixed work and play with a flair that inevitably resulted in satisfaction on multiple levels. Her irreverent attitude and blatant use of sex as a selling tool made her both an object of envy and a target of ire, but she let neither influence her decisions. Once again, Charlie admired Stormy's many talents and silently thanked all known deities for his ongoing good fortune. Pietro drove and, once they cleared the heavier traffic surrounding

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Alessia Brio, Leigh Ellwood, Bridget Midway, and Ann Regentin

the airport, the road opened before them. Stormy kicked off her sandals and propped her bare feet on the dash, tucking her gauze skirt around her legs. "It's about two hours to Playa Jaco," she informed Charlie over her shoulder, "but we need to make a quick stop at the office in Alajuela on the way. Have you eaten?" "Not since breakfast, although Jess made sure it was a hearty one— knowing I'd be with you and likely to need my strength." "Smart woman," Pietro chuckled. "I look forward to meeting her someday. Stormy says she's quite extraordinary." "Can't argue with that, and—coming from such an extraordinary woman herself—it's quite a compliment." "Flattery will get you everywhere," Stormy purred, tilting her seat all the way back until it rested in Charlie's lap. Looking up at him upside down, she ran her tongue across her lips. "Well, I could certainly eat. I vote we have an early-dinner-slash-late-lunch in Alajuela. Is the local fare okay with you, Charlie, or would you rather something a little more exotic?" He smiled at her innuendo. "You know my appetites, woman. They haven't changed. So," he shifted gears, "do you wanna tell me about this new opportunity in Jaco? Is it time for a new ad campaign? I thought the Wetter ads were still a major draw." "Oh, they are," Pietro answered, "but we think there's still an untapped market in terms of alternative lifestyles. In general, Costa Rica is fairly conservative with regard to homosexuality. It's tolerated in tourists, because they bring much-needed revenue to the country, but the local gay and lesbian community is largely underground. Jaco—and a few of the other Pacific beaches—are much more relaxed, mostly due to the demographics. They draw a younger crowd. Surfer types, for the most part." Stormy, still reclining into Charlie's lap, reached over her head and wrapped her arms around his waist. "We've already made Costa Rica muy mucho sexy to the heterosexual traveler. That was almost too easy. Now, we wanna make it desirable for the rest of the population. There, Pietro," she pointed to the billboard for Punto y Coma, a local restaurant. "They make incredible arreglados, and I'm in the mood to eat with my fingers. Anyway, where was I?" "Transforming Costa Rica into a haven for..." Charlie prompted as he leaned forward to kiss her forehead.

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"Exactly! I can count on one hand the number of vacation destinations in the Western hemisphere that really welcome that segment of the population—target them, even. Puerto Vallarta. Provincetown. San Francisco." Stormy ticked off just three fingers before she stalled. "Now, it won't be easy at the onset. We need to make the ad campaign innocuous enough that it won't ping certain radars. Once the money starts rolling in, however, we can be a little less discreet. If faced with the choice between big buckets of cash and so-called," she made quotation marks in the air with her fingers, "family values, I have no doubt which will prevail. Take the Fox Network, for example: conservatively-slanted news combined with money-making programs that fly right in the face of those so-called values. Capitalism at its finest." Pietro pulled into the office parking lot and cut the engine. "I'll just run in and grab the camera and laptop—unless you want to see the office, Charlie. It's just your basic office space, though. Nothing terribly exciting...yet." "Thanks, but I think I'd rather keep Stormy company out here." Charlie slid his hand into the neckline of her peasant blouse and rolled a nipple between thumb and forefinger. "Take your time." "Señor Charlie," she giggled as Pietro dashed into the office, "You're incorrigible! Think we could have poor Pietro squirming by the time we get to Jaco—perhaps enough to make him shed his inhibitions?" "Depends on how deep-seeded those inhibitions are, chica, as you well know! He couldn't be that conventional of a lover, though, or he wouldn't interest you. Did you have something specific in mind for the boy?" "He's not a boy—not by a long shot—and if I told you, it'd ruin the surprise. Is there anything you consider off limits in terms of a ménage?" Charlie raised his eyebrows and whistled. "Never a dull moment with you, Ms. Delgado. Think maybe I can get to know the guy a bit first before I make that decision? I mean, I just met him twenty minutes ago and you're already..." he trailed off. "And I'm already what? Finish your sentence!" Stormy affected a fake pout that—upside down—looked comical to Charlie. "I'm already eager to be sandwiched between two of my favorite lovers? Yes, I most certainly am! Is that a crime?" Charlie again leaned forward to kiss her forehead. "In some states,

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it most certainly is! Not sure about Costa Rican law. You thinkin' about riding back here with me after lunch, maybe?" "The thought had crossed my mind. We have catching up to do, after all, and I have very fond memories of you in the back seat of a Jeep." Charlie recalled that fateful night in the backseat of his rental car outside Moon Shiva Café near Monteverde. He'd tricked Stormy into drinking the Costa Rican rain water with the most delightful results. "If we do that kind of 'catching up,' we'll be lucky if Pietro doesn't run the car into a ditch! It's one thing to make him squirm. It's quite another to make him crash." "He's a big boy, Charlie. Now, gimme your free hand," she instructed, and when he complied, she pushed it into her blouse to join the other. "I have two nipples. You have two hands. Coincidence? I think not!" "Interesting observation. I have one tongue. You have one..." He stopped when Pietro yanked open the door opposite Charlie, placed the equipment on the floor, then climbed into the driver's seat. "Now, let's go..." Pietro started the car and turned to grin at them. "Um, think maybe you two could cool that off for a little while? I have to drive, after all." Charlie started to remove his hands from Stormy's blouse, but she grasped his wrists to keep him there—a move that didn't go unnoticed by Pietro. He mumbled something in Spanish and raised his eyebrows just as Charlie had done moments earlier. By the time they reached the restaurant—a few kilometers away—Stormy had that dreamy, aroused expression on her face that Charlie so adored. Rather that indulging in greasy arreglados, he'd much rather dine on Stormy's smoky, cinnamon folds—but that would have to wait until later. While some considered Costa Rican cuisine an oxymoron, Charlie enjoyed the hearty, unpretentious fare: simple foods simply prepared. The most prevalent restaurants—called sodas—were family-operated and very informal—with a chalk board serving as the only menu. The young waitress smiled coyly at Pietro and pointed to a table on the patio. "Gracias, señorita hermosa. ¿Tienes guaro y Café Rica?" When she nodded, he held up three fingers and winked, eliciting a giggle and fetching blush before she sauntered away with an extra saucy sway to her hips. As one, they paused to admire her retreat.

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"See?" Stormy told Charlie, cocking her head in Pietro's direction, "I told you he could charm the paint off the walls." Pietro grinned at Charlie and shrugged. "She's biased." "Yes, she is," Charlie agreed, "but that doesn't make her incorrect. Your good looks coupled with a complete lack of arrogance about them is...disarming, to say the least." It was Pietro's turn to blush, and Charlie wondered if compliments from other men made him uncomfortable or if there was something else at work. Stormy had a knack for sensing sexual boundaries, but Charlie didn't share that talent. She interrupted his musings when she grasped each of their hands and pulled them toward the table. "C'mon, guys. I'm ravenous all of a sudden. Let's take this mutual admiration society to the table, 'kay?" The waitress brought their drinks as soon as they sat down. She batted her eyelashes at Pietro while she took their orders, amusing Stormy and Charlie. Pietro accepted her attention with a natural grace, neither encouraging nor discouraging her flirtation. In addition to the beef and cheese-filled puff pastries, they ordered olla de carne and ceviche to share. Charlie gasped when he took a large swallow of the potent drink. "Damn, man! What's in this? Tastes kinda like...Kahlua with rum, only stronger. Much stronger." "Actually, you're very close," Stormy replied, sipping hers. "Guaro is made from sugar cane—just like rum—but it packs a more powerful punch, and Café Rica is a coffee liqueur—just like Kahlua—but, again, stronger. Pietro shouldn't have more than one since he's driving. Two will make you quite intoxicated, which you probably wouldn't notice until you stood up. Sneaks up on you, kinda like grain alcohol. Three of these and you're out for the night. I would prefer, Charlie dear, that you not have another stiff one until after I've had my stiff one, if you catch my drift." Pietro swallowed and coughed, laughing. "Woman, you are shameless! Insatiable, too, I'm beginning to believe." "Would you have me any other way? If I've learned anything over the past couple years it's that a woman's gotta go after what she wants from a man without subtlety. Men just don't do subtle very well. Women, on the other hand..." She trailed off as their food arrived, and they dug into the meal.

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"Now, look around you," Pietro urged Charlie as they ate. "Imagine these same customers in an environment that did not require discretion in terms of sexuality. How would it differ from what you see here?" Charlie surveyed the open-air dining room. There weren't many diners at that time of the afternoon, but one thing jumped out at him almost immediately. "If no one was concerned about how their relationships were perceived, those two men over there would be sideby-side rather than across the table from one another. And, they'd probably be closer to the center of the room rather than tucked away in a corner." "Yes! That's exactly the sort of observations we need—the atmosphere we want to create," Stormy nodded. "So, if we were including an image of—for example—this restaurant in an ad campaign, we'd seat the patrons accordingly. It's not Tinky Winky blatant, but more Spongebob subdued. We want natural and honest, not in-your-face stereotypes. Good call." Pietro spooned some of the marinated seafood onto his plate. "Now, when we get to Jaco we'll want to do the same sort of analysis everywhere we go. In addition to the catchy slogan, which we've yet to develop, every image used in the campaign has to reflect this type of relaxation without being too obvious." When they returned to the Jeep, Stormy climbed into the back seat and left the door hanging open. Charlie chose not to take the bait, instead closing the door after her and sliding into the front passenger seat. This earned him a combination scowl-pout that made Pietro howl with laughter. "Patience, señorita," he teased. "He knows your wicked ways and doesn't want me distracted." "I will not be denied," Stormy warned. "Delayed, maybe. Denied, never. Just wait 'til we get to Jaco!" With that ominous warning, she capitalized on the space and stretched out for a nap. Charlie used the opportunity to get better acquainted with Pietro. A good decade older than he appeared, he'd spent most of his twenties bouncing from job to job—unchallenged and bored. He wasted a few years as the pet plaything of a wealthy heiress but soon grew tired of that kept life. When he finally crossed paths with Stormy, he was ready to dedicate himself to a worthwhile venture. Just as Mia had done, he saw the ads and contacted Stormy through www.rainyseason.com when the site launched.

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"She told me," Pietro confided after they'd been on the road for an hour, "all about how you met, and—although I don't profess to understand it—about your current relationship. It sounds almost too good to be true. Does it really work?" Charlie looked over his shoulder at Stormy sleeping peacefully in the back seat. "You'd be amazed what's possible when you let go of jealousy—and when you don't confine yourself to the arbitrary relationship structures developed by those who seek to control people by controlling sex." "So, you know that we...that Stormy and I..." "Of course, I do. And, now that I've met you, I have to say I'd be really disappointed if you two weren't lovers. It's not a problem for me, amigo. I assure you. Stormy doesn't think in an either-or fashion when it comes to sex. I once did, but she corrupted me in the most delightful way. Monogamy is not an option. She has too much to share to limit herself in that way, and I—for one—am thrilled to have a place in her life." They woke Stormy, per her instructions, when they reached the coast, stopping briefly to stretch their legs and admire the many crocodiles lounging on the banks of the Tárcoles River where it emptied into the Pacific. It was easy for Charlie to believe the creatures torpid and, according to Pietro, many a scrawny cow made that mistake as they grazed along those banks. Before resuming their journey, they each enjoyed a refresco moro—the local equivalent of a smoothie, made from blackberries— from one of the cart vendors. The rest of the trip followed the coastline, and they spotted a variety of wildlife along the way—most of it in the treetops, like the scarlet macaw and the three-toed sloth. The magical ambiance of Costa Rica began to permeate Charlie's mind, absorbing his stress like a cosmic sponge. Having been in Central America for several months and only able to access her e-mail every few days from an Internet café, Stormy pumped him for the latest details about their extended family. Once the broadband cable service was hooked up in the new office space, it wouldn't be an issue. Charlie talked almost non-stop, and she drank every word. She delighted to hear that the sequel to Richard's bestselling book about overcoming sexual inhibitions topped the New York Times' bestseller list in spite of—or, perhaps, because of—the persistent

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objections of the religious right. Mia, who had been helping to manage Connor Consulting, accepted Jess' offer to become an equal partner in the venture, and its first major contract as the newly-christened Connor & Chavez Consulting involved casting a self-help documentary being produced by Sam based on Richard's latest research. Stormy squealed like a schoolgirl upon learning that Sam received funding for the project through a grant from the NEA. "I'd love to read that grant application," Stormy commented when the giggles subsided. "Oh, it was a work of art, I assure you. Every word of it true, but very carefully phrased. She used her maiden name, even, to avoid any bias based on Richard's work. I seriously doubt she'll ever get another grant from them one once they realize her intent to share the finer points of autoeroticism. I just don't think that's what they had in mind when soliciting applications for abstinence-based instruction. Sam's on a mission, though. She's determined to shine a light on sex." "Aren't we all?" Charlie couldn't argue with Stormy's assessment. In all their business dealings, they each sought to remove the stain of shame from such an integral part of life. Richard and Stormy did so much more openly than the others, but their efforts all swirled around the innate beauty of sensuality. They entered Jaco just before nine o'clock. Avenida Pastor Díaz, its main drag—its only drag, really, other than the highway—paralleled the coast and was lined with restaurants, surf shops, cabanas, souvenirs and crafts; some touristy, some eclectic. The majority of the traffic was on foot, although there were a few bicycles about. Most buildings stood no taller than two stories, especially on the ocean side of the avenue. They parked and walked the half block side street to the beach, stepping onto the sand just as the sun dropped below the horizon. A few surfers floated offshore, lazing out past the breakers, while several others surrounded a bonfire—some locals with a sprinkling of tourists, by Charlie's estimation. They motioned the newcomers to join them and, when Pietro accepted on their behalf, passed them each a cold beer from a cooler half buried in the sand. First-name-only introductions were made and talk turned to the waves. Knowing nothing of surfing, Charlie tuned out the details of the discussion and focused instead on the broad social dynamic. A peacefulness enveloped him—a markedly more relaxed

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atmosphere, even for an already laid-back tropical locale. Charlie realized that in all his travels, such mingling between local residents and tourists was rare. Did the surfing mentality inspire the mood, or was some other factor at work? Where awkwardness would exist elsewhere, Charlie found only acceptance—or indifference. These people were themselves without reservation. Cause or effect? he wondered. Even Pietro, a tico—native born—was more at ease. Talk centered on the here-and-now, with no mention of the world at large; that chaotic and violent world held at bay by an irresistible calming force. That, he knew, was but one facet of what Stormy wanted to capture and convey with the new ad campaign. It was not unique to Costa Rica, though. The group surrounding the bonfire, he realized, was a microcosm of the world at large. Comprised of people who undoubtedly behaved differently outside its sphere, Charlie mentally recorded the concrete differences between here and there: climate and setting. Any vacation destination could offer those. So, what differed here? It had to be something tangible, he reasoned. The rainfall enhanced libido. They knew that much, although all attempts to isolate the chemical difference that caused the effect had failed. Maybe, like in that Batman movie with Jack Nicholson as The Joker, the combination of several ingredients produced such a profound change. They didn't need a scientific explanation, though—just a hook. In fact, a scientific explanation would be very bad thing. It would throw a wet blanket over the fire of fascination. Ages ranged from late teens to upper fifties, Charlie guesstimated. Socio-economic backgrounds varied just as markedly. Sexuality, too. The businessman from Tulsa who would normally shun contact with the pierced and tattooed kid and his Goth boyfriend, here stood chatting amiably about souvenir shopping. Why? He wished his brother Richard could witness it and apply his psychological expertise. If they could somehow capture that magic in an ad campaign, it would undoubtedly be successful. Or, perhaps Jess would be a better choice of analyst. She had a knack for reading people. Charlie watched as Stormy finished her beer, kicked off her sandals, and waded into the darkness of the surf—holding her skirt high on her legs and laughing at the sheer joy of it. Leaving the group behind, she walked along the shore. He waited a few moments, then strolled up the

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beach to join her. "See what I mean?" she asked when he caught up to her and wrapped his arms around her from behind. She rested her head backward onto his shoulder. "It's in the air. We have to figure out a way to promote it without spoiling it. I want people to take a piece of this peace home with them and make their own lives more...more..." "Peaceful?" Charlie prompted. She turned, kissed him, then gave his backside a playful smack. "Smart ass! I'm serious about this. It's not just about business anymore. I really do believe we can make the world a better place—one vacationer at a time, perhaps, but still..." "One drop raises the ocean." "Exactly! I knew you—of all people—would understand." Stormy melted into his arms. "I've missed you!" They stood in the ankle-deep surf, kissing and swaying gently with the tide. "We've been apart too long," Stormy mumbled against his neck. "Your skin tastes new to me...unfamiliar. Now I'm gonna have to learn you all over—all over again—and I think I'd like to start right now. Hope you don't have a problem with that." Without waiting for a reply, Stormy reached for his belt buckle. Charlie glanced over his shoulder at the cluster of bodies around the bonfire, feeling exposed but reminding himself that they were probably beyond the reach of the fire's light—not that any of their new acquaintances would mind if he got a blow job on the beach. He knew better than to thwart Stormy—again. While he'd no doubts about the sincerity of her desire, he also knew she pushed the envelope of daring because he'd opted not to ride in the back seat with her: Stormy's version of payback. She whipped his belt from its loops with one insistent yank and tossed it onto the dry sand a few feet away; its clank sounded unnatural—out of place—against the backdrop of the waves. Tugging at the zipper of his cargo shorts, she reached inside with one hand and wrapped her fingers around his cock. "Better hang on to these," she said, grasping one of his hands and hooking his index finger through a belt loop, "or they'll fall into the water. I can't do it...'cause I plan to be focusing on other things." With that, she dropped to her knees, completely disregarding her own advice and soaking her skirt in the process. Charlie drained the rest of his beer

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in one long pull and lobbed the bottle alongside his belt, to be collected later. He wove his free hand through her hair as she took him into her mouth, quickly pulling him to complete rigidity. She was right; they had been apart too long. It didn't take his cock long, though, to remember her tongue and the way it deftly explored his shaft—as if memorizing every detail. Stormy, unlike any woman he'd ever known, truly savored cock. She gave head for the sheer joy of it. From her perspective, she told him shortly after their meeting that it was not an act of giving, but one of taking. "Yeah, taking control," he'd responded at the time. "I've heard other women say that." "I am not 'other women,' and it has nothing whatsoever to do with control," she'd insisted, swatting him with a pillow. "It has to do with pleasure—MY pleasure. The fact that you also enjoy it is just a fortunate coincidence. I'd want to suck your cock whether you liked it or not. So there!" It took him about a month of intense reprogramming to fully integrate her assertions into his way of thinking, not that he minded Stormy's lessons. Although he now believed her, he still felt as if he owed her an orgasm every time she blew him. No matter how many times she assured him otherwise, he couldn't quite shake that deeply ingrained notion. She'd barely gotten started when a hand landed on his shoulder, startling him from his blissful reverie and nearly knocking him off balance. "Hey, Charlie, have you seen Stormy?" He simply grinned at Pietro and looked down. "Stormy's down here," she paused her attentions just long enough to respond. "Where'd you think I would be?" Clearly caught off guard, Pietro stuttered an apology for the interruption and started to back away, but Stormy grabbed the pocket of his pants and pulled him toward her. He looked at Charlie, wide-eyed, and the older man simply nodded—removing his hand from Stormy's hair and wrapping an arm around the Pietro's shoulders. "Enjoy, amigo." "You sure about this?" Pietro asked them both, looking back and forth. Stormy responded with a muffled, "Um hmm." Charlie could tell he wanted to join them but respected their relationship as deeper—more refined—than his own. While he'd known

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Stormy just as long as Charlie, they'd not renewed their initial acquaintance for nearly a year after the Wetter campaign launched. For that reason, more so than their age difference, Pietro deferred to him. Charlie smiled and moved his hand to the back of Pietro's head, pulling him in for a kiss. After a moment's hesitation, Pietro opened his mouth and gave himself to the kiss with a soft groan vibrating under his breath. His lips felt like a woman's—soft and smooth and full—but stronger, and the surrounding skin was coarse; a delicious dichotomy. In spite of temperatures hovering in the upper eighties, the evening breeze felt cool against his wet cock when Stormy's mouth withdrew. She replaced it immediately with her hand—stroking him with a firm grip—as she turned her head toward Pietro. He gasped as she freed his cock and licked its head, and he leaned toward Charlie for another kiss. The men supported one another, as Stormy's mouth moved from one to the other—their heels sinking deeper into the sand with each wave's ebb. She held one in each hand and divided her time between them; her level of enjoyment evident in soft sighs and murmurs of appreciation. Pietro hung on to Charlie's waist with one hand while the other kept his shorts from falling into the water. He pushed himself deeper into Stormy's mouth, unable to resist the urge to move—to thrust. She closed her eyes and opened her throat, allowing him to fuck her mouth for a moment before returning her attention to Charlie. In this way, she prolonged the pleasure of both men while increasing the urgency of their release. Charlie had no idea if Pietro had any sexual experience at all with men—or any interest. He couldn't recall Stormy ever mentioning it one way or the other. He hoped, however, that their kissing was just the start of a much more in depth exploration of one another in the days ahead. The thought of fucking the young tico while he, in turn, fucked Stormy nudged Charlie over the edge into orgasm. He came deep in Stormy's throat, groaning against Pietro's mouth. Stormy returned her mouth to Pietro's cock, and it didn't take her much longer to bring him off. Charlie sucked his tongue as he came. Rising to her feet, she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and grinned at both men. "How about another beer, fellas? I could certainly use one...or two...or more." She blew them each a kiss and headed back toward the bonfire, leaving them standing in the surf with their pants undone. Charlie cocked his head in Stormy's direction, "She's somethin'

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else, isn't she?" Pietro just grunted an affirmative as he straightened his clothing.

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Two Although they had reservations at the Copacabana Hotel, they—and several of the others—ended up sleeping on the beach. The bonfire burned far into the night, and their Bacchanalia eventually calmed to pockets of quiet conversation. Blankets appeared from somewhere and were spread on the sand. Charlie woke just as dawn began to light the sky, one slice of bread for a Stormy sandwich. Carefully extracting himself from her embrace, he rose and stretched. It seemed as if the entire town still slept, including the birds perched on one foot in the small, scrubby dunes. He looked around until he located his sandals, then ventured off in search of coffee. Before he got too far, he thought perhaps he should check them into their hotel. A shower would feel magnificent, too. Charlie did an about face and returned to pilfer the Jeep keys from Pietro's pocket. It was obvious from the disarray of the hotel manager's hair that Charlie had disturbed either his slumber or some wild sexcapade. He assumed, by the look of the man, the former. With very little formality, Charlie registered and obtained their room key. He gave the man a generous tip and inquired about coffee in broken Spanish. After ferrying their bags to the room, Charlie took a quick shower and shaved. Brushing the wooly socks from his teeth approached a religious experience. By the time he left the hotel, he was a new man. Amazing what twenty minutes with access to running water will do for the mood, he mused, as he strolled down the Jaco's primary thoroughfare. At a sidewalk café, he purchased a dozen sopapillos and three large foam cups of coffee to go. With the help of a cardboard beverage carrier, Charlie returned to the beach bearing breakfast. The others still slept, so he indulged in a pastry and enjoyed the peaceful morning. Within the hour, the surfers would start to arrive and the day would begin in earnest. He leaned back on his elbows and allowed the magic of Costa

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Rica to infiltrate his soul. Of all the exotic locations he had visited—and he'd visited damned near every eco-vacation spot on the planet—only Costa Rica could rejuvenate him so completely. He had yet to figure out precisely why, though. Other destinations featured greater natural beauty or offered more luxurious accommodations, and still others had perfect weather or a wider array of available activities. None, however, matched the surreal feeling of rightness that Costa Rica inspired. During the rainy season, as they'd learned several years ago, that feeling was heightened to the point of intense aphrodisia and coupled with a marked lowering of inhibitions. Funny, Charlie thought, that he now considered the "off season" to be the season of drier weather. The reports of tourism revenues supported his shift in thinking, as Stormy's ad campaign produced results beyond even her wildest expectations. The country struggled to improve its rough mountain roads to accommodate travelers, bringing a cadre of civil engineers into the picture. Washouts were common during the rainy season, and there were times when Charlie swore the potholes were actually dormant volcanic craters. Stormy stirred as his thoughts turned toward her, making Charlie wonder if she could somehow sense them. There was certainly something otherworldly about her—wild and magnetic, like a gypsy siren. A swirl of dark hair covered her face as she rolled onto her side, masking her deceptively wholesome features and making her appear even more exotic. Her smooth, café au lait skin seemed to glow in the early dawn light, and Charlie ran his fingertips along her exposed thigh. Months ago, he stopped even trying to define their relationship— both in his own mind and to the outside world. How could he articulate something he didn't understand himself? He loved her; no doubt about it. However, most people thought of love in terms of possession, and their relationship just didn't fit into that mold. Stormy would wither in such captivity, even assuming she could be domesticated. "She's somethin' else, isn't she?" Pietro startled him, echoing his words from the previous evening. "Truly one of a kind," Charlie agreed, handing him a cup of coffee and the bag of pastries. The young man looked rested, but deliciously disheveled. Pietro nodded his thanks. "Um, about last night...I've never... What I mean is...Shit." "Hey, it's okay. Really. I do hope you enjoyed yourself, but I won't

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be offended if it's not something you care to repeat—or," Charlie paused, uncertain of how much he should nudge the man, "explore further." "I suppose I should expect the unexpected whenever Stormy's around, but I never expected that. And, to be perfectly honest, I never expected to enjoy kissing a man." Charlie felt Stormy's fingers lace his own, alerting him that she was awake and listening. Pietro, on the opposite side, couldn't have seen her movement even if he hadn't been staring at the horizon. "Look," he continued, "this is new to me. It's not without its appeal, though." "I understand completely. Felt similarly myself, once upon a time. Your country—and sleeping beauty over here—shifted my world on its axis. Actually, they kinda combined to strip away the arbitrary and leave my soul exposed to raw sensuality. It's genderless, I learned once the blanket of expectation lifted, and beyond exquisite." Stormy squeezed his hand, and he felt her mentally embrace him. Dusting his sugar-coated fingers on a corner of the blanket, Charlie changed the subject. "I checked us into the hotel, if you want to grab a shower. I'll wait here and keep the flies off Stormy. You know how she is when she wakes up—full of steam and rarin' to go. We lesser beings need a head start just to keep up. Room two-fifteen." Pietro accepted the key with a nod and, pausing only long enough to grab another pastry, set off for the hotel, alternately sipping coffee and scarfing down his breakfast. As soon as he was out of sight, Stormy stretched like a cat waking from a nap in a sunny window. "You," she purred, climbing into his lap, "handled that beautifully, sir." "I learned from a master...erm, mistress. Did you sleep well?" "Between the two of you? Of course! I plan to use you both again tonight, too. My buff bolsters." Charlie snorted. "Right. He's buff, but I'm just a bolster. Gotta admit, Stormy, he's every bit as yummy as you described." "I have excellent taste." "Hmm. If I recall correctly, you certainly do. It's been a while, though. I seriously need to refresh my memory." He took her face in his hands and kissed her. "These lips now. The others, later." "You, sir, are a tease," she purred into his mouth. "Hardly. A tease isn't willing to follow through, and I fully intend to follow through—later. What's on the agenda today?"

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"We get to work, of course. We start by people watching and brainstorming and trying to grasp what it is about this place that makes folks—even the most uptight assholes—relax. Not just physically relax, but mentally relax, too. If we had a ton of money, I'd like to conduct a study on the lasting effects. Do dickheads return to previous levels of dickheadedness when they leave this place? Immediately, or over time? If the effect wears off, how often is another dose required in order to keep dickheadedness at bay? Is it the same for everyone, or do some people need longer or more frequent immersion?" "Whoa! Slow down, gorgeous!" Charlie held up both hands, palms out, and Stormy stopped long enough to grin at him. "Charlie, you know as well as I do how much this place changes you. We could really make a difference. It's beyond business now. Think about it! What if a G8 Summit were held here? It could literally change the world—for the better!" "You know as well as I do that this place doesn't have the facilities a G8 Summit would require and," he held up a finger to keep her from interrupting, "to construct them would fundamentally alter it. We don't want that, now do we? I love your enthusiasm, sugar, but you gotta temper it with a little pragmatism." Stormy slapped the blanket with both hands and affected a pout. "Don't burst my bubbles, damn it! I'm enjoying my world peace fantasy. Dream with me. Hey!" She shifted gears abruptly. "Where's my coffee and food?" He handed her the last cup of coffee and the remaining sopapillos. "Have the rest of 'em. Dynamos need energy. Then, if you hurry, maybe you can still surprise Pietro in the shower." "Tempting, but I think I'll wait 'til later when I can get you both in there. Good clean fun. First thing I wanna do is show you guys the new hammock hostel that will soon be opening just south of here. It rivals Rockin' J's over in Puerto Viejo, believe it or not—and has hot water to boot! There's just something so very liberating about hammocks." "Don't you think its communal nature puts a damper on the sex, though? Most people don't want to go on vacation knowing they'll not have any privacy for mattress aerobics." Stormy sipped her coffee and chewed on his words for a moment. "Well, it might be a problem if people stayed in one place for their entire visit—but I can't think of a single person I've encountered who's spent an

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entire Costa Rican vacation in one location. Can you? Folks usually spend a couple days on the Gulf coast, a few days around the volcanoes or in the rainforests, and a couple days on the Pacific coast. And," she winked, "we certainly managed to sex it up while there, if you'll recall— on the beach, in the water, and even in that damned cold communal shower. We weren't the only ones being creative, either. I think it's part of the magic—and it certainly adds to the spice." "Speaking of showers...and of spice," Pietro said as he snuck up behind her, "it's your turn." Stormy squealed. "Sneaky bastard! Just for that, I'm gonna put you to work while I get ready for our day. Both of you." Ignoring Charlie's incredulous expression, she continued. "Take the camera and get us a few dozen shots of the early morning activity. We'll do the same throughout the day. Then, later, we're gonna make a slideshow so we can try to identify patterns and map out our campaign strategy. I'm convinced the key is here, somewhere. We just have to isolate it—and capture it in an ad. We can't rely on the rainy season forever. Though it's still drawing consistent business, I think we're approaching saturation—the limits of its appeal. ¡Vayamos, muchachos!" With that directive, she was on her feet and heading toward the hotel at a brisk pace. The men exchanged knowing glances, gathered the blanket and other belongings, and followed obediently. When Stormy started giving orders, it was clear that she meant business. Charlie also knew that she played every bit hard as she worked, and that when they finally knocked off for the day, she'd be eager to unwind. He leaned over and whispered something to Pietro. "I heard that!" Stormy called over her shoulder, causing both men's eyebrows to rise. While she showered, he and Pietro strolled along the main street, taking random photos. Charlie also took the opportunity to pick up a cheap foam cooler and fill it with fresh fruits, cheeses, and other nosh. He didn't want there to be any compelling reason for any one of them to have to leave that hotel room once they returned to it at the end of the day. Pietro quickly caught on to Charlie's unspoken plan and made a few additions himself, not all of them edible. On the way back to the hotel, they purchased some Flor de Caña rum and coconut milk. Stormy opened their hotel room's door just as they approached, making Charlie wonder once again about her psychopathic abilities.

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Smiling, she welcomed each of them with a peck on the cheek, motioning at the headset attached to her left ear to indicate she was on the phone. Pietro placed their purchases on the dresser, which earned them a cocked eyebrow. When she attempted to peek inside the cooler, though, Charlie pulled her away. "That's for later, boss lady," he grinned. "We've work to do first, remember?" She punched a few buttons on her phone and closed it, removing the earpiece. "Seventeen messages waiting for me and only one of any real consequence. Sam has some big news. Tell you about it later. So," she changed the subject, but not before Charlie caught the sparkle in her eyes, "speaking of work...did you note anything of interest while you were out there?" Pietro shook his head. "My eyes are too accustomed to my own country to pick up any such subtleties. I don't know why folks find peace here. They just do. My country was the first in the world to constitutionally abolish its military. It is a matter of some pride, although rather than boast of it, we simply live it and lead by example. We are passionate about peace and peaceful about passion—in equal measure. In most places, those two things are like oil and water. Here, they are inseparable." Stormy's head whipped in Pietro's direction, and her eyes lit with a fire that Charlie knew very well. "Oh! I think you're onto something there." She paced at the foot of the room's one king-sized bed, brow furrowed and gears turning. After a few moments, she stopped and shook her head in frustration. "It's hovering just out of reach. So close! I can almost taste it." "Put it on your back burner, señorita. Let's get back out in public. Maybe inspiration will strike. If we stay here much longer, another form of inspiration is gonna take over—the kind that will seriously distract us from our mission." Foot traffic throughout Jaco picked up significantly around ten o'clock. The shops bustled, but—while crowded—none took on the frenetic air Charlie often observed at other destinations. He studied the people he passed on the street. "Look at their faces. The tourist faces, in particular. There is no tension in them. No anger. No stress. The locals are only marginally less relaxed." He turned to Pietro. "Is it the time of year, or are there typically so few children here?"

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"School is in session both here and in the States," Pietro noted, "and it's a weekday. Tomorrow, you'll see more kids. What're you thinking?" He shrugged. "It's probably nothing. I'm just fishing for an explanation, but..." "But it doesn't explain how this place differs from other resorts," Stormy completed his sentence. "I getcha 'cause I've been thinking along those same lines. To use an overused phrase, we really need to think outside the box. If—and I do mean if—the magic of this place can be quantified, it will be in ways we've not yet discovered. Everything that makes Costa Rica special holds true for other vacation destinations. Natural beauty? Lots of places. Gorgeous weather? Lots of places. Beautiful, friendly people? Lots of places. And there are even lots of places that combine those things. So, what is Costa Rica's secret?" They strolled in silence for several blocks, each lost in his or her own thoughts. As the day grew hotter, more of the pedestrian traffic moved toward the beach. Unlike the Gulf coast beaches, there weren't any trees shading Jaco's. The foliage wasn't anywhere near as lush, either. Technically still classified as tropical rainforest, the air in the Pacific coastal regions carried markedly less humidity. Umbrellas sprouted in the sand, providing some shelter from the sun. The sounds of steel drums drifted on the air, giving the place a very Caribbean aura. Charlie glanced around but couldn't pinpoint the source of the music. As they walked, the buildings and businesses became further and further apart and the narrow two-lane road veered inland. They could still hear and smell, but not see, the ocean. Less than a quarter mile south of Jaco, they came upon a wide wrought-iron gate set in a colorfullypainted concrete wall. A mosaic tile path wove through a compound of small, thatch-roofed shelters. It looked familiar to Charlie, and he turned to Stormy with the question in his eyes. "I knew you'd recognize the motif," she smiled. "Same proprietor." Charlie then realized he was looking at the Pacific version of Rockin' J's. "I'd no idea! We really must spend a day or so in Puerto Viejo, okay?" "Jay's expecting us, actually. I talked to him yesterday while we were waiting for your plane to land. He said the Pimp Suite's available early in the week, if we want it." The Pimp Suite was one of only a handful of enclosed cabinas offered at Rockin' J's Hammock Hostel and was, by far, the largest. With

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its own charming little porch, it perched on the back corner atop the communal kitchen and showers, overlooking a picnic area. Sometime in years past, someone had painted "Pimp Suite" on a post near the door. The name not only stuck but gained a certain fame as the resort's honeymoon suite, of sorts. It couldn't be considered luxurious, by anyone's standards, with three beds crammed into a small room and a single bare light bulb affixed to a rafter supporting the corrugated tin roof. The snootier types would deem it downright rustic and without any charm. Charlie had a better word for it: heaven. Heaven for the Pimp Suite's rate of fifty dollars per night or, for the more adventurous, a mere five bucks per night for a hammock. The compound also featured sandy areas under thatched roofs to accommodate campers' tents. Of course, anywhere with Stormy took on an air of the divine. Perhaps, he mused, they should instead be trying to capture her je ne sais quais. Stormy's aura, if bottled, could indeed change the world—as evidenced by how much she'd influenced everyone with whom she came into contact. Would Costa Rica have the same intensity of appeal without her? Would anywhere? Charlie glanced at Pietro and found him studying Stormy's profile. The woman was mesmerizing in any setting, but here—in Costa Rica— she radiated positive energy. It was obvious Pietro felt it, too. "He's not open for business yet, or we'd be staying here," she continued, seemingly oblivious to the attention. "I just promised Jay I'd check it out and snap a few photos during the day's best light—when it's showing all the magnificent colors and patterns of the mosaic." She extracted a key from the brightly-colored satchel strung across her chest, unlocked the gate, and held it open for her partners. "Oh, would you two please stop staring at me like I'm some sort of goddess? Get inside! I promise to let you worship me later—at length." She swatted Pietro's ass as he stepped through the gateway, and Charlie resisted the urge to match her gesture with one of his own. Caught looking, though, he gave her a Can-you-blame-me? shrug and a kiss. "I like the way your mind works," she murmured into his mouth. He held her at arm's length and studied her expression. "You knew I'd like him. How is a mystery, since I don't typically respond that way to other men. But you knew. I do believe you can read my mind." Stormy grew serious. "No, Charlie. I can read your soul. I know it

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because it is so compatible with my own. Your mind simply resonates with the desires of your heart, making it seem as if I know your very thoughts. I have only to listen to my own self to know you." Her words rang true—as usual. Charlie still believed she downplayed her own magic, though. Even Jess, with her incredible empathy, didn't have the ability to project feeling onto thought. Jess' people-reading skills dealt with primal instincts, whereas Stormy had a knack for connecting with kindred spirits. When they caught up to Pietro, he was photographing the winding path leading to the beach. A matching gate guarded that point of access, even though the small cove was sheltered by rocky outcroppings on either side. No one would be crashing the place from that approach unless they arrived by boat, which appeared to be a hazardous venture. The net effect was that of a secluded tropical paradise, much like its inspiration on the opposite coast. "You're thinking of tying the new campaign to the grand opening here, aren't you?" he asked without looking away from the camera. Just as she'd done earlier, when Pietro mentioned the peace and passion dichotomy, Stormy's eyes sparkled with inspiration. "It occurred to me, yes. If the timing was right, I'd also tie it to la Día de la Abolición del Ejército. That's not 'til December first, though—almost a full year away. We'll be ready way before that, and you know how impatient I can be. Plus, we're perfectly poised to launch in time to capitalize on spring break in the States. This place will be ready for the influx by then, and..." "And," Charlie completed her thought, "this campaign needs to launch outside of the rainy season so its effectiveness can be gauged independently." He grinned at the expression on her face. "I guess I'm not the only mind reader here. I wonder, though, if the two of you have any idea what I'm thinking right now?" Even without extra sensory perception, no one—man or woman— with a pulse could miss the tone in Stormy's voice. It certainly got Pietro's attention. He placed the camera on a nearby bench and took a step toward her. Charlie moved between them to intercept. "Later," he scolded both. "We have work to do first." The directive startled Pietro from his reflexive response to Stormy's siren call, and he shook his head to clear it of the spell she cast. "You are a brave man, señor," he mumbled to Charlie, noting the expression on

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her face. "She'll thank us later, though. Trust me."

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Three The trio lunched at The Taco Bar and spent the afternoon shopping. None needed souvenirs, but the activity gave them the opportunity to interact with the shopkeepers and other tourists. There was a markedly unhurried attitude, even in the most bustling of shops. They took hundreds of pictures, both posed and candid. Making a conscious effort, Charlie began to notice things about body language that he'd overlooked before. He wondered about what some friends called gay-dar: the ability to detect a person's sexual orientation based on non-verbal cues. Until now, he'd always rejected that concept because of the stereotypes upon which he assumed it rested. Those stereotypes, he realized, were indeed Tinky Winky blatant. They required no special attention to discern. The signals he now picked up on were more in the nature of a subtle glance, a deference, a knowing half smile. It required close attention to detail, but once aware to it, his belief in gay-dar shifted into the realm of the plausible. He could understand how someone very intuitive or empathetic—like Jess, for example, and Stormy—would be very attuned to such nuance without any additional effort. Why then, he wondered, did Stormy seek him for advice on this campaign when Jess would be better able to help? Charlie knew she never did anything without a reason, even if she didn't share or couldn't articulate it. Regardless, he decided to ask her later, although he thought it likely he'd get one of her exasperating it-just-felt-like-the-right-thingto-do answers. Tired from a long day on their feet, they opted to retire to the hotel room early rather than partake of the nightlife. Clubs and casinos drew crowds, but they weren't the reason folks came to Costa Rica. They were tasty side dishes rather than the main course. The entrée would always be the ecological treasure. National parks protected over twenty-five percent of the country's territory, and it was the most biodiverse area in

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the entire world. "Oxygen, straight from the source!" his brother opined. "That is the real reason it's magic. Everyone's high on oxygen." Charlie grudgingly conceded that Richard might be onto something, but after an evening of Googling, they could find no evidence that a higher concentration of oxygen produced either an inner peace or an increase in libido, so they saw no reason to find out whether or not the Costa Rican air boasted such composition. He surprised himself by preferring that country's secrets remain hidden. Such desires were normally anathema to an analytical mind, but his thinking had shifted in more ways than one since Stormy entered his life. The mystery, he believed, was as much of a selling point as the magic. Stormy stopped to chat amiably with each and every person she encountered while he and Pietro sauntered about, picking up a couple bottles of wine and some fresh fruit to augment their earlier acquisitions. They stood on the sidewalk, admiring the ease with which she interacted with young and old, local and tourist. Granted, the atmosphere was conducive to such banter, but her gifts still shone through. She didn't allow language to become a barrier, either. Her genuine smile and welcoming mannerisms were universally understood. "Get some shots of her," Charlie nudged Pietro with his elbow, "Preferably without her noticing." Pietro nodded as he handed Charlie his purchases and darted into a nearby shop. Charlie soon noticed the camera lens peeking through a display of straw hats and sarongs. Rather than stand there looking conspicuous, he carried the bags back to the hotel and refilled the cooler with ice. Stormy and Pietro returned just as he was putting the finishing touches on a mini buffet of cheese and crackers and tropical fruit. They kicked back with some wine and tossed around their observations. While each felt the day was productive, none felt any closer to a hook than they had been that morning. "Maybe the pictures will help," Pietro offered, rising to power up the computer. Stormy agreed. "We're close—I can feel it—but our minds are getting in the way. We're trying too hard and not seeing the forest for the trees. Maybe we need to get drunk or stoned or...laid." "Well," Charlie drawled as he refilled his wine glass, "laid works for me...even if it doesn't result in inspiration. Laid always works for me."

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"Perv!" The cheese cube whizzed past his head, hitting the wall and sticking for a couple seconds before dropping to the floor. Stormy giggled at the expression on his face. She'd been in Jamaica the last time finger foods were flung at him, but he'd filled her in on all the details of the great pizza-love dinner party experiment that resulted in him and Jess finally becoming lovers. "Would you two please settle down? We've still got a bit of work to do before we get carried away with...other pursuits!" Pietro naturally assumed the mantle of task master, and Charlie found him well-suited to the role. Although he deferred to Stormy, he also provided a structure—a discipline—that her gypsy nature tended to lack. Pietro connected the camera's cable to the laptop and powered it on. The photographs began to pop onto the screen in thumbnail format, and Stormy leaned over his back to get a closer look. With the two of them consumed by the photos taken earlier, Charlie seized the opportunity to slip out onto the balcony and call Jess. He knew Stormy would not object to Jess' consultation, and he wondered again why she'd not opted to involve her in the first place. Perhaps it was simply a matter of scheduling. Jess was deeply mired in work and probably unable to make such an impromptu trip. He, on the other hand, had just wrapped up a major project and had some free time before the next took off. Mia picked up, breathless, just as the answering machine played its greeting. She waited for the recording to stop before speaking. "Charlie! Where are you, handsome?" "Jaco. Why don't you two hop on the next plane and come on down? We'd love to see you." "We? Does that mean you're with Stormy? I haven't seen her for months. I miss that vixen something fierce. How is she?" Charlie marveled that, in spite of her accent, Mia had picked up the idioms of English language very quickly. She possessed an incredible aptitude for languages and had just enrolled at Duquesne to expand her—as she put it—repertoire of tongues, a phrase that Sam found hysterically funny. "Stormy? The same as always: bossy, full of energy, and drop-dead sexy. And you?" "The same as always," she gave a throaty chuckle, "with a cherry on top. What can I do for you this evening, Señor Charlie?" "I want to pick Jess' brain. Is she around?"

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"She's outside, playing in the snow—which is where I was, too. Remember snow? No es verano aquí. We were building a snow bitch, tits and all. Is this about Stormy's new advertising idea?" "Mmm hmm. I take it she's already picked Jess' brain, then. How very interesting. I was wondering why Stormy tagged me instead of Jess." "Actually, Jess tagged you—not Stormy. She told Stormy that you were the key to this puzzle." Charlie frowned in confusion. "Well, I trust Jess...but I sure as hell don't understand her reasoning this time. I get the feeling that she wouldn't explain it to me, either." "Not likely," Mia laughed. "But, Jess did tell me that your presence is a very important part of the process. She can be spooky with that prescience at times, so I'd just go with the flow if I were you." Charlie grunted. "What choice do I have?" He exchanged a few more pleasantries with Mia before ending the call, bemused. If he was supposed to have some sort of revelation, he'd better immerse himself in the project. Returning his attention to the pictures they'd taken, he studied them for inspiration. Stormy turned her head toward him when he pulled up a chair. "I really wanted you here," she said without preamble, "and not just because of Jess' recommendation. Don't get your male ego all twisted in a knot thinking otherwise." "Am I that transparent?" he laughed, helping himself to a quick kiss and a handful of ass. "Have you two found anything of note in those pictures?" Pietro gave an exaggerated sigh as he refilled his wine glass. "Not yet. I mean, we're picking out subtle things—similar to the seating you noticed in the restaurant yesterday afternoon—but nothing that really grabs us. While those observations are helpful, and necessary for the overall mood, they're not the main thrust of the campaign. We need to find our meat." As soon as the words left his mouth, Pietro realized what he'd said and blushed. "Oh, I really don't think I'll have any trouble finding your meat." "You left yourself wide open on that one, amigo," Charlie chided him, holding his glass out for a refill. "Stormy will never pass on an opportunity for innuendo." "Meat innuendo," Stormy giggled, emphasizing each syllable. "How

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apropos." Pietro rolled his eyes at Charlie. "I think the wine's already gone to her head." "Did someone say head? One of my favorite subjects!" She sat on the corner of the bed nearest the desk and flopped backward. "Maybe even my all time favorite subject." "Now you've done it!" He pointed at Pietro and winked, grinning. "You planted that seed in her dirty mind. We can forget about getting any more work done tonight." Pietro powered down the laptop and threw his hands in the air. "Oh, no! Please...forgive me, Charlie. It just...just...slipped out." "Well, okay, but..." Charlie gestured toward the bed, where Stormy lay supine with both arms across her face, her knees still bent over the edge and feet on the floor. "What are we gonna do about that?" "That?" she chuckled, peeking from beneath her arms. "Oh, you really know how to make a girl feel special. Smooth, Casanova. Muy smooth." Ignoring her jibe, he turned toward Pietro. "You should know better, amigo. The woman had your cock in her mouth within a couple hours of making your acquaintance, if I recall correctly...in the rainforest, no less." "Hmm, yes. Yes, she most certainly did. And," Pietro added, referring to the trip that inspired the Wetter Has Never Been Better campaign, "not even twenty-four hours before that, she was riding you for the first time...and the day before that, Mia had her on the massage table. We have quite a sexual aficionado on our hands." "Will you two stop talking about me as if I'm a piece of furniture?" Pietro played along with Charlie's little game. "So, señor, what are we going to do with that?" Rather than respond with words, Charlie knelt on the floor between Stormy's knees and pushed her sarong aside. He motioned for Pietro to approach from above, and the younger man complied after pausing long enough to light a pair of candles and flick off the lights. The spicy-sweet smells of vanilla and cinnamon filled the room, and the flicker of the flames threw Stormy's shadow in stark relief against the wall over the bed. Larger than life, her silhouetted body stretched from one end of the room to the other: a lioness in repose. Charlie wondered if the scent of cinnamon took Stormy back to Baldi Termae and her first night with

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Mia, since it was such an integral part of that encounter, according to Stormy's unpublished memoirs of the trip. "Be still now, mi ángel," Pietro growled into her neck in passing as he lowered himself. "Let us adore you." Charlie held his breath, expecting Stormy to resist the directive. He knew how difficult it was for such a rebellious soul to follow instructions—even ones that would lead to great pleasure. The woman rarely relinquished control of any situation. She did not like being told what to do. Much to his surprise, she muttered an okay. Her submission awed him and made him even more determined to please her—to make the experience memorable so that, hopefully, she'd allow it again someday. At that moment, he realized that even in her surrender, she was in control. He'd no doubt she understood the effect it would have on him and on Pietro. She knew they would both appreciate it, take it as a sign of utmost respect, and be honored by her trust. Taking a deep breath, Charlie shook his head to clear it of thought and shifted his focus to action. Given the feast arrayed before him, it wasn't difficult to do. When he drew near enough to kiss the soft skin of her inner thighs, she sighed and wrapped her ankles around his back. Trapped in a prison of delicious limbs, he used his hands to blaze a trail for his tongue to follow: a touch followed by a nibble followed by a kiss, then on to the next spot. Instead of progressing steadily toward the juncture of her thighs, he varied the location so that she wouldn't know where to expect him next. Charlie felt, rather than saw, Pietro removing Stormy's camisole, and soon after heard the familiar whimper that meant her nipples welcomed the attention. Her hand made its way into her panties, and Pietro grabbed her wrist—roughly pulling it away. "No." The word jarred him back from action to thought. Once again, Charlie braced for her rebellion, and once again, the woman surprised him. He wondered just how far she'd let them go to enforce her passivity and decided to push her boundaries if she chose to assert herself again. Pietro caught his eye and winked in silent understanding before returning his attention to her breasts. Knowing how much Stormy adored having her nipples sucked, it amazed him that she could refrain from touching herself.

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"Charlie," she pleaded, dragging out the last syllable, "please." "Hush. It's our turn, remember? We'll take excellent care of you." Stormy let out a sound that was half groan and half sigh. It told him, in no uncertain terms, that she'd decided to abide by their wishes. She'd decided, he reminded himself. They hadn't taken control. She'd given it to them. Big difference. Huge. This was a new development in his experiences with Stormy, and judging by Pietro's reactions, it was new to him as well. He felt as if he'd been given a gift—a gift beyond measure—and the awesome responsibility of it sucked the air from his lungs. The difficulty she overcame to bestow this gift humbled him. Surrender didn't come easily to Stormy, and he recalled her once telling him that she could never submit to someone she did not respect. He vowed to ensure she never regretted the decision. As Charlie nipped at the lace band on her panties, he wondered why she chose this time and this place for her submission. Stormy rarely did anything without a conscious decision, even when her actions seemed impulsive. What did she expect to happen? Her breathing quickened as Charlie pulled off her panties with his teeth, but she did not bring her hands into play. They gripped the bedspread, knuckles white. As long as she could channel her control inward to prevent herself from disregarding his and Pietro's directives, they could avoid the need to bind her. It appeared, at least for the time being, that she was doing just that. For someone so impulsive and rebellious, that couldn't be easy. He admired her resolve. The scent of Stormy's arousal overtook his mind and reflex threatened to overcome deliberation. He fought for control of his own desires—the overwhelming urge to bury his face between her legs—and instead concentrated on testing the limits of her will. If she could override her impulses, then so could he! With Pietro focused on tormenting her above the waist, Charlie partook of her luscious legs. Every few moments, he diverted his attention to nibble on her labia, being very careful to avoid her clit. Each time, she struggled not to grind into his face. Each time, she inched closer to breaking the verbal ties that bound her. Pietro matched Charlie's pattern—intensifying his attack on her nipples when Charlie approached her pussy and drawing away when Charlie retreated. Charlie wanted to run his tongue up the length of

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Stormy's slit and suck her deeply into his mouth, but he resisted. The night's adventure wasn't about his desires at all. He always believed her pleasure took precedence, but she seldom remained passive enough for him to take his time. The urgency and determination with which she typically attacked sex fueled his own passions, making it nearly impossible for him to even attempt to slow and savor the ride. Stormy whisper-chanted a song of both pleasure and purpose as she surrendered to their hands and tongues. The tension in her muscles grew until she thrummed like a stringed instrument with every new touch; her gasps providing percussive accompaniment. They struck chords in her body, and she writhed to its harmonic rhythms. And yet, while she gave her body to them, she remained in control of her mind. As long as she fought herself, she also fought her climax. Charlie knew this from his own experiences with control. She challenged them with her passive body and impassive mind; dared them to break her wall of will and free the orgasm trapped inside. It was their reward, not hers, and she wasn't going to give it up without a fight. Any physical restraint paled in comparison to the mental armor she wore. Unlike others' varied reasons for submission, Stormy needed no one's permission to be her true sexual self—no one's control to release a repressed inner slut. No, not Stormy. Charlie knew that she intentionally held herself in reserve, and that they'd have to work for and to her satisfaction. Teamed with Pietro, he felt up to the challenge. Her head whipped from side to side as Pietro assaulted her nipples with his teeth and tongue, pausing every so often to kiss her. "Let it go," he growled into her mouth. "Let...it...go!" Through clenched teeth, she replied, "Make me." It both pleased and surprised Charlie to discover that Pietro understood Stormy's resistance. The younger man obviously knew her very well. Abandoning his careful approach, Charlie decided it was time to stop teasing and really turn up the heat. He caught Pietro's eye and a silent signal passed between them—a pact, of sorts. The skin of Stormy's inner thighs tasted of chocolate. She had no use for expensive perfumes, opting instead to use pure cocoa bean oil. The scent, carried on her own sweet musk, made Charlie's mouth water. He poised over her pussy and inhaled deeply, holding his breath and allowing her to infuse him. Her arousal was evident, and he traced a finger through her folds, following the trail of wetness into the crack of

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her ass. Rimming her with her own juices, he lowered his mouth to her sex. Hovering—scant millimeters from contact—the heat of his breath made her moan in anticipation, and when he worked a finger into her ass, she bucked right into his mouth. The involuntary reaction seemed to anger her, and she tried to pull away, only to find herself held in place by his hands. As Pietro continued adoring her breasts, Charlie's tongue deftly explored her clit. He took advantage of the opportunity to savor her, but also strove to make the pleasure overwhelm her mind. The appreciative sighs, he soon realized, were his own. Peripherally aware of Pietro's movements, his actions didn't register until the smell of Stormy's body oil filled the room. Charlie lifted his eyes in time to see Pietro pouring the oil onto her breasts, and his intent became clear. Stormy thrashed as the first drops of melted candle wax landed on her nipple, and Charlie sucked hard on her clit. A guttural sound escaped her lips. Together, he and Pietro mounted a continuous tactile assault— not giving her a chance to think. With the combination of the pain and the pleasure, Stormy's body began to overtake her mind. "No!" she screamed—not to them, but to herself as she fought to maintain control of her mind. It was apparently the only word in her vocabulary, for she repeated it like a mantra. Charlie recognized the signs of her impending orgasm: the ragged breathing, the twitching of muscles in her thighs, the feverish feel of her skin. Her hands, however, were neither woven through his hair nor toying with her own nipples. They still gripped the bedspread, knuckles white. Charlie matched each "No!" with a "Yes!" spoken against her pussy, and Pietro added his voice in support with each drop of wax. He thought they were close—so incredibly close—but Stormy somehow tapped into a reserve of strength. Her hands relaxed, and her body went limp. Charlie grew concerned that she'd passed out until Pietro motioned for him to continue. As he again placed his mouth over her clit, Pietro began to speak. "No ocultarás en tu mente." Stormy groaned. "¡No ocultarás en tu mente!" Her hands curled into fists. "Let it go, Stormy!"

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A light sheen of sweat coated her body, and her back arched. After peeling the still-soft layers of wax from Stormy's oiled nipples, Pietro again reached for the candle. Charlie threw one arm blindly to his side and felt around until his hand located the ice bucket on the bureau. He grabbed a handful of the crushed ice and waited until Pietro again raised the candle over her chest. He tilted the candle, pooling its wax, and nodded at Charlie. Backing off only long enough to throw the ice into his mouth, Charlie sucked her into his mouth just as Pietro drizzled the melted wax onto her nipples. Stormy's body convulsed with her climax and a primal scream rose from deep inside. Her heels pounded his back in conjunction with each wave under his tongue, nearly knocking the air from his lungs. She sobbed, chest heaving, and threw her arms across her face. Charlie looked up at Pietro, puzzled. The gentleness in his eyes spoke of great understanding, and Charlie felt as if he'd missed something—something profound. He didn't understand why Stormy wept. It disturbed him for he'd never seen her cry. Pietro understood, though. He wrapped the bedspread around Stormy, and she immediately rolled onto her side, curling into a ball. Pietro then stood, extending his hand to Charlie. "Come with me. She needs to be alone now—to gather herself." The last thing Charlie wanted to do was to leave Stormy's side, especially following such an emotionally wrenching experience, but Pietro insisted. Given that he'd shown such empathy, Charlie reluctantly consented. He didn't understand what had just transpired, and he hoped Pietro would explain. Stormy's breathing had settled, and she appeared to have fallen into an exhausted slumber. His knees protested when he rose too quickly, and a wave of vertigo swept through him. Grabbing a bottle of wine, Charlie followed Pietro onto the balcony. They sat for a few minutes in silence—comfortably ensconced in the lounge chairs—as they passed the wine back and forth. "Have you ever..." Pietro turned toward him. "No, that was the first time—the first successful time. We tried once before, but I couldn't get her there alone. Your involvement made all the difference. She trusts you, and we... I think we make a great team." "Well, it's obvious she trusts you, too. And I think you're better at

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reading her signals. I had no idea..." Charlie paused to collect his thoughts, hoping the tinge of envy wasn't coming through. The more he observed the young man, the greater his admiration. Stormy was right: Pietro was far more than a play thing. "It was...different. Is she...?" "She's fine." "But, how did you know...?" "She told me once, almost a year ago, that no one had ever gotten her off without her making a conscious decision to allow it—to let it go. What you call pillow talk, right? She wasn't boasting or anything. And, no—before you ask—I don't think she meant it as a challenge. Not to me, anyway. It was more like an admission of a...a flaw. I got the impression that she felt was missing out on something." "Okay. I can follow that line of thinking. It's pure Stormy. But, why try again now? She..." "...never does anything without a reason," Pietro finished Charlie's sentence, nodding. "She expected something from this. What? I'm not sure. But I believe it was as much for our benefit as for hers. I've no doubt—judging by her reaction—that she achieved at least her part of the objective. What we've gained—you and I—is still up in the air." Charlie fetched another bottle of wine. Returning to the balcony, he studied the barely-visible Pacific horizon. "When I met her, she was... just coming into herself. She was ambitious and determined, but still a little wary—as if she couldn't quite trust her own instincts. I thought I was the grounded and wise one, but over the years, she's taught me so much about myself. Always gently, though—just by creating an environment conducive to growth. I never felt manipulated." "Which is exactly why she's so skilled at her trade." Pietro chuckled. "On their fiftieth wedding anniversary, my abuela was asked the secret of a successful marriage. She said something that has stuck in my mind to this day: Always make them think it's their idea. Stormy has that down to a science. We are willing putty in her hands...and you'll never hear me complain about that." "You'll never hear her complain about it, either," she added from the doorway. Both men jumped at the sound of her voice. Charlie rose and took her in his arms, bedspread and all. "You okay?" "No," she laughed. "I'm way better than just okay. Thank you—both of you. I don't think anyone else on the planet could've done what you

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two just did." Charlie held her at arm's length. "And what exactly did we just do? I mean, besides the obvious. That was about more than just getting off. I'm an obtuse guy, but I'm not totally oblivious." Accepting a glass of wine from Pietro, she walked over to the balcony's railing and leaned against it. "That's difficult to articulate. In many ways," she began, "I'm very rigid." Both men started to protest, but she held up her hand. "I don't trust easily, and even when I do, I'm still guarded. My body has never overruled my mind—until tonight. I've wanted to know if it was possible for a while now...and, in a broader sense, to gain some insight into how people subconsciously let go of their ingrained patterns of thought. It's part of our objective, after all, for this new campaign. Here, in Costa Rica, I think the body has more influence over the mind. I don't know why, though. Just another one of my kooky, improvable theories. The combination of you two and the location just brought it all together for me. Spontaneous, but perfect, timing." "Do you always analyze your orgasms? I mean, is it ever just a roll in the hay for you, or does it always have a deeper meaning?" Pietro teased. Before Stormy could reply, he stood and stretched. "I'm going to bed. I'm exhausted, for some reason." "Can't imagine why." Charlie turned to Stormy as he followed Pietro back into the room. "Coming?" She grinned and took his hand. "Well, I'm not gonna analyze that choice of words."

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Four Saturday started easily enough, although Charlie felt emotionally hungover. The previous evening's experiences still swirled in his mind. He sifted through them for deeper meaning, but their profundity still escaped him. Deciding that caffeine might help bring things into sharper focus, he extricated himself from Stormy's embrace. She stirred, but did not wake. He assumed Pietro was in the shower and, for a moment, was tempted to join him. Too soon, he decided, although the desire was certainly there. Stormy said she expected sparks, and Charlie hoped she wouldn't be disappointed. Pietro emerged from the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel, and Charlie admired his physique. "Do you work at that chest, or are you still young enough to take it for granted?" To his ears, the query sounded rather snarky, and he hoped Pietro wouldn't take offense. "For the first time in my life," he replied without rancor, "I've had to work out to maintain my fitness level. Until recently, I had an active enough lifestyle that it was unnecessary. Guiding those zip line tours was hard work...and I miss that, in a way. But, I love what I'm doing now 'cause I feel more like I'm helping my country. That means a lot to me." "Yeah, I get that. I'm gonna go find us some coffee. Join me?" Pietro pulled on a pair of board shorts and grabbed a T-shirt, nodding. They walked for a while before Charlie broke the silence, "Been to the States yet?" "Not in many years," Pietro admitted, "but as soon as I get the office here fully operational, I plan to visit. Stormy wants me to meet everyone." "I'm sure you'll be a big hit with the others. Sam, I think, especially. She's even more forthright than Stormy in terms of sexual openness."

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"So I've been told. She's your sister-in-law, right?" "In the eyes of the law, yes. In my eyes, she's a sister, a lover, a friend, and much more. Richard and I are the only blood relatives in our little family and, until your arrival, the only men." Charlie's phone interrupted their conversation. "Speak of the devil," he said, looking at the display then bringing it to his ear. "Good morning, brother o' mine. What's up?" The day took an abrupt turn as he listened to Richard's shaky voice. Pietro watched him, curiosity and concern evident in his expression. Charlie bounced from shock to fear to anger. "So, she's gonna be okay?" he finally asked, and his shoulders relaxed a bit to the reply. "No, let me tell Stormy. We can be there by evening, if you need us. Okay. Then we'll wait to hear from you again." He started walking back to the hotel as soon as the call ended, and Pietro followed in silence. While an explanation would probably be appreciated, Charlie instead spent the time trying to figure out what to say to Stormy—and how to say it. She jerked open the door as they approached and, running, threw herself into Charlie's arms. They clung to one another, not speaking, for several minutes. When Stormy let go, he held her at arm's length. "You know?" "Mia called while you were out. I was in the shower, and I missed her call. She didn't leave a message. When I called back, there was no answer—but I know something's wrong. It's Sam, isn't it?" Charlie studied her. "How could you know that?" "I never did get around to telling you her big news yesterday, did I? The keynote speaker at some fancy schmancy reproductive health issues convention took ill, and the organizers asked her to fill in at the last minute—since she'd received that documentary grant and was right there handy in Pittsburgh. Anyway, she was so excited to have the opportunity to present her findings to a room full the country's leading researchers in sexual health. "She said she was rushing around trying to pull everything together in time and mentioned that there was some controversy around the event. They were planning extra security. Mia's message last night didn't go into great detail, but I got the impression that some crackpot group had targeted the convention as a threat to decency and morality because it featured presentations that addressed health issues for same sex

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couples...and premarital sex...and abortion. All the hot button topics, y'know. The media vultures were circling, too—smelling some sensationalism. "So, spill it. What happened?" she prompted. Charlie ushered them into the room. "First things first: she's okay. Just a concussion and some minor abrasions. "That, however, is the good news. She's been accused of fraud. It won't hold up in court, of course, but it's gonna cost 'em to fight it." "Fraud?" Pietro interjected. "Now I'm really confused." "The grant application," Stormy surmised. Charlie nodded. "Someone leaked it to the media, and the zealots are insisting she intentionally falsified government documents. I picked that thing apart before she sent it—and so did Richard's attorney—and while it is definitely misleading, it's not fraudulent." "That's not the point, though," Pietro noted. "The point is to cast doubt, and they've already accomplished that. It will hurt them financially. Your legal system allows for that, does it not?" "Yeah. It's called defamation—and they have grounds to pursue charges of both libel and slander, according to Richard's attorney. Legal battles are expensive, though, and defamation is especially tough to prove. The damage has been done. While a verdict—or a settlement— might recoup their financial losses, it won't do anything to repair a reputation, especially in today's political climate." "And that reputation was already stained with sex." Stormy paced the room. "There's more. What aren't you telling us?" "The media's already connected Sam with Richard and his publications. Who do you think is next to be considered guilty by association?" "Shit!" "¡Mierda!" Charlie smiled at their simultaneous exclamations. "Exactly. Our job just got an order of magnitude more difficult." "What about Mia and Jess?" "Well, the business ties are there, of course. Can't do anything about that. But, they're a bit removed from the controversy. They should weather this without too much trouble, although I'm sure that old tabloid exposé about our relationships will resurface. It's probably a good time for us to be out of the country."

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"Well, yeah," Stormy agreed, "but we're no help to Sam and Richard from this far away. Do you think we should go back—in a show of solidarity if nothing else?" Charlie held up his hands. "I offered. Richard said he didn't think it'd serve any purpose at this point, but he's supposed to call me back. It's only a few more days, though." "A few days is an eternity in today's gossip-hungry world of instantaneous gratification. What about a preemptive strike? I have media contacts, and so do you—and so does Richard. Lots of them. We could choose one and give an exclusive..." "Time out," Pietro interjected. "I think we should head back to Alajuela and work from there until we know which way we need to jump. We'll be near the airport, and I can do some damage control with my government if needed. Given the fact that the first campaign was overtly sexual in nature, I don't think we'll have to worry about our contract. Our secular liberal government isn't as susceptible to pressures from what are—in this country, anyway—fringe groups. However, if there's pressure from the States..." Stormy started throwing stuff into her suitcase before Pietro finished making his suggestion. "We can work from the office there, and crash at Pietro's place." She looked to him for consent, and he nodded as he jammed a few items of clothing into his duffle and pulled its drawstring. "Well, it's said that there's no such thing as bad publicity," Charlie fetched his bag from the closet alcove and followed suit, "but if that was true, we'd have no need for those defamation laws. Would we now?" They'd not been in Jaco long enough to scatter their belongings, so packing didn't take much time. Once the food and drink were stowed in the cooler, they were ready to hit the road. Stormy went to the lobby to check them out while Pietro loaded the bags in the Jeep. With one last glance around the room, Charlie pulled the door closed with a sigh of regret. After all, they had planned for at least two more nights of Jaco's hospitality—and all that it entailed. Their itinerary fell victim to outside forces of bigotry and intolerance, and Charlie found that difficult to reconcile in a place so passionate about peace. The trip out of Jaco was much more solemn than the trip into it. Conversation dealt with strategy and damage control. They brainstormed and they plotted. They tried to cover every contingency with some plan

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of action, no matter how simple. Stormy and Charlie made calls whenever a wireless signal was available, staying on top of the developments. As they approached Alajuela, Stormy's phone rang with an unrecognized caller. "Ready or not, here they come," she said as she pressed the button to route it to her voice mail. From that point on, the calls rolled in at the rate of two or three each hour. At first, it was just the local news media—Pittsburgh newspapers and television stations— but by the time they unloaded their bags at Pietro's studio apartment, the national networks were also calling. Having just moved in, his bachelor's quarters didn't boast much in the way of furniture. Pietro didn't seem like the type to hang out at home, either. A large mattress, piled with oversized pillows, occupied one corner nook. The kitchen area filled another. A small bathroom separated them. The other end of the room held an old table and chairs, a desk constructed of milk crates, and an overstuffed sofa. It wasn't fancy, by any means, but it was clean and comfortable. Pietro's cupboards were bare, but they threw together a decent lunch with last night's leftovers from the cooler. As they ate, they continued to toss around ideas. "Y'know," Stormy swallowed a mouthful before continuing, "we need to see what's already been broadcast—or printed—on this whole mess before we can really decide what to do. Is that Internet café down the street open on Saturdays?" Pietro nodded. "Until midnight, I believe, although it gets crowded toward evening. Not that many locals have access from their homes yet. Businesses still comprise the bulk of the broadband business." "Okay, then. Let's go over there, pull whatever we can find, print it out, and digest it. Then we can decide how to respond to the media. Right now, I'm wary of granting any interviews. They just get twisted and quoted out of context. Issuing a statement might be our best bet." "Sounds like a plan." Charlie began putting away the remaining food. "I'll take local television, Stormy can search the local print media sites, and Pietro can hit the news wires and national networks. If we split it up that way, it won't take us long, and it should give us a good idea of which of these calls to respond to—if any. Hopefully, we'll hear from Richard again before we finish." Within an hour, they were back at the apartment with close to fifty

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pages of printed stories and a jump drive full of downloaded video clips. Pietro ran out to pick up something for dinner while Stormy and Charlie poured over the news coverage. It appeared that the frenzy focused on those aspects of the conference related to homosexuality. Sam's presentation, while under attack, wasn't the primary target. "I say we do our own press release," Pietro ventured, as the sat cross-legged on the floor eating moo goo gai pan with chopsticks. "My government respects a proactive approach to conflict. If we've done nothing by the start of business on Monday, it could look bad—as if we're guilty of something." "I was thinking along those lines, myself, but I wanna know what Sam and Richard are doing before we make a move. If they're talking to the press, we may be able to piggyback that." On cue, Charlie's phone chimed with Richard's ring tones. "I'm gonna put you on speaker," Charlie informed him after the greetings were taken care of. "That way, I won't have to repeat everything you tell me." Richard's voice echoed off the bare walls as he relayed the events of the last twenty-four hours. "Sam is home from the hospital now. They wanted to keep her a little while longer because she was still feeling kinda dizzy, but I brought her the best medicine—a milkshake—and she felt better almost instantly. We just sent a very brief note to AP stating that Sam was expected to make a full recovery and expressing our regret that some people seemed unable to protest peacefully. Our attorney advised us not to address any of the allegations of wrongdoing, so we steered clear of that. Have you been contacted by the media yet?" Stormy's laughter answered his question. "I'll take that as a yes. Here's the next question, though: Have you spoken to any reporters? I'd advise extreme caution. Avoid live interviews at all costs. Hell, avoid interviews in general. They'll just twist your words. If you can just sit tight for—" Pietro interrupted. "Excuse me, Richard, but I get the impression that you believe all this fuss is just gonna blow over in a few days. If that's the case, can we use it to our advantage while we have the spotlight?" Stormy caught Charlie's eye and winked, as if to say: See? I told you he was good.

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"Who is speaking?" Richard asked, and it prompted Stormy to make proper introductions. When she finished, Richard continued, "Welcome aboard, Pietro. I've heard a great deal about your...skills. I must admit that I'm still a little shell-shocked by the whole ordeal to think proactively, but if you can salvage a silver lining out of this mess, I'd be most impressed." Charlie seconded his brother and added, "Have you ever experienced media hysteria? I get the feeling that Costa Rica doesn't get swept away in it as much as we do back home. Don't get me wrong, amigo. I'm behind you one hundred percent." Stormy coughed into her hand at his choice of words, and Charlie winked at her. However, the innuendo just sailed past Pietro, who focused intently on the problem at hand. "We don't have the tabloid atmosphere, but controversy is common. I'm just wondering if it'd be worthwhile to emphasize that passion—even same-sex passion—doesn't have to be accompanied by violence; that there are places in which peace embraces passion. Not only might it help our campaign, but it also might leave egg on the faces of those who stirred up the whole mess." "Gracious, but he has a sexy voice!" Sam's voice interrupted. Stormy laughed. "Well, we know that bump to the head didn't hurt her libido!" "Squelching that woman's libido would be the sexual equivalent of hell freezing over." Charlie turned toward the telephone. "How are you feeling, Sam?" "Seriously pissed off. My darling husband, Doctor Dick, won't let me out of the house, and I'm in the mood to hurt someone. Those assholes threw a wet blanket over my kick-ass presentation. I'm still seeing red. He's afraid I'll just stir things up again, and—to be perfectly honest—his fears are well-founded, but so what?" Charlie could visualize the expression on his brother's face by the exasperated tone in his voice as it carried over the phone's speaker. "There are much better uses for your passion, dear heart. Leave the unpleasantness to the intolerant. You're working on a new project down there, Stormy?" "Just getting started, yes. But," she added immediately, "we don't want to do anything that will put Sam in an awkward position—or, rather, a more awkward position." Sam's hearty laughter filled the room and danced off the walls.

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"Sugar, this is nothing compared to my other sticky situations." "Alright, you two," Richard cut them off. "We've all got more important things to do than trade innuendo. I just wanted to make sure you all were up to date, and that our little scuffle here didn't throw a wrench in your plans. I trust you to do what's best. We'll be fine here. The worst, I believe, is over. The lawyers can handle the fallout behind closed doors, and that—we all know—will likely drag on for many months. I just wanted to make sure you were alright and give you an update. Good luck!" After several minutes of fond farewells, the call ended with promises to keep one another appraised of any pertinent developments. Charlie shrugged and waved the sheath of news printouts. "Now what?" Pietro collected the little cardboard cartons and, removing their wire handles, placed them in the microwave to reheat the remainder of their dinner. "Why don't we crank out a press release right now, spend the night here, and in the morning, head over to east coast? It's just a day earlier than originally planned, and we're almost a third of the way to Puerto Viejo already." "Works for me," Stormy nodded. "There's only one condition..." Charlie grinned, anticipating her next words, but Pietro cocked an eyebrow in query. "I get to sleep in the middle!" Pietro surprised them both by responding, "You had the middle last night... and on the beach the night before. In my ever-so-humble opinion, I think someone else should have a turn. Now," he shifted gears before either could reply, "let's get to work." It took them nearly three solid hours to wordsmith the press release to everyone's satisfaction. In the final analysis, the four paragraph document said nothing of consequence, but it did so in an utterly charming and laid back fashion. Pietro sprinted back to the Internet café just before it closed to upload the document to their website while Stormy and Charlie sent text messages directing their media contacts to the site. Breaking out the Flor de Caña, Stormy mixed sweet coconut milk cocktails to toast the success of their effort. The stresses of the day, their exhaustion, and the alcohol proved to be a potent combination, and contagious yawning soon overtook them.

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Charlie was the first to strip down to his boxers and fall onto the mattress. He fell asleep listening to Stormy and Pietro cleaning up the dinner mess. When he woke, sometime in the wee hours of the morning, he found himself quite cozily wedged between his snoozing companions. Stormy's bare back nestled against his chest, just as his nestled against Pietro. He could feel the younger man's breath against the back of his neck; his arm draped casually over Charlie's waist and resting along the curve of Stormy's exposed hip. Grateful to be wrapped in such comfort, Charlie took advantage of the moment to reflect on their situation. The crisis of the moment seemed to be under control, and it provided an interesting context for their objective. Charlie wondered how they could possibly use it to their advantage. By the time the campaign went live, the day's news would already be history. Other such events would undoubtedly occur, though, and while their cadre might not be directly involved, the currents of public opinion swirled around such happenings. While not all of Costa Rica's tourism originated in the United States, it comprised the largest percentage. The ads would be featured on television and radio, in newspapers and magazines, on buses and billboards, and on the Internet. Possibilities for background music and celebrity cameos floated through his mind. Nuance. Key words and phrases teased his consciousness, and he wondered what Stormy would think of them. She stirred as he thought of her, murmuring something unintelligible in her sleep. Charlie tenderly moved her hair out of the way and kissed the back of her neck. "Bathroom," he whispered in explanation, extricating himself from their embrace. The space he vacated closed as if a magnetic field pulled their bodies together, even though neither woke. When he returned, he slipped into bed behind Pietro and, wrapping his arm around both of his companions, drifted back to sleep. The morning sun peeked through the blinds, waking them shortly after dawn. Charlie hated to leave the coziness of their nest, but there was work to be done. Well-rested and with renewed determination, they opted to get on the road and put a few miles behind them before stopping for breakfast at one of the many roadside sodas. In the larger metropolitan areas, the country's magic was somewhat muted, and Charlie felt the coast calling him toward its peace.

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About forty kilometers outside of San José, Turrialba offered them an opportunity to stretch their legs, replenish their beverage supplies, and check their email. They spent the remainder of the morning in the small town. Its biggest tourist attraction was white water rafting along the nearby Pacuare and Reventazón Rivers, and its atmosphere reminded Charlie more of the Normal Rockwell version of Main Street than any place he'd ever visited outside of the United States. Once back on the road, they made good time on the descent into Siquerres and on to the semi-seedy port city of Limón. Stopping only long enough to refuel the Jeep, Pietro relinquished the wheel to Stormy, who handled the last leg of the drive south along the Caribbean coast to Puerto Viejo de Talamanca, just a few kilometers from the Panamanian border. She eased her way past the surf shops, restaurants, and local craft vendors on the bustling narrow street. After they checked in at Rockin' J's, a staff person gave them a quick tour of all the improvements that had been made since their last visit. The proprietor had left detailed instructions for his crew in the event Stormy visited while he was away on business. In the four short years since its opening, the laid-back resort had grown to encompass everything a traveler seeking relaxation might require. Rather than partake of the fare at El Charritos, the hostel's new Mexican restaurant, the trio decided to stroll back into town for a late dinner at Chile Rojo. The Pimp Suite, unfortunately, would not be available until Monday night, but the next best thing—a newly-refurbished loft in the central courtyard—was vacant due to a last-minute cancellation. The walk felt wonderful to Charlie after spending the bulk of the day in the car. While the roads from San José to the Caribbean coast lacked the outrageous bumpiness that characterized those surrounding Monteverde, they made up for it with stretches of narrow, mistshrouded, precipitous curves and considerably heavier traffic. The potholes were less frequent, but that simply made them more surprising. Puerto Viejo drew surfers from all over the world to its famed Salsa Brava, literally 'angry sauce,' which a popular boarders' blog described as: as intense as any coral reef double-up right tube in the world. The atmosphere reminded Charlie of Jamaica's less touristy locales blended with the ambiance of Costa Rica's Pacific beaches. Rastas had a substantial, albeit quiet, presence, and the smell of burning ganja occasionally wafted through the air.

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Charlie watched Pietro use his innate charm to get them a quieter table in the corner with a nice view of the street. "Do you surf?" he asked as soon as they'd ordered a round of drinks. "That's a matter of opinion," Pietro laughed. "I grew up around Santa Elena, in the cloud forest, so I'm at home in the canopy. But, I've spent a little time in the water—just enough that I don't embarrass myself on a board. I'm way out of my league here, though. I'll leave these swells to the serious surfers." Stormy winked and reached below the table to run her hands along each man's thigh. "Speaking of swells..." The men exchanged a knowing glance and continued their conversation. "I've heard it said many times that surfing is the closest you can get to oneness with the currents that flow through all things." "Ah, a Taoist perspective," Pietro nodded, surprising Charlie with the proper pronunciation. "I can see why the devotees would have that view, but the same can be said for any activity in which we place ourselves in the hands of nature or," he cocked his head toward Stormy and his tone shifted, "completely in the hands of another." "A toast, then," Charlie raised his glass. "To peace within passion." "A la paz dentro de la pasión," Pietro repeated. Stormy simply smiled and touched her glass to theirs. "Once again, you're onto something," she added after they'd each taken a drink. "Passion is, by its very nature, a violent force. To find peace within it is nothing short of profound." The waiter interrupted them long enough to take their orders. All opted for the sushi with wasabi sauce and another round of frozen margaritas. As night fell, the foot traffic along the street doubled, and the sounds of reggae spilled from various bars and shops; not loudly enough to inhibit conversation, just present and contributing to the relaxed, yet festive, mood. They monopolized their table well after the food was gone, drinking and talking as other diners came and went. Stormy flirted shamelessly with both men and, by the time they polished off their fourth round of drinks, the men flirted with one another as well. Charlie noted the familiar sparkle in Stormy's eyes each time Pietro upped the ante. He wondered how much of the bawdy banter stemmed from genuine desire and how much—if any—was due to the alcohol. Regardless, he enjoyed the repartee and knew that, if nothing more, Stormy's growing arousal

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would make the rest of the evening very interesting. The more time he spent with Pietro, the more Charlie grew to respect and admire him. His initial assessment of the man, while tempered by Stormy's opinion, was that of local arm candy. Charlie felt a little guilty for allowing his own biases to outweigh Stormy's insistence that Pietro offered more than just charisma and good looks. Sexual attraction grew right along with the respect and admiration until Charlie found himself unable to look away from Pietro's mouth. The memory of his full, soft lips filled Charlie's mind, and he wanted nothing more at that moment than to feel them circling his cock. His head swam with the image, making him question his own sobriety. Stormy drew his attention with a hand to his cheek, turning his head toward her. "Charlie..." Her voice pulled his eyes into focus, and he found her smiling at him. "I'm gonna take care of the check and use the ladies' room. Be right back." She kissed his cheek as he rose. Stormy seemed to take the comfort with her, for what remained in her absence was an awkward silence. Absorbed in his thoughts, Charlie stared into his drink. When Pietro made small talk, he answered, but the words carried no meaning to him. It was his tone—and his cadence— that made Charlie's mind dance with the possibilities. He shook his head to clear it, wondering if he'd had too much to drink or if his desire for the man sitting across the table inspired the vertigo. "She did that on purpose," Charlie opined when the fog lifted. "You mean leaving us alone? Yes, I believe she did." Draining his drink in one gulp, he stood. "Let's wait for her outside, then." Pietro grinned and pushed his chair away from the table. "Lead the way, amigo." Charlie walked slowly, expecting to feel the effects of the liquor given his earlier disorientation, but he apparently was not as drunk as he believed. That left him with the realization the feelings stemmed from the intoxicating company, rather than the tequila. Once on the street, Charlie led Pietro into the nearest shop where they browsed as they waited for Stormy to find them. In the deepest corner of the store, he stopped suddenly to admire a wooden carving

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only to feel Pietro step into his back. Blocked from view by the display of souvenirs, Charlie ran his hand around his companion's hip and pulled him closer. Pietro gasped, but didn't move away. Being roughly the same height, Charlie felt the hot exhalation as the sharp intake was slowly released against the back of his neck. He longed to feel it against his groin and wondered just how far he could push the tico. While it was clear that he enjoyed their flirting, the actual follow-through might intimidate him. They'd not spoken of the events on the beach beyond those few words the following morning. While Charlie hoped to get much more intimate, he didn't want a deer-in-the-headlights partner. He wanted Pietro fully interactive—asking, perhaps even pleading, for it. Charlie envied Stormy her many experiences with the gorgeous young man, and he intended to remedy that inequity at the earliest opportunity. Leaning to one side and turning his head, he spoke into Pietro's ear, "Get a cab to wait for Stormy. I don't want her walking alone, but you and I are getting out of here right now." "Sí." Pietro's throaty whisper caused a shiver down his spine. Charlie pulled away, reluctantly, and gestured for him to get moving. Weaving his way toward the counter, he purchased a tin of whipped cocoa butter before leaving the shop. Pietro waited just outside. If he observed Charlie's purchase, he gave no indication. Instead, he pointed to the car idling in front of the restaurant and said that its driver had instructions to transport Stormy back to the hammock hostel when she was ready. "¡Vayamos, muchacho!" Pietro slapped his shoulder and set off at a brisk pace in the direction of Rockin' J's. Grinning, Charlie turned to follow. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Stormy peeking out of the restaurant. He motioned for her to join them, but she shook her head. "Go!" she waved, mouthing the word and flashing him a brilliant smile. She held up her cell phone to indicate that she wanted to make a call. Minx, he thought as he hurried to catch up with Pietro, not believing the phone excuse for a moment. He vowed to get her back for being so devious. The crowds thinned as he distanced himself from the businesses, and it grew very dark. The half kilometer between "downtown" Puerto

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Viejo and the Bohemian-style hostel was illuminated only by wan moonlight. Charlie scanned the road ahead for Pietro, but saw only inky shadows. Leaving the light behind, his eyes adjusted to the darkness enough to avoid stumbling into a pothole. He concentrated on the road under his feet until Pietro's voice startled him. "What took you so long?" The younger man sat on a low, stone fence that lined the courtyard of a cabana-style hotel. The wrought-iron gate was propped open, and he could barely see the lights from the rental office at the end of a winding path. The municipality didn't invest in street lights and, in that particular moment, Charlie appreciated the frugality. Rather than answer with words, he stepped off the dirt road, took Pietro's face in his hands, and wove his fingers through the back of his thick, black hair. As he leaned forward, their mouths met with a hunger kept in check only by propriety. Away from public scrutiny, their stifled passion roared to the surface, and they kissed with an urgency bordering on desperation. Charlie eventually straightened his arms, attempting to read the expression on Pietro's face, but the darkness inhibited his vision. The younger man's body, however, communicated very clearly as a pair of hands grabbed the front pockets of Charlie's jeans and pulled him closer. He groaned as his thigh came into contact with Pietro's crotch. What would have been immediately noticeable in daylight became evident only through touch. Heat penetrated the worn denim of his jeans, and Charlie fought the urge to touch with more than his leg. His own cock hardened at the thought. They reluctantly separated when sounds of revelry alerted them to an approaching group of pedestrians. It annoyed Charlie that he impulsively felt the need to hide their desires. They were consenting adults, after all. With a partner of the opposite sex, such inhibitions were merely a function of modesty. In that moment, he completely understood Stormy's quest to bring peace to passion, even if just in one small corner of the planet. "C'mon." Pietro stood. The tone of his voice told Charlie that he felt the same irritation. At a half jog, it took them less than a minute to reach the bright orange concrete wall of Rockin' J's. They slipped through the gate and closed it behind them, skirting the bar with its crowd of diverse patrons. The sounds folk music and scent of hashish followed them

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along the sparkling mosaic path; present, but unobtrusive. There was nothing discordant or jarring about the atmosphere. It all belonged. They all belonged, regardless of background or orientation. Leaving the brighter lights behind, the men circled the centrallylocated structure and quickly climbed the wooden stairs to its loft. Charlie paused at the top to unplug the string of multi-colored Chinese lanterns lining the staircase; the equivalent of a Do Not Disturb sign to the other guests. The only remaining light was the glow of the bonfire on the beach, some fifty meters distant. Once again in darkness, Charlie backed his companion against a support pillar and attacked his mouth. Pietro sucked his tongue with a savage abandon. His hands tugged insistently at Charlie's T-shirt, and he stepped back to whip it over his head. Charlie opened his mouth to ask if Pietro was sure he wanted to proceed when he felt hands on his belt buckle. Any lingering questions in his mind about Pietro's desire for him floated away on the warm night air. Having received such clear confirmation, Charlie no longer felt any need to tread cautiously. He placed a hand on each of Pietro's broad shoulders and pushed him to his knees. He dropped willingly—eagerly, even—as his hands continued to unfasten Charlie's jeans. The faded denim slid over his hips and puddled at his feet. Stepping out of his sandals and pants, Charlie stood naked with Pietro kneeling before him. To one side, he could see the beach; to the other, the bar. However, due to the railing, he could only be seen from the waist up. Charlie looked down at the gorgeous man at his feet. Before he could speak, the lips he'd fantasized about earlier surrounded his cock. "Suck me!" he urged, grabbing a fistful of hair and pushing himself deeper into Pietro's throat. His opposite hand grasped the top of the railing to steady himself. The bonfire drew his eyes, but they didn't focus on it. It simply held his gaze as he thrust, almost like a dancer's focal point, keeping him balanced on his feet amidst the dizzying sensations. What he lacked in finesse, Pietro made up for in enthusiasm. Although he gagged several times, he never backed away, and Charlie was far from gentle. The guttural sounds emanating from Pietro's throat tickled the head of his cock, pushing him toward inexorable bliss. Nails raked his ass; the searing trails cooled by the near constant breeze. He tightened his fist and pulled again, eliciting another gag. "You want it?" he rasped as his orgasm began to build. Pietro

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paused only momentarily before nodding, and Charlie unloaded into his mouth with a long, low groan. When he caught his breath, he released his hold on Pietro's hair. "Damn. Get out of those pants. It's your turn." Pietro didn't speak, but he did stand and hurriedly remove his clothes. He stood before Charlie and stroked his cock. Admiring what he could see in the limited light, Charlie stepped forward to reciprocate when Pietro's hands spun him roughly around and pushed him down. His chest hit the railing, and his legs were kicked apart. Before he had time to react, Pietro again dropped to his knees. The flames again filled Charlie's vision as he felt his ass spread open and a mouthful of hot cum laved around its hole. That particular sensation—a tongue teasing his ass—was brand new to him, and the force with which it overpowered his mind took his breath away. His senses bled together until he heard the fire and smelled the music. He tasted sounds, peripherally, and realized they were coming from his own mouth. Words he'd never before spoken hung on the air, begging Pietro to fuck him. Now! Hard! His entire body screamed for the forceful penetration, and when he felt the head of Pietro's cock against him, Charlie pushed his body backward. Pietro growled and grasped his hips, fingertips digging into his flesh, as he buried himself in Charlie's ass. The burning took him from the inside out. His body moved of its own volition, meeting Pietro's thrusts. He couldn't get it hard enough or fast enough to drive the blinding desire from his mind. Charlie's world collapsed. Nothing existed beyond the white hot slide of the hard cock in his ass, filling him over and over again. It fed the embers of his earlier orgasm, stoking it until his cock throbbed for attention. Pietro picked up his pace, delivering faster and shorter thrusts as his breathing became ragged. "Yes!" Charlie managed to utter. "Please..." Pietro's hand wrapped around Charlie's hip, grabbing his cock and pumping it roughly as his climax overtook him. He fell, sweaty and breathless, against Charlie's back. His cock pulsed inside, then slid with greater ease, a balm to the burn. The world around Charlie gradually reappeared, and he became painfully aware of his own arousal—a secondary consideration until that moment. "Oh, fuck! That was hot!" Pietro jumped at the sound of Stormy's voice, and Charlie groaned

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at his abrupt withdrawal. Without the support of Pietro's hands, his legs buckled and he collapsed to the floor. Stormy gave a throaty giggle, although Charlie couldn't decide whether it was due to Pietro's surprise or his fall. Before he found his voice to inquire, she was crouched at his side, kissing his chest and face. "Do you have any idea how much I enjoyed watching you two?" she purred against his lips. Turning toward Pietro, she extended her hand. He accepted it, and she pulled him down for a kiss. "Thank you both!" Charlie chuckled and tried to sit up, but Stormy placed both hands on his shoulders to prevent it. "Not yet," she insisted, straddling him. "I found this at the bottom of the stairs. I rather doubt you bought it for this purpose but, from what I can see in this light, your chest is pretty abraded." Stormy scooped a three-fingered dollop of the cocoa butter from the tin and smeared it across his upper chest where it had rested against the railing. She held out the container to Pietro, and he did the same. The two of them massaged the ointment into his wounds, relieving the discomfort he'd not yet felt. He savored their touch and placed his desire in their hands. Focusing on the gentle glide of their fingers over his flesh, his body floated. He wasn't sure whose hand first slipperily grasped his cock, but not long afterward, Stormy straddled him and lowered herself onto it. She writhed sinuously atop him, kissing Pietro as he fondled her breasts. The dance was as tender as the previous had been violent, and Charlie gave himself to it with equal surrender. It seemed to last a very long time, and he enjoyed every second. Stormy came several times in sublime slow motion before he felt his own orgasm approach. Pietro kissed him as he fell into the bliss. He blinked then—or thought he did—and when he opened his eyes, the sun was peeking over the horizon. Charlie sat up and looked around. Stormy smiled at him and handed him her sketch pad just as Pietro appeared at the top of the stairs with a carafe of coffee and three mugs hooked through his fingers. He looked down at the paper to find a collage of images—beach scenes, the rain forest, shops, restaurants. In each, the people exhibited complete relaxation with the diversity surrounding them. An arc of text across the top read: Come for the passion. Across the bottom, its complement: Surrender to the peace.

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Midnight Passions Leigh Ellwood

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Also by Leigh Ellwood A Winter's Dare Dare Me Daring Young Man Double Dare Dulce Jack of Diamonds Jack of Hearts Jilted Muse The Healing The Stars Look Down Truth or Dare Under Covers Voyeur

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One Colleen had hoped by now, nearly six months into their relationship, that Daryl would have been more understanding. When he flopped back on her sofa and planted his boot heels on her coffee table, tearing the cover of a fashion magazine she had yet to read, her first instinct was to kick his feet away, then kick him out of the house. Her daughter Melissa, seated primly in the recliner facing them, might have championed that move. But, Melissa was too young to understand the intricacies of adult relationships. This was a minor snag, nothing more. It could be repaired; knee-jerk reactions were unnecessary. Daryl's head lolled from side to side over the back of the couch, and he sighed heavily. "Can't she stay home alone?" he whined. Colleen paced the floor behind him, cordless phone pressed to her ear, and brushed away a lock of red hair from her eyes. "She's eight years old, Daryl. She's too young to be without a sitter." She glanced at Melissa, whose attention at that moment turned away from the cartoon she was watching and fixed on her mother. Melissa's expression was cold, strongly advising Colleen to not talk about her like she wasn't there... and to not treat her like a kindergartner. "And it's not that I don't trust you," Colleen rejoined quickly. "I don't trust the rest of the world. Damn it!" She clicked the off button after the twelfth ring, cursing to herself. That was her last number, her last hope. Daryl was going to be pissed, more so, but what could she do? It wasn't her fault the babysitter canceled and that she couldn't find a last minute replacement. "Mom," Melissa called. "We don't have to go out," Colleen suggested to Daryl, her voice placating. "We could order in some pizza, rent some movies." "But these tickets are only good for tonight." Daryl waved the free movie passes in the air under Colleen's nose. The thin edge of one looked as if it might slice her skin, and she instinctively leaned back.

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Daryl had scored tickets to some slasher flick from a friend. Where anything free was concerned, Daryl was a master at acquisition. Be it free movies, free food, whatever. His thriftiness didn't bother Colleen so much; he had college loans to pay, and of course there was the promise of a new, bigger house for the three of them, as he had intimated more than once in their time together. She knew that certainly wouldn't be free. This was an R-rated movie, too, so Melissa couldn't come with them, even if Daryl could manage a third pass. "Mom," Melissa pressed. "Not now, honey." Colleen pinched the bridge of her nose. It did little to calm the throbbing in her temples. "Well, I suppose we could—" "Come on, she's gotta have some friends she can stay with for a few hours. Don't you know any of your neighbors?" Daryl interrupted. He plucked a corn chip from the bag at his hip and tossed it at the girl. "Unless you're like, some kind of nerd that nobody likes." "I have friends, and I'm not a nerd," Melissa huffed. Her long, brown hair swayed across her back as she bounced impatiently in her seat. "I'm staying over with my friend Monica tomorrow night." "And I don't really know any of the people around here," Colleen said at the same time. "You know we haven't lived here long enough to make friends..." "I'm staying over with my friend Monica tomorrow night," Melissa continued. "So, move it up," Daryl said. "I can't. Monica's mom won't let her have friends over on school nights, just Fridays and Saturdays." Colleen tapped at the phone, wishing another number would dial itself and somebody would answer. She didn't want to get into the sleepover argument with Daryl. The only reason she had conceded to the Friday night one was so she and Daryl could have the place to themselves. As much as she loved Daryl, Colleen had made it clear that he couldn't spend the night when Melissa was home. Their trysts were thus limited to the nights Melissa spent with her father, who was presently out of state on business for a few weeks. The sleepover was Colleen's only hope for sanity this month. Assuming she lived to see tomorrow night and didn't give in to the urge to go running into the street and into the path of a truck.

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"Mom!" Melissa shouted. "What!" Colleen snapped, then, "I'm sorry, sweetie. What is it that you want?" "I called Professor Spence. He said he'd come over if it was okay with you." "Professor Spence?" It had never occurred to Colleen to call her next door neighbor, and landlord. Professor John Spence lived in the adjoining townhome—the Burleighs rented the other half that Spence owned—and basically kept to himself. Colleen imagined that in the four months they lived there, she had probably spoken no more than five hundred words to the man since signing the lease. He always seemed to be coming when Colleen was going, and vice versa. He was, however, almost always home at night, and then Colleen surmised he was hardly alone, if the soft moans seeping through the wall connecting their bedrooms could be interpreted correctly. "I don't know," Colleen said warily. She would hate for the professor to have to cancel a date to babysit Melissa. Besides, even though she handed him a check for rent every month she didn't really know the man. How she could trust a practical stranger with her daughter? Daryl was out of his seat and poised to strike. "What? What's wrong with him?" he demanded. Colleen ignored him, giving her attention to her daughter. "What possessed you to bother Professor Spence? I'm sure he has better things to do with his time," she told the young girl. Melissa rolled her eyes and sagged into the recliner. "He said it was okay, Mom. He's not a stranger. I talk to him every day. Sometimes he helps me with my homework." "He does?" How long had this tidbit of information been kept from her? Colleen should have been relieved to find a sitter at such short notice, but now she felt more suspicious, to say nothing of being disappointed with herself. What else did she not know about her daughter's life and with whom Melissa spent her time? "Janie called only half an hour ago to say she wasn't coming. When did you consult with Professor Spence?" she challenged. Melissa threw her a glance that said Duh! "I walked next door while you two were yelling. It took, like, a minute." Her daughter was able to slip from her attention so quickly? What

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kind of a mother are you? "We weren't yelling, we were discussing the situation. And what were you doing—hey!" "Yelling, discussing, whatever." Daryl was shrugging on his coat and hustling Colleen toward the door simultaneously. "Can't we all say nobody's at fault so we can get going, huh? I don't want to miss the previews." Colleen was barely able to grab her purse from the recliner. It was pressed between the arm and Melissa, but the young girl moved to help Colleen dislodge it easier. Melissa's look of calm was fascinating and disturbing. "Wait," she said. But Daryl was too strong for her to resist. "He's not a serial killer, Mom. Go to the movie, have a good time," Melissa called after them, picking up the phone Colleen had discarded on the couch. "I'll call him now and let him know you're gone." "O-okay," Colleen said, but inside her stomach roiled. Sure, Professor Spence had been cordial to them for the time they lived in his building, but weren't all serial killers like that, offering pleasant personalities to hide their evil? She let herself be dragged out the door to Daryl's truck. The girl was dialing their neighbor's phone number, by memory apparently. Colleen had never known Professor Spence's phone number. She had never thought to check the lease for it and she never had cause to use it, not even for emergency situations or to check on the mail while they were away. The townhome was too well maintained for Colleen to require anything of him. Yet Melissa knew him well. What else didn't she know?

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Two The movie was terrible, interminable and ripe with trite dialogue and heaving, bare breasts. Colleen knew she should have expected as much from a low-budget slasher flick. Of course, she was going by how little she had actually seen of the movie. She had spent a good amount of time sneaking out of the theater to call home and make sure Melissa was okay. "Mom," Melissa had whined. "Stop being a pest." By the second half of the movie Colleen was calmer, but it did little to enhance the quality of such a terrible film. Daryl had eaten it up from the opening credits, with as much gusto as he had eaten the jumbo tub of popcorn and giant yellow box of chocolate-covered raisins that Colleen had purchased. The memory of Daryl patting his back pocket with a sheepish grin still burned behind her eyes as the truck pulled into her driveway and Daryl killed the headlights. "I'll pay you back, I swear," he had said. You better, Colleen thought as Daryl draped an arm over the back of her seat and leaned forward for a kiss. Not just with money, either. He reeked of peppermint candy—also on her dime—and that obnoxious cologne he insisted on wearing despite her complaints. It wasn't the first time Daryl had pled poverty at the cashier, but Colleen forked over the money anyway to avoid a buildup at the concession line. He'd pick it up next time. Next time wouldn't happen, she knew, unless Daryl could score coupons, but Colleen hadn't been bothered. Payday was tomorrow, and she wasn't worried about going broke. Besides, it was only popcorn. And Raisinets. And a large Cherry Coke. All of which Daryl had been loath to share with her. She still felt the touch Daryl left when he had lightly slapped her more than ample

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thigh and waggled his finger in a gesture that said Now, now…a moment on the lips… She should let it bother her more, she knew, but surely Daryl had only been teasing. He wouldn't be dating her if he thought her too fat, and he was too incredible a lover to just cast to the curb. She tried not to breathe as she parted her lips to receive Daryl's kiss. Peppermint assaulted her senses as his tongue gently explored her mouth, flicking over her teeth and teasing her upper plate. Boy, but could Daryl kiss. The mere touch of his lips against hers sent an amorous heat straight to every erogenous zone. She loved the way his short, blond mustache tickled her upper lip. Her nipples stood to attention, her pussy warmed with desire. She recalled how that mustache felt tickling her clit as Daryl licked her pussy, and yearned to feel just that right now. She shifted her in her seat, cursing silently for not first releasing the seatbelt, and hoping Daryl might reach over to cup the crotch of her jeans and massage the ache. Moments like these were definitely worth the hassles. Daryl broke free and traced the outer shell of her ear with his tongue. A stray hand landed on her breast. "Come home with me," he said. "You're not working tomorrow." "I can't. Melissa." "Let that doctor watch her." "He's a professor, and no. Besides, they probably heard the truck pull up. They're expecting us." She jerked her face away from Daryl to check her picture window, peering forward for any sign of activity in the house. "What? You're worried he's gonna rape her or something? You probably shouldn't have left her with the jerk then." "No!" Colleen was horrified Daryl would suggest such a thing. For a second she couldn't even look at Daryl, and felt disgusted by his touch. He had been so eager to leave, knowing the college professor would be willing to watch Melissa—free of charge, Colleen gathered, since Daryl hadn't given her time to confer with the man first. What if she had made a mistake? True, she didn't know her neighbor/landlord as intimately as she would have liked, but she felt confident that she knew enough about him to discern that he wasn't a pedophile, despite her misgivings throughout the evening. Melissa hadn't seem threatened by the man, and apparently

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her daughter had matured enough know better. She had matured right under Colleen's nose. Colleen had been blind to it. Her blood ran cold. What if he actually had turned out to be a pedophile, or worse? Convinced Melissa he loved her, that she was mature enough to be loved? The man could have taken Melissa far, far away. She shuddered at the thought. "Daryl, let go." She tried to see through the slits in the vertical blinds covering her living room window. Two figures rested on the couch, and Colleen caught a sliver of Melissa's smiling face as the blinds wavered. The older gentlemen sat a respectable distance away, a book covering his features. She relaxed. They were just reading. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Daryl had pulled away entirely and now leaned against his window. "What is up with you?" he groused. "Don't you want some?" Oh, did she want some. Even with all this anxiety coursing through her blood, she was horny. She had thought of nothing but getting some all week, but her ex-husband being called away on business had put a wrench in her love life. Colleen had to be happy with either the sporadic clandestine quickie with Daryl while Melissa was at a friend's house, or with running out the batteries in her vibrator. All the while she had to sleep alone in bed while the common wall connecting her bedroom to the professor's vibrated with the sounds of lovemaking. Whoever Professor Spence was, he never seemed to want for companionship. Far as she knew, Spence had no children and didn't have to worry about fitting his love life into other people's schedules. Lucky. When Melissa wheedled for the sleepover Colleen had only been too happy to oblige her, and in some small way she suspected Melissa knew of her mother's ulterior motives. "You know I do," Colleen said finally, fighting the ache. "And when Monica's mother comes to pick up Melissa, we'll be coming all night long. I guarantee it. I don't know about you, but I plan to make tomorrow a very casual Friday." Daryl waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Do you now?" "Mandatory dress code. Birthday suits." Daryl grinned. He shot out a hand, grabbed Colleen's, and pressed it to the rock hard bulge in his pants. Colleen felt her pussy twitch in

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response. "This can't wait 'til tomorrow night, though," he said as he molded Colleen's fingers around his cock. "I need some relief, spelled C-O-L-LE-E-N." Colleen snorted. It was a lame joke, but one that worked. She scooted closer to Daryl, minding the stick shift and the transmission hump, and unzipped his jeans. She fished through the slot in his boxers until his cock sprang upward, thick and hard and long, and she wasted no time in cuffing the shaft and stroking the silk of his skin. Colleen loved Daryl's cock, and loved the way it filled her pussy, stroking in and out of her. She kept that image in mind as she touched him, anticipating good feelings to come. Daryl leaned back as far as he could go, a difficult task given the truck cab had very little space in back, and closed his eyes. "Oh, yeah," he groaned, drawing the words out into many syllables. "Faster, babe. Stroke me faster." Colleen obliged, her movements frenzied and her hand cramping. She watched Daryl's eyes flitter underneath his lids and his lips slowly pucker into a pleasured moan, and when she bent over to take him in her mouth he sighed audibly and long. The middle seat belt buckle cut into her side, and she tried to move to relieve the ache, but Daryl kept her head pinned low with a strong hand. "Don't stop, baby. Don't stop," he repeated until finally he came, and Colleen jerked upward before it all shot into her mouth. His hot seed sprayed the steering column and his pants, and trickled down her knuckle. Colleen made a show of licking her hand clean and cooing her pleasure, but Daryl's line of sight was focused elsewhere. In the dim of the cab, it was difficult to tell exactly what he was looking at. "Oh, that was good," he sighed, and Colleen scooted back to the passenger side seat and spread her legs, awaiting Daryl to snake a hand between her thighs. Instead she heard the loud, benign click of all the automatic door locks releasing. Daryl tucked his limp cock back into his pants and wiped off the cum with a towel from the truck floor, as if it were the normal thing to do, and looked at her expectantly. "Well," Colleen pressed, and thrust her hips higher. Surely he was going to reciprocate in some way? It's not like he hadn't done anything with her before. So many times they had done it in the bed of the truck,

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and wasn't he so eager to get her home a few minutes ago? What had changed? "Oh, baby, you know it's different for a woman in a truck. I'll be bending over wrong and hurting my back," he said, his voice a steady whine. Translation: you're too fat to fuck in my truck. No, I'm not. That's not what he's saying. Leave me alone, Colleen chided her conscience. "So we'll move to the bed of the truck. What's the big deal?" Colleen pressed her thighs together. Her clit throbbed; she needed release, and wasn't above stroking herself in front of Daryl to get it. Right now, though, she was angry with him, and figured if she did so he would only get turned on, and not feel as if he were being punished. "It's late, babe, but don't worry." He leaned over and appeased her with a peck on the cheek. "I'll see you get double tomorrow night." That slight tickle of mustache against her skin held the promise of an incredible night of oral play. It was enough to sting every nerve in her body; she probably didn't need direct contact to her clit to come at the moment. "You better," she purred. She mouthed silent goodnights and I love yous and hopped out of the car as Daryl nodded in time to the cranking of the engine. The truck roared to life as she rounded the grill and headed toward the front door. She turned back to blow one more kiss, but Daryl's attention was turned toward the street as he backed away. She had her knob on the door when she became aware of the taste in her mouth. She couldn't kiss her daughter goodnight with Daryl on her lips. A frantic search in her purse, however, yielded no more peppermint candy. Just as well, Colleen realized with a sigh when she entered the house and Melissa didn't immediately leap up to greet her. The young girl remained on the couch, focused on Professor John Spence, hanging on his every word as he read from a leather-bound book. What don't I know about her? Colleen thought sadly. Used to be Melissa homed in on her mother with protective radar. In pre-school, the girl could have been in another room and knew when to come toddling up front to greet her. It was John instead who acknowledged Colleen's presence. He folded the book into his palm, appraised Colleen over his square-rimmed

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reading glasses, and smiled. "How was your evening?" he asked. Only then did his hold on Melissa release, and the young girl looked up as if seeing Colleen for the first time. "Fine, very fine. Thanks." Colleen kept her head low, her voice aimed into her blouse. All she tasted was popcorn salt and cum, and the sensation spread throughout her body, making her feel sticky. She didn't want Melissa touching her, so she quick-stepped toward the kitchen. "I'm just a bit thirsty…" John rocked forward to stand. "I'm sorry to keep Melissa up so late. We were reading and lost track of the time…" "Hm? Oh." Colleen noted the time on the microwave clock and saw indeed that Melissa should have been in bed two hours ago. "Oh, that's fine, Prof—" "John," he interrupted. "No need to be formal." "Right." Colleen laughed nervously. She peered through the service window dividing the kitchen from the living room and watched the professor stretch his lean body. This, she had to admit, was the first time she had gotten a good look at him since signing the lease. Until this point, he had always been a blur on the way to the car or back into the house. He was a very good-looking blur when he stood still, she realized. His white Oxford shirt hung loose, but when it pulled tight across his back Colleen could easily make out the planes of nicely sculpted muscles as he stretched and twisted. The clean white of the shirt set off nicely his bronze skin, especially his large, strong hands. Long legs encased in black denim stretched about a mile long, up to a nice, tight ass. Damn! She hadn't realized before how handsome her landlord was, so dark and exotic. She remembered he had once casually referred to his Caribbean background, and she wondered how remote it was. Spence hardly sounded like a tropical surname. Maybe an ancestor Americanized it when he came to the country. How old was Professor Spence again? She had heard early forties at a neighborhood clambake a while back, but nobody could say for certain. That he owned his home, a BMW, and a motorcycle for occasional jaunts attested to some life experience—more than her twenty-eight years. And he taught college, so he had to have spent a considerable amount of time going to school.

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"Well, I should get going, gal," he was saying to Melissa. "I've kept you up long enough." "No, stay until we finish the chapter, please?" Colleen heard her daughter wheedle. "Mom?" Melissa called to her. "It's only two more pages." Colleen stood in the kitchen doorway, clutching a coffee can, her eyes riveted to John's backside. As her gaze panned upward to two expectant faces the bubble burst and she quickly masked the sudden rush of desire flushing her cheeks with a hand, faking a sneeze. "I suppose it wouldn't be a problem, if Prof—er, John, doesn't object. What's another twenty minutes?" Melissa happily bounced back on the couch and bade John to finish the story. "Tell you what," John said, instead handing the girl the book, "I think you're an advanced enough reader, why you take over for a while?" "Yeah? But what about—" Melissa looked nervously at her mother. Colleen felt suddenly unnerved. Were they reading a book a girl of eight shouldn't be reading? John winked. "You'll be fine," he assured Melissa. "You can handle the words." Colleen watched the girl's eyes light up as she smoothed her hands over the gilt-edged pages and began to recite aloud. She was floored; a year ago it had been a struggle to get Melissa to choose a book from the library, one at her own reading level, and now this man had her reading something that probably better suited one of the professor's students. And Melissa was reading it rather well, too, and not stumbling over her words. It was difficult, though, to miss the dreamy expression on Melissa's face as she looked up for his approval. Yeah, the man was gorgeous; that probably had something to do with it. John resumed his place next to Melissa, draping an arm over the back of the couch and dipping his head low to listen better. It was a perfect domestic scene, one Colleen hoped to have with Daryl soon, once he settled his finances and agreed to a time to house hunt. What bliss it would be to snuggle with her man and her girl after a day's work, reading and being a family, something she had wanted with Melissa's father, though it hadn't worked out. Daryl, though, would. Yes, he was rough around the edges, but once

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he settled down… The hiss of the coffee machine broke into her thoughts, and the tantalizing aroma of vanilla and hazelnut teased her senses. She poured a mug, then dipped her head through the kitchen portal. "John, would you like some coffee?" The couch faced away from her. She saw only the back of John's head and broad shoulders and tufts of Melissa's brown hair poking up from the cushions. But when John shifted in place to look back at her, her heart stopped. For the first time tonight she got a good look at John Spence's face. She had just shot past him on the way to the kitchen, but she saw now that he was truly beautiful, if a man could be called that. He looked different than he had all those times they met to make arrangements for the townhome. She had seen him then as just another landlord, but now...he looked different. Thick, brown hair barely dusted his collar and hid his ears, and soft, brown eyes smiled back at her with such warmth that she felt it radiate against her skin and color her cheeks. An outsider might have considered his expression and relaxed demeanor fatherly, protective and unthreatening, but there was a sensual vibe about him hiding under the surface. Maybe it was the glint in his eyes, they way they appeared to appraise her as she smiled awkwardly back. What was he thinking at that moment, did he find her attractive? Was he only smiling out of politeness? Get over yourself, girl. He's only being nice because you pay your rent on time; it's not like he thinks you're attractive. You're lucky Daryl notices you. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that his expression was open to more interpretation. Colleen hoped that was only a trick of the light from the ceiling fan. The aroma of rich, flavored coffee was already making her heady, but coupled with sudden images of those full lips kissing hers, and those brown hands kneading her breasts threatened her balance. "No, thank you," John said, breaking her reverie, and Colleen silently regained her composure and nodded. Hidden by the dividing wall, she crossed her legs tightly and braced her weight against the kitchen sink in a poor attempt to ease throbbing in her pussy. Suddenly her pants felt tight over her expanding thighs, making her all the more uncomfortable.

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In this time Melissa completed the chapter and John handed her a paper marker. "Aw," Melissa whined. "Can't we read any more?" "It's late, sweetie. You need to get upstairs and into bed." Colleen stepped slowly into the living area with her coffee and quickly took the opposite recliner. "But, Mom, we're really getting into the story. I mean, really getting into it." The girl giggled. "I want to find out what happens to Marianne, if she ends up with Willoughby or Colonel Brandon." Colleen leaned over and studied the book's spine, reading the giltembossed title. "Sense and Sensibility?" She looked pointedly at the professor. "You don't think that's a bit too much for a third grader?" John shrugged. "Not really. I wasn't that much older than Melissa when I started reading Austen. There's no inappropriate language or situations to worry about." He paused. "Though I suppose I should have cleared it with you first, but Melissa said you wouldn't mind…" "Oh, no. That's fine. At least she's reading." Her heart panged with guilt now. How quickly had Melissa grown up without her realizing it? Colleen had expected her daughter might still be into dressing dolls and comic books, and here Melissa was reading classic literature she herself had never cracked. John broke the awkward silence with another dazzling smile. "Melissa, if you like, you can borrow the book and finish it on your own. I won't be needing it for a while." Melissa clutched the book to her chest. "You mean it? You don't think—" "I trust you with it, Melissa. I know you'll enjoy it." Melissa gasped with delight, but looked to her mother for approval. When Colleen smiled back, the girl quickly pecked John on the cheek and thanked him, then kissed her mother goodnight. "I'll give it back as soon as I'm done," she called as she hurried upstairs, the book clutched to her chest. "Take your time," John called after her, and turned back to smile at Colleen. Colleen felt the warmth shoot straight down to her toes. "She's a wonderful little girl," John said. "I don't know what I'd do without her," Colleen said with all seriousness. "And thank you for watching her. I know you have better things to do with your time…" "It's no bother, really. Any time with a child willing to read instead

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of rot in front of a video game is time well spent." Colleen tried not to think of Daryl, his long, lean legs crossed in front of his television as he maneuvered aliens onscreen with a game control. "I agree," she said and fell in step behind John when he moved toward the door. "If there's any way I can repay you—" she began, but John stilled her voice with a raised hand. "There's no need. I can only think of one thing, and it's not my business to ask it of you," he said. Colleen was intrigued. "Really?" He must be talking about something related to the property, she decided. Melissa was often careless about leaving her bike and sports equipment laying in the common yard. "What is it?" John's face turned suddenly grim in the outside porch light as he stepped over the threshold. "I would strongly suggest you tell that selfish bastard you're seeing to take a hike. You can do so much better," he said, then set his mouth in a straight line. Colleen hadn't expected such frankness from this man, and didn't know how to react. How dare he, for one, comment on something that wasn't his business? Instead of saying that, though, she said, "Oh, really? You think so." "We both think so," he said, and walked the ten feet to his home without another word.

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Three John's words pounded in her temples as she tried to sleep; they ricocheted off the walls and taunted her all the next morning as she served breakfast and tried to get Melissa ready for the school bus. Nothing could make the words fade into silence: not playing her favorite morning radio show at full blast, nor crunching on her hard-as-granite cereal. When she noticed Melissa eyeing her with curious expression she pasted on a false smile. We both think so, he had said. Had Melissa talked to John Spence about Daryl? Why hadn't Melissa said anything to her before about not liking Daryl? If anybody mattered when it came to relationships, it was Melissa. Did the girl think she wouldn't listen? "All packed?" Colleen adjusted her earrings and smoothed her long skirt. Melissa was sitting in the recliner, flanked by her bookbag and a duffel for the sleepover. She was swinging her legs and staring at the plastered cracks on the opposite wall. "Professor Spence said this used to be all one house," she said, "before the son of the original owner split it to get twice the amount of rent for it." Colleen pretended to look for something in her purse. "Professor Spence seems to know a lot of things," she bit out, relieved that Melissa hadn't picked up on her tone. Melissa nodded to the wall. "The son sold both halves because he didn't want to deal with it anymore." "I know, dear." She wondered why Professor Spence didn't try to reconnect the halves after buying the building. Yes, the extra income was nice, but to have all the space without the inconvenience of somebody practically living on top of you would have, to Colleen, well made up for the financial loss. Then again, she felt she should at least be grateful to have such a nice place at a reasonable price. "That wall didn't used to be there," Melissa was saying, pointing,

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"and he said my room used to be bigger, but it backs up to his study now. And the room against yours is…" Colleen looked at her expectantly, but Melissa just shook her head. "Never mind," the girl said in a tone that implied Colleen wouldn't be interested. Colleen, however, didn't need to know the layout of the professor's home to know that his bedroom backed against hers, or that the professor had done his share of overnight entertaining. More than his fair share. She wondered briefly how many lovers John Spence had over the years, and how skilled a lover he was. None of your business. She shook the thought away. "Speaking of study, are you ready for your geography quiz?" "Yes, Mom," Melissa said on a sigh. "I know all the state capitals. Jeez." "Just checking. Uh, Melissa." Colleen looked at her hands. "About Daryl…I was talking to—" But a bright flash of yellow rolled past their window, and Melissa snatched her bags and ran out the door. "Bus is here, Mom. See you tomorrow!" "Call when you get to Monica's," Colleen called after her daughter, and received a shrugged, silent answer as Melissa dashed for the bus. Her discussion about Daryl would have to wait. She stepped out of the house to see her daughter off and stopped short of the entranceway, watching for any sign of activity next door. Both John's car and motorcycle were parked in the driveway. Quickly she grabbed her purse, locked the door behind her, and dashed to her car. She was out of the neighborhood in record time, and didn't take a breath until she hit the first red light on the way to work. "What is wrong with me?" she asked herself, her heart pounding. Why was she afraid of John Spence? He was just a man, an opinionated man sticking his nose where it didn't belong. Why should she be afraid to see him, and why should she care what he thought of her boyfriend? She turned onto highway and drove to work. Forget him, she admonished herself. You're going to have a great time tonight with Daryl. That's more important than what some snooty professor thinks. Some gorgeous, snooty professor with a nice, tight ass. Colleen groaned.

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**** Daryl showed right after work, as promised, but John Spence had yet to leave. His words haunted her all through the evening as they ate dinner and watched TV, and later in bed, preventing her from giving her full attention to Daryl's lovemaking. Selfish bastard, sang John's deep voice over the heavy metal music throbbing from Colleen's stereo as she lay back on her mattress. She tilted her forward slightly and propped herself on her elbows, watching with increasing pleasure as Daryl's tongue swirled around her clit, dipped low to tickle her slit, then lapped upward with one broad stroke. It felt so damn good, and Daryl was so damn good doing it…milking her cunt and giving her pleasure. How could anyone think he was selfish with the way he was loving her? She rested her head back on the pillow and closed her eyes, centering her attention on the furious pace at which Daryl was eating her pussy. Seconds later there began fiery tremor between her pussy lips that caused her entire lower half to quake, and Colleen groaned her approval as her clit throbbed and the orgasm began to wash over her. Before the waves could completely crash, however, Daryl lifted his head and reached for his jeans and produced a condom. "Wha—?" Why didn't he finish? Daryl knew when she had an orgasm; she could shatter porcelain figures with her voice. He knew better, and he was fumbling with a foil packet in the dim. Sheathing himself quickly, he sprang forward, pried her farther apart, and plowed his cock into her aching pussy before Colleen could react. "Daryl," she gasped under his weight, and her ecstasy faded, replaced by a sensation that, although not entirely unwelcome, was in her mind premature. She hadn't completely come yet; it felt as if somebody had turned off the spigot while she was in the shower, leaving her to freeze. That Daryl was hovering over her as he pounded his cock into her was of no help. In this position, her clit was untouched, and his cock felt bloated and ungainly as it maneuvered in and out of her without sufficient lubrication. "Oh, fuck yeah," Daryl grunted, his hips working like speeding pistons. Colleen snaked her hand down her abdomen to stroke her clit, hoping to recapture the wonderful feeling that had been interrupted, but Daryl's torso crushed her as he fell forward. He arched his back and,

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with one low bellow, climaxed. "Oh, yes!" With a deep, ragged breath, Daryl kissed Colleen's cheek and rolled to one side. His softening cock seemed to slither out of her and across her belly. The heat from his body dissolved, leaving a naked Colleen grasping for the discarded comforter to regain warmth. Daryl lay on his back next to her, his chest heaving slightly. "Whoa, babe, that was amazing." He kissed her again. "Think you'll be ready for another round soon?" "Still waiting for Round One to end," she muttered, but apparently Daryl didn't hear her, as his attention shifted to something else. "That a door behind your dresser?" Colleen lifted her head and followed Daryl's gaze to the opposite wall. The dark wood frame of the unusable door appeared darker in the shadow of candlelight flickering around the room. She nodded. "It's sealed shut," she said. "This used to be one house before it was split. Most of the walls were built, but for some reason that door was left." "Where does it go? Where did it go?" "The professor's house. Assuming the layout mirrors this townhome, that's probably his bedroom." Daryl sat up, a wicked smile curling his face. "Think so, huh? You think he's listening in on us? The perv," he chuckled. "Daryl, please." But Daryl was out of bed now, scratching his bare ass and loping toward the highboy dresser. Peering behind the heavy piece of furniture, he drummed his fingers on the door. "Hey, buddy," he called, "enjoying the show? Maybe I should knock down that door so you can watch?" He cackled. Colleen rolled her eyes, happy that it was too dark for Daryl to see her flush with embarrassment. "Daryl, knock it off. It's late. He's probably asleep." She hoped the professor was in his living room watching TV or something. The walls separating their homes were paper thin. Daryl stepped back and scoffed. "Whatever. Hey, wanna take a shower? I'm feeling sticky." A shower would have felt nice, but any desire Colleen had for continued closeness was gone. Now she hoped to just sleep. "Go ahead," she told him. Maybe she'd be asleep when he was done, and he wouldn't bother her until morning.

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She sighed. What was wrong with her? She had been looking forward to this all week. Was it Daryl killing the mood, or the professor's words ringing in her ears? She closed her eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. It wasn't until she heard the soft whoosh from the shower that she realized she hadn't checked her e-mail yet. Colleen rose and padded to her desk. She was expecting an online money transfer from her ex to cover the month's child support and wanted to be sure it arrived. What she was not expecting, she saw when she shook the mouse to disable the screensaver, was an instant message blinking on the screen, a message for one "D-Licious." That was Daryl's online ID, and Colleen knew he occasionally checked his accounts on her ISP. Somebody using the handle "FoXXXy" had greeted him with, You there, sweetie? Curious, Colleen entered a benign greeting and clicked the mouse. She bounced a few more non-threatening pleasantries with FoXXXy— commentary about the weather and work—thinking nothing of letting the other user in on her deception. Not, at least, until the next sentence appeared on the screen, sending a shiver through down her spine. I've been a bad, bad girl. Colleen raised an eyebrow at that. Have you? How was Daryl supposed to react to that? Yeah, I need a spanking. Then, I need to feel your hand smacking my ass. Deep inside Colleen's stomach, acid churned and bubbled up to her throat. Then, I need to feel your hands stroking my pussy. Colleen didn't bother with the rest of FoXXXy's pornographic soliloquy. In a cold rage she leaped from the chair and grabbed Daryl's jeans with the intention of ripping them in two. His tattered wallet flew out of the back pocket as she slung the pants high in the air, and when it fell open on her rumpled bed she saw a fine, thick stack of bills peeking from the flap. They weren't ones, either. "Fucker," she spat and, kicked open the bathroom door. Daryl's cry of surprise bounced off the tiles. "Fucker!" Colleen screeched, her voice snapping in two. "What? What's going on?" Daryl blinked soap from his eyes and stared, incredulous, at Colleen, who cut the water supply with one strong

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pull of the faucet. "Hey!" "How does it feel to be left in the cold, you sorry sack of shit?" She thrust the jeans she held at his face. "Get out. Go bother FoXXXy for the rest of the weekend." "Huh, who's…" And the light of recognition dawned on Daryl's face, and just as quickly morphed into a placating smile. "Oh, baby—" Colleen was at her bedroom door now, holding it open for him. "Word of advice: when you start cheating on your next girlfriend, it would help to log out of your Internet account so she doesn't catch on to your cyber sex, and whatever else you're doing." She squeezed her hand around the jamb to stop her fingers from trembling. Like hell was she going to let Daryl see how hurt and upset she really was. "Get out," she repeated, her voice like ice. "I'm not your baby, your sweetie, your schnookums, and I know I'm not your fox. That job's been taken, apparently." Daryl stood before her, naked and dripping and covering his shriveled privates with the jeans. His expression registered neither regret nor apology, and Colleen couldn't decide if that hurt more than the actual knowledge of his infidelity. Hot tears rimmed her eyes and stung her cheeks; her resolve was shattered. "Why would you do such a thing?" she croaked. "After all the things I've done to please you…I could have spent the weekend with my daughter. I don't get much quality time with her as it is." Daryl huffed. "Yeah, well…" He looked away. "I like quality time, too. Spent having quality sex." "Are you saying I'm lousy at sex?" His impassive, silent look spoke volumes of that. Colleen wanted to shrink to the floor and disappear. True, her experiences had been limited to two men, but she had not let that keep her from wanting to try new things. She hadn't curled up in horror when Daryl had mentioned things like ménages and anal sex; that Daryl had been open enough to discuss such things with her told her he found her desirable. Apparently that was all bullshit. "How many times had I expressed interest in doing different things?" she accused. "You know how open I am to just about anything. And what we just did a while, you loved it. Or did you?" "I know, but…"

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"But, what?" Had FoXXXy taken his fantasies one step further, obliged to things Colleen would not do? How was Colleen supposed to know what she would and wouldn't do if Daryl didn't tell her in the first place?" He grinned stupidly. "The fox, FoXXXy, you see, is…better…" Colleen nodded. Of course she was. She didn't have to see FoXXXy to know that the other woman was better looking, thinner, more experienced, and probably smarter than she was. What a fool she had been to give herself, and her money, to this man. The money she might eventually recoup, but her heart felt damaged beyond repair. "Get out." Her head hung low. "Don't ever come back." Daryl made no move to dress, but took a step forward. Colleen couldn't believe his cheek; he actually looked like he wanted to slither back into her good graces! She would have preferred kicking his wet, soapy body down the stairs. "Baby," he began, and got no further when the house started to shake. A low, mournful wail sounded through the room as pictures rattled against the walls and perfume bottles clattered on her vanity. The carpeted floor trembled underfoot. Earthquake? Colleen braced herself under the jamb while Daryl jostled about without restraint. It was possible, though the area hadn't experienced a quake in years. It didn't explain the candles extinguishing at once on their own, however. Or the deep, angry voice bellowing, god-like, in her ears. "Leave!" "The fuck?" Daryl gasped and looked at her. "Who said that? Your perv neighbor?" "Yes, my perv neighbor has a sound system piped through the house. He's also making the whole house shake. I don't know!" The anger in her voice was evident, but inside Colleen was terrified. That wasn't John Spence, she knew. John had a deep voice, yes, but this…this sounded sinister, and otherworldly. Yet, it sounded almost protective…of her. "Leave!" the voice echoed, and Daryl dashed past Colleen for the stairs. "Don't have to tell me twice," he muttered in a scared voice. Colleen watched him negotiate the trembling staircase, one hand clutching the banister while the other pressed the jeans to his crotch. He

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hadn't bothered to collect the rest of his things…surely he wasn't going to leave like that? "Daryl," Colleen called after him, then stepped carefully down the shaking steps. Her gesture was half-hearted; she wouldn't have minded seeing Daryl humiliated as he streaked to his truck, but she didn't need the added embarrassment of him leaving her house in full view of the neighborhood. Of course, with the earthquake she imagined anyone who happened to be outside would be more concerned for their own well being. "Daryl!" She got to the open front door to see Daryl had already hopped into the truck cab and was fishing his keys from the jeans crumpled in his hands. Seconds later the engine turned over and the truck bolted out of sight. And Colleen stepped into the warm May night to discover everything was still. No car alarms sounded, no tree branches appeared out of place, no broken glass or debris littered the streets. All was calm, as if the earthquake had been limited to her property. How was that possible? Colleen shrugged to herself and rubbed the stickiness of the night air from her skin… Skin? Colleen remembered that she, too, was naked…and standing outside. A gruff ahem then broke into her thoughts as she detected a presence beside her. Oh, God. Colleen felt her entire body flush a deep red. Instinctively she crossed her arms over her breasts just as the touch of satin cooled her. John fixed the robe over her shoulders and politely turned his head away. Colleen swallowed. He must have seen Daryl running from the house, too. She expected a snide remark, an I told you so or something worse, and was somewhat relieved when all he said was, "Are you okay?" Colleen slipped her arms through the dripping sleeves and tightened the material around her body. "Thanks," she said, now comfortable enough to look in his direction. She noted his open door and the glass of melting ice next to the plastic chair on the shallow front patio. John must have been sitting underneath his porch light, enjoying the nice presummer weather. She noted, too, he didn't appear agitated or rumpled

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from any kind of disturbance. "You didn't feel that earlier?" she asked. "Feel what?" John looked concerned. "The whole house was shaking just a few seconds ago. I felt it. I thought the top floor was going to cave in." Colleen turned back to the house. From where she stood, nothing inside her half appeared out of order. It was like nothing had happened, but something had. She had felt it, heard it, and so had Daryl. It couldn't have been a hallucination. "I'm sorry, Colleen, I didn't feel a thing." His hand palmed her shoulder. The touch sent a heated jolt through her veins. She wanted to shout at him, accuse him of patronizing her, but he sounded too sincere to be joking. "I felt it," she insisted, "and there was this voice, it was so scary…" She looked at John; the lines on his face were completely smooth now, and he nodded slightly, his mouth set in a grim line. "What kind of voice?" "I don't know, a human voice. A man, only it sounded so..." John sighed heavily. "Great," he muttered. "What?" But John leaned forward to pull his door closed, then escorted Colleen into her house. "I think I should come inside with you," he said. "I wasn't sure if I should say something, but since Melissa knows—" Colleen arched a suspicious brow. "My daughter seems to know a lot these days for an eight-year-old," she said. "What the hell's going on?" John eased her into the house. "There's something that you need to know, yes. I just hope I can explain it in a way you'll understand."

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Four "Ghosts?" Colleen looked at the handsome brown man sitting opposite her on the couch. He was out of his tree. "Ghosts," she repeated, and sipped from the warm mug John had handed her after making coffee. "This house is haunted." "Not haunted, enchanted," John said with a grim smile, "and it's not the entire house, either. All of the activity is limited to the library on my side, which backs up against your bedroom." "I thought your bedroom backed up against mine. That the duplex layouts mirrored each other." John shook his head. "I sleep downstairs." Colleen took another sip. So those sounds of pleasure she had heard weren't coming from John? Interesting. "So," she said, "these ghosts are literate." And obviously passionate after dark. "They're not ghosts. I never said they were ghosts. They're..." John bit his lip and turned his head away. He was searching for the proper words to say, whatever would calm her down, Colleen knew. Tight cords in his neck pulsed as his jaw worked silently. His loosened oxford collar afforded her a nice view of flawless flesh, and Colleen noted the dip where his neck and collarbone met. It seemed like the perfect place to rest her head as he twisted his and bent low for a kiss. "They're beings, characters," John finished, and Colleen snapped her attention away from the erotic image blossoming in her head. "I'll say they're characters," Colleen grumbled. "They ruined my night alone with Daryl." John gave her a look that told her clearly that he wasn't buying that remark, and Colleen had to give him credit. He had to have seen more than fear in her eyes as Daryl took off naked into the night. He had to have seen the anger of Daryl's betrayal reflected in the porch light as he

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approached with the robe. She looked down at herself; she was still wearing the robe, and its loose vee neck rippled over her prickled skin. She wondered if John noticed the swell of her breasts, and if he would be willing to shift on the sofa to get a better look at her distended nipples, which now ached to be pulled and suckled between those full lips. Give it up. Daryl didn't want her for anything more than a fuck to tide him over until he got something better. Why would this man feel any differently toward her? He was so gorgeous, and could have a line of beautiful women waiting outside his door. "Okay," she conceded, "Daryl played a significant part in this disaster. But your ghosts didn't help any." And as John chuckled quietly Colleen recounted the events of the evening—omitting Daryl's selfish lovemaking and focusing on the discovery of FoXXXy and the ensuing minor quake. When she finished, John steepled his forefingers together and pressed them to his lips in deep thought. He nodded. "Okay. I know what it is, and it's not ghosts." Colleen couldn't help but detect that he had said rather firmly. Was he denying the existence of something paranormal in his house? How could he explain the tremors and loud voices? No stereo system could have replicated that kind of terror, regardless of whether or not a man like John Spence could afford it. Did he think she would want to break the lease? The thought hadn't occurred to her, but for Melissa's safety she would consider it. What could he do legally to prevent it? All she would have to do is prove the house was unsafe. She sighed. Right. She'd bring in a mess of police and lawyers, and the ghosts would behave. She'd look like an idiot. Moreover, if she moved anyway and paid the fine for breaking the lease, would she be able to afford a comparable place at a reasonable rate? Even with her husband's checks, she could barely make this rent. She was going to be stuck at Amityville Arms with John, Casper, and friends. "Don't look so downtrodden, you're perfectly safe," John consoled her. "Did Melissa leave my book here?" "Hm? I don't know. I could go look." With that, Colleen took the steps gingerly, lest another quake happen. In seconds she was back on the couch, holding John's book.

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John scooted close to her. Colleen was instantly aware of his cologne and body heat. Her heart thrummed as his thumbs brushed against her hand and gently pried the book away. His brown hands caressed the raised gilt curlicues and fleur de lis designs on the cover, and Colleen wanted immediately for that touch to transfer to her bare skin. "Don't be afraid of what I'm about to show you," he said in all seriousness. Colleen scoffed. "It's a book, what's so scary about that? The only thing that scared me about books was the ugly look on Mrs. Treacher's face when I was late turning in a book report in high school." John didn't laugh with her. He bade her instead to hold tight to the crooked arm he extended toward her. "Don't let go, whatever you do." Colleen stilled. John's demeanor frightened her more than the memory the ghost attack, but his voice had such a commanding quality to it that she couldn't help but obey. She looped an arm through his and grasped his hard bicep with the other hand for good measure. "Trust me, it won't hurt. It'll just feel weird," he said on a smile, and before Colleen could ask he opened the book to a random page, closed his eyes, and quickly cracked the spine backward. The room went suddenly white. Her living room and all of her belongings vanished in a bright flash and thunderous cracking sound. Colleen felt as if somebody had plunged a hose down her throat and sought to suck the air out of her body. She tried to scream and felt helpless against the power of nothingness surrounding her. Through the brief ordeal, however, she still felt John's presence near her, and that was her only comfort. Their arms were still linked together as the world returned to focus, only her living room was still gone and they were standing now. In a field. A wide, rolling green field, far from home.

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Five "What the hell just happened? Where are we?" Colleen let go of John. She relaxed when he didn't fade away, but coiled up again with fear as she took a few tentative steps to one side. Around them was nothing but waving, green grass, as far as the eye could see, save for the occasional larch in the distance. And yes, there was a stone cottage with a few puffs of black smoke rising from its chimney. The sun beat down upon them, warming Colleen's skin. "Welcome," John said, his arms spread, "to England." "England?" How did they get to England? All John had done was open a book! "You know, I have a ton of frequent flyer miles, and they don't work this quickly." John laughed and clearly meant to say more, but a shrill horse's whinny startled Colleen back to his side. A roan stallion bearing a uniformed gentleman had suddenly appeared, presumably from a dip in one of the rolling hills, and ground to a halt beside the duo. He was strong and thick, and lifted his hat to reveal a gorgeous mane of light brown hair. "Mister Spence," the rider greeted them, "how are you this afternoon?" John bowed slightly. "We are both well, Colonel. Are you heading to the Dashwoods?" "I'm expected there for tea, yes." The rider eyed Colleen with a warmth that made her feel giddy. She wondered for a moment if the man found it unusual that she was wearing nothing but a robe cinched tightly around her body. "Will you and your companion be joining us?" "Another time, Colonel, but please give Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters our respects," John said. The rider tipped his hat in reply, tugged his horse's reins, and was soon galloping away from them. Colleen turned to John, her mouth gaping in disbelief.

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"Colonel...Brenden?" she gasped. "From the book?" "Brandon," he corrected her. "What-ever. How in the hell did we end up in Victorian England? What did you do to me? Have I been drugged?" "Actually, this is Regency England," John said. "You see, Jane Austen's stories were considered contemporary for her time, and she—" "I couldn't care if Jane Austen lived on the Starship Enterprise and wrote that freaking da Vinci code story!" Colleen waved her arms in frustration, then pinched them closely to her when she sensed her robe about to open on its own. "How did we end up here?" John held up the book with one hand, his fingers still splayed across the open pages. "I'll tell you, but let's get back. Take my arm again." Colleen hesitated, and John added, "You have to hold on, otherwise you'll be left here." That was enough to convince her to oblige. She knew next to nothing about Regency England, and guessed she wouldn't get very far on her own in nothing but a robe. She cuffed her hands around John's arm, and John slammed the book shut with a force that set Colleen's teeth on edge. Yet, it wasn't the slamming of the book that physically jarred her. That action only spurred their return trip. Another bright flash of white followed, and in seconds they were back in Colleen's living room as if nothing had happened. Colleen's heart beat wildly against her ribcage. She let go of John and scooted to the recliner opposite him. "Tell me that just didn't happen," she begged. "Tell me you drugged my tea." "We had coffee, and I can assure you I put nothing in it to cause you to hallucinate." "What's going on, John?" John folded his hands on the closed book. "You have heard that I am originally from the Caribbean, St. Bart's actually," he began, and Colleen nodded. "What very few people know is that my grandmother is, was, a priestess." "Priestess? You mean, like voodoo?" Colleen felt sick. This man had been around her daughter, unsupervised! How much voodoo knowledge did he possess? Could he really have been behind the house quaking, and the voice? "Not quite. My grandmother's faith was a bit unorthodox, yes, but

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she was not an evil woman. She was very wise, a healer. People sought her help for all sorts of things. She was a very gifted woman." John smiled, as if remembering. "A gifted woman who could turn you into a toad if she wanted," Colleen challenged, and was shocked to see John nod sagely at that remark. "She had the knowledge, but not the motive. I told you, she was a good woman. She just believed different things." "Do you believe those things?" "I do, but I don't practice. There's no need to worry about me doing anything bad." John held up the book. "For all my grandmother's power, we were not rich. She could easily have cast spells to make us wealthy, but she was an honest woman. She never abused her gifts. The one thing she did want for me, however, was not to live in poverty for the rest of my life. She wanted me and my brother to be learned men, to go to school and make something of ourselves." He looked away sadly. "But I was a lazy student, and constantly irritating her. She was desperate to get us off the island, and maybe come to America, so she came up with a plan." "The books?" John traced the gilded title on the cover. "Grandmother obtained a number of classic novels from a banker she had cured of a wicked curse, and put a spell on each book. She figured that if reading bored me, I might find more enjoyment if the stories were more, ah...interactive." He smiled. "While other children grew up reading books like Peter Pan and Tom Sawyer, my brother and I were actually there, just like you and I were in Sense and Sensibility." "Wow." This was too incredible to comprehend. Colleen had fantasized more than once about being in a favorite movie, maybe "interacting" in more ways than one with a handsome actor, but for it to actually be possible...and everything had seemed so real when they were in England. The sun's rays, the wind rustling the grass, even the heated snort from the horse's nostrils as it reared to a stop. It was more vivid than any dream. Her mouth went dry, and quiet anger flushed her cheeks. "Melissa," she said coldly. "You took my daughter into that book, didn't you?" John bowed his head. "I apologize, yes. It was an error in judgment, and I should have discussed it with you first, but how could I begin to

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explain it? I didn't think—" "I'll say you didn't. A grown man, and a college professor." Colleen leaped from the chair and paced the room. "I can't believe you'd do something like that. What if she got hurt?" "There's no risk being inside the book, there is a failsafe," John said. "At any sign of danger, which has been rare in my experience, you close the book and come home." "Fair enough, but you gave my daughter the book so she could explore this territory unsupervised?" "No, I would never do that." John's countenance took on a look of hurt that momentarily startled Colleen. "Each book has a failsafe, as I've said. My grandmother cast a password on each book that one must either think or recite for the spell to work. Melissa doesn't know the word to trigger this book." Colleen could only shake her head. She couldn't believe she was having this conversation. Only an hour ago she and Daryl were upstairs making love. Well, she was making love to Daryl, who knew what Daryl was doing or what was going through his mind. Magical transportation and exotic priestesses were hardly food for thought. "This doesn't explain," Colleen said, "the tremors I felt shaking my bedroom—and I know they were real—and the man's voice I heard." "Yes." John sighed. "When my grandmother died, my brother and I inherited her estate, including an entire library of enchanted books like this one. Almost all of them are classics, as I mentioned, but there was one..." Colleen thought she saw a touch of red flush his brown skin. "There was one," he echoed, "that we believed she had enchanted for her, ah, personal use." "Really? What kind of book?" "An adult book." John's look penetrated her. No further explanation was needed, and Colleen felt suddenly embarrassed to have asked. Oh, well, she thought. She supposed voodoo priestesses needed some action as well. "And...are you saying the, ah, characters, in this particular book caused all the commotion?" "It is possible, I can't say for certain," John said, and crossed a leg over his other knee. Colleen watched as his jeans tightened in all the right places. "My grandmother made good use of that particular book

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when she was alive, and I noticed right from the start how that particular book wasn't like the others. Sometimes it would move on its own volition; it would shake and rattle until it fell off my shelf." He chuckled. "My brother and I could only guess that so much of my grandmother's magic is ingrained in that book, that it causes such things to happen." "Interesting." In a conversation where nothing made sense, those last words did. Perhaps John's grandmother's powers left a residual effect on the book, so much that the book's characters could sense the growing tension in her bedroom. "It's possible," John said when Colleen put forth her theory. "I have another idea, which I won't get into now. It's getting late." He looked at his watch and rose. "I'm very sorry your night didn't go as planned." Colleen snorted. "I'm sorry," John repeated with a sad smile, and clutched the book to his chest. "I should probably take this with me as well. I don't want Melissa to get into any more trouble—" "No," Colleen sighed. "Knowing Melissa, she probably talked you into it. She's become quite the manipulator. Just ask her dad." She laughed shortly, but smiled to reassure John as she stood to see him to the door. "I'll be fine," she said before John could speak, as his parting glance to her indicated worry. Five minutes with my vibrator and I'll be better. **** It took twenty minutes, but the round with her rotating shaft rabbit vibrator yielded such an intense orgasm that Colleen passed out immediately into blissful sleep. She awoke the next morning around ten to the shrill peal of her phone. Melissa! She was supposed to pick up her daughter at her friend's house two hours ago. She answered, intending to immediately apologize, but Melissa got in the first words, rapidly begging for a stay. "Monica's mom said she'd take us to the movies and for pizza, and I can stay another night, but I'd have to ask you," the girl said, and followed her words with a string of pleas. Weary from last night's revelations, Colleen relented and allowed Melissa to stay an extra night. Her friend would provide clothes for Melissa to borrow, her daughter had said. Better to have the time apart so she could digest everything that had happened, Colleen decided. She didn't want Melissa to start asking

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questions in the wake of the odd behavior she was certain to exhibit today. She hoped a shower would improve her mood, but now she felt unnerved and wet. Wrapping herself in her terrycloth robe, Colleen shook the excess water from her locks and padded back into her bedroom to change. She plucked a thong from her dresser, and fixed her gaze on the doorjamb visible above the dresser. She hadn't noticed it before, but the crack between the door and the jamb seemed rather deep. She could detect a sliver of light coming from the other side. Her gaze then fell down to the knob, which was partly concealed by the dresser. She noticed there was no deadbolt on the door. When she had moved in, she had taken it for granted that the door had been sealed, and for some reason never bothered to test it. She just moved the dresser in front of it and went on with her life. Given John Spence's latest revelations, though, made her curious. Without thinking, she tossed the thong back into the dresser and shut the drawer, then grasped the corner of the dresser and pushed it farther into the room, creating enough space for the door, as the hinges indicated it was meant to swing inward. She tried the knob, and gasped as it gave so easily. She opened the door to John Spence's library. Holy shit. All this time the door was not sealed. John must have forgotten about it. She could have gone into his side of the house at any time and stolen things. A lump formed in her throat. He could have used the door, too, had she not blocked it. Cautiously she stepped inside the dimly lit room. The layout was almost similar to her bedroom, except there was no adjoining bath. Gauzy green curtains were drawn, creating an eerie glow as the morning sunlight filtered into the room. Along the opposite wall was a large bookcase that covered every inch of white space. Books of identical binding, all spines outward, were shelved tightly. There was no other furniture in the room. The door leading into the rest of John's home was closed, and she paused to listen. He was probably downstairs, having breakfast, or else gone for the day. Her attention returned quickly to the bookshelf. There must have

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been a few hundred books, of varying thicknesses, ready to read. To read and explore, Colleen realized, as these were no doubt the same books enchanted by John's magical grandmother. True to his word, they were mainly classic works. Colleen eyed the gilded titles on the spines. To think that John and his brother had lived the same adventures as Huckleberry Finn and Victor Frankenstein, Oliver Twist and Tess of the D'Urbervilles, and... She was reaching for a book when a noise at the far end of the shelf distracted her. High on the corner, a book rattled and worked its way out of the vertical stack on its own, teetering on the shelf until it lost balance and fell to the hardwood floor with a resounding whack. Colleen's heart stilled, and she waited for the sound of approaching footsteps. When John didn't come to investigate the noise, she carefully bent to retrieve the book. It was one unfamiliar to her, one without an author's name. Midnight Passions read the title in gold cursive, and instead of the usual fleur de lis design of the other covers, this one was decorated with the gilded silhouette of two lovers intertwined. This had to be the book John mentioned earlier, the one that his grandmother...used. The voices and tremor she had experienced had to be connected to this book. Colleen couldn't believe it; it was a slim volume and looked no more harmful than any of the other books on the shelf. She flipped through the pages; it looked just like any other book. For her cursory glance, it appeared to be some kind of bodice ripper, a story of forbidden love set in another time. Her eyes occasionally caught words appropriate for the genre—throbbing, panting, smoldering, thrusting—and she stifled a laugh as the pages slid past her fingers. She had to wonder exactly how much throbbing and panting went on in this story, and how much the old priestess got to experience for herself. Colleen didn't blame the woman. How could she? She knew nothing of John's grandmother, and had John not taken her into a book she would have thought John insane for telling her about his eccentric guardian. If the woman wanted to cavort in a hot romance book, bully for her. If every woman could do it, reading might be in vogue. Colleen held the book in both hands, now reading a passage at random and giggling at the archaic description of a passionate love scene. "Hoo boy," she whispered. Not exactly Pulitzer material, but no doubt it got the job done.

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"Yes," she sighed aloud, bending the book in her hands, "who couldn't get by without a little passion?" And Colleen bent back the spine without thinking. And the room went white. Colleen felt as if her body were being compressed by a sudden increase in gravity and tried to scream, but sound failed her. As soon as the sensation came, though, it was over, and color returned. John's library, however, did not. Colleen was inside Midnight Passions now, and in the middle of a crowded, full-swing orgy.

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Six What the hell happened? She must have triggered the book with the correct password, she realized. It was true, she was no longer in John's library. She was now in a large, windowless room, lined with Oriental carpets, the walls draped in red velvet. Soft, glowing lampshades were few and far between, and the shadows produced in their dim glow enhanced the mystery of this new environment. The stench of sweat and cum assailed Colleen at all angles, making her feel momentarily dizzy...and aroused. And all around her—on the carpets, against the walls, and covering the few chaise lounges scattered about the room—was bare flesh, far as the eye could see. Writhing, moaning bodies, fucking and sucking and paying the interloper in the terrycloth robe no mind. No heads turned with her presence, no questions were asked. The orgy continued around her as if she were invisible. Oh, my. Colleen was afraid to move, afraid to breathe. What page was this, and why had she never found this book at the store? She remained a statue, barely holding the open book in one hand, but when she felt it about to fall she quickly tightened her grip but kept the pages open, marking her place with her finger. That's right, she remembered, closing the book would have meant being sent back home, and though she was feeling a bit unnerved by the activity around her, for some reason she wasn't ready to leave. Not three feet in front of her, a beautiful blonde woman lay on her back, working her tongue over the pussy of another woman straddled above her. The kneeling woman was facing a standing man with long, black hair, and she was grasping his ass and sucking his cock as he moaned his approval. A second man knelt before the trio with his arms looped around the raised knees of the prone woman, eating her pussy. None of them acknowledged Colleen.

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Oh, my. Colleen's pussy was melting at the sight of it. To her amazement, the foursome before her only scratched the surface of the present hedonism. Couples and groups of all possible combinations trysted with fervor. Colleen saw a woman sandwiched between two men on a chaise lounge at one end of the room, a hardened cock penetrating her at either end, while against one wall a lean, beautiful man pounded his cock into the ass of another Adonis. Still in another corner, two women kissed passionately and fondled each other's breasts. Near them, a man and woman were engaged in a slow, sensual sixty-nine act. Colleen watched, mesmerized, as the man on top pried apart his lover's cleft and tapped his tongue against a throbbing, pink clit. His hips moved rhythmically over the women beneath him as his cock slid up and down into her waiting mouth. Colleen had never seen a man on top in that position before, had never experienced it herself. A twinge of jealousy washed over her as she unconsciously slid a hand under the low neck of her robe to capture a hardened nipple. She pressed her thighs together and wobbled in place, but her clit ached nonetheless. Part of her wanted to cast off the robe and shout. Here I am, take me! She felt so left out; she wanted to dive headfirst into the sexual melee and hope at least one of these book characters was open-minded enough to oblige her. Man, woman...at this point it didn't matter. Another part of her wanted to take the book she was holding and slam it shut, and try to forget everything she had seen. Fat chance of that. Man, the stuff John's grandmother read! She swallowed. John knew about this book, but had he read it? Lived it? She wanted to move around, at least to an unoccupied part of the room where she could breathe normally, but she found it difficult to negotiate the bodies writhing on the floor. She was reminded of a mine field, and let out a short laugh. Still, nobody said a word. But, as Colleen soon noticed, somebody was watching. She turned slowly around until she faced the opposite end of the room, and her breath hitched. There, in one corner, a tall, gorgeous naked man leaned against the wall with his broad arms folded. Long, dark hair cascaded down his shoulders, and two black eyes pierced her heart. An impressive erection tapped at his navel as he stealthily

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approached, his eyes trained on her, but Colleen wasn't looking at that right now. She was looking at his face. John's face. Only it wasn't John, she realized as he stepped over the squirming bodies to face her. This man had similar features, and the same dark skin, but she knew instantly this couldn't be John. John had a sensual smile, yes, but this man's expression was hungrier, more predatory. Colleen felt the heat pooling in her belly spill down into her pussy, making it quiver. No, this wasn't John. How could he have gotten into the book first? Wouldn't the book have disappeared with him if he took the trip? The book. The man was taking it from her, gently, and to her surprise she was letting him. Did this man mean to take it for himself and leave her behind to fret in this orgy? Why leave a place like this? Could fictional characters leave and survive in the real world? These questions and more swirled through Colleen's mind, but all eventually took the back burner to her sudden desire to be a part of the action...with this gorgeous twin of John Spence's initiating her. Twin...brother? Could this be...? John talked of a brother. He had never said, though, that he had a twin, but that didn't mean this man wasn't one. The man held the book open with both palms and lazily glanced at the pages. "How did you come to know this book's secret?" he asked, his voice gentle. He didn't sound accusatory, but curious. He sounded almost amused. Colleen tried to speak, but was distracted by a sharp guttural cry. Her eyes darted to one side in time to see a woman braced against the wall, held up at each side by two men as a third man impaled her with his thick cock. The two men pinning her each licked one of the woman's hardened nipples. Damn, but that looked like fun. Colleen felt her robe become heavier. John's lookalike didn't wait for answer; he seemed to know it anyway. He cast her a wicked grin. "I never thought he'd spill the beans," he said, and handed the book back to her. "He's had quite the crush on you, you know. I never thought him one to want to share you, Colleen." He looked around the room and frowned. "I don't see him." "Share me?" Colleen had to think about the man's words. How did

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he know her name? "Y-you mean John? John Spence has a thing for me?" Impossible, the man was her landlord, and incredible-looking. John could have stepped into this raging orgy and had every woman pause mid-fuck, wanting to discard their current partners for him. His clone, clearly, had it just as good. No sooner than he returned his gaze to Colleen did two naked women appear from nowhere, each pressed against either side of him. One tickled his ear with her tongue while the other grazed a hand across the planes of his hard chest. Both glanced momentarily at Colleen, eyeing her with varying degrees of distaste. Or was it jealousy? The notion struck her as odd. In a possessive move, one woman knelt before the man and swallowed his erection whole. John's clone arched his neck and moaned. The other woman continued her gentle assault on his nipples, while Colleen could only watch. She was having a conversation with a man being sucked off, right in front of her! Too surreal. "H-how do you know my name?" she demanded, her voice weak. "Are you a character in this book? Was that you yelling and shaking my house last night?" He regarded her now through slit eyes and smiled. "We know each other, Colleen. I was the one who offered you the lease on the duplex." "What?" No, that was John. Who was this man? "My name is Spence," he said quietly. "Spence Aguilera. You know my brother, John." "I do." But did she really know him? Did this mean John's last name was different from what she knew, too? "I came alone, too. He doesn't know I'm here." "Since you managed to find your way here, I'll assume John has told you about our grandmother?" Colleen nodded. She couldn't be sure any words would come, especially not after the second woman abandoned Spence briefly and retrieved a long, phallic-shaped object with straps from a nearby table. It appeared the woman could tell Spence wasn't interested in her overtures. Colleen watched the woman affix the dildo around her hips and over her crotch, and kneel behind the woman sucking Spence's cock. "My grandmother was an honest woman, though some might have viewed her differently because of her beliefs," Spence said as he eased the woman's face from his groin. The woman remained on all fours as the one with the dildo teased her with the silicone shaft, then plunged it

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into her waiting core. Spence took Colleen by the sleeve and guided her slowly away from the orgy, out the far double doors to a darkened hallway. She wanted to ask where he was taking her, but was still too stunned by the activity and his striking looks to care. Maybe he was going to take her somewhere private and ravish her. They walked slowly, Colleen on trembling legs, trying to decide if that was going to be a good thing. "Has John told you about her?" Colleen's attention snapped to Spence's face, which, in the dim of the hallway, appeared all the more mysterious…but sexy. His jaw was cut like John's, and his eyes seemed to have lightened to gold, and glowed at her. She quaked under her robe, longing to feel his face nuzzled between her breasts. "Er, a little bit," she answered. "He said she enchanted the books so you…er, you and John could enter them." "She wanted us to be educated, and successful, but she was sensible enough not to use her gifts to her advantage. She frowned upon cheating." Spence smiled. "For a long time she scraped up the money to send us to an American school, but after many years she found she could only send one of us." The hallway seemed to go on forever. Was the building really that big, or was this a trick of the book? Colleen pondered this as they passed painting after painting depicting couples in erotic poses. "Grandmother certainly wasn't going to choose who would be given the chance at a more prosperous life," Spence was saying. "So she decided we should both have the chance, as one being." "I don't understand." Spence paused in the hallway. Colleen stopped short behind him, and he took the book from her again. "We took the name John Spence, two halves becoming a whole. When he turned eighteen and I was nineteen, John boarded the ship to Miami with Grandmother's enchanted books. I was smuggled in a copy of Vanity Fair until we got settled. John took me into the book and left me there, then came back for me. "For years afterward, John and I would trade places. We looked enough alike to get away with it. He would spend a few months living in the books while I took classes, and vice versa." He smirked. "Collectively we earned degrees in English literature and worked as teachers. Though I always seemed to arrange it so that he was on the outside during finals, but then he was the stronger student."

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Colleen worked the numbers in her head. The brothers had to have been doing this for twenty years now. One name, one Social Security number, one set of taxes to pay. Amazing how nobody had caught on to the charade. "And you still trade places and assume the same identity?" Spence nodded. "Though John is on the outside more often than I am these days. His stretches will go on for about six months at a time, while I'll only spend a few weeks out before I can't take it anymore." Colleen nodded. That explained Spence's longer hair. John must be enjoying a long stretch on the outside now. She felt a sudden burst of jealousy ignite within her. With whom was John enjoying the outside world? And how much did he enjoy himself in his grandmother's copy of Midnight Passions? Spence gestured slightly about them. "When Grandmother died and we came to own this book, I found I liked it here better, for obvious reasons. John had no objections, either." "Obviously." Who wouldn't want to live in a perpetual orgy? "Does, um, John come here often?" "He used to. The girls miss him. They rather enjoy being fucked simultaneously by near-twins. Quite an experience, I'm told." Spence's eyes twinkled at her; Colleen felt her entire body flush. "Lately, though, he'll slip into another book when I'm on the outside. He seems to have his eye on somebody else, and I really can't blame him." Colleen felt a chill overtake her. John wanted her? She shook her head. This was too unbelievable to comprehend. All this time, she had two landlords, and couldn't tell them apart. And one wanted her! Did the other one, too? "You were out long enough to meet me, though," she said. "John felt, since I technically own the house, too, that I should meet any prospective tenants. We both liked you and Melissa immediately. John especially likes you." Spence's eyes reflected a hunger that caused Colleen's heart to thrum. John wasn't the only one, apparently. "I'm glad," she said, and wondered what Spence would make of her response. "Neither of us like Daryl, though. He's a selfish prick." Colleen thought a moment. Was that what John had meant when he said we? He was referring to himself and his brother, not Melissa. "He's gone," Colleen said, a bit too quickly, she realized. She didn't want Spence to think she sounded desperate. Of course, she wasn't the

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one walking around naked. Naked. Good night! They had been talking and walking all this time, and she had completely forgotten. She had become so comfortable with Spence, so quickly, that it never occurred to her. Looking down now at what had to be a thick, eight-inch erection, though, a nervous desire fluttered in her belly. She hoped Spence and John were alike in this manner as well. Spence touched her arm. Needles shot through her veins, jumpstarting her heart and prickling her skin. Her nipples tightened under the robe. "I should take you back," he was saying. "I don't know how you managed to get this book with my brother knowing, but I imagine he will notice it missing…" "The door," Colleen blurted, and blushed under Spence's amused appraisal of her. "The door that separates my bedroom from John's, er, your part of the house…I thought it was sealed when I tested the knob." Spence kept his grip firm on Colleen's arm as he held the open book in his other hand. He didn't seem surprised that Colleen had tested the door. Judging from his look, it was almost expected that curiosity would get the better of her, but not necessarily get her this far. "It was sealed, for a while," he said, "until your landlord took care of it." "Really? Which landlord?" Colleen challenged. But Spence only clamped the book shut and sent them home.

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Seven "Oh, brother, where art thou?" Spence's deep voice rang through the library and down the stairwell, made visible as he opened the door. Colleen felt a chill and tightened the neck of her robe so that it concealed her entirely. Her heart was lodged in her throat, and she was terrified at the prospect of facing John. With Spence here, he would know she had been trespassing, in his house and his books. How could she begin to explain that her entrance into Midnight Passions had been an accident? Spence didn't appear to be as fretful. He circled the room, his erection on the mend, and glanced passively at the other books on the shelves. "I've been inside all of them," he was saying, though Colleen's attention was on the door, "but none of them have held my interest as much as Grandmother's book." I'll bet. "Uh, maybe John's not home..." It was a meek suggestion, one quickly debunked when a light illuminated the hallway. Shadows and footfalls heralded John's approach. Colleen's heart dislodged and skipped upon seeing him, stripped to the waist and wearing a pair of white boxers that nicely set off his dark skin. The prominent bulge tenting the loose fabric was a sight for sore eyes as well. He folded his arms and cast a confused look at the two, then pointed to his naked brother. "How..." "You told her," teased Spence as he waved the copy of Midnight Passions at him. John's lower jaw gaped slightly. Colleen could see him working everything out in his mind, and his brow only furrowed more when he took the book from his brother. He looked at Colleen. "How did you...?" He thumbed through the book, dumbfounded. "There's no way..." "It was an accident," she said quickly, hands crossed over her breasts as if to shield herself from harm. She then launched into a G-

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rated version of the adventure—testing the lock on a whim, thinking the correct password for the book while triggering the transport, finding Spence—as the two brothers watched her arms gesticulate. It was when she spotted the delight in their eyes that she realizes her gestures had caused the neck of the robe to come loose and expose her breasts. "Any...anyway," she finished, "Spence brought me back. No harm, no foul." At least, she didn't see any fowl, or other beasts. She hoped it wasn't that kind of a book! "This was no accident," John said, serious. Colleen felt her throat close. She couldn't read him at all. Was he enraged, or merely upset? Her gaze darted to the book in his hands. It was small relief that he wasn't gripping the book tightly, with the blood drained from his knuckles. No, now he sounded more astonished than anything else. "We've never revealed the password to this book, any of our books, to anybody else," John said, and received a nod of confirmation from Spence. "But you managed to find a way in." Colleen shrugged. "I'm sorry, it was an accident. I bent back the spine like you did and must have said the right word at the right time. I got out of there as soon as I could, though." She looked to Spence and hoped his facial expressions wouldn't betray the lie. "That's just it. This book is different from the rest." John moved to a table and laid the book gingerly. "When our grandmother died, we learned she had placed a different spell on this book than she had with the others. Only certain people could enter it. Anybody else with the right password could not." Colleen thought about that. It made sense. It was an adult book; the grandmother probably didn't want minors nosing around that fictional orgy. She felt Spence's presence at her back now. "Among her many talents, Grandmother had a knack for prophecy. When she sent us here, she wanted for us to be successful in love as well as life. She knew we would find love in America," he said. "We learned she had placed a special spell on that book so that we might find true love." John faced her now. His chest seemed expanded, more muscular now. His eyes were soft, yet pierced her with a gaze that held her in place. "Only the woman we are destined to be with can enter this book, Colleen," he said. "Only the woman destined to be our lover, and wife, can use the password correctly. Grandmother foresaw it."

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Our lover? As in John and Spence? Colleen's entire body twitched; the brothers were closing in on her, like she was trapped in a shrinking room. Surely they weren't suggesting... She chuckled, more out of nervous reaction than amusement. "Hey, now," she said. "I don't know how they do it on your little Caribbean island, but in America there's a word for what you're suggesting: bigamy. Of course, with you being English professors I don't have to tell you that, or tell you that it's also illegal." Spence palmed her shoulders. Even through the thick fabric of the robe, Colleen could feel the heat of his skin radiate through her arms, down her torso and into her pussy. "Technically, though, you would be marrying one man, John Spence." His deep voice thrummed through her veins. "To the rest of the world, we exist as one man." "I know, but..." But what? She would know differently. "But, I wouldn't be married to just one man." "No." John smiled and shook his head. Huh? She looked from one brother to the other. "And you guys don't have a problem with it? Sharing a woman?" "Do you have a problem being with two men?" Like hell she didn't! Of course, she had never been with two men before, and the thought that these two men in particular were willing to have her filled her heart with glee. She was relieved, too, neither one had commented on her appearance. It was as if they couldn't see her flaws at all, and they were certainly close enough to see just about everything. They were even closer now, sandwiching her. Colleen detected Spence's hardened cock pressed against her backside; John's breath tickled her ear. His smoldering smile nearly caused her to melt, and Colleen didn't have to turn her head to know Spence's face, and desires, mirrored his brothers. John caressed her cheek with the back of his hand as Spence gripped her tightly by the shoulders. Before she realized it her robe was falling past her collarbone and down her arms. Her breasts were exposed to John now, and just the whisper touch of his chest to hers sent twin jolts of desire through her nipples. "Colleen," he whispered. "I had hoped it would be you." "Oh." She sucked air between her teeth. Her resolve was fading fast; the two brothers were going to have to prop her up with their own

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bodies soon, she was about to melt. They were probably going to do that anyway, she reasoned, using the two thick erections she could feel poking her on both sides. "So." Her voice cracked. "If...technically..." One of them unknotted the belt of her robe. She could feel her juices slicking the insides of her thighs. Oh, boy. "If...if I'm married just to John Spence, who..." Oh, man. "Who...?" "Who goes on the honeymoon?" Spence asked. That wasn't her question, but it was close. "Uh, sure." He planted a kiss on the back of Colleen's neck, then looked at his brother. "What do you think, John? One of us will have to work, I presume." "Not necessarily." John's hand moved down Colleen's face, tracing a line across her jaw, down her throat and to the valley between her breasts. The other hand palmed a nipple and pressed against the breast. "John Spence is due for a sabbatical. I'm thinking the next semester would be perfect." The robe slipped entirely from her body and sat in a terry cloth puddle at their feet. One of them, she couldn't tell whom, kicked it away to one corner. "Yes," Spence said, rubbing his cock against her bare buttocks. "Let's take the semester off. Honeymoon for nine weeks. Send Melissa to summer camp." "Maybe a lengthy visit with the Dashwoods?" John grinned. "I wouldn't mind a lengthy visit to Midnight Passions with our new bride," said Spence. Colleen felt a joyous rush at that thought. To have all the time in the world, in that den of pleasure with these two hunks…it certainly beat Niagara Falls as a honeymoon destination! Wow. Hands caressed her all over, so much that Colleen couldn't tell which brother was touching her where. Fingers dipped to the undersides of her breasts and across her hipbones, pinched her nipples, then slid up the slim column of her neck to trace behind her ears. Next, the tongues. John bent his head to taste one nipple, then the other. Behind her, Spence licked a path between her shoulders as he ground his cock rhythmically into her backside. Every touch, every taste, caused her pussy to pulse. She could feel her slit leaking as her legs quivered and fought to remain rooted.

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"Relax," John admonished on a whisper. His slid upward, his mouth open over her skin, and crushed his lips on hers. At the same time Spence's hand snaked around her hip and took possession of her pussy. Gently easing between her pussy lips, Spence sought out her clit and began stroking in slow, circular motion. Colleen cried her approval into John's mouth; her nipples stabbed his chest as he pressed closer. It had never been like this Daryl or her ex-husband. Neither one of them could make her come in a matter of seconds with one touch, and now she was very close to doing just that. "So good," John murmured when he finally broke free. Spence concurred with a low-throated chuckle, and he glanced down her body and smiled. "If I didn't know any better, darlin', I'd say you were ready for us. Wouldn't you, Spence?" "Almost," Spence said. "Feel for yourself." He bent into Colleen's ear. His warm breath made her shiver. "Feel her, brother," Spence whispered in her ear. "Touch her pussy, feel how she aches for us. Isn't that right, Colleen? Does your pussy want for us?" "Yes," Colleen moaned. "Do you want my brother's cock? Do you want to take him to the hilt while I do this?" Spence took his own cock in hand and lodged it between her buttocks, teasing her anus with the tip. "Yes." Spence rubbed the circumcised head up and down, up and down, and pressed against her anal opening again. "Do you like when I do that?" "Yes." She loved it. Every nerve ending on her body exploded. She wanted nothing more right now than to feel one of those impressive cocks plunging into her. No, both of them. She wanted John in her pussy and Spence in her ass. She wanted their hot cum shooting into her at the same time. She gasped when John's fingers came into contact with her pussy lips, then cupped downward and slid into her waiting core. All the while, Spence continued his loving assault on her clit. "Your cunt feels so good," John growled as he pumped his fingers into her. The sensation was rough, but coupled with Spence's ministrations it was sheer, pleasurable torture. "I can't wait to put my cock inside you. Tighten for me, Colleen." His voice took on an edge,

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and he sucked in his breath when Colleen obliged him. "Yes." Still barely standing, still pressed between two throbbing erections, Colleen undulated her hips and rode John's fingers to a long orgasm. Her head bent back into the crook of Spence's neck as she cried out, and only when Spence's touch became too much to bear did she try to escape. "Here." The men separated from her, and John eased her to all fours on the floor. This put Colleen at eye-level with Spence's purpling cock. "Shall we take this party to another venue?" Spence asked. Colleen watched him nod to the book. John was ripping off his boxer shorts, grimacing as his erection snagged in the fabric. "Not now, I can't wait. I need to be buried in that sweet little pussy. But first..." He maneuvered Colleen so that her bent ass was raised high in the air. He fingered her spread pussy lips and teased her aching, wet cunt. "So nice." Colleen twitched with every touch, and to lessen the joyous pain she turned back to focus on Spence, but the growing cock before her was equally arousing. "Please," Spence begged, "take me in your mouth." Colleen happily and wordlessly complied. She laved his shaft with her tongue, lapping upward in one stroke before swallowing him whole. At the same time she felt a pair of lips between her thighs, but she didn't dare break free of Spence. From the way John's tongue licked her pussy lips and cunt juice, she could tell he had rolled onto his back to eat her better. Colleen still had Spence in her mouth when John's tongue drove her into another orgasm. She pursed her lips tighter around Spence's shaft, reveling in the low-pitched groan rumbling in his throat. He twitched and throbbed inside her, and she silently willed him to come. She wanted to taste him the way John had tasted her; she had never swallowed before and wanted badly to know that feeling. She glanced up at Spence, marveling at the graceful curve of his body as he arched back with his eyes closed. He was giving his full concentration to her, she knew, and it warmed her heart to know that, that he wasn't looking at his watch or thinking of another woman like Daryl had done. The thought prompted her to work his shaft harder and faster, but he stilled her with a gentle touch. "Easy, darlin'. I can't wait to come, but I'm patient enough to wait a few more minutes." Spence arched an eyebrow at his brother. "Okay?"

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John had long since released Colleen's clit from his mouth and was now pointing his cock to her slit. "Don't rush me," he growled. "Let me enjoy this." Me, too. Colleen's pussy contracted around the tip of John's cock, then relaxed as he eased himself all the way inside her pussy. She wanted to gasp and nearly choked on Spence's cock trying to do so, John was so big. He was much bigger than Daryl and, judging from how wet she felt, knew just how to thrust to make her feel good. She tightened her channel with each thrust and pressed her hips into John to prolong the feeling. It wasn't long before another orgasm washed over her, knocking her with such a force that caused her to release Spence. He didn't seem to mind, but rocked back on his heels to recline and watch. "Enjoying the view?" John teased, his voice strained against his mounting pleasure. Colleen rooted her palms to the floor and watched Spence watch her. He seemed to be fascinated with the way her breasts swayed as John pumped into her. "Very much." Spence leaned back on his elbows. His cock was still hard and nested against his tight abdomen. "But I haven't seen her from all angles yet. One in particular..." Colleen felt John's hands clamp her hips. Spence would soon get his wish, she realized, as John roared his orgasm. His hot cum shot into her womb, and Colleen felt the heat course through her body, more so when John bent over her and covered her body with his. He was panting, sweating...his heart pounded into her chest. She could hardly believe this was happening her, that she could elicit such emotion from a man. Could it get any better? "I hope so." She looked up; she hadn't realized Spence was talking, or, given her frazzled, orgasmic state, that she had said her thoughts aloud. Spence spread his legs. His erection seemed more prominent in that position. With a crooked grin he beckoned her closer. "C'mere," he said. "Let's go for a ride." "Wha...?" Only when she turned back did she realize John had withdrawn from her and was now lying on his back, trying to recoup. The look of weary bliss on his face elated her. "Go on," John said. "I want to see you ride that cock. See your beautiful white skin against his."

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"Okay." What else could she say? She still couldn't believe these two men, these brothers, were willing to share her. She wasted no time, either, in complying to the brothers' request. Who knew when this dream would end? It had to be a dream, too, a dream as fictional as Midnight Passions. She would eventually wake up and retrieve Melissa and live the rest of her life, alone. John Spence would again become a handsome blur who received her monthly rent payments. Ugh, stop thinking about that now. Carpe diem, and carpe whatever cock means in Latin. Spence didn't disappoint; his cock fit Colleen perfectly as she mounted him and began to ride. Her back arched, she swiveled her hips in slow motion so his cock hit all the right spots inside her. She leaned forward to scrape her clit against the base of Spence's shaft and relished the quiet joy flitting across his face. "So good," he murmured. "You are so good, Colleen. I might just be spending less time in my book and more time being your husband." "We'll soon see about that," John joked from behind the couple. Refreshed, he crept up to Colleen on his knees and drew her into an embrace while she continued to ride Spence. His cock tapped against her buttocks, threatening another erection. Another erection! Colleen wanted to shout for joy. It usually took a minor miracle for Daryl to get hard after a round of good sex. Hell, it took a minor miracle just to get him to wake up afterward! Yet here was this hardening, huge cock brushing against her ass, hungry for more. "John, please," she gasped as John took possession of her breasts and rolled her nipples between his fingers. "Please, let me feel inside me. I want you both at the same time—" But John shushed her. "Not yet," he whispered. "I promise soon. We're not going to tear you apart. Let's go slowly, okay?" She wanted to laugh. This was going slowly? She shuddered to think what it would be like to pick up the pace. Seconds later, she was shuddering for another reason. Spence's cock twitched inside her, and he hitched his breath, ready to come. She was about there herself, once again. "That's it." John worked her breasts harder, distending her nipples with his touch. "Come for us, Colleen. Let's hear you come." This orgasm was more intense than the last, and Colleen bayed her

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pleasure to the ceiling. The room expanded and contracted around her, and her joy echoed in her ears in different pitches. As she was coming down from the high, she wondered if in fact she was actually hearing the voices from inside Midnight Passions rumbling through the room. She heard pages fluttering behind her, and a quiet vibration rocked her body as Spence let loose his own orgasm and stabbed harder into her with one final thrust. Exhausted, she collapsed on top of him, too tired to reciprocate the kisses both men offered. "I think," Spence said, "real life is much better than the book." "Agreed," John chuckled. He smoothed his palms down Colleen's back and landed light kisses down her spine. "Though I wouldn't mind starting a new chapter, if you're willing. Colleen?" Colleen was too spent to reply. Instead she closed her eyes and passed out on Spence's hard chest, letting dreams of this erotic bedtime story take over.

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Eight What time was it? Colleen opened her eyes and squinted into the overhead light in her bedroom. Shit. She'd gone back to sleep after Melissa called, and slept the day away. A quick glance at the clock on her bedside table confirmed this. Many of the chores she had planned for the day would have to wait. She sighed, unhappy with her lethargy, yet somewhat content. The day hadn't been a total waste, what with that incredibly erotic dream. She wiped her eye and rolled to the other side of the bed...right smack into a hard, naked body. Huh? His back was to her. His dark complexion looked absolutely delicious against the white sheet barely covering his torso. His back muscles rippled when he stretched slightly. Colleen numbed. Her landlord was in her bed! How did he get here? She looked down at herself under the sheets. She was naked; she hadn't gone to bed naked, that much she knew. She searched for memory for an explanation but could only drudge up memories of that delicious dream of being double-teamed by... John. And his brother. And it wasn't a dream, if the smiling clone of her landlord sauntering in from her bedroom was any indication. Spence was naked but for the towel cinched around his waist. He regarded her with a smile that softened her nerves and caused her pussy to quiver. "Sleep well?" he asked. "Huh? Oh, yeah. I guess." She slid deeper into bed to allow Spence to get in next to her, then started when a second pair of arms grabbed her. John was awake now and greeting her with soft kisses along her shoulder and neck. His lips were real, his hands were real. His scent was real. Spence was real, and so was her bedroom.

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The memories flooded her consciousness. She had made love with these two men, and it was real. It wasn't a book she had read or had experienced. It was all real, and she was close to bursting with shock from the realization. Spence snuggled into her other side while John resumed his gentle assault. "We thought you could use a break," Spence was saying as his hand found her pussy and rubbed it in search for her clit. "Perhaps you'd like something to eat?" "Huh?" Amazing how hard it was to form a coherent sentence while close to orgasm. "No, thanks," she finally managed. "I'm fine. How about you?" She cringed. What kind of a silly question was that? "We're wonderful," John whispered in her ear. "And we'll feel even better once we're married." Colleen gulped. Yes, she remembered that part of the dream, too. She pulled the sheets up to her chin and laughed nervously. "Yes, about that... How are we going to get away with doing that? I mean, as fun as it sounds, I couldn't marry two men at the same time." "Why not?" Spence asked. The serious tone of his voice was slightly unnerving. "You would be married to John Spence, who is legally one man. Since John and I trade off living in the books, there could be stretches of weeks where you would only have one of us in your bed." "Unless you want us both, and neither of us have a problem with that, as you earlier experienced." John grinned. "No kidding." Colleen's nipples hardened again; her pussy ached for another round. "What about Melissa? You guys think you can continue pull off the switching with her. She's a smart girl, she'll figure it out." "She already knows, Colleen." "What?" John eased into the pillows and stroked Colleen's ribcage with one finger. "She figured it out a long time ago, and I saw no point in trying to cover it up. Remember, she'd seen more of us than you have. She is a smart girl, we agree." "And a rather progressive one, too," Spence added, "who doesn't seem to mind having two step-daddies." Colleen had to laugh at that. Still so much she didn't know about her own girl. "That's just too weird. This whole situation is too weird. I wouldn't believe it for one minute if you—" she pointed at Spence, then

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realized her mistake and turned to his brother, "if you hadn't taken me into that book." "I would be happy to take you into any book you want, Colleen," John said. "In fact, I'd encourage it, because there's one more thing you should know about those books." "Oh, dear. Don't tell me. The characters can come out here, too." An image of the cast of Midnight Passions engaged in an orgy in her living room came into focus. Spence chuckled. "I wish. Seriously, staying in the books has an affect on you. It slows the aging the process. The longer you stay in a book, the longer you stay young." "Really?" "Our grandmother lived a very long time," John said, "and we're a lot older than you think." "I think you both are beautiful," Colleen said, and meant her words. She still couldn't believe they wanted her, and said as much. "Believe it." Spence nuzzled her ear. "You were meant for us, and we for you. We want you with us for all time." "The longer the better," John added. "What do you say to an extended vacation in the story of your choice? Just the four of us." Both men closed in on her. Colleen's body geared up for another session of mind-blowing sex. "I'd say I'm going to like being in his book club," she said, then her face fell. "Oh, but we can't take Melissa into that book." John kissed her ear. "It's all right. Anywhere you want to go. I don't want to share you with those people anyway. Spence is enough." "Funny, brother." Spence smirked. The banter done, both men proceeded with their seduction, each sucking a nipple into their mouths. Colleen's head lolled back and she basked in the sensation. Yes, she decided, this was one story destined to have a very happy ending.

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Service Recall Bridget Midway

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Also by Bridget Midway Adam and E-V-E C-A-I-N and A-B-E-L Original Sin Suburbia Walls

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One "Girl, what you need is a good, stiff dick. That will cure anything that ails you." Carla's best friend's sentiment had been Shannon's answer to everything. A good roll in the hay couldn't solve all of Carla's problems but she humored her friend and listened, again, to why a man's penis had the power to repair anything at any time. "That's your cure-all to everything," Carla leaned against the countertop in her kitchen as she pressed her cordless phone to her ear. The old Formica top squeaked under her pressure. When she had the time and inclination, that top would be the first thing to go. Damn, who was she kidding? Time? Inclination? How about money. Carla dropped the nagging thoughts and returned her attention to her friend. "I'm telling you. A good, high hard one will make you forget your name." Shannon cackled on the other end making Carla pull the phone away from her ear. She didn't remove the receiver in enough time. The high-pitched laugh still rang in Carla's ears. "I don't need to forget my full name. Well, not anymore." Now that she was no longer a Ewell and reverted back to her maiden name of Middleton, Carla thought she would have felt empowered. Instead she felt more lost than ever before. Who was she since her marriage of fifteen years fell apart? Now that she wasn't Roy Ewell's wife, who the hell was she? What in the world would she do now that she didn't have someone to chase behind and cater to? "I'm so glad you dropped that chump's name. Two-timing bastard. You think a police detective of all people would have learned to keep it in his pants. Guess he just knew how to hide his lying ways better." Carla squeezed her eyes closed as soon as Shannon mentioned her husband's infidelity. Wait, her ex-husband's infidelity. Memories of

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overhearing partial conversations of secret meetings and finding credit card receipts for hotel rooms filled her head until Carla had to shake it to get rid of the thoughts. How could she have been so blind to his actions? They were all so clear now. "So you want to get some dinner and catch a movie?" Shannon asked. Too bad not everything in Carla's life was clear. She glanced at her stainless steel sink, filled to the brim with murky water. "No. I'm waiting for the plumber. He was supposed to be here thirty minutes ago." "Call someone else. Don't let him in your house." Carla could almost see Shannon stomping her tiny foot. For only being about five-foot nothing, the little woman had power behind her voice and actions, something Carla envied at times. She wished she could have stood up for herself more in her marriage, in life. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one staring at a sink full of nasty water that won't go down." Shannon rolled an obscene laugh through the phone. "What?" Carla wanted to be in on the joke, too. She hadn't had a good laugh in months. "Maybe you'll get lucky and your plumber will go down…on you." An image of an overweight guy with dirty, faded jeans that hung so low it showed off his butt crack entered Carla's mind and caused her to shiver. Although she hadn't had sex in a couple of years, she wouldn't stoop to getting her freak on with any Tom, Dick or Pete the Plumber. "Thanks for putting that nasty image in my head." Carla picked up her plunger she'd been using on her sink for over an hour and dunked it into the water again. Searching for the drain opening, she secured the open mouth of the plunger over it and pushed it up and down. Water splashed over her bare legs and onto her old New Edition t-shirt. Back when she was a teenager, Carla had a huge crush on Bobby Brown. In her fantasies, she and Bobby were going to get married and be the ideal African-American power couple. Who knew even his marriage would crumble as well? "What do you mean, nasty? I've seen some good-looking plumbers. They have their tool belt hanging off their pants and their arms are all muscular. Mmmm." Shannon actually purred over the phone. "What plumber have you seen that looked like that?" Carla stopped pumping long enough to hear the answer. If such a man existed, she

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needed his name, phone number and address. "He was at Taleisha's party." Carla slumped her shoulders and continued pumping her clogged drain. "You mean the same Taleisha that just got married?" "Yeah." "The one who had a bachelorette party?" "Um, yeah." "The one who had a stripper at her party named Snake because he wanted to get all up in your 'pipes' and clean you out?" Carla snickered, remembering Snake's comical introduction line. Did any woman fall for that? "Oh yeah. I guess I'm mixing reality and fantasy again, huh? Seemed real to me. I wanted him to flush out my pipes." Shannon laughed again. This time Carla couldn't help but laugh with her. She didn't even mind the moaning exhalation sound the plunger made each time she pushed down on it. Bubbles rose to the water's surface each time the plunger burped as it worked. The doorbell rang, halting her merriment. "Is he there?" Shannon asked. Carla stopped plunging. She heard through the phone Shannon sucking her teeth. Her friend probably swirled her head around like a good sista. Carla wasn't about to argue with the man. He was late and that's it. She was done arguing with men. It never got her anywhere. "Yeah, I think that's him." Carla, in bare feet, padded to the door over her cool hardwood floors. The water that had splashed on her legs started to dry, leaving long, white streaks of detergent and cleaning solutions. Oh, yes. As soon as Plumber Boy did his job, Carla had a date with her claw-foot bathtub and a romance novel she picked up at Barnes and Noble in her travels that day. Grabbing the corner of her purple sweat shorts, she pulled the garment from between her cheeks. Glancing at herself in the mirror by the front door, she smoothed her eyebrows down. Thick and disheveled, they were in desperate need of waxing. She ran her hand over her hair styled in locks, also in desperate need of a makeover. Like a horse, she parted her lips to look at her teeth. Nothing between them. What the hell was she doing? She wasn't someone's show horse

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anymore. And she certainly didn't need to impress whoever was on the other side of the door. "I'll talk to you later, Shannon." Carla grabbed the doorknob. "Give him a piece of your mind. And if he's cute, give him a piece of your ass!" "Pervert!" Carla disconnected the call then opened the front door. "You're—" The words caught in her throat as soon as she saw the man. "—late." Aside from his towering height, there was absolutely nothing extraordinary about the man. He certainly wasn't the big, fat, flabby plumber she'd expected. However, he wasn't in that stripper category either. He sat deliciously in the middle of the two extremes. And his strong jaw line, soulful eyes and a distinguished chin grabbed her attention and kept it squarely on him. Without saying a word or doing a thing, this man managed to capture her attention. Was that her heart beating that hard? She put her hand to her chest. He sighed and blinked so slowly he could have taken a small nap on her front porch. "I'm sorry." His deep voice shook her stomach. Exhaustion plagued his words. "I tried calling but your line was busy." Carla was about to refute his statement but then she remembered that the feature of call waiting was an added and costly benefit to her phone service that, as a newly single woman, she couldn't afford on her budget. She stepped aside and allowed him in her home. Staring at him from behind starting with his black hair with gray strands peppered through it, his broad shoulders and wide back that tapered down to a thick waist, Carla suddenly wished that she'd worn a bra. She figured the guy would be some old, white dude who wouldn't have looked at her twice. She got the white part right. He looked to be around her age, somewhere in his late thirties to early forties. He even smelled like he looked. A rustic, woodsy scent swirled about him. If he smelled that way because of sweat, Carla wanted to make him work out so he could emit more of that aroma. She took a deep breath and released a long, slow exhalation to savor his essence. The plumber turned around and smiled. His eyebrows matched his hair, black with gray in them. Coupled with his light brown eyes, Carla had to admit the man was…appealing.

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Carla crossed her arms over her chest. No longer angry with him for his tardiness, she looked the part of indignant customer if only to cover her breasts. "So what's the problem?" He set his toolbox down by his large feet. Carla let her gaze drop to his well-worn work boots. Splatters of paint, water, chemicals and mud covered the shoes. All signs of a hardworking man. Suddenly the room felt hot. Carla swallowed hard before speaking. "My kitchen sink is clogged. I tried plunging it but it doesn't work." He nodded. "Let me take a look at it." "That's what you're here for." She didn't mean to come off as snappy. For once in her life, she was at a loss for words in front of this man. He must have picked up on her harsh tone. "Again, I apologize for being late. I'll knock fifty percent off your charges today for your inconvenience." He really didn't have to do that. Carla would have paid to watch him walk across the floor and smell him. "That's nice of you." She led him to her kitchen, stepping around packing boxes that littered the floor. He clomped behind her with his heavy footfalls. With every bit of strength and willpower, Carla refrained from turning to glance at him. "Moving in or moving out?" He set his gunmetal gray toolbox on top of her counter. "In. So do you think the clog is bad?" Carla didn't want to dwell on her current situation. She certainly didn't want to pour out her whole life story to this stranger. He hovered over her sink, peering down at the water as though trying to read it. "I've seen worse." He offered a smile as a way to soothe her. It worked. She stared at the cleft in his chin and the slight shadow that marked how long of a day he'd endured. She licked her tongue over her lips, tasting the bitter residue from her lip balm that she had slathered on an hour ago. The air conditioner in her old house couldn't kick on fast enough. "Nice buy." He opened his toolbox and pulled out a wrench and other tools Carla had never seen before. "What?"

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"The house. If you just bought it, you made a great purchase. I love old homes and restoring them. It's like hanging on to the past but making it your own, you know?" He cocked a smile. "Yeah, right." Apparently she didn't give him the response he wanted. He cleared his throat then glanced around her. "Need something?" Carla desperately wanted him to say that he needed her. Someone had to want her. "Just checking to see if you had a disposal." "No. Like you said, it's an old house. I'm surprise the last owner put in central air." Thankful, but surprised. "I'm not. Old Mrs. Lembeck didn't like to get too hot. You got a bucket?" "Um, yeah." Carla opened up a small utility closet and pulled out a new bucket, still with the sales sticker on the side of it. She tried peeling it off before she gave it to him but it wasn't budging. He opened the cabinet under the sink. The filthy area remained uncluttered. Carla so wanted to confess her life story to him, tell him how her lying, sack-of-shit ex-husband left her for a younger, thinner woman and how she had to start all over and learn how to do things for herself…right after he cleared her drain. "So you knew the previous owner?" Carla kept her arms crossed over her chest. "Yep. I grew up around here. Still live kind of close. I caught this call on my way home." He got down on his knees. "Lucky me." This time the line didn't come off as smarmy. "I know Mrs. Lembeck used to rent out one of her bedrooms. I thought you were a renter. Didn't know she'd moved." "Yeah, off to bigger and better things, I suppose." Looking at him on his knees next to her put all kinds of dirty thoughts in her head. Damn Shannon for making her joke. Now all Carla could imagine was him between her legs licking her pussy. She could almost feel his hot tongue laving her now throbbing clit then dipping it inside of her, deep inside of her. A moan escaped her mouth. When the man turned to her, giving her a quizzical stare, Carla played off the noise by coughing and pounding on her chest. "Asthma," she lied.

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The motion of beating her chest moved her t-shirt so that it brushed against her hardened nipples. She billowed her shirt away from her body so that he couldn't tell that she was feeling more than a little appreciative over his visit. "You don't remember me, do you?" He twisted a knob underneath the sink, making sure to tighten it, flexing his bulging arm muscles in the process. The dark hairs on his arm glistened with his sweat, sticking to his tanned skin. Carla blinked. "Should I know you?" "I'm Duke." When Carla didn't respond to only his first name, he continued. "Duke Boscoe." As soon as he mentioned his last name, he became clear to her. Her brain rolled the two of them back twenty-five years ago when they were in high school. Duke, as his name suggested, had been the big man on campus. And Carla had been one of the many girls who vied for his affection or even a simple look. "Oh my God! Duke. How have you been?" She put her hand on his back. His body heat permeated through his shirt. Carla wondered if he was hot too or if his temperature rose just now. "Been good. Missed you at the reunion a few weeks ago." When he smiled, Carla remembered how his smile back then on his young yet manly face made her weak in the knees. Looking at him now, her juices started to flow between her legs. "I had other plans that night." Mainly nursing her wounds after going to court and finalizing her divorce. Carla didn't want to be the woman attending the reunion without a man on her arm. It was a stupid way to feel, especially in this day and age. However Carla couldn't get over the fact that she would have to attend many functions, at least for now, alone. Made her wonder though who Duke had on his arm that night. If he grew up to be the same guy he was in high school, then Carla suspected he had some young, cute, bubbly arm candy by his side. She gritted her teeth at the idea. "You look really good." Duke stared at her for a while before returning his attention to her pipes. "Time has been good to you." With the compliment, Carla relaxed her jaw. She lowered her arms

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to not look too defiant but quickly returned them to their crossed over position when the realization hit her about her freed breasts. "Thanks. But what are you talking about? You still look like that quarterback all of the girls pined away for." She wanted to say 'including her' but she refrained. "Yeah, so much so that you didn't remember who I was." He chuckled. "Come on, Duke. It has been over twenty-five years. I can barely remember what I ate for breakfast yesterday." She snickered. Toast. That's what she'd had for breakfast. She ate it alone. "I hear you." He laughed with her then busied his hands under the sink. Carla heard a lot of clanging and watched Duke's face go from calm to intense with each noise. Whatever he was doing had to be strenuous. As she stared at him, Carla even wondered what expressions he made during sex. Was he just as intense or did he carry a too-cool-forwords expression that could make a woman wet just staring at him? "So how long have you been doing this?" she asked. "Plumbing work," she quickly followed, as though he could read her thoughts and know she wondered how long he had been a heartbreaker. Watching him work, she found herself wanting to know all about the guy that filled whole slumber party nights of talk of things girls wanted to do to him. "Not long. Ten, um, maybe eleven years." He bent himself under the sink giving Carla a great view of his backside. And what a view. No plumber's crack today. His ass, though just a little more of it from the last time she remembered, still looked firm and tight like the man worked out every day. Fantasies rushed in her head with her gripping his cheeks as he pumped inside of her. Meaningless sex. That's all she needed, right? Carla chewed her bottom lip. "Late start," she said. Who was she kidding? Except for the occasional church volunteer efforts, Carla hadn't worked in years. Back then Roy had told her he didn't want his wife working. Fifteen years into the marriage without a child and even Carla got cabin fever staying cooped up in the house. "Yeah, well some of us take time to find out what it is we want," Duke said from under the sink. He brought his head out and examined a tool, making some necessary adjustments. "So you and your husband are

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living here?" Duke screwed up his face. Carla swallowed. Her dry throat nearly seized all passage. Coughing to clear it, she glanced away from him. No matter how hard she'd tried, she couldn't push down that feeling of anger, hate, and regret. Why the hell at thirty-nine did she have to start over? It wasn't fair. As her mother, God rest her soul, kindly reminded her before Carla found Roy, Carla was too old to have gotten married in the first place. Life shouldn't be this hard. Carla had been prepared to fight for her marriage. She never understood why Roy didn't. "Roy and I are separated, um, well, I mean divorced." She let loose a nervous laughter. "It's been so recent and I'm so used to saying separated that I forget sometimes." Duke stopped moving for a moment and stared at her. His lips parted and she saw how, for a white guy, they were quite full, almost kissable. "Sorry." Duke's timbre remained low and even. "Yeah, well, it's over now. I'm just glad the news cameras stopped following me." Duke stared at her with furrowed eyebrows. "My ex was a highly-decorated detective. He made a lot of big busts in his career. I think he's supposed to be running for mayor or something." She knew exactly what his plans were. Carla just thought she would be a part of them. "I'm sure it was bad enough to go through the divorce itself but to have it all documented in the news must have been terrible. Just know that there's one person who didn't read or listen to any of it." "Oddly enough, knowing that does help." She smiled as payment for his kindness. "I've made some mistakes in the past." He shook his head. "Not getting married again." "So you're single?" She didn't mean to sound like she was interested…even though she was. Duke, with his hand busy underneath the sink, brought his gaze back to her. "I'm not married. Looks like we have something in common." Carla ran her hand over the back of her neck when she felt the sweat collecting. She didn't know what it was. Familiarity? Proximity? Neediness? Whatever it was, she found herself very attracted to the man

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touching her pipes. Duke did have charm and a warmth about him. And despite the years, only a few crow's feet and some forehead wrinkles marred his otherwise good looks. "By the way, not to get into your business and all, but if you want my opinion, your ex was a fool for letting you go. I'm not saying that so that you'll tell me to forget about taking fifty percent off your tab either." He chuckled. It was one thing to hear that sentiment from her girlfriends. That was expected. To hear it from a stranger, a man, a single man, made her blood race throughout her body. Her pounding heart sounded in her ears. Everything in her body pulsed in a steady rhythm. Carla billowed her shirt again. On one of the billows, she dropped her gaze and remembered that she was without a bra. Standing in the kitchen with a man, a very doable man, she knew she needed refuge, at least some body armor to protect her assets, mainly her large, pendulous breasts. "I have something to do very quickly." Carla stepped over Duke's long legs as she squeezed behind him. "I know it's a little warm here in the kitchen. I haven't figured out how to get the air in here. There are some drinks in the fridge. Please help yourself to anything here. I mean anything in the fridge." Carla hoped he didn't catch the slip. It was bad enough that she'd meant it. **** Carla Middleton. Duke shook his head. When he saw her name on the customer list that morning, he'd hoped and prayed it was the same Carla Middleton he'd gone to high school with so many years ago. A man never forgot a woman with the kind of legs that Carla had had, hell, still had. Nice and long and caramel smooth. Back when they went to high school, it wasn't taboo for people of different races to date. Not that it would have mattered to him. A fine woman was a fine woman. He and Carla never ran in the same circles back in school. They'd shared a class or two. He saw her in the halls. He just never mustered enough courage to ask her out. Too many of her girlfriends hanging around her for him to get close enough to ask. Carla probably wouldn't believe that he, the school jock and reported lover boy, was intensely shy

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and reserved. Now he had her here alone, in her own house without her friends to tell her how much of a loser he was for being a plumber. Hell, he owned the company. That had to account for something. Even with her hair styled in short locks, Duke recognized her right away. He thought with the way she stammered when she opened the door for him that she'd recognized him, too. He guessed that the admiration society didn't run both ways. Shame. Carla still had buttery smooth legs he wanted to get between, bury his head in the apex of her succulent thighs and taste her honey. At his gradually swelling cock, Duke took one hard pull on the crook in her pipe and finally released it. A rush of water, grit and dirt dropped into the new pail under the pipes. Holding the bent tube in his hand, he peeked into it to see if he saw if her clogging problem existed here. Usually it did. With his index finger, he pushed inside of the opening, pushing out of the other side gobs of hair, grease and grime. From the looks of the hair, it appeared that Old Lady Lembeck had been washing her cats in the sink. From the amount of it, she must have been doing it for years. His finger touched on something hard. Cupping his hand on the other end, he continued pushing on the item until it landed in his hand. A ring. Duke filtered out the other items into the bucket and held onto the piece. Was it Carla's? Was she trying to wash away memories of a bad marriage? Duke struggled to his feet, holding the ring in between his fingers. The jeweled item had clustered diamonds surrounding one slightly larger diamond. Nothing great or fancy. It looked more like something an older person would wear rather than Carla, however he would certainly ask her. Now needing that drink, Duke raised his hand to open the refrigerator door but caught how dirty and greasy his hand had become. He turned to the sink but found no soap. Plus he had shut the water off. He stepped out into the main living room and looked down the hallway. He could probably find the bathroom really quickly without bothering Carla. Duke strolled down the hall, the floor creaking at each step over the hardwood floors. God, the things he would do to this house. He would break down walls and open it up, build a good-size patio, expand the porch, make the

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house into a real, livable showplace instead of a place to retire. At the first doorway on the left, Duke turned into it. He had been right about his assumption. He'd found the bathroom, a bright, yellow room with a colorful, busy wallpaper filled with flowers and cats on it. Even a garish mustard yellow tile covered the floor. What he didn't expect to find was Carla standing in it wearing only her shorts. Her back was to him so all he saw was her bare back and a slight side view of her breast. "Oh, God! I'm so sorry." Duke turned around. He was sure his face turned every shade of red because he felt every range of heat burning it. "I didn't mean to walk in on you." Glancing back at her, he watched Carla gasp and cover her chest while keeping her back to him. "I just wanted to wash my hands." Duke felt silly for explaining his decision to barge in on her now. He just needed to go. "Sorry. I'm so sorry." God, please don't sue me, or worse, call the police! "Wait!" Did Carla just say wait? Hearing the word put implications in Duke's head, engorging his penis. Although he stepped outside of the door, he did look inside to face her. What he didn't expect was to see Carla pivot. The world stood still. The slight hum of the air conditioning unit drowned out as Duke focused his full attention on Carla. Her hands still covered her chest for a moment. Then she dropped them. As hard as he fought it, Duke finally let his gaze drop. Beautiful. Carla had great, full breasts with dark chocolate areolas and big nipples he wanted to have in his mouth. She had a real woman's body. Nice flat stomach, hips that swelled out fully and those incredibly long legs. Leave, man. Just get out. His mind begged him to go but his feet remained cemented at his spot. The pounding of his heart sounded in his head. Duke had to swallow to coat his dry throat. Carla shook her head and covered her breasts again. "What the hell am I doing? I must be crazy. You must think I'm crazy." She turned away from him. "I just…God…I—" Duke didn't wait for an explanation. His body wouldn't let him. In

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three big steps, he stormed to her, his feet stomping over the small tile floor that didn't match the walls. When he brought his hand up to cup her cheek to kiss her, two things became readily apparent: he still needed to wash his hands and he had the ring he found in it. "I don't want to touch you with my hands like this." He set the ring on the counter, something she must have caught. Before he could wash his hands, she stepped in front of him, sitting on the counter with her legs around him. "That's what soap and shampoo are for." Not wasting any time, she snaked her hand to the back of his head, brought his head down and planted a kiss on him that buckled his knees. Her tongue slid into his mouth and he melted. Who knew a simple call to clear a drain would result in this exquisite treatment? Planting his hands on the counter next to her body to prevent himself from touching her skin, Duke leaned into the kiss, matching his intensity with hers. Carla tightened her legs around his, sliding them up and down. Her free hand gripped his t-shirt at his shoulder as though needing to stay him in his spot. Godzilla couldn't budge him from where he stood. Carla kissed down his cheek to his neck. Duke tilted his head back, loving this feeling of being needed. He hadn't had that in a long time. She pulled his shirt out of jeans. "Touch me," she demanded in a growl. Duke glanced down at one hand. Dirt caked under each fingernail. A line of grease streaked down the back of his hand. Carla didn't deserve to be handled with hands like these. With every ounce of his being, he wanted to caress her, touch her, feel her. "Too dirty." He kissed the side of her face then moved down to her neck. It took every bit of willpower not to bring his hands up and cup her luscious tits. Carla put her hands on top of his, which made him blink. She wrapped her fingers around his wrists and brought them up to her shorts. "I told you. That's what soap is for." Carla unfastened his jeans. He should have been shocked at her brazenness but Duke wanted to spring his dick out since he caught Carla answering the door wearing no bra under her t-shirt. Did she think he wouldn't have noticed or cared? Carla raised her hips off the counter to allow him to slide her shorts

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down. She kicked her foot out of one leg and brought him back into her. Placing the tip of his cock at her heated sex, Duke wasted no time in plunging deep inside of her. A spark flashed in his eyes at the connection. Magic. Carla tightened herself around Duke's body, closing her arms around his shoulders and coiling her legs around his hips. This time Duke gripped the ends of the counter and drove himself deep inside of her. Her pussy held him in tight as though not wanting to ever release him, another great feeling. Duke pressed his lips against hers. She tasted sweet like bitter strawberries. He let his tongue explore her mouth. Her plump lips embraced his. Carla broke from the kiss. "Oh, God! Duke! Duke!" Like talons, she embedded her fingernails into his arm. She could have ripped off the flesh from his bone and he wouldn't have cared. He continued pounding into her slickness. His heart raced like a jackhammer, slamming against the wall of his ribcage. He knew if it shook his body then Carla must have felt it. He thrust into her harder, faster. At that moment, she became the one thing that he needed and never knew he did. Her breathing came out in pants. Her hot breath warmed his cheek. Carla squeezed his arms, let out a long cry and clamped her slick walls around his penis so hard that Duke had no choice but to come with her. "Oh, Carla! Jesus H.!" Duke did one last thrust inside of her and held it. A stream of his jism shot inside of her. Resting his head on her shoulder, he took in a deep breath and captured her scent. Her aroma smelled natural, not perfumed, like she had run through a meadow of wildflowers and came out with the flowers' scent and her own essence. It all intoxicated him. He brought his head up and kissed her again, softly this time. He pulled back from the kiss long enough to stare at her. She stared back. Both sat in silence, neither one moving. Duke didn't want to pull out of her but he knew eventually he would have to. "I hope you don't think I do this at every house call," Duke said, trying to fill the silence.

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"So how did I get so lucky?" The way Carla said it broke Duke's heart. What had that man done to her to make her feel so unworthy, so unlovable? "You put in an order that you needed help." He gave her another quick peck before sliding out of her. "Ah, so fixing clogged drains and rocking women's worlds are your specialty, huh?" She smiled as her way of letting him know she was okay with all of this. Duke pulled up his pants. If he had gotten any indication from her that he could stay he would have dropped them and taken her to her bedroom to love her the right way. "Speaking of clogged drains, I think I fixed yours." After zipping up his pants, he picked up the ring and held it in front of her. "Found this in the trap along with some other stuff. Did you lose this?" She took the ring from him. After staring at it for a few seconds she dropped it in the sink and watched it go down the drain. "Oops," Carla said calmly. "Appears I've lost it again. You think you can come back tomorrow and get it for me?" And there was his sign. "No charge for the return trip." She smiled. Duke's heart warmed up. "Same time tomorrow?" Carla nodded. Good. It would give him time to finally sever ties with his part-time girlfriend.

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Two Carla showered again but even in the second one, she still refused to wash her hand, finding it difficult to erase the grease stain she'd gotten when she'd touched Duke's hand. Touched? More like grabbed. She remembered how she put his hands on her body, wanting him to take her. Take her he did. Her hands trembled thinking about the moment. Why had she done it? Why did she succumb to her wanton needs and fucked, basically, a perfect stranger? Although Shannon would have been proud of her, Carla questioned her actions. What did he think of her now? She should have let him go. He'd caught her putting on a bra and, like a gentleman, he turned to go. Carla, however, had other plans. As soon as she heard his voice, he'd startled her. She still remembered how her heart raced the instant she'd heard his deep baritone voice. Then the thoughts entered her head. What if? What if? Until it stopped being a what-if situation and it all became real in front of her eyes. She wanted him. Ever since she saw him at the front door, she wanted him. And from the way he reacted to her—the touch, the kissing, the amazing sex—it was apparent that he wanted her too. Then he found the ring. Why did he have to find that ring? She thought she'd gotten rid of it once and for all. If Carla were smart, she would hock the damn thing and use the money. Lord knew she needed it. Throwing it down the bathroom sink to get him to come back was a risky move. What if he had turned down her offer? What if he didn't really want her and sent someone different to her house the next night? Carla squeezed a glob of iridescent sea foam green body wash into the palm of her hand. She lathered it over her body…including her hand. Time to start a new her, someone who stopped holding on to things like it all had meaning. If Duke came back, great. If he didn't, she wouldn't crack…not again. Taking in a deep breath, she captured the sweet, flowery scent of

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her body wash. The aroma couldn't match Duke's. At this point, nothing could match him, his smell, his taste, his touch. Nothing. After her shower, Carla swaddled her body in a thick, white terrycloth robe. She wrapped her hair in a white turban. Padding to the kitchen to get her cordless phone to recall the steamy details of her night to Shannon, Carla stopped short when she found a piece of paper on her counter. The crinkled faded yellow form sat bent up on the Formica top. The air kicked on causing it to tip back then right itself. After the incredible time they had together, Duke left her a bill? Snatching the paper from the counter, she opened it and read the contents. 'Service recall for second drain in bathroom. Return trip needed. No charge.' He added his personal cell phone number on the bottom. Carla smiled. Guess he had to report something to his boss. She glanced at the phone and walked by it, carrying the invoice to her room. Maybe keeping this one thing wouldn't be so bad. And keeping this one thing from Shannon wouldn't be so bad either. She didn't need to hear her friend screaming how right she was that all Carla needed was some dick. Having Duke hadn't been the worst thing in the world. Certainly didn't correct all of her problems either. It was more than sex. With Duke, she felt something different. In a strange way, she got the feeling that he needed her, too. His passionate kisses took her breath away. Had his hands been clean, she could only imagine how he would have handled her. With just the thought of Duke and his performance, juices oozed from her aching vagina. Having a hard time standing on wobbly legs, she locked her knees together as she walked. Carla went back to her bedroom and collapsed on her bed as soon as she reached her destination. She slipped the paper into her drawer. She would keep it there until he returned. **** Duke sat in his truck in his driveway in front of his house for ten minutes, grinning. He replayed what had happened just an hour ago in his head again. As soon as he remembered the tightness of Carla's pussy, the fullness of her lips when they kissed, and the way she clamored for him, his smile got wider. His dick strained against the zipper of his jeans. What a strange and wonderful coincidence to have the same Carla

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Middleton he'd spied on the invoice in his office be the same woman he'd admired from afar back in high school. He remembered how she held him, clutched him, wanting him to touch her. If only his hands weren't covered in dirt and grease, he would have done much more than just held her waist. He wanted to touch her skin that looked like smooth caramel. His heart pounded like it had when he was deep inside of her. Duke wanted so much to join Carla in the shower before he'd left, but he had to go. He could have washed his hands and then given her the loving he wanted to show her in the first place. Duke removed his cell phone from his side holster and opened it. He wanted to call Carla, let her know how he really felt about the evening although he hadn't fully reconciled what all had happened in his brain. Had he really had mind-blowing sex while he worked? He would have fired his employees if he had heard they had done something like that. Duke would have to make sure no one found out. Just as he was about to punch in Carla's number, his phone rang with a tinny rendition of the theme song from the movie "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly." Looking at the display, he sighed when he saw what number appeared on his caller I.D. "Hey, Allyson." Duke tried sounding enthusiastic but that tone wouldn't come out. "Hey, baby." Duke bristled at the term of endearment. She only called him baby when she was about to drop a bomb on him. "Where are you?" she asked. Duke glanced at his watch and cursed under his breath. "My last call was a long one. Sorry I'm late." "So I guess that means you're still at home, huh?" He heard the tension in her voice. The tone tightened his stomach. "It'll take me five minutes to get ready." He gathered his things and opened his truck door. "Don't start the dinner party without me." Not that he had any interest in running over to impress her friends. He had promised to be there for her special dinner to meet some of her higherups at her job. As usual with Allyson, he would simply be an accessory for her that night. For once, that didn't bother him. Being inconsequential meant that

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he didn't have to do as much as far as entertaining was concerned. Allyson would handle all of that. "No rush. I don't need you." At that admission, Duke's heart sank. Allyson continued. "Just get here when you can. I'll introduce you to everyone when you arrive." "If you don't need me, why do I need to go over there?" Heat filled Duke's face and neck. Allyson released a long, audible sigh over the phone. "Gee, my bad. I thought boyfriends were supportive. Guess I was wrong." Duke squeezed his eyes shut. How the hell had she done it? Allyson had a special gift of making him feel both useless but needed all at the same time. He was her swizzle stick and she definitely had him stirred up. "That's not what I meant. You said you didn't need me." Duke slammed his truck door then stormed to his house. "I don't need you right now. I would like to have you here with me tonight." "Because you need me?" he asked as he waited at his front door for her answer. "What? Yeah, sure, whatever. You said five minutes?" He sighed. "Yeah. Sure. Whatever." Duke disconnected the call. Breaking up with Allyson would be easier than he thought. He just couldn't do it tonight. Not on her special night. **** Carla strolled around in her kitchen in her bare feet. Even the cold linoleum floor couldn't cool the fire still smoldering inside of her. It had been a long time since a man looked at her like she mattered. She braced her hand on top of the countertop, squeezed her eyes shut and imagined Duke, powerful, primal, animalistic Duke, between her legs, in her pussy, wanting more. She remembered how his body trembled just before he came deep inside of her. Sliding her hand between her thighs, she could almost feel him again, the corded muscles in his legs, his firm ass pumping away, his solid waist. A moan grumbled in her throat the more she thought about him. Damn, had it only been an hour since he left her? She wanted more of him and she needed him now.

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Picking up her phone receiver for the fourth time, Carla contemplated calling Duke. She had a legitimate excuse for getting him back to her house. She had dropped her wedding ring down the bathroom sink. She wouldn't be able to sleep knowing it remained in her pipes. Yes, that was it. Great excuse. When the phone rang, Carla fumbled it, trying hard not to drop it. Her heart pounded like she knew the police were on the other line, or worse, her ex. Placing her hand over her heart, she took a deep breath before answering the call. "So was that the plumber at your door earlier?" Shannon asked. No hello. No 'How are you?' Just direct and to the point. "Yes." A smile curled at the corner of Carla's mouth. In a girlish manner, she twirled a lock around her finger. "And did he do what he was supposed to do?" Carla bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud. She couldn't hold back the snicker though, which she masked as a cough. "He cleared out my drain." She put her hand over the mouthpiece and cleared her throat. "He even knocked some money off the bill." "Really? How much?" Suspicion laced Shannon's tone. "He didn't charge me for this trip." Carla padded back to her bedroom. She sat down on her bed and picked up the invoice Duke had left. "Really? That's excellent. I know you're on a budget. Free work is always good." "Yes, well he's coming back tomorrow." Carla beamed. When she didn't hear Shannon, the smile drifted from her face. "Tomorrow? That's how these shady little companies get you. They hit you with the free service then gouge you on the return trip. Don't you watch 'Dateline' or '20/20'? They're always doing exposés on shifty plumbing businesses. Or maybe he just doesn't know what the hell he's doing." Shannon couldn't be further off the mark. Duke had the perfect sized cock and knew exactly how to use it. He'd made her body hum just by touching her. His gentlemanly gesture of not touching her still melted her heart. She needed to come up with a different strategy for tomorrow night. Something that won't make him so dirty so quickly. "The plumber did a great job. No complaints." Carla smoothed the yellow paper over her bare thigh.

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"Do you need me to come over there tomorrow? You know I have your back." Carla imagined seeing her pint-sized friend pumping up. "No. I'm fine. Really." The last thing Carla wanted was to have Shannon blocking her action. Then again, if Duke didn't show up or worse, if he sent someone else in his place, Carla would need a shoulder to cry on. Shannon would be pissed if Carla cried on her shoulder and didn't tell her the details of what had happened that night. Well, she didn't need to go into all of the details. "Okay," Shannon began. She popped her gum, audible through the phone. "I just don't want you being taken advantage of. I know how fragile you are after the divorce and everything. I know I joked about you hitting it with the plumber, but I don't want you taking any ol' guy off the street as your rebound man. Be selective. You and your poor vajayjay have settled for less over the past fifteen or so years. Time to treat you both right." Just when Carla wanted to reveal her crazy, wild side, she shrank back. Sliding her invoice in her nightstand drawer, she decided that the best thing for her to do, how to best handle this situation, would be to do what she'd always done. Keep her mouth closed and revel in the moment silently. She couldn't tell Shannon about her hot tryst tonight. Shannon wouldn't understand. She would probably even make fun of Carla or the situation. The last thing Carla needed was to be laughed at…again. "I won't do anything foolish," Carla finally replied. "That's my girl." Tomorrow night, Carla would have to talk to Duke. What they did was fun. However it couldn't happen again. Carla wasn't raised to be the type of woman that would sleep with men for recreation. There had to be love, passion. The passion both she and Duke had. Love wasn't that instantaneous. Carla sat up and straightened out her spine. What was she doing? It wasn't too late. She could still call him and stop him from coming over tomorrow night. Let her ring and the memories attached to it rot in the bathroom pipes. She didn't care about it or the man who had given it to her any more. "I need to make a phone call." Carla sat in the center of the bed. She

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wanted to be grounded for this conversation. "I'll call you tomorrow." "Not a problem. Barry is supposed to be coming over later today anyway." Shannon nearly purred through the phone. "Still dating your boss?" Carla shook her head. "Look. He's not married. His kids are grown. And he doesn't expect me to cook for him. It's all good. I'll holler at you later." As soon as Carla disconnected the call, she steeled her nerves. Calling Duke would be difficult but certainly not earth shattering. So why were her hands trembling? She reached into the drawer and pulled out the invoice again, not that she needed to. In the short time she'd read and reread the form, she managed to memorize Duke's cell phone number. Carla dialed it and waited. What the hell would she say? How would he react?

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Three "I'd like to propose a toast," Allyson's windbag of a boss said as he held up his fourth glass of bourbon. The man liked to drink—and not the cheap stuff, either. His silver hair made his red face look even brighter. The guy had to be pickled, Duke thought. Reluctantly, Duke held up his glass of tonic water. He had an early day tomorrow, and he was hoping for a late night tomorrow as well. Gazing at Allyson, she looked the part of corporate shark, swimming the waters for small junior executive chum. Her chestnut hair had been ironed flat and pulled back into a sleek ponytail. Her green eyes that drew him in the very first time he'd met her now looked sinister, not warm and inviting like Carla's eyes. "To Allyson. May her—" The sound of Duke's cell phone ringing cut the toast short. "Shit!" he said between gritted teeth. "Turn it off or put it on vibrate," Allyson managed to say between her teeth while still holding up the best fake smile Duke had ever seen. "Sorry, folks. I'm on call." Duke scanned the caller I.D. window before turning off the phone. He recognized the phone exchange to be the area he had worked in earlier that evening, in particular, Carla's neighborhood. "Excuse me. I have to take this." As he headed to the porch, he heard Allyson growling his name behind him. "Go on with the toast without me." Then he slammed the door behind himself. "All Access Plumbing. Boscoe speaking." A pause lingered before Duke finally heard something that sounded like a throat clearing. "Hello?" he baited. Even if it was a wrong number, he would have rather stayed on the phone talking to a stranger than to go back inside to phony party central.

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Just as Duke started to close his phone and retreat into the house, a voice said, "Thank you, um, for coming over and everything." Duke smiled. Stepping off the porch, he strolled toward his truck. "It's my job, Carla. I'm just glad I could clean out your pipes for you." He had to snicker at the line. He heard Carla laughing, too. Good. She had a sense of humor, something Allyson lacked. "I'm just sorry your ring is now in your bathroom sink." Yeah, sorry like a lottery winner feels sorry for having too much cash to spend. "I'm just so clumsy. I guess I can't hold on to things like I used to." Carla let out a long sigh as though she meant something else with her statement. Determined to make her forget her past mistakes, Duke said, "I'll be over about the same time tomorrow night to get the ring—that is, unless you needed something tonight. Is that why you called me? Did you need something?" Duke chewed the inside of his cheek waiting for her answer. Crickets chirped around him until he eventually tuned out the sound to pay attention to the next words Carla would utter. Before Carla could respond, Allyson barreled through her front door, planted her free hand that wasn't holding a drink on her hip and glared at him. Duke could almost imagine her foot tapping away a mile a minute. "So what is it?" Allyson began. "Are you coming or going?" Damn. Duke wanted to go so that he could come…deep inside of Carla again. Duke held up his finger to Allyson and turned his back on her. "So did you need me to come out tonight?" "Who was that?" Carla asked. Butterflies attacked his stomach hearing a slight sound of jealousy in her voice. At least he had hoped it was jealousy. Maybe it was even mild curiosity. At any rate, Carla had shown some interest in him. That was more than he could say about Allyson. "I'm at a party," Duke replied. He heard her gasp. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have called you for nothing." "You didn't call me for nothing. You wanted something, right? Anything I can do for you tonight?" He so wanted her to say yes.

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"Uh, no. I should be okay. I'll be here tomorrow night. And I'll pay you this time." Lowering his voice, he replied, "Come to the door tomorrow night like you did tonight, and that'll be payment enough." Again, she laughed. Duke's heart pumped like a jackhammer. It had been years since he felt like this. Every nerve in his body tingled. "Good night, Duke. Sorry if I interrupted your evening." "Not a problem. I'm always willing to serve my customers." "In the same way you served me?" She rolled a seductive chuckle. "No, not the same. You were special. You are special." He heard her sigh. Duke's heart would take a while to slow down. "Good night, Carla." She disconnected the call before Duke could get the phone down from his ear. As he turned, he ran right into Allyson. "You're embarrassing me," she spat. "How is that? If I were a doctor you wouldn't find it a problem that I take emergency calls at inconvenient times." Duke shoved his phone back into the pocket of his jeans. "But you're not a doctor. You're just a Jack-Of-All-Trades, and right now I need you to be a good boyfriend and stand by my side." She held her hand out for him to take. Staring at her slender hand with its manicured fingernails, he waited a beat before accepting it. Taking her hand felt like he had been defeated. "I don't get you, Dukie." The hairs on the back of his neck stood up straight when he heard the nickname that she'd given him. Damn it, he wasn't a dog. Duke or Boscoe. Either one would have been fine with him. Allyson continued. "You own your own business. You can afford to have your employees be on call so that you can relax and enjoy yourself. Why do you feel the need to be like everyone else? You won't gain respect that way." Duke thought differently. How he chose to conduct his business, actually how to live his life, had little to do with managerial finesse and more to do with a deep desire inside of him, one that he knew Allyson wouldn't understand. "Did I miss the toast?" he asked. "Nope. Pinkston waited for you." Allyson opened the front door.

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Duke quickly caught it and held it open for her. "So someone does need me." Sauntering by him, Allyson chuckled in his face before saying, "Don't get too sentimental, honey. It's just a sappy toast." Yep. A sappy toast for a sappy guy. Duke couldn't wait until tomorrow night. After this party but before meeting Carla again, Duke decided he needed to break it off with Allyson. She'd made it very clear that she didn't need him, whereas Carla, she needed him. Wanted him. Desired him. "Did you turn off your phone?" Allyson asked from the side of her mouth. He hadn't and right now, he didn't care if the damn thing went off every two seconds. "I'd like to propose a toast," Pinkston said and raised his glass again. Duke stood motionless and wondered what the hell he was doing there. "To life." Duke raised his glass higher. "To life." **** Carla stood in front of her full-length mirror and held up a pretty, yellow sundress under her chin. "No. Too farm girl. Too innocent." Carla threw the garment on her bed and held up a black wrap dress in front of her ample frame. Clad in only a black bra and matching panties, she wondered if she was doing way too much for Duke. Would he really be expecting sex again? From what he'd said to her over the phone last night, he not only had expected the same intense romp, she started to want it more, too. Carla smoothed the dress over her stomach and down her thighs. "This one would show off 'the girls' more," she said to herself. Carla curved her shoulders in to press her breasts, or 'the girls' as she called them, together. The chime of the doorbell with a hard, forceful follow-up knock snapped Carla out of her wardrobe dilemma. "Shit! Is he early or have I been pissing around too long?" Glancing at the clock, she discovered that picking out a dress sucked up all of her time. "Fuck!" With no more time to deliberate, Carla slipped on the black wrap

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dress. Thankfully she had done her hair, putting the locks in a cutesy up 'do, and applied her makeup before she stumbled on what to wear. Tying the side sash as she walked up to the door, she glanced down at her feet, her bare feet. "Damn!" No time to turn around to get her shoes, she took a deep breath smiled and opened the front door. Who she saw at the door melted her smile. "Did I come at a bad time?" Roy, her ex, asked. Dressed in a charcoal gray suit, the one he normally wore when he went out to dinner, Carla couldn't help but notice how together he looked. Thank the Lord for small favors that she decided to wear a dress and do her hair and makeup instead of showing up at the door in a tshirt, no bra, and shorts. "Can I come in?" He walked into her house before he finished his inquiry and before she could respond. There was little she could say to Roy. Even after marriage, he still ruled her and her decisions. Why the hell couldn't she stand up to him? "Why are you here, Roy? You should have called me first." She folded her arms and wore her sternest face to let him know she meant business. "I did. You didn't answer, and you don't have an answering machine. I had assumed you were out looking for a job." He punctuated his remark with a smirk that always bristled Carla. Either Roy had the best lawyer in town, or she had the worst. Expecting to get alimony payments that would keep her from working, Carla instead got a small stipend that would be enough for meals and incidentals but not much else. Working was no longer optional, and Roy knew that. "Again, what are you doing here?" Carla stepped in front of him to keep him from walking further into her home. Something inside her told her not to give him her new address. She actually believed they could be friends after the divorce. "The house. There's one form that you need to sign to give full ownership to me, and we'll be through with everything." He reached inside of his jacket pocket. "Oh, and you have some mail that came to the house." He handed her a white plastic bag full of letters. Pulling out the envelopes, she glanced over them before glaring at Roy. "These are Christmas cards. You're just bringing me them now?"

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"Now was the earliest time I could get them to you." Roy scratched his curly black hair. He still had that white patch of hair in the front. "This is May, and we've seen each other several times since December." She slammed the mail back into the bag and shook her head. "When do you want me to meet you? Let's just get this over with." He snickered. "Good. We have an appointment in two days at the bank to meet with the notary. Once that's all done, you can go on with your life." Carla cocked her head. "Trust me. I have gone on with my life." Roy glanced at her from her head to her feet. "Looks like you're getting ready for a hot date. Are you?" "That's none of your business." Roy didn't need to know that she had a standing appointment to meet her new plumber in hopes that he would rock her world again. Just as she thought about Duke, her doorbell rang. Roy raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "Is that the mystery man now?" Roy walked toward the door. Carla managed to run by him and get to the door first. She didn't want Duke to see her ex before she had time to explain. She opened the door and found Duke standing on her porch. The way he smiled, she could tell he was excited about this visit. However, just like she had, as soon as Roy stepped into his vision, Duke's smile drifted away. "Oh," Roy said and nodded. "Should have known it would only be a service call." He turned to Carla. "You look good though, babe." He leaned in to kiss her cheek. Carla twisted away from his false show of affection. Roy still managed to plant one on her temple before he walked by Duke, giving him a cursory wave and greeting. As soon as Carla's heart rate returned to normal once Roy left, it accelerated again when her gaze landed on Duke. In his white t-shirt and worn jeans, he looked good enough to take right there on her porch. "I'll just get that ring for you and be out of your way in five minutes." Duke whisked by her and headed to the bathroom without even looking at her.

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Four Duke hadn't expected Carla to still play lovey-dovey with her ex. Just seeing them together accelerated his pulse enough that if steam could have blown from his ears, it would have. What a silly reaction to be so angry at seeing them together. It wasn't like he and Carla were in a relationship. Sex. That's all it was. Well, maybe that's all it was to her. He set his toolbox on the counter in the bathroom. Although he kept his gaze down, focusing on the sink, he knew Carla stood in the doorway. Her flowery perfume wafted into the bathroom until it overtook his senses. Not wanting to but powerless to do anything else, Duke took in a big whiff. Damn, she smelled good. Turning his head quickly, he stole a fast glance at her. Too bad she's all dressed up for some other guy. His gaze dipped down to admire her overflowing cleavage. Her brown mounds made every cell in his body throb. Duke turned away before he could get sucked in even further into her latent seduction. "It shouldn't take me as long to retrieve your ring again," he said and opened the cabinet under the sink. "I'll be out of your hair in about five minutes." "Um, good." He twisted the water valve closed again. "Bucket still in the same place?" "Yes." He stood. Before he could head to the kitchen, Carla's words stopped him. "I don't know what I'm doing." She shook her head. "I wore this dress and did all of this for you, and you're not even looking at me." Her voice cracked on her final words, and it broke his heart. Like a frightened doe, Carla ducked out of the room, not waiting to hear what he had to say.

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"Shit!" Duke ran down the hall to the kitchen. "Wait, Carla." He found her standing in between her refrigerator and the small utility closet where she'd gotten the bucket yesterday. Her back was to him but from the way her shoulders quivered and the slight sniffling he heard, he knew she was crying. Now Duke really felt like an asshole. As soon as he touched her back, she jumped. Carla turned around. Her barely noticeable makeup now ran down her cheeks. With the pad of his thumb, Duke wiped her tears away. "It's obvious I don't know a damn thing about men," she said with a quaky voice. Staring at him will full and pure eyes, she melted his resolve. "Just tell me what you want. I don't understand what you want." "Carla, you don't owe me anything." And Duke meant that, especially seeing her now. This was a woman who deserved the best in life. "And you don't have to change for me. I like it when you look down-to-earth." "My ex-husband didn't. That was the guy who just left. Bastard." Her breath caught in small hitches. Duke squeezed his eyes shut. Although he appeared slimmer than the last time Duke had seen him, Duke had recognized Carla's ex. Duke's brother's highly-publicized arrest was handled by none other than Roy Ewell. Though his brother was no angel, Roy handled him like he was the scum of the earth. Duke would never forget that or forgive Roy for treating his brother and family so disrespectfully. If he had any plans on continuing to see Carla, he knew he had to tell her about the association but he had bigger fish to fry. And from the way she referred to Roy by that derogatory nickname, it was apparent Carla held no warm and fuzzy feelings for the man. There was a time and a place for everything. Now was not the time to lay more news at Carla's feet. Duke let out a long breath and stroked her back. "I'm so sorry if I made you feel bad. I'm an idiot." Duke put his other hand to his chest. "I have absolutely no right to feel jealousy over who you choose to keep in your company. I understand that what happened yesterday was a once-in-a-lifetime thing and we shouldn't expect anything from each other." Carla pulled Duke's hand from her face. She inhaled a couple of times to catch her breath. Waiting for her reaction, her words made Duke's skin prickle. Whatever Carla was about to say gave him an

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uneasy feeling, like a rock resting at the bottom of his stomach. "I should be at the age now where I shouldn't give a damn about what you think of me," Carla began. Duke's heart pounded, something he thought for sure Carla could hear. The thudding sound beat in his ears. Calm down, man, or you won't be able to hear what she has to say. "I lived my life for years with that man not trusting me." She shook her head. "If you think for one minute I'm going to spend my time with another who'll treat me the same way and deceive me behind my back, you're wrong." The frightened doe now became a fighting tiger. Rage filled her eyes, making them red with anger. If she was trying to make him feel like a jerk, she was doing a damn good job of it. Carla started to pull away from him but Duke caught her. "You're right. You're right." He held onto her hand tighter. "My issues are my issues. We don't really know each other, just from what we remembered from back in the day." Duke took in a deep breath and in the exhalation said, "You look great tonight. It'd be a shame for all of this to go to waste. Have you had dinner yet?" Carla blinked. "What?" Duke curved her hand over and pressed it against his chest. If she couldn't hear his heart racing, he was sure she could feel it pounding in his chest. She must have noticed it. Carla's gaze dropped down to her hand then she slowly looked up at him, connecting her stare to his. Duke said, "I'm asking you on a date. Would you like to have dinner with me?" She gave him a tentative stare before a smile finally peeked through. "Really?" He nodded. "I think part of our problem is that we need to get to know each other first before we go any further. So what do you say?" She nodded. "I'd like that. I do want to get to know you better, Duke." "Good. I'll get the ring and then, uh," he scanned his body, "go home and change. And we can be on our way." Duke kissed her cheek. As soon as his lips touched her face, he felt a spark surging through him. Whatever the attraction that existed between the two of them, it was powerful.

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When he attempted to reach around her to get to the bucket, she stepped closer to him, pressing her succulent tits against his chest. Damn, did she know what she did to him? Apparently she did. Carla slid her hand up his arm to his shoulder. Pulling him down, she kissed the side of his face up to his ear. Every nerve tingled in Duke's body. He forgot about his quest for the bucket and pressed Carla against the wall. Duke sought her full lips and connected immediately. She grabbed his shoulders, pulling him in close to her. This time he didn't waste an opportunity to touch her, feel her, taste her. He wanted the full experience, see what he had missed from last night. Duke cupped her breasts through her thin dress. His thumbs brushed roughly over her extended nipples. As she continued to kiss him, her tongue probing his mouth, she moaned. The vibration against his lips stirred him even more until he thought his dick would burst through his jeans. With one tug, Duke undid the tie that held her dress together, revealing that voluptuous body that shook him before. Breaking from the kiss for a moment, he scanned down and saw Carla wore a matching black lace bra-and-panty set. "Christ, you're hot!" Duke kissed down her neck to her breasts. "Duke. Whatever you do, don't stop." Carla fisted his hair on the back of his head. Knowing how much she needed him pumped his heart even more, making everything in his body throb. He yanked her bra cups down and held her full breasts in his hands for a moment, massaging them, twirling his thumb around her pebbled, chocolate brown nipples. Everything about Carla seemed exaggerated. Her tits barely fit in his large hands. Although Duke had dated one Black woman before, Carla's areolas and nipples were darker than he had ever seen on a woman. He couldn't wait to have Carla's thick thighs around him again. She epitomized a real woman. He could drown in her and would never call for help. She grabbed for the zipper of his jeans. In a matter of seconds, Duke had her panties down her legs. Carla had his jeans down past his ass by the time Duke kicked his foot back to find a chair. Luckily he managed to move it behind him so that he fell back on it when she pushed her body against his. His bare cheeks smacked against her

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wooden Windsor back chair. Stepping out of her panties, Carla straddled his lap. As she kissed him deeply, this time accepting his tongue into her mouth, she reached for his hard cock. Duke held onto her hips to guide her over his penis but from the way she impaled herself in one hard plunge, she didn't need any help. "Oh, yes!" Carla hissed. Duke gripped her hips and thrust his upward, pushing himself deep inside of her tight walls. She cursed. Coiling her arms, she tightened her hold around his shoulders. Undulating her hips, Carla moved his cock in and out of her in a rhythm that most lovers don't establish until well into a relationship. Carla's locks brushed against his cheek. Even her soft hair welcomed him. Duke rested one hand at the small of her back and the other in between her shoulder blades. He didn't want to let her go…ever. Her nipples brushed against his chest, igniting a flame inside of him. Sweat connected their bodies together. The rush of blood pumping through his body flooded his ears. If Carla hadn't rested her head on his shoulder and panted next to his head, he would have heard only the steady pounding. Duke massaged her ass cheek. Feeling emboldened, he dipped his finger between her rounded cheeks and caressed her puckered hole. "Damn, you're amazing!" Carla gyrated even more. Tremors consumed her body. Even with this being their second time having sex, Duke recognized when Carla hit the brink of her orgasm. He held onto tighter, wrapping one arm around her waist. The other hand at her ass, he circled her hole and with great ease, slipped the tip of his index finger inside. Carla moaned then screamed then nibbled his neck before finally letting out a long cry as she clamped her arms and legs around him. Everything stopped. Duke's heart. The clock on the wall. The crickets chirping outside. All of it stopped the moment she came. "You're fucking incredible," she said in between pants. As soon as she said those words, Duke pumped his hips. The cum collecting in his sac released in a hot stream inside of her. With his climax, he settled back into the chair. He smoothed her hair away from her face. Carla laughed as she brought her head up to connect her gaze to his.

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"What's so funny?" Duke asked. "The last time you came here, you were working in the kitchen and we had sex in the bathroom. Now you're supposed to be working in the bathroom and we just had sex in the kitchen. Are we ever going to get this straight?" She combed her fingers through his hair. "I hope not." He removed his finger from her tight hole and patted her firm, fleshy ass cheek. "But you did remind me. I am here to do a job. You won't call in another service call if I don't fulfill my obligation." With the tenderness of a kiss against a fragile bubble, Carla brushed her lips against Duke's. His heart started pumping again. Give him fifteen minutes and he would be good to go for round two. "Forget the ring." She took a deep breath. "I know I have." Duke smiled. "You still want to do dinner?" Carla nodded. "Let me just get showered and changed." She started to stand and Duke held her hand, holding her to his lap. "Do you have to shower? I love how you smell now, like sex." She smiled and gave him a quick peck on the lips. "Unless we plan on staying home, I can't go out smelling like this." "Okay. Fine." He allowed her to stand. As she walked away he said, "We can stay in at my place." Carla froze at the kitchen doorway. Tension tightened her back and shoulders, causing her to draw them together. That wasn't a good sign.

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Five Ever since she decided to cut off that old part of herself, Carla never thought about the prospect of spending the night with another man. Funny as it sounded, it was easier having sex with a man than to be truly intimate and share his bed. No matter how she felt about Duke, she wasn't ready to explore that deeply into their new relationship, whatever that was. When she turned around and stared into Duke's eyes, she could tell that's exactly what he wanted. "I thought you lived close by." Carla maintained a smile but her insides quivered. "I do. You could take your shower here, and I'll wait for you." He stood. "Or join you." Then he smiled. "Or you can pack a little overnight bag and come to my place, and we can shower there together." "Why don't we just cut some time, and I'll shower here; you go home, and get cleaned up; and then we can go out to dinner?" His thick, bushy eyebrows furrowed. "Is there a reason you don't want to come over?" "No. Is there a reason you want me in your house?" She put her fists to her hips. Carla didn't mean to come off as defiant, just staunch in her decision. She was sure Duke meant well when he pressed to have her come to his house. It was a huge step and one she wasn't willing to make yet. He shook his head. "We just sat here and said how we want to get to know each other better, and you don't even want to come to my house." "What's the big deal? I don't understand." Carla watched Duke pull up his pants and fasten them so fast she thought he would catch himself in the zipper. "Never mind. No big deal." He stomped toward her. "I'll just finish

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the job I came here to do." "Like I said, forget the ring. I'm sure it'll be there tomorrow." He stopped in the doorway, towering over her. Duke stared at her. "You want me to come back tomorrow?" Carla swallowed. She'd never been with a man as passionate as Duke. Roy used to make all of their decisions and rarely let her in on some of the major changes he made. Here Duke wanted to open his world to her, and she damn near pushed him away. What the hell was wrong with her? "I want us to take things slow." Her voice dipped down to a low timbre. "Carla, we passed slow when we had sex in your bathroom yesterday. We're in the catch-up mode now." His face softened as though he understood where she might be coming from. "Let's just start with dinner and go from there." He nodded. "I'll get my tools and give you a call when I'm ready. Cool?" She nodded. Duke cupped her cheek, stroking her skin with his thick thumb. He had the greatest ability to weaken her knees with just a touch, a look. Duke had always been a heartbreaker. Great to see that he didn't let it go to his head. He kissed her softly, barely touching his lips to hers before darting off down the hall to retrieve his tools. "Call you in about twenty minutes, okay?" He held the doorknob waiting for her answer. Carla crossed her arms over her chest and offered him a smile. "Okay." Once the acknowledgement came through her lips, Duke walked out. Carla heard the heavy engine in his truck start. It rattled and rumbled until he took off down the street. Carla wasted no time in getting ready herself. Ducking into her bathroom, she slathered a stripe of green gel toothpaste on her electric toothbrush and attacked her mouth. She wanted to be ready for Duke once he called. Knowing him, he probably would be ready right at the twenty-minute mark. Starting at her reflection, she wondered a lot of things about Duke. What did he do to get ready? What would he wear? Did he put on

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cologne or was that overwhelming and heady all-man scent that swirled around him natural? She slowed down her brushing the more she thought about him. Why was he so interested in her? Wait. Where the hell did that idea come from? Just more Roy talk kicking around in her head. Of course Carla was worth a man's time and notice. And she was sexy to other men. Better yet, she did find other men attractive, one thing she truly worried about once Roy announced he wanted a divorce. She never wanted to be that woman who hated all men because of one asshole. Carla spat into the sink. No more thinking of Roy. She needed to put that worthless piece of nothing out of her head and concentrate on Duke. He wanted her time. He wanted her attention. He wanted her. And she let him walk out of the house alone because…? "Shit!" Carla rinsed her mouth, darted to her bedroom and picked up her cordless phone. She punched in Duke's cell phone number and waited. It rang once. "Come on, Duke." Carla chewed on her bottom lip. The phone rang a second time. "You can't be in the shower already." Carla leaned back and peered into her closet. Her small overnight bag sat toppled on the hardwood floor. Halfway into the third ring Duke answered. "Yeah." "Are you home?" she asked. He waited a beat before answering. "Just walked into the house." "What's your address? I'll meet you in the shower." **** With a towel wrapped around his waist, Duke marched back to the living room and peeked through the curtains for the third time. He would have thought Carla would have been to his place by now. Maybe she backed out, changed her mind. He strolled to his front door. He had unlocked it. "Forget it." He turned the deadbolt lock and turned around. He stopped. "Fuck!" He pivoted to the door and unlocked it again. "Probably packing a bag or something." He rushed back to the bathroom. "Not like I live in a bad neighborhood anyway." Duke started the shower. Cold at first, he ducked under the water and let the frigid pellets calm him. If Carla was messing with his head

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again, he needed something to zap him back to reality. He soaked his body. Warm water slid down his tense skin. Memories of Carla's delicate fingertips dancing down his flesh flooded his thoughts. Duke closed his eyes and stood directly under the wide showerhead. He remembered how her fingers combed through his hair. At his age, he was grateful to still have a head full of hair. Not a lot of his friends in their late thirties to early forties had much on top. Duke opened his eyes and turned his gaze toward the door. Something in his gut told him that she was there. His gut never let him down before. He saw a figure coming toward him through the sallow shower curtain. Not wanting to wait for her to make the first move, Duke pulled open the curtain. To his surprise, Carla stood there completely naked. Her nipples protruded nicely and her skin glowed more now than he remembered back at her house. Duke wanted to ask her what took her so long. He was so glad to see her, he didn't care. As soon as she closed the curtain behind herself, he wrapped one arm around her waist, and he put his other hand behind her head. It had only been minutes, but he couldn't wait to kiss her again. He already loved pressing his lips against her full set. When she moaned, her lips vibrated against his. Every nerve in his body sparked to life. He moved his hand from her waist to her ass. Duke palmed it, squeezing it as his cock filled with blood, stiffening him. He pressed his body against hers, his dick pushing against her stomach. Carla broke from the kiss. Gazing down, she wrapped her fingers around his erection. Her hand made a slow pilgrimage up then back down to the base. "What idiot let you go?" Duke said out loud. "One man's trash is another man's treasure." Carla lowered herself to her knees. "You're no one's trash. You are a treasure. Always." For his statement, she rewarded him by wrapping her full lips around his tip. Duke sucked air between his teeth. So that he didn't fall to his knees, he braced his hand on the shower stall wall as he watched her loving his dick. She cradled his balls in one hand and held the base of his shaft in the other while her mouth took control of him.

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She eased her mouth down to her fisted hand and held him in her mouth, humming just to make an already sweet feeling even more tantalizing. Then she slid her mouth up, curving her tongue around his rod until she got to the tip. Carla pressed her tongue against the slit to extract all of his pre-cum. How the hell did he get so lucky? Water pelted Duke's back. The more Carla's mouth worked on him the more he started to gyrate his hips, fucking her wide mouth. Steam surrounded them but Duke was sure their actions produced the steam and not the hot, running water. He smelled her sweet pussy, the scent rising up between her legs. He couldn't wait to return this gesture and taste her. Duke's legs trembled the faster Carla sucked. Her skilled tongue moved over his shaft like she'd done this before on him and knew what he liked. He stroked her hair, his fingers getting entangled in her locks. "Carla," he said between gritted teeth. He didn't know if she would want to take all of him, swallowing his cum. She peered up at him, connecting her gaze to his. "I'm close." He continued thrusting his hips. He couldn't get enough of her mouth, of her. She brought her gaze back down and sucked him even harder and faster. "Oh, baby!" As much as Duke had tried to hold back, he could no longer fight his need. He felt his balls tighten then he let out a long growl as he released his seed into her mouth. Carla quickly eased the pressure around his sensitive tip as she swallowed every drop he offered. Trying to catch his breath, Duke rested his head against the wall. "Very good," Carla said while still on her knees. "Why don't we just order in?" Carla laughed. "Sounds like a plan."

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Six Carla pressed her back against the headboard of Duke's bed while he reclined on the mattress, his head by her feet. He stabbed his fork into a box of fried rice while Carla watched him. Even his bedroom had touches of him throughout it. The first sign had to be in the midnight blue walls that gave the room a cozy feeling. Then came the oatmeal-colored Berber carpeting on the floor. The tight weave had tickled her feet when she walked over it earlier. His hulking bed would make a king jealous. The four posts were about as thick as her leg, and being that she never turned down a dish of red beans-and-rice, that was saying something. The headboard went up halfway against the wall. In dark mahogany, the bed blended in well with the walls. Covering his bed, he had a white comforter and sheet set, making the bed stand out even more. With the matching dresser, the room seemed fit for a king…or at least a Duke. She couldn't wait to explore the rest of his house, especially his closet. Carla could always tell how a man was by looking at how he kept his closet. It couldn't be too clean and organized, and definitely not messy. Craning her neck, Carla tried peering into the open door to his closet to see what kind of person he was. That's when she caught him. Duke stared at her as he chewed. He was either enjoying his food or something else. When she saw his gaze go down then back up, she knew he wasn't admiring her skill in using chopsticks. Carla closed the top of Duke's shirt that she wore. "Why did you do that?" he asked. "I liked the view." "What? Me and my saggy tits?" Carla snickered. "You have great breasts. Nice and full." He kissed the soles of her feet. "You have beautiful feet, too." "Thank Worlds of Beauty for those. I used to get daily pedicures."

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She remembered back to what she thought were good times. She really did fool herself into thinking material things could make her happy. "I'd rather thank your mother. Good genes." He shoveled another forkful of rice into his mouth. "So tell me about yourself. What has Carla Middleton done since high school?" Carla smirked as she peered down into her carton. "Not much." "Come on. I know you didn't just get married. You had to have done something." Duke wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Lying completely naked on his bed, he looked so primal. Carla would have rather fucked him again than to replay the painful memories of her past. She knew she wouldn't grow as a person, wouldn't finally move on, if she didn't spill about her life. She needed closure. Maybe this was one way to do it. "Right after high school I went to college." She managed to capture some stir-fry vegetables in her sticks and get them into her mouth. Duke's eyes widened. "Really? Which college? What did you major in? Give me details." "I went to Norfolk State University." Where I met Roy, she wanted to say. "Ah, so you stayed close to home. Cool. What else?" Duke did seem impressed by her going to school. Maybe he was just toying with her, trying to pump her up so he could pump into her again. If only Duke wasn't the most honest and sincere person she had ever met, she would have suspected him to be dishonest with his feelings. "I majored in horticulture." She peered up at him and saw him with a confused look on his face. "It's the study of plants," she said to clear up the confusion. "I know. I just wonder why you would want to study that. Doesn't make a lot of money." Although Duke may not have meant his statement as a dig, she took it as one. Hearing it felt like a knife stabbed in her chest. "I'm not a materialistic person." She stirred her vegetables around in her carton, swirling the green and orange foods together. Duke touched her leg. "Darling, I didn't mean it like that. I just know if I had a child and sent him or her to school, I would want them to come out with a better job than what I have. Doctor, lawyer, accountant, anything better than being just a plumber." She smiled and nodded. "Nothing wrong with being a plumber. It's

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good, honest work." For her response, Duke kissed each of her toes, one by one. God, it would be so easy to fall in love with him. So easy. Carla dropped her gaze and continued eating. "I picked that major because of two reasons. The first is because I wanted to help my grandfather with his farm. He had a pretty nice one out in Suffolk. Grew peanuts and cotton." "So why aren't you working for him?" Duke set his box on the floor and opened a third carton of Chinese food. Sex did make the man hungry. "He passed away a year after I graduated." "Sorry for your loss, sweetie." Again, he kissed her foot. Carla started to like his pecks to her feet. Duke may have found the newest erogenous zone. Or maybe she discovered one of his fetishes. "I could have kept his farm going but his grandsons, my knuckleheaded cousins, sold it and had a convenience store built on it. Hooray for the all mighty dollar." Every time she drove by that store with its blazing neon signs and kids skateboarding in the parking lot it turned her stomach. "Now I understand." Duke nodded his head. "Understand what?" "Why you bought that house. Mrs. Lembeck did tend to her flowerbeds regularly and kept a great garden in her backyard." This time it was Carla's turn to widen her eyes. That was exactly the reason why she fell in love with the house. The house did look charming from the street, however it was the immaculate landscaping that won her heart. "The second reason I majored in horticulture was because of George Washington Carver. I'd seen a documentary about the man and it fascinated me all he contributed to society by using plants. I wanted to be like him." If only Carla didn't feel like it was too late to go back to that dream. As though reading her thoughts, Duke said, "Good thing about dreams. You can always fulfill them no matter how long it takes." He winked. Carla nodded. "I don't know. I'm too old." She snickered as a way to make light of an idea that had been plaguing her for years. "Can't teach an old dog new tricks."

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"Good thing you're no old dog." She peered up at him. With a cocked smile and a wink, he got her to believe that anything was possible. "So when did you get married?" Duke asked. "Three years after I graduated from college. Roy wanted to get through officer training before we got married." "And he made detective that young? Awfully big accomplishment for him." Yeah, and some strings pulled by her father who was the mayor's golfing buddy. "So what did you do while you were married?" Duke tilted his head back and slurped some noodles into his mouth. "You know the usual. I took care of the house, made sure the yard was kept up, washed the cars, paid the bills." "No, what did you do outside of the home? Did you work?" Carla couldn't look at Duke. Hell, she could barely look at herself. She had promised her mother while she was in college that she would stay active, have a life outside of the home. Roy said the right things at the wrong time and changed all of that for her. Now Carla had an opportunity to change things back. It couldn't be too late for her. "I didn't have a job outside of the house. Roy liked it when I was at home." Carla cleared her throat and continued eating. "Any children?" Another painful topic. "I can't have children." Carla felt her throat closing and tears stinging her eyes. Damn it, don't cry. Don't cry in front of Duke. Do like you always do and cry alone. "Are you mentally insane?" Duke asked. Carla blinked and sniffed away any impending tears. "No." "Ever kill anyone?" "Of course not." "Been arrested for a felony?" "Why are you asking me these strange questions?" "Because unless one of those things happened to you, you can have children." She shook her head. "No, I can't. My ovaries never fully developed and one had a tumor on it a few years ago so it had to be removed."

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Duke cut her off. "Adoption, baby. You can and should adopt a child. You would make a great mother." Duke's heartfelt words sent tingles over her flesh and caused her heart to pound out a crazy rhythm. "I've always wanted to adopt. Roy was adamant about having a child with his bloodline to carry his name. No one else would do." So many things she would have done differently in her life. "I'm adopted." The admission stopped Carla's heart momentarily. Duke came into full focus right before her eyes. "So I hold mothers, all mothers, in the highest regard. If I hadn't been adopted, I may have never met you in my lifetime." Carla crawled over the bed and kissed Duke. "Thank you. And thank your mother for raising a fine son." She settled back against the headboard and finished her food. "So how did a fine ass man like yourself managed not to get married for so long?" "Who said I was never married?" He held up three fingers. "Three times? You went down the aisle three times?" "First time was right out of high school. You may have known her. Georgette, the head cheerleader." Of course Carla remembered that blond-haired, blue-eyed cutie that all of the boys drooled over every time she entered a room. She couldn't even hate the girl. She was very nice to Carla when they were in school. "We got married before the caps we threw in the air at graduation hit the ground. That marriage lasted all of three months. Soon as the fall weather hit and her parents made her go to college, we got divorced. Then there was Iona. Met her five years after the first marriage. She was a lot of fun. Too much. She wanted to swing, and I don't mean on a swing set. When I told her I wasn't interested, she went on and did it on her own, which in my book is called cheating." Duke reached down and picked up his opened bottle of Budweiser and downed it in three gulps. "Sounds like you picked some winners." Carla snickered. "I haven't even told you about Marlene, the pyro. I thought it was cute she was into fire. She even had a little flame tattoo over her vagina. When she burned the barbeque grill, I thought it was funny. When she torched the lawn mower, I got kind of worried. When she burned our house down, I had her committed."

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Although Carla was sure Duke could laugh about the situation now, she covered her mouth in horror at his story. "Oh, no. Have you seen her since?" Duke shook his head. "I know she got out and married some other guy right after me. I wish him good luck." "You know, I still haven't paid you for the work you've done for me." She pushed her hair back. "How about this. We'll do a trade." He brushed his hands together. Carla shook her head. "Oh, no. I can't have that much sex. You would kill me." Duke laughed so loud it echoed off the walls of his spacious bedroom. "No, darling. You just moved into your house and it's obvious you need some work done inside of it, right?" She couldn't deny that she had gotten a fixer-upper if there ever was one. Carla nodded. "And I spend way too much time at my business to do any work in my yard." Carla had noticed that also when she came over to Duke's house. His flowerbeds were all overrun, his lawn edges needed edging and his grass was dying. She also caught something else he'd said. "You own your business? You're not just a plumber?" she asked. "I own my plumbing company. It took me a while to get the loan to start it up, but I eventually did it. And I'm also a carpenter. Tell me what you envision for the inside of your house, and I'll do it. You make my yard look as nice as I know you can make it, and that'll be payment enough for me." Carla beamed but then the realization hit her. "I can't afford to buy the materials needed to fix up my house. And I definitely can't pay for the dirt and flowers and everything needed for your yard. It's a sweet gesture but—" "But nothing," he said, cutting her off. "I did all of my home repairs. I have plenty of scrap wood and materials left from my jobs. If I don't have it, we can talk about if you want me to get it. As for my place, I'll get everything you need to make my outside look wonderful. What do you say?" Staring at him, feeling his full sincerity, Carla smiled her approval. "Let's take things slow. Nothing big, okay? "Got it. So do you consider building a patio big or small?"

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"Duke!" He laughed. Carla set her empty container on the end table and crossed her legs at the ankles. "So why do you think we met each other now?" Duke set his food and bottle back on the floor. He slithered over the bed to her, straddling her legs and bringing his face inches away from hers. "I've been wondering that since yesterday. Whatever the reason, fate, destiny, God, whatever, I'm thanking my lucky stars. I want to get to know you more, Carla Middleton. I like you a lot." "I like you too, Duke Boscoe." She stroked her hand over his cheek. A fine sandpaper grit covered his face. "I would hope so. You're wearing my clothes." He laughed. "I could take it off." "I was hoping you were going to say that." **** "Okay." Duke had to blink at Allyson's response. Not that he thought she would break down in tears or anything at him telling her that he wanted out of the relationship. He hadn't expected a simple okay. "You're fine with us breaking up?" he asked just to make sure she understood what he had just said. "Yes." Allyson called the waitress over for another refill of her sweetened iced tea. Guess being a little heartless made her thirsty. "Look, I've watched you whenever we've gone out with my friends and done things that I wanted to do. I know you hated it. I could see it in your face. Plus, I'm not that little Suzy Homemaker that you were expecting, huh?" Before she could shatter any more of his illusions, Duke downed his lunch. Here he thought he would have to take her to a public place to let her down easy. She flipped it around on him. "What are you talking about?" he asked. "You like to be that caveman that goes out, knocks the bear in the head and drags it back to your cave where your woman will dutifully skin it and cook it for you. I'm telling you I want to be the one knocking out the bear. We're too much alike." Duke tried to hide the shiver that went up his spine at that statement. Never in a million years would he be as conniving as Allyson. He had a heart. Although he'd like to think that at one time in her life,

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Allyson must have had a heart too, she certainly wasn't showing it that day. Allyson continued. "It was fun while it lasted, but we both have to move on." Duke nodded. As he finished off his ginger ale he called for the waitress to bring their check. "I'll get the check." Allyson snatched the paper from the waitress's hand. "Let me have this one last bear." In a strange way, Duke started to almost miss Allyson. Despite her actions and statements during lunch, she started off fun. When he met her at a bar two months ago, he spotted her dancing on top of a pool table. He felt a brazen woman like that would be able to keep up with him. He found out a month into their relationship that she did that stunt on a dare. As they walked out of the restaurant, Allyson slipped on her shades. Cool until the end. "If you need anything, you know you can call me." Duke held open her car door and helped her inside. "I know. It was fun, Dukie." She kissed his cheek and slammed the door. After starting the car, Duke knocked on the glass. "You know I've always hated you calling me Dukie," he said after she powered her window down. "I know." She smiled even wider as she pulled off. Nah, he wouldn't miss Allyson. He should have broken it off with her a long time ago. Something about bad girls, or women who were bad for him, that got to him. He couldn't let them go. Carla, that was a woman he wanted by his side. He felt comfortable around her. Just thinking about her stirred his dick until he thought he would get arrested for walking around with a hard-on all day. Thank God she needed him even if Allyson didn't.

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Seven Lord, have mercy. Every woman should start their days off like Carla had for the last couple of weeks, wrapped in the arms of a nice, sexy man who wanted every inch of her. Her skin tingled thinking about him dusting his fingertips over her flesh and giving her kisses on the back of her neck. Coupled with the intense lovemaking session they had the night before, Carla didn't want to trade her life for anyone else's. As she pressed the phone receiver to her ear, she stared into the bathroom that connected to her bedroom. The hiss of the shower signaled that Duke's emergence wouldn't happen just yet. Her heart thudded in anticipation. Unfortunately the thudding nearly drowned out what her best friend had been blathering about for the last five minutes. "…so then when I was getting dressed, his psycho ex-wife was outside of the house pounding on the front door." Shannon popped her gum, audible through the phone, while she told her story. At the sound of the pop, Carla winced and let out a long, exasperated sigh. As Carla sat on the edge of her bed, she shook her head while holding the cordless phone to her ear. "Why don't you cut your losses with this guy and go on to someone else?" Carla asked. "Sounds like he's more of a headache than he's worth." The next noise Carla heard wasn't a pop. It sounded more like a gasp and a curse. "Give up Barry? I don't think so. Like I said before, dude is not married so why should I leave an available man to try and find some other guy who may not be half as good as he is?" "So you don't have to deal with all of the drama." Carla slipped on a pair of brown wedge sandals. As soon as she heard the shower stop, she slipped her feet out of the shoes again. She couldn't wait to see Duke coming out of the shower with water dro plets dripping off of him. She licked her tongue over her lips. Maybe before they headed out to do some shopping they could fit in just one more

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session of hitting the skins. "The drama I can deal with. It's losing my man that I have a hard time fathoming. And speaking of men, when are you going to leave that house and do something for yourself? You can't stay holed up there forever." The sounds of iron rings sliding along a steel shower rod sent a shiver up Carla's spine. "Don't worry about me." Carla watched Duke step out of the tub and dry himself with a white towel. "I'm just fine. And I'm leaving the house today." Duke bent over and dried his feet and legs. To look at that muscled backside flex with his movements sent a current between Carla's legs. "Well, sometime today I'll be going out of the house." Maybe they could fit in a quickie. She was easy to please. Or maybe Duke just knew how to get her stirred up like no man, certainly not Roy, could do. "You are? Where are you going? I don't have any plans today." Carla dropped her attention from Duke and focused it fully on Shannon. No way could she let her best friend tag along on her outing. It had only been a couple of weeks or so, but Carla was still getting used to the idea of having someone around who wanted to be with her. She didn't need anyone getting in between her action, least of all her very judgmental friend who probably would loudly and constantly profess how Duke was just a rebound guy. Carla knew better. In the short time they shared an intimate relationship, Duke had become way more than that to her. "No. I don't need any company." Carla scratched the back of her neck, now covered in sweat. "Besides, I'm just running boring, ol' errands. Nothing terribly exciting." "You're not?" Duke said. With her finger to her lips, she gave him the international sign of 'shut up, my girlfriend is on the phone and I'm not ready to out you yet' sign. "What's that? The TV? What are you watching, girl?" Shannon asked and popped her gum one more time. Carla winced again. "Nothing. I turned it off." Duke picked that moment to saunter into the bedroom. As soon as he got in front of Carla, he dropped his towel to the floor. Standing in

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front of her completely naked, Carla couldn't help but stare at his steadily rising erection. Her gaze floated up to meet his. Duke smiled at her. Like a mischievous little boy, he smiled. "You turned what off?" he whispered. "So where are you going?" Shannon asked. To hell and back, Carla thought. "Oh, you know. The bank, the dry cleaners, my pharmacist. Mundane stuff." Duke lowered himself to his knees in front of her. Putting his large hands on her knees, he parted them, spreading them easier than opening up a pair of a child's scissors. Carla bounced her knee both in anticipation and nerves. She chewed on her lower lip. Although her mind screamed for her to drop the phone and let this man have his way with her, her body sat still, stiffened like he had petrified her with his touch. "Oh, I need to hit the pharmacy, too. Got to pick up my birth control. Can you swing by and…" Carla cut off her friend before she could even ask. "No." She swallowed as Duke eased his hands up her thighs. "I'm not looking for any company right now. I just want to go out alone. I'll call you when I get back. I promise." "Damn. Well, go on then. Don't mean to cramp your style. I hope I don't get like you when I haven't had any in a long time." If Shannon only knew… Shannon disconnected the call before Carla could drop the phone to her bed. "You are a bad, bad man," Carla said and brushed her fingers down the side of his face. The steam from the shower along with his quick shave gave him a smooth as marble skin. "No, baby. I'm a good man. I promise you that." Yes, he was. Moving in closer, parting her legs wider, he cupped her cheek and kissed her so softly that she felt both boneless and weightless at the same time. Gripping his shoulders, she held onto him as though she would fall back in a pool on the bed. Both teasing her and seducing her, Duke moved from her lips and

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planted small kisses on her cheek and trekked down her neck. "So who was on the phone?" he asked between scintillating pecks. "A friend." The short response was all Carla could must at the time. If Duke wanted something detailed, he needed to get his lips off of her, put a bag over his head so she couldn't be drawn into his desirable face, and change his voice into something that sounded high-pitched and squeaky, a definite turn off. "Why didn't you want her to come along with us?" Duke parted her wrap blouse, growled when he caught sight of her breasts and cradled them in his hands like they were precious babies. "Selfish reasons." Carla's breathing increased the lower he dropped his kisses. The first connection of his lips to her collarbone caused her to gasp. The second kiss to the slight space between her breasts made her jump. Kissing the tops of them automatically sent her limbs to coil around his body, not wanting to let him go. Duke lifted his head. "Sometimes those are the best reasons." He winked. Carla sighed then leaned her head back. "No, we can't do this." When she brought her head up, she found a confused expression covering Duke's face. "That's a joke, right?" With great reluctance, Carla shook her head. "I feel like all we do is have sex." "Amazing sex." She had to snicker at his addendum. "Yes, amazing sex. I want to get to know the real you." Duke blinked and sat back on his haunches. "You don't think you know me by now? We went to high school together." "Yes, but we didn't hang out with one another." Duke jutted his thumb over his shoulder. "I'm building you something special in your back yard." How could Carla forget that? Many a day she would peek at him walking shirtless and sweaty from the front of the house to the back. However once he reached the backyard, her spying stopped. Duke had asked her, nearly begged her, not to look in the backyard at all while he was making the special surprise for her. True to her word, she didn't. For a woman who loved her garden and opening up her blinds and

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drapes in the morning, especially in the summer time, Duke's request went against her nature. For him, though, she didn't want to disappoint him. For him, she would have done anything he asked. "I know you are. I appreciate all you do, and I love getting your yard together at your house. It's been great therapy for me to put my hands in the dirt and create something beautiful." She stroked his face. "Especially for someone who is so beautiful." Duke held her hand and kissed her palm. "So what's wrong with us getting so physical? It's apparent we're attracted to each other. Why shouldn't we act on that?" After taking a deep breath, Carla slid her hand out of Duke's. "Because I want to get to know you better. Is that so crazy?" Looking defeated but hiding it well under a slight smile, Duke said, "No, nothing wrong with that." Relief washed over her that Duke understood her. How in the world could she introduce him to her friends and family when, in all honesty, all they had really shared besides the same graduating high school class was an intense need to sexually please one another? "Today will be a great day to start our renewed relationship." Duke stood back up on his knees, still in between Carla's legs. "Yeah, you never did tell me where we're going or what we're doing today." "I want it to be a surprise." Duke massaged her inner thighs with his hands. "A man full of surprises. I don't know what to expect from you." The more Duke massaged, the sharper the tingles that zipped throughout Carla's body became until she actually thought she would have an intense orgasm from the motion. "You like that, don't you? The not knowing what's going to happen next?" Duke stared intently at her as though he had something up his sleeve. If only he wasn't still naked. "Sometimes. Sometimes I'd like to know what's going to happen next." Goosebumps formed over Carla's legs as though her body intuitively picked up a shift in the atmosphere in the room. "You do? Good." Duke slid his hand behind her neck and pulled her down to him. With his mouth by her ear, he whispered, "I'm going to lick your pussy until you come before we leave this house." Carla's breath caught, not because of the language Duke had used

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with her, and not because after their little discussion on sex and relationships that Duke reverted back to their old habits. Knowing what she wanted him to do to her ever since the shower shocked her more than anything. Duke kissed her passionately, sliding his tongue into her mouth, teasing her with what was to come in mere moments. With his hand on her chest, he gently eased her back so that her back lay flat on her bed. His hands burrowed under her skirt as he sought and found her panties. Sliding them down, Carla helped him by stepping out of the garment then spreading her legs for him. "I could look at this every day and twice on Sunday," Duke growled. "So pretty. So perfect." Before Carla could ask him what constituted a pretty vagina, his thick fingers parted her nether lips. On instinct, she curved her back, bringing her hips forward and giving Duke better access to her throbbing sex. The first pass of his tongue over her sensitive clit arched her back. She drew air between her clenched teeth. Fisted hands grabbed handfuls of comforter. "So sweet." Duke laved the tip of his tongue over the sensitive nub. Damn, the man knew how to play her body. Carla's heart pounded like it wanted out of her body to watch this man love all over her wet mound. She pushed her pussy closer to his mouth. That one motion stirred him to devour her. Duke's mouth covered her clitoris. Pressing his tongue against it caused a firestorm of sparks to explode in her eyes. "Oh, God! Yes! Yes!" Carla screamed. "Not yet, baby," Duke said between pleasurable licks. "Hold off from coming if you can. I really want to hear you scream." The request had been a first from Duke. Usually he loved hearing her climax, listening to her call his name and watching her writhe in pleasure. Now he wanted her not to come? How the hell would she do that? Duke's oral assault didn't stop. Thank God! The man definitely knew what to do with his full set of lips and that long tongue of his. With each pass of his tongue, going from her opening up to her explosive pleasure center, he had her body wound tight enough to explode. Carla had to compress her stomach tight to keep from doing

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what she really wanted, which was to climax so hard it would rattle the windows. Carla raked her fingernails over the comforter. When that motion didn't help her, she wrapped her legs around Duke's hard body. With a man who knows what he wants and knows how to do things, this position didn't hold for very long. Using both hands, Duke parted her thighs again. Duke dipped his tongue inside of her. The motion made her jackknife up. She braced her hands behind her and ground her pussy into his face and mouth. His nose brushed against her clitoris while his tongue continued diving inside of her. "Baby! Baby!" Gyrating her hips, fucking his mouth, had her wanting to crawl out of her skin with ecstasy. "I…can't…hold…out….much…oh!" Her arms ached and trembled. Carla dropped her head back, trying to avoid looking at Duke at all to see if that would help suppress her overwhelming need to let loose an explosive climax. Duke lifted his head for only a moment to say, "Now, baby! Now!" All Carla needed to hear was the 'N' in the word 'now.' At his proclamation, Duke covered her hot center with his mouth, sucking on her clit, while his long, thick middle finger slid in and out of her, giving her double the pleasure, double the fun. Not that he would be going anywhere any time soon, Carla held the back of his head and pushed her sex into his mouth, making him take in all of her juices. Like a good man, Duke continued licking and sucking her until Carla fell back onto the bed like a rag doll, completely spent and totally satiated. Covering her eyes with her hand, she shook her head and said, "I never thought not having an orgasm would be as intense as having one." She peered up at him. Duke looked so content being between her legs, still lapping her juices like a kitten at a saucer of milk. "How the hell did you know how to do that? That was amazing." "I just know what you like. I'm learning you." Carla sat up and gave Duke a kiss on his shiny lips. She tasted her salty juices on his mouth. Knowing how hard he worked to extract those juices and the distinct pleasure he had given her made her nipples hard all over again.

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Duke released an exaggerated sigh. "Too bad we have to cut out our sex life to get to know each other more. Otherwise I would do this every day." Carla smirked. "Very funny, smart ass." Duke stood and presented a hand to her. "And speaking of asses, I think we both need a shower again." Carla accepted his gentlemanly gesture and stood on shaky legs. "Anything to get me naked, huh?" "Anything and everything." He unzipped her skirt and helped her out of it. "Now come on, let's get going. I have a full day ahead of us." "But what are we going to do?" Duke placed his hands on her shoulders and pushed her toward the bathroom. "Shower first, questions later." "What if I promise to do anything to find out?" she teased. Duke stopped her in her tracks but kept her back to him. "Anything?" "Just teasing." Carla laughed. "Oh, you're going to get it. Just wait." And Carla couldn't wait to see what Duke had in store for them that day.

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Eight For the tenth time within a span of a couple of minutes, Duke stole another glance at Carla as she sat beside him in his pickup truck. Every time he looked at her glowing face he couldn't help but smile. The woman brightened his life more than she could ever understand or know. "You're doing it again," Carla said. "Doing what?" Duke tried hiding the smile that desperately wanted to peek through his cool countenance. "You're staring at me. Why do you do that?" Carla smiled when she asked the question so Duke could tell she wasn't exactly bothered by his overt attention. "I just want to make sure you won't run off," he snickered. "What do you think I'm going to do? Jump out of the truck while you're going sixty miles per hour on the highway?" This time she got a full-belly laugh from him. "So I'm the lesser of two evils?" Carla touched his leg. The intimate contact made him jump slightly but in a very good way. The surge he felt from her touch stung his body and caused his penis to engorge itself. Down, boy. Down. "Even if we were standing still, I wouldn't jump from the truck." She managed to kiss the side of his face just as they pulled into a parking lot. After the affectionate gesture, Carla turned her attention to the glass building ahead. This time Duke wanted to see her reaction. He wanted to see if she would be so overjoyed she would be thanking him for days or just merely pleased to be where he had taken her. "Oh, Duke!" He hadn't expected tears.

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"Baby, it's just a nursery," Duke said as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "I thought we could look for some plants and flowers for our yards together." With the back of her hand, Carla wiped her face. Seeing her so emotional broke something deep inside of Duke. He loved surprising her. He loved protecting her and being there for her. He loved that she needed him. "You just know the perfect things to do for me." She kissed him sweetly. "Thank you so much." Using the pad of his thumb, he wiped away her tears from her cheeks. "Come on. Let's go inside before they think we're necking out here." This time Carla laughed. Duke got out of his side first then darted over to Carla's. He helped her out of the truck after she made sure to wipe away any tears and clean up her face. Duke assured her that if anyone asks about her condition, he would tell them she had allergies. Again, he had gotten her to laugh. Making Carla happy and comfortable made Duke feel good. If there was one thing he wanted to make sure of it's that Carla would be happy. Once they got inside of the nursery, Carla's already cheerful face lit up even more. She scanned the room as though she were a dog in a room full of fire hydrants. She didn't know where to start first. She started towards the indoor plants but then the rose bushes caught her attention. Then she turned to the gardening equipment and got stopped at the perennials. The sight of seeing Carla twirl around the room was enough for Duke to smile so hard his face ached. "I don't know where to go first," Carla said. "I can tell." Duke crossed his arms and watched her with delight. Carla finally stopped moving. A light pink hue colored her cheeks. "Was I that obvious?" Duke nodded. "But you're cute so it works for you." "Haa, haa. Very funny." She clapped her hands together. "So tell me what you want to see in your yard." Duke stalked her. He was sure she could interpret the look in his eye. He certainly wasn't thinking of having a tea party in his yard. "Flowers, Duke! Flowers." She held up her hand as she backed from him.

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"Darn. I was going to tell you all about how I could see you in a patch of wild flowers wearing nothing but a smile." An elderly customer walked by them just as Duke relayed his fantasy. She offered a polite smile so Duke wasn't sure if she had heard him and it was one of those you-know-better-than-that type of smiles or if she didn't hear him and just smiled at how happy he and Carla looked. "Behave yourself." Carla wagged a finger at him. "I can't help it around you." Duke snaked an arm around her waist. "You make me this way." No matter how many flowers existed in the store, all he could smell was Carla's overwhelming scent and the aroma of her sex. He would never forget her sweet scents no matter where he was. "Honestly, baby, the only flower I know is a rose." Duke pointed to shelves and shelves of different types of roses. Small, large, red, white, yellow and pink. He didn't know there were so many varieties. "Roses are plants, sweetie, not flowers." And he guessed there were other things he didn't know either. Carla nodded. "Yes, a good rose bush would be great for your yard. Maybe an all white rose bush." "Sounds great. You go find the perfect one and I'll be looking at some tools." He gave her a quick peck before she darted off to examine each flower, well, plant. Duke, however, had another mission. Walking towards where the main office is, he continually looked over his shoulder to make sure Carla wasn't looking at him. When he turned back around he nearly ran over someone. "Oh geez! I'm so sorry." Duke helped right the person until he saw who it was. "Yeah, watch where you're going next time." Duke shook his head. "Papa Bump. I thought you would be holed away in the office." He gave the chubby older man a big bear hug. Those were the only hugs you could give and receive from the man he had always known as Papa Bump. "What? And miss all of the action out here? No way. Besides, I saw you in the camera back in the office. You know I had to come out and see you." When Papa Bump smiled, his cheeks pushed his eyes closed so

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that they looked like little slits. With his rosy cheeks and graying goatee, he could have passed for one of his garden gnomes. "Cameras? You're getting high-tech on me. When did you start doing that?" Duke walked with his friend toward the office. "When some teenagers I hired tried robbing me blind. But I caught them." Duke's friend shook his head. "I don't know what the world is coming to. A sense of entitlement with the kids today. No one wants to start at the bottom. They all want to be managers without lifting a damn finger." "I know what you mean." Duke glanced back at Carla. He watched her examine something closely on a plant, a big smile come across her face and her jumping up and down in excitement. "You still in need of some help?" "Yeah, I could always use some help around here, especially in the summer. Everyone wants their yards to look their best, you know. Showroom style." "I think I have the perfect person for you. She's smart. She knows her way around plants and flowers. And best of all, she's honest as the day is long." Duke would leave out the fact that she liked her legs massaged and the spot behind her knees licked. Although with Papa Bump, it might have cemented her the job. "You do? Who is it? Not one of those damn apprentices of yours. The last one kept thinking about his wiener so much that he always got here late from work with his clothes inside out." Duke held up his hands in defeat. "I promise. No more young kids." He turned to Carla's direction and pointed to her when her back was to them. "I'm talking about her." "Her? Is she looking for a job?" Duke knew Carla wanted to work. Finding her this job would be perfect for her. And from her reaction in the car, he knew she would love it. "Just went through a nasty divorce," Duke began. "She's starting over. She just needs a little help." "And she's trustworthy? You swear to it?" Duke didn't blame Papa Bump for questioning him again about Carla. Duke had lobbed his friend some real losers in the last few years. He just hoped he wouldn't hold that against Carla. Carla was the real deal. Anyone could see that.

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Duke put his hand over his heart and raised his other hand as though he was about to take an oath. "I promise you she's legit." Papa Bump stared at Carla for a while. He shook his head like he was about to turn down the offer. Then he watched her bend over to pick up something from the floor. For Duke to stare at Carla's luscious backside, it was a given. To see Papa Bump not only stare but do a low whistle got the older man a jab in his side. "Hey, watch yourself. I know where you live. And I you know I have your wife's ear. One move on Carla and I'll tell your wife about your stash of Snicker bars in your desk drawer." "Now that's low. I don't smoke. I don't drink. They're my only pleasure." Papa Bump rubbed his rounded belly, the reason he was nicknamed Bump in the first place. "Just keep that pleasure on the bars and your wife and not on her." Duke had never been a jealous man before. Just the thought of another man, even if that man was Papa Bump, staring at her got his blood boiling. He liked the feeling. "Ah, so this one is special, huh?" Duke didn't verbally answer. He just stared at her, admiring her warmth and beauty from across the room until she must have felt his stare. Carla gazed back at him and offered him a smile. Special? Yes, this one was special. "Give me her number, Casanova." This time Papa Bump jabbed his elbow into Duke's side. "I'll call her to set up an interview." "You won't regret it." And Carla will really love him for it. He knew she would.

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Nine "Damn it, Carla! You were supposed to meet me yesterday to sign the paperwork on the house," Roy's message began. "It's been over a month since we talked about this. We're getting this done. I've set up another appointment next Friday. Don't you dare miss it again." Carla erased the message. Used to be hearing something like that from Roy would have gotten under her skin. Now she didn't give a shit. And she wouldn't be calling him back either. She slipped in her hoop earrings and looked at herself in the mirror. A month. Had it been a month since she and Duke started seeing each other? A month of being with Duke and she was already feeling like a new woman. She felt sexier, more alive, vibrant. She wanted to try new things, see new things, be around people. Life opened up for her. Her doorbell tinkled, breaking her thoughts. "Just a minute," she called. Carla shoved the thick information packet she had gotten from the adoption agency into an empty kitchen drawer. She didn't need to explain to her friend her need to still be a mother despite her advancing age. Thirty-nine wasn't so old. Carla trotted to her front door and opened it wide. "Hey, Shannon." She pulled her friend into a big hug. "What is up?" Shannon asked when she pulled back. "I've never seen you this happy before. Did Roy die? Did he get caught with a male prostitute? Please tell me it was the prostitute." Carla laughed. "Stop being silly. Nothing happened to Roy. I'm just happy. Can't I just be happy?" Shannon stared at her suspiciously before saying, "I'm sure I'll get it out of you during lunch. You ready?" "Yep. Let's go." Carla locked her door. In her high-heeled sandals, she clicked in front of her friend. The summer sun blazed down on them. If it weren't for a cool breeze that washed over them, it would have been unbearable. Fortunately, Carla wore a white halter top and a black-and-

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white stripped skirt that kept her pretty cool. "You lost weight," Shannon said as soon as they got into Carla's car. "No." "Something about you is definitely different. Whatever it is, save it until we get to the restaurant. I need some juicy gossip." As though on autopilot, Carla drove to their favorite eatery, Miss Gracie's, a soul food place with plenty of attitude and lots of great, fattening foods. They did offer a light menu but who wanted to eat collard greens that weren't cooked with fatback? As soon as they arrived, the hostess sat them down at their usual table, one by the front window, so they could look at everyone walking around downtown Norfolk. "I'm seeing this new guy," Shannon began after their drinks were served. Carla raised her eyebrows. "I know. I know. I know you're just dying to say 'I told you so' but you were right about all of the drama. The psycho ex-wife thing was a just too much. You know me. I need no drama in my life." Carla didn't have to say a word. She nodded. Shannon continued. "He's name is Sharif. Hot as a mother fucker." "And where did you meet this one?" Carla tried hard to concentrate on her friend but her mind wandered over thoughts of Duke, his hands, his eyes, his mouth, that cock. She wanted it all and she wanted it now. "We met at the gym. I know what you're going to say. He's just there looking for women. That's okay. I was only there looking for men." Shannon cackled and patted Carla on her hand. "Besides," she leaned in close to Carla, "he's got the best dick I have ever had." Carla immediately wanted to refute that claim and scream from the rooftop just how damn good Duke's was. Instead she kept her mouth closed and listened to her longtime friend. "I'll check to see if he's got a friend I could hook you up with. He knows everybody." "No, you don't have to do that." Carla waved her hand to her friend. "Why not? Look, you cannot stay stuck up in that house, watering your plants and picking tomatoes. You need someone who's going to make you wet and squeeze your tomatoes, you understand what I'm saying?"

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Yes, and so did half of the restaurant who heard Shannon's lewd comment. Carla felt the flames licking her cheeks. "I'm just not ready yet." She took another sip of her strawberry lemonade. "The first guy you fuck after your divorce is not going to be 'the one.' Everybody knows that. He's the rebound man. He's the dude that you do just to put shit into perspective. Give it a few months or a year. You'll find your next Mr. Right to spend quality time with. Until then, do some Mr. Wrongs and Mr. Shouldn't-He-Be-In-Jail type of brothers." Carla hated to think of Duke as some rebound man. He was anything but that. Her stomach twisted into a small knot thinking of him that way. "So my rebound guy has to be Black?" Carla asked. "No. He doesn't have to be anything but a good lay. If you can get that from a White guy, Hispanic, Asian or whatever then go for it. But you know your heart will only settle for a brotha. I know you, girl. You're like me. Mandingo all the way. It's the reason you got them locks in your hair." Carla touched one thick lock, rolling it in between her thumb and index finger. Duke had never said anything about her hair. He didn't seem afraid to touch it. When she'd styled her hair that way so many years ago, Carla wanted to make a point. The message back then was that she was a strong, independent woman. Fifteen years later, she couldn't do simple repairs around her house on her own. She needed a change. "I'll be right back. If the waitress comes, you know what I get. Go ahead and order for me." Shannon scraped the iron chair back and sauntered to the bathroom. A couple of guys at the bar turned to stare at her as she walked by. Shannon did look great, keeping in shape mainly by staying in other people's business. The thought made Carla chuckle. The waitress returned, and Carla gave her their order. When the woman walked away, Carla picked up her drink. She nearly dropped it when she saw who had come through the door. Duke. Dressed in a sky blue t-shirt and his standard faded jeans and work boots, he looked too damn good. Over the smells of collard greens, cornbread, sweet potatoes and ham, she smelled him. "Hey, Ollie," Duke said to the manager who was behind the bar.

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"Problems again?" "I think you purposely screw up the repair so you can keep coming back here to get a free plate of food. I think that's all that is." Ollie shook Duke's hand as they shared a laugh. "You found me out. What is it this time?" "Ladies' bathroom. In one stall the toilet keeps running." "I'll look at it and see what's, uh…" Duke stopped as soon as his gaze fell on Carla. "Uh, see what the problem is." "My lunch rush is coming in. Come on this way." Ollie stepped from behind the bar and pulled Duke behind him. Duke did manage to give Carla a wink and a smile before disappearing to where the bathrooms were. Shannon walked by Ollie and Duke. Carla watched her friend turn back to look at the duo as she headed to the table. "Cute guy, huh?" Carla said when Shannon sat down. "He's okay. I think I've seen him before though. He looks so familiar." "Really? Like from where?" Carla tried to come off as casual but eagerly awaited Shannon's reply. "I don't know. Since he's working on the plumbing here, maybe he's been here before when I've been here. There's always something messed up with the bathrooms here." Ollie came back out to the bar area. Just then Carla's cell phone chirped. Looking at the caller I.D. screen she saw the call came from Duke. "Shit!" Carla said although her heart pounded a mile a minute. "It's Roy. I need to take this really quick." "Tell that bastard to kiss the fat part of your ass!" Shannon shouted in the quiet restaurant. Carla tried to ignore her friend but the woman was a force of nature. "Hello?" she said as she walked to a quiet area of the restaurant toward the bathroom. "Come to the ladies' room." It was all Duke had to say. Carla disconnected the call. She pushed opened the door and stepped over the out-of-order sign that blocked the way. She walked around a wall and found Duke by the sinks. "What are you doing here?" he asked as he approached her. "Lunch with my girlfriend."

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"I'm a little hungry, too." He cupped her face and smothered her mouth in a passionate kiss. He pressed her against the cool black-and-white tiled wall. His hands roamed her body, rubbing over her breasts and moving down her stomach to her hips. Duke inched up her skirt. The old, conservative side of her wanted to immediately pull her skirt down, tell him no, not here. The new Carla allowed him to not only pull up her skirt but also bring down her panties. She stepped out of them without question. "I love the way you taste. So sweet." Duke kissed her and lowered himself to his knees. He parted her legs. "Oh, God. I can't believe I'm doing this." Carla couldn't take her eyes off of the man between her legs. Her body shook in anticipation. With his thick fingers, he held open her nether lips. She combed her fingers through his hair until the tip of his tongue touched her clit. Carla arched her back off the wall and fisted his hair. Duke licked from her pussy opening to her clit. Her slight moans echoed off the walls. He knew how to send her body soaring with only slight touches and little looks. He placed one of her legs on his shoulder as his mouth covered her hardened nub. Carla moaned louder. She tried to contain her sounds of ecstasy but with Duke, she was powerless to do anything but what he pulled out of her. He moved his mouth down to her pussy opening and let his thumb circle her clit. The motion made her gyrate her hips. Forget fucking his mouth. She wanted his dick. She wanted it all. Duke, probably anticipating her need, moved his mouth up to her clit. His long middle finger circled her vagina. In one, swift move, he plunged his finger deep inside of her. Forget being demure and quiet. Carla let out a long cry. As she continued to grip her cell phone, she braced her fist on to Duke's shoulders to steady herself. He moved his sizable digit in and out of her as his mouth licked and sucked her clit. "Oh, Duke! Yes! Yes! Yes!" Lights burst in her eyes. Carla clawed his shirt as she rode the orgasmic wave that washed over her. Bliss. She rested against the wall as Duke rose to his feet. He picked up

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her panties. When Carla held her hand out, the door to the bathroom opened. Duke used his body to block the intruder from coming in deeper into the bathroom. "You almost done, man?" Ollie asked from the door. "Ladies are getting restless." "Give me five more minutes." Duke winked at Carla when the door closed. "And I'll give these back to you tonight." He stuffed her fleshcolored panties into his jean pocket. "You're a bad man." She kissed him, tasting her saltiness on his lips. "Good thing I like you that way." "Enjoy your lunch." Carla would now. Her skin tingled as she strolled back to the table. "He must have been chewing your ass out," Shannon said as soon as Carla sat down. "Who?" Carla's mind went into overdrive. Had she heard Duke giving her the best head of her life in the bathroom just now? "Roy. What did he say in the call?" "Oh, nothing. Just Roy being Roy." If Roy had been anything like Duke, she would have fought harder for the marriage. "Good afternoon, ladies," Ollie said. "Enjoying your lunches?" "I would love it even more if it were free," Shannon said and finished off the last bit of her catfish. Ollie rolled his eyes. "Cute, Shannon. You always say that." "And you never hook a sista up." Carla had to laugh at her friend. "I hope you two will join us next Friday. We're having a special twenty-year anniversary celebration. Since you two are regular customers, I'm giving you special V.I.P. passes to get you in. I hope you two can make it. And bring a guest." "For sure." Shannon scanned her invitation. "Oh, look! Open bar. You know I'm going to be there. You coming, too?" Duke walked out of the bathroom area. His skin still looked flushed. Or maybe she wanted him to glow as much as he had made her glow. "I wouldn't miss it for the world." Carla turned to her best friend. "And don't worry about me. I'm bringing a date." It was high time she and Duke had their coming out party.

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Ten "You can't see anything, right?" Duke asked as he walked behind Carla, his hand covering her eyes and his arm around her waist guiding her through her kitchen. "No, I can't see anything. What's going on?" Carla giggled. "You'll see. As long as you kept your word and didn't look in the backyard this past week you'll be surprised." "I didn't. I promised you, didn't I?" She had. And one thing was for sure. Carla was as honest as the day was long. As soon as he got her on the back porch he stopped. "Okay, you ready?" "Yes, show me. I'm ready." "Ta da!" He uncovered her eyes. "Well? What do you think?" Standing behind her, Duke couldn't get Carla's reaction to the new gazebo he built for her and set in the corner of her yard. She stood motionless, silent. Worried that she may hate the thing, he walked around to see her reaction. Tears streamed down her face. Her chin quivered so much he thought she would shatter her teeth with all of the chattering. She turned to him. "Why?" was the only word she could squeak out. "You don't know?" She wrapped her arms around his neck. "It's beautiful. Thank you. There's no way I can do the amount of work in your yard that would equal what you did." "Honey, I just want you happy. I like taking care of you." And he did. He liked that someone could depend on him. He hadn't had that in such a long time. "I think it's high time I take care of you." She wiped her face. "That's what I want to hear." Duke wrapped his arms around her.

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"You want to christen the gazebo?" "No, that's not what I'm talking about. There's a party this Friday at Miss Gracie's." "I know. Ollie invited me." Duke stared at Carla. A smile curled at his lip. "Are you asking me to go with you?" "Would you?" He picked her up and swung her around as a way of answering. "I would be proud to be on your arm." "And I'm proud to be with you." She swallowed hard. "I hope this doesn't come off as weird considering the short time we've known each other but, um, well…" "What, baby?" Carla wiped her forehead. "I love you." Everything around Duke stopped including his heart. He stared at Carla for a long while taking her and what she just said in. "I knew it was too fast. I'm sorry." She shook her head and headed into the house. "No, it's good. It's better than good. It's great. I love you, too. I didn't know if you would think I was rushing things." She released a long breath. "Good. So now that we're on the same page," she gazed back at the gazebo, "you ready to do some damage?" "With you? Of course." **** Carla's leg bounced as she rode in Duke's truck heading over to the party. This was it. She'd be admitting to the world along with herself that this man was special in her life. Duke pulled up to the front of the restaurant and stopped. "I'll park the truck and meet you inside." He gave her a quick peck before she got out. Instead of going inside, Carla opted to wait in front. She would rather go in as a united team than on her own. Besides, if she was going to handle a gauntlet of questions from Shannon, she wanted Duke by her side. It didn't take Duke long to find a parking spot. He trotted down the street wearing dark blue jeans and a clean, white button-up shirt. As always, he looked good. "You ready?" he asked when he got to her. She nodded.

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"You okay?" "Just need a drink." Several gallons of tequila would do her. Carla never imagined how hard this night would be. Walking in, the first person she saw talking loudly in the middle of a circle of men was Shannon. "I'll get you that drink." Duke kissed Carla's cheek and headed to the crowded bar. "Hey, girl!" Shannon screamed from across the room. She left her harem of men and headed to Carla. "You look wonderful!" "Thanks, so do you." Carla secured her lacey wrap around her arms. She never thought she would be able to pull off the look of the black strapless dress she wore. Then she noticed the other men nodding in approval when they walked by her. She guessed the outfit worked. "So where's this mystery date?" Shannon looked around her. She didn't have to search long. Duke came back in a short amount of time. "Here you go, darling." He handed her a gin-and-tonic. Carla caught Shannon's confused expression. "Hold up. Aren't you the plumber from the other day?" Shannon asked. "Duke Boscoe. I take it you're a friend of Carla's?" He held out his hand to her. Shannon, still with her head cocked back, stared at Duke's hand before accepting it. "Yes, I'm Shannon. Carla and I have known each other for the last twenty years." Shannon sucked her teeth in that way that annoyed Carla but it also meant that her friend was pissed. "I can see my girl can keep a secret." "You didn't tell your friends about us?" Duke asked. Oh God! Not here! Don't start this conversation here. "Trust me. There's a good reason." Carla faced Duke. "I hope so," Shannon piped in. "I don't get it. You don't take the rebound man out in public. He's your private stash. Didn't I teach you anything?" "Rebound man? What the hell is she talking about?" Duke's tanned skin started to turn a deep crimson color. "She's talking about the man I choose to spend time with after my divorce," Carla said trying to be as tactful as possible. As soon as she said divorce, the very last person she wanted to see appeared.

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"Where the hell have you been today?" Roy exclaimed as he headed to her. "This is the fifth time you missed an appointment. I told you that we couldn't miss it again. And why haven't you returned any of my calls?" Duke stood in between Roy and Carla. "Easy, guy. You don't need to talk to her like that." "Who the fuck are you? This woman here is my wife." Roy pointed a finger at Carla. "Ex wife," Carla, Shannon, and Duke said simultaneously. "Whatever. She's bound to me until she signs the papers for that house." Roy blinked and turned his attention back to Duke. He wagged his finger in his face. "Boscoe, right?" Duke turned to Carla then back to Roy. "How did you know my name?" Roy shook his head. "You vindictive bitch!" The small crowd around the foursome got silent as the watched this show. "I thought he looked familiar that day I was at your house and plumber boy here showed up." "Wait, hold up. The plumber who was late? That plumber?" Shannon cocked her hip. No, this could not be happening. Not here. Not now. Roy wagged his finger in her face. "You weren't happy making me look like a fool every time you missed an appointment. Now you're going out with the brother of the man that I put away? Is this your way of getting back at me?" Shannon's eyes got wide. "That's where I know him from. You're the brother of that guy that killed nearly a bar full of people driving his car through the place when he was high on crack. I thought you looked familiar." Carla turned to Duke. Her head spun with what she just heard. "Is all of this true?" "Perry Boscoe is my brother. Well, was. He died in prison several years ago." Carla stepped away from Duke. "Were you using me to get back at my ex?" "No! Absolutely not. How I found you and met you is the truth. You called my business and I followed up. That's all."

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"Girl, if he didn't tell you about his brother, don't believe anything he says." Shannon said in Carla's ear but loud enough for the small crowd around them to catch. Carla put her hand to her head. "I need some air. I have to get out of here." She marched to the door and ran into a woman. "Sorry," Carla said. "No problem. Oh, my God! Duke, how are you?" Carla stopped and watched their interaction. Who was this woman that Duke knew? "Hey, Allyson." Duke gave her a polite hug but stayed standoffish. "And who are you?" Shannon asked. Thank goodness for good girlfriends. They always asked the tough questions. "I'm Allyson. My firm helped advertise this event." She held her hand out to Shannon who wasn't having it. "No, I mean who are you to him?" Shannon pointed to Duke. "Oh, Duke? We dated for a short time. But we broke up like a month ago. Actually I know the exact date because it was the day I landed the Holliday account." Allyson spouted the date and it made Carla's eyes grow wide. "Why? Are you dating him?" Carla walked back into the restaurant. "We were together when you broke up with her?" Duke remained quiet. "You told me you weren't involved with anyone." "No, I told you I wasn't married." Carla shook her head. "Go to hell." And that's exactly where Carla felt like she was, Hell. How did a good night go so bad? How was it that she found herself with another cheating man? She caught a cab back home. The party was over.

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Eleven Carla paced in front of the hair salon for fifteen minutes before finally releasing a long ragged breath and venturing inside. The place was amazingly quiet for a Wednesday morning. It was the first time since Friday night that Carla bothered to come out of her home. She'd been avoiding Duke. The idea that he had lied to her, worse, cheated on her, still sent a sharp pain to her head. Thinking about him, though, filled her heart with love. Damn she missed him. "Can I help you?" a woman behind the counter asked. Carla snapped her attention to her. Behind the receptionist was a full-length wall mirror. Carla stared at her reflection. The sight made her stomach ball into a knot. "I need a new style," Carla said. "You're in the right place." The woman scanned Carla's hair. "What do you want us to do with that?" She pointed to her locks. Touching it, Carla felt as though the twisted braids weighed her down. "I want them gone. Cut them all off." The receptionist's eyes widened. "You want like an afro or something or completely shaved?" "Let's just go for the afro. Maybe later I'll get bold and shave it all off." "You're the boss." "Oh, and color it! I need color in my life." It was time for Carla to do some living, with or without Duke. * *** Duke pounded on Carla's door again. He wouldn't be leaving without giving her an explanation for everything. He should have told her lots of stuff a long time ago but fear kept him from revealing all. "Come on, Carla. I'll stay out here all day if I have to." He pounded the oak door with fist, now becoming red from all of the hits. At the fourth set of knocks, the door finally opened. Duke's mouth

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dropped open when he saw Carla. Gone were her trademark locks. She now had a short afro that she dyed a deep burgundy. "Yes?" she said, still full of anger. "We need to talk." "I think you said enough the other day." Duke pushed his way into her house before she had a chance to close the door on him. "No, I didn't get to say a word when you left the restaurant the other day." He stormed into her living room and stood in the middle of the floor. "Now I want you to sit down, and I want you to listen to me." Carla marched into the living room but kept her arms folded. "Please," Duke said. She rolled her eyes but did oblige his request and sat on a chair that matched the sofa. "First of all, I like your hair." And he did. Not that he minded her locks. Something about the shorn look freed her. "Thanks. I did for me and no one else." She wouldn't even look at him. He had hurt her that badly. "Secondly, me and Allyson…" Carla hmphed and crossed her legs. "Go on." "What I had with Allyson wasn't a relationship. It was a joke. She tolerated me because I was like an accessory. I looked great at parties. I was going to break up with her anyway, and then I met you. From the very beginning, I felt a strong attraction to you." He tried to gain eye contact but she turned away. "I never had sex with Allyson after I met you. I swear it. Physically, emotionally, in all aspects of my life, I swear to you, I never cheated on you. I know how much that would hurt you. I wouldn't do that to you again." Duke caught Carla wiping her cheek. He assumed she was wiping away tears but since she wouldn't look at him he didn't know for sure. "Go on," she said, her voice cracking. "Yes, I realized when I met you that your ex was the one who put my brother in jail. But why in the world would I be dating you to get back at him? I was angry at Roy at first because of the way he treated Perry and us at the time of his arrest. Although I still think your ex is an asshole, as far as I'm concerned, he did my brother a favor by getting him off the streets. I tried helping him but he wouldn't listen to me." "That's another thing," Carla began as she looked at him. Red

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ringed her eyes. "You have to stop thinking you can save everybody. You can't. I can't be your cause. I got a call today from that nursery we went to a week or so ago. I know you told the owner to offer me a job. Don't do that. I can find my own job. Just like I managed to get my ring out of the drain pipe all by myself." "You did?" Carla bolted to her feet. "Yes. I lived the last fifteen years of my life having every decision made for me. Do you think I want to go back to something like that?" She stalked Duke, making him back up until he fell back on the couch. "I wasn't trying to run your life." He thought about what he did to help her. Damn, he was trying to take over. "I'm sorry. I love you. I don't like it when the people I love have to struggle." "Baby, I need to struggle. I need to know that if I fall down, I can pick my own self back up and start all over. If I have you every time, I'll never learn to rely on myself." "So you don't need me." She sighed and straddled his lap. It was the first time she'd touched him in weeks. He loved the connection. "That's not what that means. I'll always need you. I need you to listen to me when I have a bad day but don't feel obligated to solve my problems. I need you to stand by my side to support me but not think you need to swoop in and take over. I need you to be my friend and my lover. I just need you to love me." He framed her face in his hands. "Baby, I do love you. Teach me how to love you better. I promise I won't screw up again." "Don't tell me that." He furrowed his eyebrows. "Why?" "We'll never have makeup sex." Duke smiled. "I do love you with all of my heart." "I love you, too." She leaned down to kiss him but he held her shoulders in place to stop her. "But there is one thing," he said. "What?" "You still haven't paid me for all the work I've done for you. If you're being self-sufficient, I'm going to have to charge you." "Can I put it on my Carla Card?" She tapped her pussy with her hand.

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"Hmm, yeah, that'll do." Duke grabbed Carla around her waist and brought her down to the couch. It was great to be needed, wanted and desired. It was even better to be loved. He would never let her go.

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Midnight Conversations Ann Regentin

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Also by Ann Regentin Aural Sex The Dream Ring

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One He was amazing in bed. That's why I married him. Tell me, I said. I needed to hear as much as she needed an audience. He liked to talk to me, tell me exactly what he was going to do next or what he wished he could do to me if we had time. He was a very physical man. He was a soldier, even a bit of a brawler when he was young, so when he courted me, he was physical about that, too. Was he your first? Heavens no! But I knew right away that he would be my last. How did you know? The first time he came inside me. What do you mean? Well, with the other, I went straight to the midwife the next day for a tea to bring on my menses. I knew then that we'd never marry. With him, though, it was different. The thought of going to the midwife never crossed my mind. What was he like? Well, when we were first courting, his whispers would be one step ahead of his hands, so when he was kissing my ear, he'd tell me about how he was going to touch my breasts. It made me quiver inside and ache to see him again to find out if the next day would be it, or maybe the next. He had such strong hands, you see. Then when he got those hands on my breasts, he started talking about how much fun it would be to find out if my rear was as plump as my bosom. Then he started wondering aloud if I was wet from his attentions, and after a while he decided to see for himself. Were you? I was. Oh yes! He was such a powerful man, and a funny one, too. He could always make me laugh. Anyway, he said that I exceeded his wildest expectations, then he pushed his fingers inside me and told me that someday it would be his cock.

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What did you do? My body was straining for that touch, and my ears for those delicious threats. I very nearly came at the thought. A few minutes later, I did come. He had this marvelous way of touching me, with his fingers deep inside and his hand pressed to my body. And of course, I could make him come so easily. He showed me how. He put my hand right where he wanted it, then put his hand over mine to show me exactly what kind of pressure and stroke he liked. I loved the feel of that hard shaft under the delicate, sliding skin, and it astonished me, how such a strong man could go so weak at my touch. I could reduce him to pleading if I stroked him just right. When we were together, he'd match the rhythm of his fingers to the rhythm of my hand on cock, and his eyes would close tight, and I knew he was thinking of fucking me. When did he finally? It had been ages since I'd longed for a man that way We went out riding one afternoon. Really, it was just an excuse to get away from my parents and under each other's clothes. So we took the horses out to the farthest pasture, tied them to the fence, and got down to business. Before long, he had his fingers inside me and was making his usual remarks, and I decided I couldn't stand it any longer. I grabbed him by the hair and said that he told a good story but I wasn't quite sure he was capable of it. Of course, that wasn't true. I knew exactly what he was capable of and he knew it, but he also knew what I wanted. He turned me around, bent me forward over the fence rail, lifted my skirts, and made me his. Oh, he was perfect! He rode me hard, as if he were a stallion and I were a mare, and he felt about that big, too. The way he held me by my waist was just the way a stallion holds his mate steady, and I clung to that fence as hard as I could, just taking him in and reveling in it. I had splinters when it was over, but I didn't notice them at the time. When he came I felt all of it, the pulse, the flood, even his seed moving through him and into me, and I was utterly content. I lay on my stomach, my hand under my body, my fingers on my clit. It took about three seconds. When it was over, I found that she had waited for me. I was finished, but she wasn't. You were lucky, I sighed. I was. Did he get you pregnant? I asked. Of course. With a man like that, it was quick. Did he mind?

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No. He was delighted. He said he'd marry me as soon as he possibly could and that he'd already asked my father. There were tears in his eyes. He was such a physical man, I think making me pregnant was his way of proposing. It wouldn't have meant anything to him otherwise. He rarely spoke except in bed, when he couldn't seem to stop, but I loved him that way. I felt as if there was part of him that only I knew, that everyone else only saw the soldier. I got to see all of him. He adored you, I said in wonder. Yes, he did. On our wedding night, he lay over me and told me all about our son. He was right, too. Our first child was a boy. **** Who in their right mind buys a house they know is haunted? Nobody, if they've seen The Amityville Horror, but I hadn't. My notion of ghosts was limited to campfire tales and Dickens, and since I had no Marleys in my past, I wasn't worried. I also, to tell the truth, didn't entirely believe it when I heard it. And I was desperate for a place to live. After the dust settled from my divorce, I took my share of our joint assets and the sale of what the lawyers called "the marital home" to a realtor and asked how far I could make it go. He showed me several pictures, mostly of boring 50s tract houses, but when he showed me this house, it was love at first sight. It was older, the only sort of house that has ghosts, come to think of it. You don't really imagine ghosts in those McMansions that make up modern subdivisions or even the little brick ranch houses that dotted the neighborhood where I grew up, but this was an ideal house for haunting: a brick, Federal style house in a splendidly perfect state of disrepair. It had been on the market for years, and the owner was getting desperate. So after an initial inspection, the realtor and I went to meet said owner, who turned out to be a man in his late thirties, medium height, and dignified even in jeans and a T-shirt. He was lean and fit in a way that doesn't come from a weight room but from years of physical labor, and his hazel eyes were both kind and sad. His light-brown hair was sunbleached, and I was quite sure that it wasn't from a bottle in the same way I was sure that his muscles weren't the result of a gym. In spite of the late spring heat, he wore heavy boots that were so battered that the steel toe on the left one shone through a hole in the oxblood leather. "What do you plan to do with the place?" he asked. His voice was a

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sweet, mellow baritone. "I'm going to live in it," I said. It would need a lot of work, but if I could talk him down on his asking price, I could spend all summer doing it. My dad built houses. I know what to do with a hammer and saw. "Um...are you sure?" I looked at him, astonished. "Why not? It needs work, but according to the inspector, the underlying structure is solid. Or is there something you're not telling me?" He pulled me aside and cleared his throat. "Look, I know how stupid this is going to sound, but you...I was hoping to sell it to a developer. You can't live here. Nobody can. It's haunted." I stared at him, suspended between reality and a world that only existed in books, movies and Tales of the Strange-type documentaries. "Haunted?" He sighed. "Yes. I know what it sounds like, but you have to believe me. I'm dead serious." "Look," I said, "I appreciate your concern, but I'm not worried about a few ghosts. They can't hurt me." And I was suddenly dead sure of that, as if I wore garlic around my neck or crosses in my ears. "No, but they can make your life miserable. Nobody can live here. I sure can't. That's why I'm selling it." "What happens?" I asked, rabidly curious. I'd never seen, heard or felt a ghost before. He ran his hand through his hair, leaving it to fall every which way around a cowlick in the front. "They won't stop talking, and they talk a lot of nonsense." "Who lived here before you did?" I asked. "My great-aunt, but she was crazy. Schizophrenic. To her, the ghosts were just another set of voices." I frowned. "Are you sure..." "That I'm not the schizophrenic? Yes," he said firmly. "Look, you seem like a nice lady and I don't want you stuck with a white elephant." "I need a place to live," I said, "somewhere where I can think." I looked at the rear of the house, at the remains of the landscaping, now long gone to seed. I liked it. That mattered very much to me just then. "You'll get no peace here," he warned. In my files was a thick wad of stapled paper: a decree of divorce. There was no peace left in my life and in any case, I had no sympathy for

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jerks who tried to sell houses like this to developers. A subdivision was already creeping up behind it, a visual obscenity compared to that elegant old house, and I felt a surge of anger. "I need a change." I made him an offer, ridiculously low, barely what the land itself was worth. "I'm not going to take it," he said. "Yes, you will." I knew that he hadn't gotten a single offer on the place in years. If he was going to sell it at all, I was his best hope. "I won't," he said, his mouth set in a thin line. He did.

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Two My first lover was a fisherman, she whispered to me. I use to sit on the bow of the boat with my skirts up around my waist and my legs spread, and he'd put his cock, inside me. We didn't have condoms in those days, or any of the things you modern girls use, so every month I was on tenterhooks. Did he ever make you pregnant? I asked, my finger on my clit. No, she said. He never did. Did you marry him? Certainly not! No, he was too old and already married. It would have been a scandal if anyone had found out. How old was he? In his forties. How old were you? Nineteen. How did you get together? He found me on the beach one night and that was that. He raped you? The thought horrified me. No! Let me be perfectly clear on that. We may not have discussed it beforehand, but we didn't have any choice, you see. He didn't dare ask because I would have had to say no, and I certainly couldn't just ask him. I was an unmarried girl and in those days, we weren't allowed to say yes, at least not with words. The only way I had to communicate with him was with my actions. I knew he went out to the beach at night, so I snuck out in my nightdress and waited for him. Were you scared? It seemed to me that such a girl would be, if she didn't have permission to say yes. Of course I was, she said, pensive. It hurt, and I bled for a while afterward. I hated him for days. I couldn't understand how I could want something that hurt so much, but once I healed, the wanting took over again. I went out a week later and sat on the keel of his dinghy. When he

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saw me, he started unbuttoning his trousers and when he got to me, he was already hard. My fingers picked up their pace on my clit. I could see it behind my closed eyes, the fisherman with a titanic erection sticking out of his pants and the girl on the keel of the boat. Yes. When he got to me, he pushed my skirts up over my thighs and used his fingers to get me ready before he entered me, just sliding them in and out until I was wet. It didn't take much, though. There was something about him, I can't describe it. When he put his cock in, it didn't hurt like the first time. It gave me chills, it felt so good, and I watched him in the moonlight, not his face, but his body. I could see him...well...fucking me, as I guess you would say. I could see his cock sliding in and out of me, see how it glistened from my juices, and it was like watching someone else do this thing I knew was forbidden. I had never even imagined what it would look like. It was almost unreal. I reached for my dildo, dying for something inside me, thinking of what it would have been like to have been sitting on that boat with this man rutting in me. Did you go back? I asked, breathless. Oh yes! The next time I went out, he was already there. He lifted me onto the boat, lifted my skirts, unbuttoned his pants, and put his fingers inside me. It didn't take long at all before his cock could go in. Was it always like that? I needed more, but I wasn't sure she had more to give me. On that third night, he opened the front of my nightdress and played with my breasts. And after that, it was always the same. He'd start with his fingers, then put his cock inside, then go after my breasts. I put my hand on my own breast, the other working the dildo in and out of me. How did it feel? It was so strange. I would watch him, his cock, his hands, his face, and he was so...so intense, like he'd die without it, like getting it in me was the most important thing in the world. It turned me into something else, an animal, I wanted him to do it, and I spread my legs as wide as I could, even though I didn't know who I was or who he was when we were like that. Did you want to marry him? No! Certainly not. He wasn't the kind of man I was supposed to marry. What kind of man were you supposed to marry?

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The kind I did. Tell me about him. Maybe some other time. Given her tone of voice, I was pretty sure I'd never hear that story. How long did you and your fisherman...? The whole summer. And you never said a word to anyone? As long as I didn't talk about it, it wasn't happening. Tell me what he looked like. I still needed more. He wasn't tall and he was a heavy man, a hard-working man. His hair was dark and his skin was tanned dark, too. His hands looked amazing on my breasts. Did you love him? No. I never loved him. I was getting closer and closer to the truth, my own truth, the dildo inside me felt like the prick of a fisherman twice my age, a man who never did anything but fuck me and play with my breasts. No kiss. She did not mention a kiss. Pure, raw, undiluted sex. What did you think of it all? It amazed me. I knew that I could get pregnant from what he was doing to me and I was terrified. That was the worst thing a girl could do, you know, get pregnant. That would have been the end of my life. But you still went back out. Yes. Why? I wanted him, and there really weren't any options then, you know. I took the risk or I didn't go out to the beach. How often did you go out? Every chance I got. Except when I had my time. What did he tell his wife? Probably nothing. Men didn't tell their wives anything, they just did as they pleased. I saw the fisherman in his own house, with his complacent middleaged wife. My ghost had told me that going out to the boat at night might have been a habit of his already. Had he gone to jack off originally, then found the girl on the beach? The temptation must have been overwhelming. And then to find her sitting waiting for him, waiting for his dick, yeah I bet it was hard before he got to her! No flirting, no

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romance, because that was not possible between them. Only one thing was possible. You never talked about it at all? No. If we had, then it would be really happening, and we would have had to stop. Did you ever touch him? No. I didn't want to and of course he never asked me to. It didn't seem necessary. Did you ever come? No. I didn't know that I could. But you still went out? I liked it. After the first time, it felt good, and I loved watching him. I loved the power it gave me over him, how all I had to do was spread my legs and he became a slave to his own desire. And it wasn't real. We never spoke of it, so it wasn't real. Did you ever regret it? No. Never. **** I would have dismissed the ghosts as dreams, except that I was awake enough to masturbate while they talked to me. Well, okay, they didn't exactly talk. I heard their voices in my head, like whispers only not quite, and after the second one, I was certain that it wasn't really words. The vocabulary was all wrong, as if they were borrowing it from me, going into the language centers of my brain, communicating as directly as possible. I saw nothing in the room, felt nothing except what might have been a faint chill, but I could hear them clearly, as if they were in the bed next to me. I don't know why I wasn't afraid. Honestly, I can't even say that I was surprised, but the previous owner had, after all, warned me. He had not warned me of the exact nature of the ghostly conversations, but he had said there were ghosts and that they talked. Sure enough, he was right. It wasn't nonsense, though; far from it. The intimate revelations had, as far as I could tell, no pattern or purpose, at least not that I could see after the first two. They were just people talking about incidents that had left a particular impression on them, much as my girlfriends and I used to do in college after we'd been up too late and had too much to drink. We'd extol the virtues of one lover, rip on the faults of another, and compare notes, although not quite in such detail. I knew well the imprint sex could leave on the psyche, so

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it was interesting to me, and I always woke in the morning refreshed. I had no idea how or why that might be, but I wasn't complaining. I had a gargantuan task on my hands and I needed all the energy I could get. The house, although fundamentally sound and superficially clean, had been badly neglected and the first thing that had to be done was cleaning. My stuff was all there because I had no place to store it without paying for it, and I had this gigantic basement which, oddly, was in decent shape. Although the foundation was the original stone, someone had poured a slab down there and while it was unfinished, it was only a basement and I didn't expect much from it. I swept it out and piled my boxes on top of a lot of wooden pallets. I could haul it all upstairs as I needed it. The other thing I cleaned out in advance was the old parlor, turning it into a main floor bedroom since I didn't fancy moving my heavy bedroom furniture any farther than I had to. I didn't need the parlor for anything and although the wallpaper was in bad shape, I could live with crappy wallpaper for a while. The kitchen was the first on my renovation list because I had to cook in it, and in the condition it was in, there was no way. It was of a size most kindly referred to as "cozy", and the only reason I had appliances at all was because they were too old to go anywhere but the dump, and the kitchen counters where my coffee pot and toaster sat were ancient Formica and stained stainless steel. I had gas hookups, which was good, but the stove looked like it would blow up if I even lit the pilot. As with every room, the wallpaper was tacky and old. The linoleum floor was just as bad and I had no idea what was underneath. If it was hardwood, I might be able to salvage it, but if it was subflooring, I was fucked. I'd have to figure something out. So naturally, I started with the cabinets. They were relatively easy to deal with and getting something accomplished would give me the courage to tackle the really nasty stuff. The doors were hopeless and the shelves were warped. Probably the best thing to do was tear them all out and start over with something new. That meant a trip to an architectural salvage place. Brand-new cabinets were beyond my budget I thought for sure it would take ages and even separate trips, but it didn't. I found exactly what I needed and even got a good price for it. It helped that my primary concern was function rather than aesthetics, but I

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could put new doors on them later if I wanted to. What I got was three partial sets of solid cabinets, and although they weren't a perfect match, they were close enough to work with, especially if I got creative with the doors. Two of the employees helped me load my booty into the back of my SUV, and I went back through town and down the bumpy dirt road that led to my house. Tearing out the old cabinets had the same satisfaction to it that a good workout did. Screws released their grip, and the warped wood and rotten particle-board came away like tumors being removed. My hands were happy to feel the tools;, my arms happy to heft the heavy doors and cabinets, my legs happy to bear my weight in one position or another as I worked. The exertion felt so good that I found myself singing as I worked, a strange mix of songs that had been popular more than fifteen years ago. After a while, I had a heap of garbage on my old linoleum and some unexpected bare wall to look at. Underneath the cabinets in my kitchen was wood paneling, the real thing if I wasn't mistaken. It stopped me cold, got me thinking. Was it under the wallpaper, too? Wood paneling struck me as very 70s, but the kitchen had a bay window, the paneling looked like pine, and a light stain, rather than something dark, would keep the place from feeling like a cave. I didn't have to make a decision just then. It was late and I needed to eat. I had skipped lunch without even thinking about it, so I put together a quick sandwich and ate it off a paper plate. Then I took a good look around. In my mind's eyes, I could see the new cupboards in place. I had a decision to make about countertops, but it could wait. A new stove, obviously, and refrigerator, too. And a dishwasher. I had a full pantry, so I could do away with some under-counter space. The floor was the sixtyfour thousand dollar question, but now I was eager to get to it. If I had hardwood, I'd just refinish it. Otherwise, I'd talk to someone at the hardware store and see if they had any suggestions. Tile was pretty but fragile. More linoleum? Maybe. We'd have to see. I was tired, but I had the old cabinets to deal with and I needed to do it right away. I dragged them into the kitchen and sat down with a bucket of water mixed with Murphy's Oil Soap to clean them, alternating between that and an orange oil cleaner that took off the serious grease. It was another satisfying job. Patient, careful scrubbing removed the old grime, leaving me with something better than brand-new. Unlike the

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brand-new particleboard and laminate, they had had withstood the test of time, much like my house. Things like handles, hinges and even doors could be replaced. Solid construction would last another lifetime, and they were solid.

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Three Things weren't so easy in my day! What things weren't? You girls nowadays, you see a man you like and just crook your little finger. I smiled. This is a problem, why? Oh, I don't know! He was obviously impatient to tell me something, but he couldn't seem to communicate it. There's just something wrong about it. Tell me. Well, in my day, we courted. If we liked a girl, we bought her things, took her to a show. And it usually wasn't the same girl every weekend, either. We would ask anyone we liked. And then what? I asked. It was sounding very boring. Well, after a while, you could get pinned, if you really liked her. Did you ever? Oh, sure. Sally. What a sweetheart she was then! What happened? Why I married her. What did you expect? That's what getting pinned was about. If after a year or two, if you didn't take your pin back or she didn't give it back, you gave her a ring. What did you do while you were pinned? See? See you young women these days are just too forward. Sally would never have asked such a question. I'm not Sally, I said, laughing. And I'm asking. Yeah, well, not much, not by your standards. Sally was a nice girl. Tell me. He was silent for a moment, and I thought he'd gone away. That's the way to get rid of these spooks, I thought. Just ask them to talk. I was wrong though because his voice came back from out of nowhere. I liked Sally. She was pretty as all get out, a brunette with dimples

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in her cheeks when she smiled. She used to help her mother take in laundry. They were poor, but we were, too, so it was all right. Anyway, I started asking her out regular. She got the hint and stopped accepting dates from other guys, and we were going steady. Did you kiss her? See? You're doing it again; you're pushing for too much too fast. Yes, but only after a while and only after a couple of tries. Why? She had to say no first, let me know that she was a good girl. Did you mind? No, I expected it. Don't lie to me! I could hear the bullshit in his voice. No, seriously, I didn't mind. I got my kiss. Open mouth? No. Not for a while. It must have driven you crazy, I said. I knew it would have driven me nuts, to want something and not be getting it. I expected it, he said. If she'd done different, I would have broken it off. Did you really want her? I asked, still trying to get my bearings. I didn't understand this, and whenever I thought was starting to, I'd get angry. He went silent for a while. I wanted to marry her, he said finally. That's not the same thing. No, it's not. Tell me who you really wanted, I asked. Kathy. There wasn't a trace of hesitation in his voice. Tell me about her. Well, her dad was a house painter, but he gave her everything, you know? He doted on her. She had the prettiest dresses you ever seen, and she wasn't spoiled like a rich girl. She was loved and it showed. She was kind, and smart and everything good. Did you ever ask her out? Now we had something I could use. I could feel myself responding, if not to his story then to the feelings behind it. No. I didn't dare. You see, if she'd said no, it would have killed me so I never asked. Did you think about her?

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All the time. All the time. What did you think? I could feel his sigh. I used to think about holding her on a nice, big bed, touching her all over, being soft and gentle so I wouldn't hurt her. I would imagine kissing her real sweet, seeing her smile at me. I wanted to make her feel good. Did you imagine her touching you? No. It was all about her. I wanted her to be happy. It was an unselfishness in bed of a kind I had never encountered. Mostly it seemed to me that men were interested in what I could do for them, not what they could do for me. Even my orgasms were more about their ego than my pleasure. Tell me more. This time, he obliged without squawking. She had beautiful breasts. I used to spend ages staring at them, secretly of course, imagining what they would feel like in my hands. Everything I knew about nipples I got from my father's girlie magazines, so I thought they were always hard. I used to wonder what it would be like to touch them, suck on them, not too hard, not so it would hurt her, just enough so she would like it. I lay silent, still, just listening to this strange, adolescent mix of ignorance and generosity. Then again, where else would he have learned about sex? She had this little bit of a tummy, way more than the stick figure models these days have, he went on. It looked so soft, I wanted to touch it, lay my head on it, kiss it. I wanted to worship her. He stopped for a minute, and this time I didn't rush him. I could still feel him there, feel his mix of fear, awe and desire far stronger than his words. He had been crazy about her and it showed. After a while, he started talking again, if it could really be called talking. I wanted to touch her pussy. Was that wrong? No! I said. You have to know that by now. Maybe, he said, but I couldn't imagine that she'd really like it if I touched her. I always thought she'd make a face and push my hand away. I just couldn't image it any other way. What if she didn't? I asked. I could feel his sigh. That would have been heaven, if she liked it. That would have been the best. I didn't want to hurt her. What did you want to do? I wanted to make love to her. I wanted to touch her in a way that

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she liked, in a way that would make her smile. I didn't know then that women could...well, could come. I didn't know there was anything I could do but touch her and I wasn't sure what that would do, but when the big moment came, I wanted it to be good for her. How? Well, I wanted to go slow. I didn't want to hurt her any more than I had to. I thought that if I was very careful and very gentle, she might be all right. She might even be happy. Would a girl like that be happy? Yes, I said without hesitation. How would you know? That stung, far more than I anticipated. I'd never been ashamed of my sexual history, mostly because I never thought of it as something I should be ashamed of, so being on the receiving end of what I knew to be an antiquated, knee-jerk prejudice shouldn't have bothered me that much. Don't be an asshole, I said. The only reason good girls didn't was because they had no choice. In your day, it was say no or suffer, but they didn't realize that they were going to suffer no matter what. Sex is fun for women, or didn't you ever figure that out? I did figure it out, but she was-A bad girl, right Well-Probably for no reason other than the fact that she wasn't your wife and she slept with you! Well, what else was I supposed to think? Has it ever occurred to you that maybe the reason you're still hanging around on this plane is because you might need to think? That maybe your virgin-whore complex fucked up your life? That if you had asked Kathy out, maybe she would have said yes and maybe she would have had fun once you got her clothes off? How dare you suggest that Kathy was-A woman? Like me? She was nothing like you! She was a woman, and when we're allowed to, we like sex very much. That was the end of him. I waited, but he never came back. I wasn't sorry, but I was restless. Part of it was annoyance, but another part was regret. Although I wasn't ashamed of the sex I'd had, like most women, losing my virginity hadn't been anything to write home

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about. Teenaged boys aren't exactly the world's best lovers, but to be honest, neither was I at that age. I still thought that a blowjob meant that one blew, not sucked. But much as that particular ghost had irritated me, he also got me thinking. How could it have been different? It didn't take much before the wondering got explicit. I put all of my favorite kisses together, not into one kiss but into a sequence of them, starting soft and getting hotter and harder. I moved those kisses to my neck, imagined strong, masculine shoulders under my hands, muscle rippling with every move. A total innocent? No, because I wanted no fear, just a curiosity that burned through me as hot and hard as the lust itself. I wanted hands on my breasts for the first time, not inexperienced, fumbling hands but sure, confident hands, hands that knew women better than I did. I wanted that shock the first time my nipples were sucked, something I could not do to myself, not really anyway. I'd always been on the small side. I wanted the heat of another's hands on my skin, the pressure of a caress on my belly. I thought of my favorite first, the first time a new lover touched my pussy. That dissolved me every time. I brought the best of those memories together into one touch, and the thought alone was enough to make me moan aloud. Strong fingers, confident ones, searching out all of my most sensitive places, exploiting their sensitivity, making me want more so badly that I didn't care how much it hurt. Only rarely had I ever gotten all the foreplay I could stand, and I gave it to myself that night, replacing the perfunctory fumble that had actually preceded my first time with hours of kisses and play, and when the moment of truth finally came, I made him careful, gentle, no spasmodic rabbit parody-fuck of clueless kids. No, my dream man knew exactly what he was doing, and it hurt not like real life but like the books, a quick stab of pain and then pure joy. I loved him, I adored him, I worshipped him; this wasn't sex it was a sacrament. He was slow, careful, kissing me all the way through it, and we came together, that most transcendent and elusive of dual orgasms, so hard and so complete that I cried out in the dark. **** I ate breakfast on the porch, soaking in the early morning fog. A woman came by walking her dog and I watched her for a while. She was heavier than was fashionable, but lovely, with the kind of round derriere I would have died for. My butt had always been flat as a pencil.

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After a few sips of coffee, I started going through in my head what I would need to do not just to make the house livable but to make it a home. It had been worked over several times, enough to make it old rather than historical. This was neither a museum nor a shrine, just a house that had been lived in for a few centuries. The décor, when I bought it, was 1970s into early 80s, a bit preppy, just old enough to be tacky. The colors were all pastels and neutrals, nothing too bold, absolutely nothing daring. Still, there were bits of the original house left. The stair treads were worn smooth and concave by generations of feet, and the risers were at an odd height. It still had the servant's stairs, although the servant's quarters had been redone years ago into children's rooms, the sort of separate nursery that few modern houses had. I was sleeping in the old parlor and there was evidence that at least one chandelier had hung there and another had hung in the dining room. The paneling was at least a few decades old and so was the mantel over the living room fireplace, but neither was original. The mirror in the hall was milky with age and underneath it the paint was a lighter shade than the rest of the wall, a sign that it had hung there for a very long time. Doorways had been tampered with, as had windows, and a casual scraping of many of the sills showed multiple layers of paint that were going to be a real pain to remove. Still, there was little left to ponder over, no furniture, no boxes of fragile letters or trunks full of moldering clothes in the attic, just paint, carpeting and wallpaper. Really, the place was an empty shell where anything could have happened. If this had been a restoration, I would have been trying to remove the kitchen paneling. Instead, I was trying to distill the house down to the best of what it had been. I would keep the mantel, too, and see if the mirror frame could be salvaged, as it was real wood, not plaster. The glass was easily replaced. There had been no furniture when I moved in, so I'd be spending some times in antique stores and junk shops, and that would be the work of the following winter, which reminded me that I would have to do something about ventilation in the basement. The chemicals I needed were a bit toxic. After breakfast, my curiosity got the better of me and I pulled off some of the floor molding in the kitchen so I could get to the linoleum. I pried a corner of that up and underneath was pure gold: hardwood.

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Beautiful! I was going to need a drum sander, but that wasn't a big deal. I knew how to use them. I was working happily away on the floor when I heard tires crunch in the driveway. Who on earth? My family was three states away, and I had no friends. Few people even had this address. I got up, brushed myself off, and went to answer the door. It was my ex-husband. "Hi," I said. He looked a little embarrassed. "Hi." "What brings you out here?" "Nothing serious." That was a lie. It was miles and miles out of his way to anywhere, which was part of why I had bought it. "Do you want to come in?" "Sure." I held the door for him and he came in, ducking instinctively even though he didn't need to. He's a tall man, well over six feet, and he tends to knock his head on things if he's not careful. "Sorry, but I can't really offer you anything or even a place to sit. It's a little rough." "That's okay. It's a big place." "Yes." "Mind if I look around?" "Knock yourself out," I said. He poked his nose into the various rooms, parlor, living room, dining room, kitchen, and peered up the stairs, although he didn't try to climb them. He eyed my new cabinets, which were leaning against stained beige walls. "Mind if I ask what you paid for it?" So that's what it was. Money. Everything with him boiled down to money. He resented every penny I got, even though I was the one who put him through graduate school and I had always worked as hard as he did, not to mention cooking his meals, cleaning up after him, entertaining his business associates and being the right kind of accessory on his arm at parties. When we went to court, he thought he was entitled to the lion's share of everything, to the point where even the judge got disgusted with his demands. It had backfired in the end, and I got more than I might have otherwise. He was still angry. "Yes, I do mind," I said. "My finances are no longer any of your business." "It's going to cost a pretty penny to fix it up," he said smugly.

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"Lucky, I don't have to pay for labor," I said. "You're doing it yourself?" he asked, eyebrows raised. "So far," I said. "It's grunt work, but nothing I haven't done before, and it should double the value of the house." Let's grind his nose into it a little. It worked. His face flushed. "It should be mine. I paid for it." "Not as far as the law is concerned." His temper evaporated. "Bitch!" "It's your own fault." "That I married a gold-digger? You took everything I worked hard for and then bought this dump!" It was a palace when it suited him; now it was a dump. "Why are you here?" I asked. "Why did you come?" He had no answer to that and he just looked at me, and was I nuts or did I see something akin to pain in his face? This was really hurting him, the fact that I had this house that I was working on myself, this great big white elephant of a house, with ghosts no less, but he didn't know that. All he knew was that I had tons of work to do and it was mine. Why should that bother him so much? "Why don't you just go?" I said, amazed that my voice remained steady. "All right." His voice was soft, and he didn't slam the door behind him. I collapsed against the wall and slid down to the floor, sobbing. For six years I had been married to this man. I'd made his meals, kissed him hello and goodbye and for no reason, fucked him, slept with him. And now this. The most horrible thing was that part of me still loved him. He'd just dragged me through a year of litigation, but I still loved him. Part of me wanted to beg him to reconsider, to think about everything he'd turned his back on; part of me hated myself for being something that this man could throw away so easily. I'd been cast aside, like a Biblical wife, found unsuitable and discarded, not only without second thought but without concern for anything I had ever done for him or what my future without him might be like. After a while, I stopped crying, not because I felt better but because I ran out of tears. I went to the bathroom to wash my face and pee, and then I went back to the kitchen to tear up more linoleum. It was coming

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off with surprising ease and speed, but that did not comfort me just then.

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Four If you'd lost your virginity to a man like my Harvey, you might never have done it again. He could put a nymphomaniac off sex! I'm telling you! I wondered briefly if she'd been married to the fisherman. Tell me about him. Well, his idea of sex was to rub my belly until I got the hint and spread my legs. Then he'd lay on top of me and do his business. That was it. Sounds boring. Actually, it sounded a lot worse than merely boring. It was. Used to make me so mad. Some nights I'd pretend to be asleep just so I wouldn't have to. So much for the happy marriages of yesteryear. How did you stand it? Stanley. Tell me about him. I'd much rather! Anyway, he came over one day to do something about the pipes, and I just couldn't take my eyes off him. He wasn't young or anything like that, but there was something about him. I invited him into the kitchen for a glass of iced tea, and I couldn't stop talking. I couldn't believe it myself, but I was trying to seduce him. I felt myself blushing just like a schoolgirl, you know? And then he smiled and took my chin in his hand, just cupped it in his palm, and I thought, oh my God, I'm done for! I am just done! And? Well, then he kissed me on the lips, just as soft and sweet as you please, and I didn't know what came over me. I melted, like all my bones were made of snow and he was a nice, crackling fire. Oh, he was something! What did he do next? I was soaking wet, waiting for her to tell me what to do.

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Well, he didn't stop at my mouth, that's for sure, he kissed my face and my neck and right behind my ear. I had no idea it was such a sensitive place, right behind my ear. I was moaning and groaning like I was dying. I wanted to ask him to bed, but I didn't dare say a word for fear he'd evaporate like a genie back into a bottle. So I just sat there, and he took my hand, lifted me to my feet, and started hugging and kissing on me like you wouldn't believe. And I was thinking to myself, here I am, a married woman with three children carrying on with this man. Did it worry you? What do you think? I thought I was possessed. I thought the Virgin Mary was going to strike me dead on that very spot, but I didn't stop him because I was touching him back. He had such a beautiful body, I couldn't get enough of it, I had to get my hands all over him. We were tearing at each other's clothes, he tore a button right off my dress, and then he went straight for my bosom, lifting my nipple into his mouth and sucking like there was no tomorrow. It felt so good it almost hurt. Then what? I was dying myself, two fingers working my clit and two others at my nipple. He got his hands up under my skirt and into my drawers and I thought I'd gone straight to heaven. Or hell. The way he touched me, I couldn't breathe, I had my hands on his behind and it was a good thing he had his trousers on because I would have clawed right through his skin. You wanted him. Just then, so did I. I saw her in a faded print cotton dress and him in a work shirt and old-fashioned blue-jeans, stained with years of hard wear, his shirt open, her dress half-open, and his hard-on making a tent in his pants. Oh yes! I wanted him. I was soaking wet. I didn't even know I could get that wet or feel that way. I knew exactly what I wanted and I wanted him to give it to me. He unzipped himself and I got my drawers off as fast as I could, then he sat me up on the kitchen table and slid right inside, all the way into me. Oh, it was wonderful! He was as hard a worker inside me as he was under the sink, and he filled me all the way up. Felt like heaven. I wrapped my legs around him, just holding on, I didn't want him to get away. He kissed me the whole way through and after he finished, he stayed with me, just holding me, telling me I was beautiful, and I felt like a little girl who had finally come home.

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I came hard, maybe a little late, but it's a difficult thing to time. It sounds incredible, I said after I caught my breath. It was. I loved that man so much. I begged him to come back and he did, every chance he got. How did it affect your marriage? I asked. I couldn't imagine staying married to a man like Harvey with a Stan in my life. Oh, old Harvey got easier to tolerate after that. I had Stan and my kids. I loved my kids. I felt sorry for Harvey, the idiot. And I'll tell you a secret. What? I think my fourth baby, my little girl, was his; Stanley's, I mean. I swear, she had her real daddy's eyes. **** It was time for some serious wallpaper removal, the first of many rounds of it and a task I did not relish. I knew from experience that is was a miserable, dusty, sticky job that would take all day and then some, but there was no getting around it, so off I went to the hardware store. I also decided that this was as good a time as any to inquire about the rental of a sander. "You sure you can handle it?" the young man asked me dubiously. I glanced at his name tag. Mike. "No problem," I said. "My dad was a contractor. The only thing I'm not sure about is the walls. He used to tear old paneling out, but I'd like to keep this up if I can." Mike looked thoughtfully at...wait, read the nametag...Craig. "What do you think?" he asked. Craig looked at me as though he'd rather address a scorpion. "Begging your pardon, miss, but I think sanding that paneling is going to take a lot of upper body strength." I laughed, mostly because he was right. There was a big difference between holding something down and holding it up. "Do you know someone who can do it for a reasonable price?" They looked at each other. "Heck, miss, we could do it, and we'll give you a good rate, seeing as how you're going to be a regular customer." I laughed again. They were a bit younger than I, but good guys. "That I am! Let me get the wallpaper off first and I'll give you a call. Can I call you here?"

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Craig handed me a card. "Here's my home number. Just leave a message if I'm not there, and I'll get right back to you. It will be a pleasure. I've always wanted to see the inside of the old Hudson house." "Do you know anything about it?" I asked. "No, only that Mrs. Hudson lived there for, like, forever before she died. I heard it was full to the eaves with junk." "It was cleaned out when I bought it," I said, somewhat regretfully. It would have been nice to have been able to track down my ghosts. "Well, I'm glad to see someone fixing it up," he said. "The owner was trying to sell it to a developer, but nobody bit. I'm glad. They don't build 'em like that anymore. You got yourself a nice, solid house, miss." I liked him even better then, felt I could trust him with my paneling. "I'll call you as soon as the wallpaper is off," I said. "Thanks, miss," he said. "Thanks," Mike added. I went home whistling, even though I had the devil's own chore to do. They'd called me "miss", not "ma'am." The first thing I did was pull my refrigerator into the hallway and my stove onto the porch. The fridge I still needed and it needed an electrical outlet, but the stove was going to be hauled away. Then I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and went after the wallpaper. I wondered as I worked what it would be like to seduce both Craig and Mike. What would it be like to be sandwiched between those two young men? They weren't Chippendales, but they weren't bad either, not bad at all, and strong, very strong. I loved the movement of hard muscle under male skin. My reveries were cut short by a knock on the door. I almost didn't answer it, for fear my ex was back, but there's something about someone banging on a door that's a lot more insistent than a telephone. Somebody had taken the trouble to actually visit me. Snarling, I stopped work and went to the front door. It was the man who sold me the house, and he was eyeing my misplaced stove. Damn it, what was his name? Then the romance of Tristan and Isolde popped into my head, and I remembered that that was his name. Tristan, I mean. Not Isolde. "Hi," I said, offering my hand. "Hi," he said, taking it. "I thought I'd stop by and see how you were doing."

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"Fine," I said. "Do you mind if I take a look?" Did I mind? There I was, covered with all kinds of sticky dust, my hair in an unglamorous ponytail, wearing my rattiest jeans and a T-shirt left over from my high school track coach days, accessorized by a pair of safety goggles pushed up on my forehead and a particle mask around my neck. The only thing that redeemed the situation was that he was almost as dirty. Except he was a man. They can get away with that kind of thing. "No, go ahead," I said, "but I haven't done much with it yet." He came into the hall and smiled at my fridge. "You've started on the kitchen." "Yes." "Can I see?" It was completely empty and a complete wreck. "Sure." I led him through the door and realized that I was sweating from more than exertion. I was afraid of what he might think. He whistled softly as he looked around, then ran his hand over the exposed paneling. "I had no idea this was here," he said. "Neither did I." I felt unaccountably proud, as if I had made it instead of merely uncovering it. "Have you given any thought to new cabinets?" he asked. "Already got them," I said. "How about appliances?" "Some," I said. "I'm not sure what I want to do yet." I was dreading that. It was going to be expensive. He pulled out his wallet and took out a business card, turned it over, and wrote something on the back of it with a pen he pulled from his shirt pocket. "Go to this store," he said, pointing to what he had written, "and give this to this guy here. He's a friend of mine and he'll give you a good deal." "Thanks," I said, surprised. I turned the card over. His full name was Tristan Millman, and he was a landscape architect. I looked up at him. "Why you didn't try to fix this place up yourself?" "I told you," he said, "I couldn't live in it, and I couldn't justify selling it to anyone who would try. That's the real reason I came. Are you all right?" "Of course," I said haughtily. Then time froze, or at least my part of it did, and I realized that I

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had just slapped him down for no reason. There were, after all, actual ghosts in the house and they were a trifle vocal. He wasn't being condescending, he was expressing a perfectly legitimate concern and really, he was trying to protect me. Was that so bad? How long had it been since anyone had tried to protect me? I had hurt him for no reason. I could see it in his face, the resigned despair of a man who had tried in vain to make points with a woman, and then run up against whatever it is that makes women resent that. And what had he done to offend? He'd complimented me, complimented my house, offered me help that I very much needed, and showed concern for my well-being. He hadn't deserved that. "You were right," I said in a much gentler tone. "The ghosts do talk a lot, but they don't bother me. They have interesting stories to tell and they keep me company." And I blushed, realizing that once again, I'd said something that maybe I shouldn't have. "You actually understand them?" he asked, clearly astonished. "Yes," I said, looking up at him. "Didn't you?" "No," he said, running his fingers through his hair. "It was like renting a room in the Tower of Babel, hundreds of voices talking at once and none of them making any sense." "I get them one at a time," I said. "It's easier that way." "What do they say?" he asked, obviously curious. I didn't know him anywhere near well enough to tell him that they spent the nights filling my ears with porn. "They talk about their lives. What do you know about this house?" "It was built in 1865 on the site of an older house. The original structure was probably built in the 1700s, but I can't say for sure. There doesn't seem to have been much to it to start with, and now there's nothing left." "Has it always been in your family?" I asked. "Oh no," he said. "My great-aunt's father bought it; I'm not sure from whom. You could probably look it up." "How did you get it?" "She left it to me because I was the one descendent she hadn't completely alienated. It was mostly because I never saw her, and my mother kept signing my name to Christmas cards long after she should have stopped. My great-aunt was a schizophrenic who refused to take her meds, and her children got disgusted with her and moved west."

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"How did she live?" I asked, appalled. "She had a fair amount of money," he said. "She had a nurse in every day and someone to take care of the yard. The house was a shambles, but she didn't care. I visited her once, and she really couldn't tell the difference between her delusions and reality. She barely noticed I was there and barely noticed when I left. I think she willed the place to me partly out of spite. She wanted to get back at her kids for moving away." "My God!" I couldn't imagine. "It was her choice," he said, shaking his head. "She'd seen doctors and had prescriptions. She just didn't want to be treated." "Why not?" I asked. He looked out the window for a while before he looked at me again. "She didn't live an exemplary life," he said finally. "She married for the wrong reasons, stayed married for the wrong reasons. She was unkind to her children. Probably she preferred her delusions to reality." "I'm so sorry," I said, at a loss as to what else I could say. He shrugged. "They're easy mistakes to make and one way or another, you have to live with them. I guess that was how she did it." "Were you ever married?" I asked, sensing a pain more raw than I expected for a great-aunt he hardly knew. "Yes," he said shortly. "My wife and daughter are in California. I don't expect I'll ever seen them again." I started instinctively to reach for him, then stopped. I wasn't sure what would happen or even if it was what he wanted. "I'm sorry," I said again, aware of how lame and empty it sounded. "No," he said, almost shaking himself. "No, it's all right. Look, you're obviously busy so I'll get out of your hair. I'm glad it's going okay with you, living here, I mean. I was worried; I hated to think I'd sold you a problem." "You didn't," I said. "I like it." "Good. I'll see you later then." "Yes." I watched as Tristan Millman got back into his truck and pulled out of the driveway.

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Five Have you ever been in love? Yes, I said. Once. Not with my husband. But you didn't marry him? No. We'd been really young and really stupid. You should have. I know that. I fell in love once, but we couldn't get married. Why not? I asked, thinking of social conventions and family pride. Because he was a man. That changed everything. I had no way of knowing how old this ghost was, but it didn't really matter. My ghost was a man, too. For any man in any time, the worst possible crime was simply loving another man. I'm sorry. So am I, even now. I wish I could have been honest, not just to myself but to everyone else, too. One of the worst things you can do is live a lie. I know, I said, but I also knew how living a lie could be a matter of survival. Tell me about him. I met him in the trenches in France, he said. I think if we'd met anywhere else, nothing would have happened, but a place like that strips away one's illusions pretty quick, you know? We hit it off right away, stayed close, even slept close, but neither of us said anything. One didn't in those days, especially not in the Army, and we were both soldiers. What happened? I asked as he paused. There was more to this, I thought, than just an emotional attachment. He got hit in the head with a piece of shrapnel. He had his helmet on, but the impact knocked him cold. There was nobody else around, no medic to take care of him, and I started to panic, thinking he was going to die. Head injuries are nothing to fool around with, and he'd taken quite a blow. I sat there holding him and crying so hard I completely

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forgot about the enemy. Probably a good thing, as it turned out, because the Germans had us pinned down good, and it took another day before we got reinforcements. Anyway, there I was stuck in this muddy hole with no help in sight, and I knew that if he died, I was as good as dead myself. Nothing else mattered, except him. My God! I'd never been a soldier, but I'd heard stories like that that were poignant enough even without a romantic element. Well, he woke up after a while, probably not nearly as long as I thought, and as soon as he looked at me, we both knew. We'd known all along, but there in what was left of that trench with artillery shells pounding the earth around us to bits, there was no sense in hiding it anymore. We were both sure to be dead by morning. What did you do? I asked. We started kissing and kissing, and let me tell you, it's a very different thing, kissing a man. How? It's stronger, harder, much better. He was thin from combat rations but still powerful, and I loved that strength in him, I loved the feel of it against my body. I loved his toughness, the hard, flat chest, the hair on his arms and the backs of his hands. I was actually petting him for a while. With women, I got impatient to get it over with, but I would have been happy just to lie there with him and kiss forever. The idea aroused me sharply. I had toyed in my head with two men at once, but that was with me in the middle. The notion of two men together, nothing female anywhere near them, made my whole body swell with a mix of curiosity and lust. It felt more honest somehow than heterosexual encounters, where there was always this bit of the unknown creeping in, the awkwardness, the uncertainty. A man would know exactly how to touch another man, and that was knowledge I did not have. Did you, I asked, just lie there and kiss? Yes, in a way, he said. What you must understand is that this was all new to us both. Neither of us had ever touched another man this way in our lives. There was nothing sissy about either of us, but once I thought about it, it made sense. I had always preferred the company of men. Women did nothing for me, although I could perform with them if I had to. But Jake, he was so incredibly beautiful, and it was his masculinity that did me in. I didn't have to perform that night. I was attracted to everything about him. Even the smell of him thrilled me, and you'd better

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believe that things got nasty in those trenches. I could. I was guessing this was World War I, because I knew that once the Germans could retreat no further, they simply dug in, forcing the Allies to dig in, too. The conditions in those trenches could get a lot worse than nasty. They filled with water when it rained, then with unpleasant organisms. Men's feet rotted in their boots. Anyway, it was night and there was nothing to do but sit tight and wait, so in a strange way, we had all the time in the world. Of course, it was likely that we'd get blown up at any minute, but I think that just gave us permission, you know? It didn't matter what we did because we were sure we'd be dead by morning. What did you do? This time, I was trying hard not to touch myself because I didn't want to distract or disgust him, but at the same time, I became hyperaware of the touch of the sheets on my body, the almostcool air coming in through the window, and even the fabric of my panties on my ass and groin. Well, the truth is, there's only so long a man can go on kissing without some relief, but it took more courage to touch his johnson than it took to face the enemy. I was glad I did, though, because once I had my hand on it, I didn't want to let go. It was as if everything about him that mattered was centered right there, and then he touched me, and I thought I'd die. Oddly, I understood. I remembered my own first time touching a hard cock. What a strange and wonderful thing it was, perhaps more acute for me than for my ghost, who had a cock of his own, but I knew the feeling. Yes, he said, reading my mind, but I was used to it by then. Yes, I supposed you would understand. Then you'll understand that we couldn't stop. We had to finish it then, and it wasn't enough just to touch through our fatigues. We had to get down to the skin. There was barely any light by then, except from the guns and bombs, but from what I could see of him, he had a beautiful dick, long and heavy with a perfect, mushroom head. He fit just right in my hand and he groaned when I grabbed him, not too hard, just nice and firm. We pressed close enough that the heads could rub together while we stroked each other and kissed, and it was the most intimate sex I'd ever had. Our dicks were leaking juice, which made them nice and slick and sensitive where they touched. I came first, which made it even wetter for him, and he came only a few minutes later.

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Then what? I asked. What did two guys do in bed after sex anyway? We fell asleep, believe it or not. In that wreck of a trench. Of course they did. What had I been thinking? What happened when you woke up? Well, in stories like this, somebody usually dies, but we both lived. Reinforcements got there and we were rescued. Luckily, we were so filthy that nobody could tell what we'd been up to. To cut a long story short, we didn't speak of that night for another ten years. Why not? Miss, the worst thing a man could be in those days was homosexual. You think it's bad now and it is, but then it was even worse, the prejudice, the stereotypes, the whole nine yards. At the time, I wished I had died, or that he had, but I figured I'd just put the whole thing behind me. Of course, I couldn't. I went home, married a girl, had two kids, and started drinking myself to death. Oh my God! At that moment, the humanity of my ghosts hit home. They were no delusion. At one time, they had been people whose lives had been shaped by their own decisions, but those decisions had not been made in a vacuum. Each of them had had to walk the fine line between their own needs and the needs of the worlds they lived in, and in this man's case, it must have devastated his family. I knew the symptoms of depression well, knew how the disease differed in men and women, and what he described was the self-destructive surface of it. And all because he had known love and found it not merely out of reach, but proof in it that he was a monster. I could only imagine, but even that made the hair on my arms stand on end. Yes. The problem was that there was only one thing I really wanted. In the end, I broke down and wrote to him. That must have been hard, I said. This was a new window into the emotional lives of men, and I was looking through it with a mix of pity and astonishment. It was hard, miss, but he wrote me back. He lived on the opposite side of the country, so we met in the middle, in a hotel room, and the second I saw him, I had to touch him again. He was everything I'd been missing in my life. I had so much to say to him but I couldn't get a word out because we were hugging each other so hard I couldn't breathe, and I had tears streaming down my cheeks. So did I, just then. It had been so long since I had loved like that,

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and I had let it go. Why? Was I so bad? No, miss, you're not a bad one, just a little confused is all. Just like we were, although not in the way we thought. I had to die before I found out that it was the love that mattered. But I never went to Communion again after that because I just couldn't face the preacher. My wife thought it was me being stubborn, but she never knew the truth. She never guessed? It would have never crossed her mind that her husband was a cocksucker. You were? The expression made me smile. Yes, miss, I was. Jake and I met about twice a year, and that's what we did. That was the second scariest thing I ever did, but once I made up my mind to do it, I couldn't get enough of it. He and I would lie next to each other, our faces in each other's crotches, and suck. It was such a primitive thing, having my nose up against his balls. The hair tickled, but the scent was marvelous. I liked the taste of him, too, and the way the skin felt against my tongue, soft as silk. I used to just lick him at first, and kiss him, and of course he'd do the same thing to me, so I knew what he was feeling. Then I'd grab hold of his shaft and put the rest in my mouth, and he'd do it to me, and it was as if a key had fit into a lock. I'd only heard that expression used to describe heterosexual sex. How do you mean? It was a perfect circle. Because he was sucking me, I was aware of how his dick felt and because I was sucking him, I knew how his mouth felt. I also knew that he knew the same about me, and that made it endless, an unbroken ring of give and take. He tasted salty and smelled like an animal, but I liked both. I'd play with him in my mouth until he couldn't stand it anymore, and usually by then I couldn't stand it either. We'd start sucking, thrusting a little, not too hard so as not to choke each other, and he'd wrap one arm around my hip, his fingers digging into my thigh, and even that felt good. The whole world was reduced to sex when I was with him, and sometimes I came so hard I thought I would pass out. It sounds wonderful, I said. It was. We were so insatiable that we rarely left the hotel room at all. After a weekend with him, I felt like I could face my life again, at least for a little while. Each time, I swore I'd never do it again, but six months was the longest we could hold out without going crazy, so we'd

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meet up. We lived like that until he died. For all that I knew that both of these men had wives at least, if not other female lovers, I also thought that this was an almost divine form of fidelity. Until death separates us, my husband and I had said, but for these men, it had been literally true. Are you together now? I asked the darkened room, but I got no answer. He'd said his piece and was gone. I lay quietly under the light blanket, overheated but unable to find any release. While his story aroused me, it also refused to let me go. There was too much in it that I did not understand, or perhaps did not believe in. I tossed and turned for a long time before I felt asleep, and when I finally did, I dreamed of sex. I was lying on my back, being penetrated by a gloriously hard cock attached to a hard, warm, male body. It was the most loving, profound sex I'd ever had and went on for ages, that sweet, intimate friction, over and over until I nearly woke myself by coming. It was an honest-to-God orgasm, too, not just a dream of one, and I lay there half-dozing, astonished because that hadn't happened very often, and then desolate because I could not remember his face. **** The next day was the great sanding orgy. I'd taken the precaution of stocking the ancient refrigerator with beer and I was glad I did because when Mike and Craig pulled up, I saw that they had brought some friends. Instead of two strapping young men, I had four, and I wasn't sure I had the endurance to keep up with them, in any sense. For about two seconds, my imagination went completely wild. Their biggest concern was whether or not I could handle the sander. My job was the floor and theirs was the walls, but they weren't convinced at first that I could handle a piece of machinery as capricious as that sander. Luckily, I had done it before, although not in years, and after an overly cautious few minutes, I found that it was like riding a bicycle. One never really forgets, although I was grateful that my kitchen was small. So we proceeded to make a lot of noise and dust. The boys stripped off their shirts and it was a magnificent sight, all firm muscle rippling under brown skin. Except for the ventilator masks and ear muffs, they reminded me of the front halves of centaurs, graceful and beautiful. Craig's jeans rode about a half an inch below his tan line, which was on the same order of temptation as the trail of black hair that started at

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Mike's navel and dove down below his zipper. Their friends were just as delicious. I probably look about as tempting as their mothers, I thought to myself as I wrestled with the sander, but the truth is, once we got into it, there was no looking up until lunchtime. They started in one part of the room and I started in the other, and none of us paid attention to anything but the work. We broke at noon for pizza and beer, and there is nothing, absolutely nothing, like a cold beer on a hot, hard day. All of the boys had cell phones and while we were waiting for the pizza, they wandered off into separate parts of the house to call the women in their lives. I sat on the porch, nursing a beer and overhearing snatches of conversation, comments on how the work was going, plans for later, listened to the softer, almost conciliatory tones, so different from the bluster they used with each other. I wondered if and how these two worlds intersected, then wondered if I had been so different with my husband and my girlfriends. Then it was time for work again, only harder because it was the second lap and we were all getting tired. By the time the boys left, my fridge was empty, my wallet was empty and my kitchen was a paradise of bare wood. They'd done a very good job for a very reasonable price, and I sat in the middle of the floor just looking at it for a while before I dragged myself upstairs for a shower. It was dinner time, and I was exhausted and aching, so I decided to go out to eat. In that small town, there were plenty of family restaurants, where the cooking was plain but good and the prices were reasonable. I found a place called Emily's Kitchen, bought a newspaper from a vending machine, settled myself in a back booth, and ordered some rotisserie chicken. The first time I went out to eat by myself, I had to force myself to walk in the door of the restaurant. It seemed unnatural, but after a few times it became easy. I liked to eat out and nobody stared at me, which was what I'd always feared. Nobody tried to pick me up, either. Everyone minded their own business. On this occasion, I bought the local paper and I scanned the want ads. Yes, the school was hiring substitutes, but I wasn't sure I wanted to go back to teaching. I liked it, but not enough, and I wasn't sure my history would hold up to close scrutiny anymore.

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That started another train of thought. Would I be able to get a job at all? How could I explain even one year of unemployment, much less two? Was divorce enough of an excuse? I would have good references, but would it be enough? Did I have to explain myself? That was part of the problem with my marriage, I knew, my constant compulsion to explain myself. I would work on the house and then do whatever next presented itself. There was no need to worry and as if to make that point to myself, I ordered a piece of lemon meringue pie for dessert. Then I went home to use the edge sander on my floor before I went to bed.

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Six I would never have imagined who I really turned out to be, she said. It was incomprehensible. What do you mean? I asked. It's a long story, she said. We have time. And we did. We had all night. My husband, she began, and there was an edge to her voice that I couldn't figure out, contracted gonorrhea when he was in the army, and he was no longer capable of siring children. I'm sorry! I said, aware of what that might have meant to a woman of another generation. He didn't tell me until after we were married, and by then, of course, I was stuck. What did you do? She was silent for a while, but I could still sense her tension. What? I asked again. I wanted the marriage annulled. He had deceived me. He said that if we did that, the blame would lie with me, no matter what reason he gave, and it would have been too much of a stain on my family, to have such a thing happen. So I stayed. But I told him that I wanted children. He said fine because we had to have them. His family was that way and really, so was mine. Oh, I said, comprehension dawning, or so I thought. Well, I spent some time considering how best to do it, and I'd decided that the thing to do was find lovers when we traveled. We spent summers away, which would have made things both easy and discrete. I had it all worked out, but it didn't happen that way. What happened? I was too curious to be aroused, and anyway, there were tiny fingers of dread wrapped around the base of my brain. I did not like her tone of voice. A cousin of his came to visit. There was plenty of wine that night,

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and the conversation roamed all over. Apparently, they'd been close as children. His cousin toasted me a few times, said that I'd made a lovely bride and a radiant wife. I thought it was funny because, of course, things were such that I was anything but radiant. What happened? Whatever had, that night had defined her, and in such a way that I was almost afraid to hear it. I rose from my chair and said I was tired. I wasn't; I was wound up and I didn't know why. I excused myself, but my husband stopped me. He said the evening wasn't over yet. I put on my sweetest smile and told them to go on without me. My husband pretended to kiss me goodnight, but instead whispered in my ear that I could have all the children I wanted, but only if we did it his way, and that this was my first chance at motherhood. Oh my God! For once, I was afraid to ask what had happened. What did you do? It was like I was dying. My whole life flashed in front of my eyes, both my life as it had been and my life as I had imagined it. In the first, I'd been a good girl, done what was expected of me, and in the second, I was a particular kind of good wife, not a faithful wife but one who provided what I was expected to provide in the face of a terrible wrong. This, what he proposed that night, was nothing I could possibly have imagined. It must have been awful. It would have been, she said, if I had been any other kind of woman. What? Again, she astonished me. When he told me of his infirmity, I thought him weak, disgustingly weak, and I hated him for it. But that night, he changed everything, turned his weakness into an even greater strength. Every one of our children had the blood of his great-grandfather in its veins and that was how he saw to it. He was still master, still head of that house, and he was always there, always holding me for them. My God! I knew exactly what was coming. I had never done anything like that in my life and I never would, but the idea had crossed my mind more than once and the thought of the combined power of two male bodies focused on me flooded my system with lust. Yes. I think he knew what I'd been planning and wouldn't stand for it. Whatever he did not have, he still had his pride. So he did this instead, and I realized that I'd wanted to humiliate him, punish him for

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what he'd done to catch the disease in the first place. It wasn't rational because we weren't married then, but I was angry and thought I had all the cards. What do you mean? Well, without his potency, what was he? Who was he to tell me anything? And really, any other man would have buckled under that kind of shame, but not my husband. What did you do? I was fairly sure I knew what she had done, but I didn't know how she had brought herself to do it. You don't understand, she said. I was a strong woman and I wanted a strong man. I also realized that I had been looking forward to my affairs. This, what my husband was offering me, was everything. I was not that kind of woman, but I didn't think better of myself or worse of her. Instead, she felt like a sister, a wild, wonderful sister who did the things I couldn't and told me about them. And you said yes. You'd better believe it. What was it like? I asked. Incredible, she said, and I could hear the wistfulness in her voice. My husband held me for his cousin, not because he had to but because it seemed right, and his cousin fell on me like a starved dog on a steak. He kissed me so hard that my lip bled, and he left a suck mark on my neck that looked like a bruise. He fumbled so badly with the buttons that a few of them popped off, and then he went after my breasts, crushing them in his hands. When he touched my cunt, I nearly came right then. I was wild for him, soaked with lust, and I really did come a few seconds later. The first time I ever did with a man. He took that as his cue, and fished his dick out of his trousers while my husband lifted my skirts. I'd never had a man fuck me like that in my life. He had an audience, too, so he was going extra strong and hard. It was incredible. I was sandwiched between their bodies. I could feel my husband's erection pressing against my back, and I collapsed in his arms, let him hold me up while his cousin fucked me. My wild sister, whose stories inflamed me. I had my dildo out--and in--and I begged her to tell me more. She cheerfully obliged. Then it was my husband's turn. He might not have been able to get anyone pregnant, but he was well up to the act itself and liked it better than most. And of course, he had an audience, too. He also knew what I liked, long and slow, and he gave it to me like

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that until he came. By then, his cousin was hard again and wanted a second turn, and I got the same long, slow stroke. The man was a fast learner. They were getting into it by then, wanting to play and trying to outdo each other at it, and my husband kissed my neck and played with my breasts, pinching my nipples. I felt like an empress, the queen of sex who alone could give these men what they wanted, and the mix of that feeling and the stimulation made me come again. How long did it go on? I asked. I was soaking wet myself and right on the edge. Twice each. Weren't you sore? I sure was! I heard humor in her voice. And it wasn't over yet. His cousin was there for a week and it was too good of a game to pass up. Oh my God! No way would I have been able to walk, but it was making me crazy anyway just trying to imagine it. As you say. But it got better and we learned to use lots of oil to make it easier on me. Once we established that this could happen, we got more deliberate with it, more interested in the variations possible with three bodies. They never tried touching each other, but the second night I held both cocks in my hands and sucked them alternately until his cousin lost patience and went around to take me from behind. I took my husband's cock all the way into my mouth, and it was wonderful, more than I could have hoped for. Was it just that cousin? No. He shared me with six other men over the course of fifteen years, all descendents of his great-grandfather, all on the paternal line. I had five children My God! Was he always there? Yes. He was always there, and he always took part. Did you always enjoy it? Oh yes! Each time he brought me a new lover, I fell in love with him all over again. **** I woke that morning sore, but in a different way. A drum sander is a heavy, headstrong piece of equipment. Still, I was happy, and on my way upstairs to take a shower, I stopped in and took a long look at my kitchen. It was gorgeous. It even smelled gorgeous. The freshly sanded wood

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gave off a soft, new scent even though it was actually quite old. I wished I could keep it that way, all bare and fragrant, but I didn't dare. Wood is vulnerable. The outside of the average barn can give a good idea of what can happen if it's not protected and quick, before sunlight, moisture and dust can do their work. I'd decided earlier to do the floor first. There were a lot of possibilities, but I liked polyurethane best because it was both inexpensive and durable. It wasn't the most elegant finish out there, but the kitchen was a bad place to focus on looks over practicality. I would spill things, drop things, probably have ants at least, and I needed something that cleaned up well. I gobbled down a quick breakfast, then got out the cans and the lambswool applicator, and went to work. When I heard the knock on the door, I ignored it. No matter who it was, it wasn't more important that what I was doing. I ignored the second knock, too. And the third. Then I heard my door open. Shit! "Cass?" "In here!" I hollered even as my heart sank. It was my ex again. Why? He poked his head around the doorway. "Hi." He sounded tentative. I looked up. "Don't take a single step into this kitchen!" I warned. "Whatever is on your shoes can stay outside, and I'm not going to stop what I'm doing and be polite because I can't." "Sorry!" he said, hands in the air as if he were a robber and I a cop. "I just wanted to stop by and see if you needed any help." "No," I said. Certainly not from him. He was about as handy as a cabbage. "Oh. Well, how's it going?" "It's going fine," I said. "How are you?" "Fine," he said. "It looks nice." "Thank you." "Who did the work?" "Me, with some help." "It really does look good." "Thanks." I kept running the lambswool applicator over the floorboards, back and forth, back and forth. It kept my mind on an even keel, kept my heart from beating too fast. "Look, I wanted to apologize for last time," he said. "I was a real jerk. I'm sorry."

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Back and forth. Back and forth. It was always that way. He could be a real jerk, although I preferred the term "asshole." He was always thinking he was getting screwed by somebody. Sometimes he was right, but it took too many years for me to figure out that he was usually wrong. People just aren't that malicious, not unless the victim has more power than my ex could ever dream of. No, he wanted to think he was more important than he really was. Eventually, of course, this whole rotten campaign of his was directed at me. It was me who was screwing him instead of his colleagues, his family or the guy who cut him off on the freeway. His wife was not exempt from his paranoid fantasies, and any little thing going wrong was evidence, in his mind, of my perfidy. But then he'd apologize. Sometimes he'd bring me something, flowers, a small gift. He sounded entirely sincere, and for a long time I thought it meant that he was genuinely contrite. It took a long time before I realized that he was simply buying my complacency, that he was giving me just enough to make me stay. So while one part of me bit my lip against more of the same old same old, another part perked its ears up in hope. There were, after all, many good things about this man. I had married him for reasons and those reasons were still in evidence. He was intelligent, good at his work, funny as hell. It seemed sad to me that this one problem of his could override everything that was good in him. "No need to apologize," I said. "I understand." And unfortunately, I did. "I'm so glad, Cass!" he said, and I risked a glance at his face. Was it my imagination, or was there a hint of cunning in his eyes? "It's just been such a tough time, the divorce and everything. I didn't think it would be so hard on you. I guess I should have given you more time." I said nothing, the applicator in my hand going back and forth, back and forth. This sounded almost like an attempt at reconciliation, tempting, too tempting, but he knew me. He knew where all my buttons were. "Are you sure I can't help?" he asked. "Quite sure," I said. This wasn't his thing at all, which made me hope in spite of myself. I knew it was manipulation, but he had never offered to do anything like this with me before. The carrot. It made it hard for me to remember the stick. For that

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matter, this wasn't even much of a carrot. I was using fast-drying polyurethane, and he didn't know what he was doing. In the time it would take me to teach him, I could have both of the first two coats done. "Then I guess I'll get out of your hair." "Thanks," I said, part of my mind racing and the other part still hooked on back and forth, back and forth. I listened as he shut the front door behind him. Back and forth, yes, he was starting the dance again, even though were legally divorced, but that was how it had gone. I would transgress, he would punish, and then, when he had decided that I'd suffered enough, he would graciously forgive me. It wasn't until a tear nearly fell into my polyurethane that I realized I was crying.

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Seven You'll never believe this, he said. What? I was married ten years before I knew women could come. What? You see, my wife considered sex to be a duty, not a pleasure. It wasn't exactly an arranged marriage, but it was quite clear that I had no choice. Neither did she. Our parents decided it, and that was that. Yikes! Yes. I liked her okay, but that was about it. Did she like you? As long as I left her alone, yes. "He doesn't bother her." At one time, it was one of the highest compliments a woman could bestow upon a husband. "Considerate" didn't mean doing the dishes while she put the baby to bed. It meant sleeping in a separate room. That's about right, he said. Damn! I'm sorry. I expected it. That wasn't the first time I'd heard something like that from a male ghost, and it saddened me. I knew what it felt like to be unwanted and thought disgusting. It made me cringe to think that someone would take those feelings for granted, even consider them a normal part of his married life. Did you want her? Did it go both ways? She was pretty when she was young, but there was no spark. It got boring. Ouch! So much for the happy marriages of yesteryear. My divorce suddenly felt clean and honest. So what happened? I met someone else, he said. Of course. Infidelity was another common theme lately. Yet another reason to question the myth of the happy marriage. What was she like?

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She was a young widow. A working woman, with dark hair and the sweetest brown eyes you ever saw. She was my assistant. I liked her from the moment I saw her, and as soon as I reasonably could, I asked her out to lunch. I sighed mentally. It was such a cheap, easy cliché, the boss and the pretty secretary. It wasn't like that, he insisted. Well, whoever thought it was? Did you really care about her? Yes, I really did. She was a sweetheart, a wonderful girl, and I enjoyed her company very much. It was a tragedy, what happened to her husband, and she really struggled to get by. One of my deepest, secret fears was men were attracted only to weakness in women, that no man would ever love my strength. I hated Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella, always waiting for someone to save them, while at the same time I was terrified that if no one could save me, no one could love me. Of course, in the end, it had been my undoing. I had been weak when I should have been strong, and I wasn't saved. I was crushed. That was why I loved her, he said. What do you mean? She was making it, on her own, not desperate to replace her husband. You see, she never asked me for a cent beyond what she earned, and it wasn't that I wouldn't have given her everything, it was that she never asked. She gave herself to me freely, and I gave her everything I dared. I made sure as best I could that she had everything she needed, and she took it as a gift, not as her due. One of the bitterest clichés of all, I realized, but what choice did they have? He didn't get to choose who he married and for that matter, neither did his wife. They couldn't choose a divorce. His lover didn't choose to be widowed. Given my abundance of choices, I was simply in no position to climb onto any high horse at all. I never let my wife and family want for anything, he said emphatically. You didn't strike me as the kind of man who would, I reassured him. Tell me about her. Her name was Alice, he said, and she was wonderful. I never wanted a woman so much, and she made me feel alive. Even just having lunch with her could make my whole day, and the sex was beyond

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anything I'd ever experienced. I had no idea I could make a woman so happy. Tell me. She purred and rolled like a kitten when I touched her and she was eager to touch me back. She would kiss my neck, play with my nipples. I didn't even know they were sensitive until she dug her nails into them and I almost crawled the walls. She'd touch my dick, too, even play with it, and she had the most wicked smile when she did because she knew what it did to me. That girl could really slay me. How did you figure out how to make her come? Completely by accident, I was playing with her with my fingers, just running them up and down between her legs and feeling how wet she was when she froze and gave this tiny little cry. I'd never heard anything like it, and I was afraid I was hurting her so I stopped. She begged me to keep going, so I did, and she just went crazy, moaning and groaning and shaking all over. I couldn't believe my eyes. Then she reached for me, just as happy as can be, and of course there was only one thing to do. Inside, she was just marvelous, just perfect, so soft and wet, and she was all smiles and caresses while I made love to her. Afterward, she told me what had happened, and I was the happiest man in the world. I just hadn't known it was really possible. Did it happen again? Of course. She wouldn't show me how to do it. She was shy that way. But she helped me figure it out by letting me know how she liked what I was doing, and it got to where I could do it almost every time. That's how we were together, Alice and me. It was always wonderful Did you ever do it with your wife? No, he said, a bit sadly. We didn't have that kind of relationship. It wasn't that we didn't like each other, we were more like business partners. We raised five children and kept the house together, and she held up her end at least as well as I held up mine, but there was just no spark, not like with Alice and me. I loved Alice. What happened to her? I asked. She remarried eventually, he said, and I wished her well because she deserved something good, but I still grieved. I kept wishing it could have been me. **** I went appliance shopping first thing that morning, to make sure my

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polyurethane was really properly dry before I gave it the final coat. I found what I wanted fairly quickly and when I gave the man Tristan's card, I was immediately treated like a queen. Hundreds of dollars were trimmed from the retail prices and delivery arrangements were made with remarkable precision. None of the usual "You'll have to be there all day, ma'am" for me! No, they apologized for giving me a two-hour window during which I'd have to wait for the truck. I went home wondering who Tristan Millman really was. The floor was more than ready, so I gave it a light sanding, vacuumed up, and got out the polyurethane and the applicator, going back to that meditative rhythm I had learned from my father. It was one of the few things of value he taught me. My father died in a car accident when I was twenty-two, but what he really died of was untreated depression that he self-medicated with alcohol. I didn't know that at the time, of course. It was years before I knew enough to put the pieces together. I didn't realize it when I bought the house, but in a way I was trying to make peace with my father. I was grown when he died, but he wasn't really there when he was alive, either, and it was my mother who held the family together. My father, inadvertently, taught me about perception. Dad used to call my mother lazy because she worked behind a desk instead of with her hands like he did. In fact, my mother was anything but lazy. That desk job kept us on an even keel while my father's contracting went up and down, and she also ran the household. It was my mother who did the shopping, the cooking, the cleaning, and who nagged us kids into doing our homework and cleaning our rooms. It was my mother who kept track of our finances and our time, my mother whose handwriting was on the calendar in the kitchen that noted where everyone was supposed to be and when. Naturally, I identified more with my mother, but that turned out to be a trap of another kind. She was bitter and cynical, unable to forgive my dad for not supporting her in the way she had expected. Every time my father disappointed her, her rants developed a sharper edge, and each time she ripped into him, he sank lower and lower into the muck. The lower he sank, the harder she ripped. My father could have done a better job on the floor, anyone could have, but it was important to me to do it myself, not just because I

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couldn't afford to hire a pro, but because I needed to do it. I needed to take care of myself, to feel strong again. I needed to do something that had a concrete, measurable result, something I could look at later with pride, and I wondered if that was why my father had built things. It helped. I had simple goals with clear outcomes, and I wondered if that had kept Dad going as long as he did. When the floor was done, I decided to investigate Mr. Millman. I did the obvious and checked the web, and sure enough, it was paydirt. Mr. Millman was indeed a landscape architect with a solid reputation and a very professionally designed site. I also found a link to an old article in the local paper, and it turned out that the business had been in the family for three generations. There was a picture of him with his wife and daughter, and I wondered how he felt about knowing that the succession stopped with him. He had not remarried, which surprised me. A lot of men with dynastic notions were mostly on the look-out for a brood mare. Tristan Millman, apparently, wasn't that type. According to every piece of evidence I had, he was a very nice guy. I wasn't sure I was ready for that.

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Eight He wanted to fuck me on my mother's bed. Another more daring ghost. Another woman, too, young from the sounds of it, and I wondered if she'd died young. Why? It took me a while to figure it out, but it was mostly about control. My mother wasn't one to give up anything without a fight. How did you feel about it? I was scared to death. She would have raised holy hell if she'd caught us. Did you do it? I was pretty sure she had, or she wouldn't be telling me about it. Yes. He begged and pleaded until I gave in. Was it okay? It was wild! I could hear the awe in her voice, still there after how many years? I had no way of knowing. He was possessed. It was in the middle of the day, while my mother was out visiting a friend. I finally said yes, and he practically dragged me into the room and threw me on the bed. Then he climbed on top of me and started tearing at my clothes, kissing and biting me. He was kneeling over me, trapping my body under his and trying to get my skirts up as fast as he could. Did you mind? God no! His mood was contagious. I mean, I wanted to be fucked by a man in that frame of mind, especially since that man was going to be my husband. Really, who wouldn't? He was absolutely crazy for it, and I liked being wanted. What was he usually like? I asked, wanting something to compare this to. Considerate. A bit hesitant, even. We were still young and we were both virgins when we met, so we were usually more careful. His wildness drove me wild, too. It was having the same effect on me. It was good that way?

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Very good. He was so anxious that he took off only what he had to. I think he got his trousers to his ankles, but I don't think he got them all the way off, and he was pulling at the bedclothes, too, pulling aside the quilts and the sheet, but he didn't pull them over us. At the time, I thought he was too impatient because as soon as he got everything out of the way, he got his dick in and started fucking me as hard as he could. Tell me! He was totally focused on it, like it was the only thing in his life that mattered. The reason I know that his pants made it to his ankles was because he had his legs spread, which helped him get in deeper, and his body was working like a machine. Every part of him he needed was moving and everything else was braced so he could keep moving. His dick felt incredible, bigger and harder than ever and so powerful. I was going wild, too, but I didn't dare move for fear he'd miss his stroke. I knew exactly what she meant. I'd had sex like that myself, more than once. Did you come? No, but when he did, I understood why he pushed the sheets aside. There was that trickle, you know how it feels? And I realized then that he'd wanted to leave a stain where my mother slept. I think he was proving to her that I no longer belonged to her but to him. Keep in mind that we weren't even supposed to be doing that. We weren't married yet. I held my breath for days, sure she'd figure it out. I was still living at home, of course, and she could have made my life miserable, but if she did she never said anything. What was he like afterward? Affectionate and playful. It was like a dam had burst. We'd had a lot of fun before, but we had even more fun afterward. And he was rude to my mother. He no longer even pretended to respect her; he just told her what he thought. It was the best thing we'd ever done, at least where that relationship was concerned. **** The next morning, I was awakened by a Godawful racket. I threw on a robe and poked my head out of the window. It was a truck, or at least it had been once upon a time. One of my ghosts might have driven it. The front end looked like an old utility truck, but the back end was mostly wood with some steel beams holding it all together. It looked like a thirteen-year-old had mixed one of his scale models with his Erector

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set and Lincoln Logs. The passenger side door read "Millman Landscaping". What the fuck? I dashed down the stairs, feeling inexplicably guilty for not being out of bed, but the truth was, my body was still sore. The work I was putting into the house was helping me discover muscles I didn't know I had. Getting up in the morning was taking some serious effort. I was already out the door before I realized that Tristan hadn't rung the bell. Instead, he was fussing with something in the back of the truck and when I got closer, I realized that it was filled with pots of green things, some of them bushy, some of them leafy, and two of them big enough to be actual trees. "What the hell kind of truck is that?" I gasped. "I'm sorry," he said, wiping his filthy hands on his equally filthy jeans. "I didn't mean to wake you." "That truck would wake the dead," I said. "Why didn't you drive the good one?" Then I kicked myself. He was so nice to me. Why was I so rude to him? He grinned, refusing to take offense. "The good one is just for looks. This one does the real work." He patted it affectionately. "Did you make it yourself?" I asked. It looked as if he might have. "My dad did, when I was a kid," he said. "I helped him. Listen, Cassie, I wanted to ask you if you wanted any of this stuff. It needs to get into the ground ASAP or it's going to die. I was going to donate it, but I thought I'd check in with you first." I took a second look at the greenery. Sure enough, most of it was starting to wilt around the edges. Probably pot-bound, I thought. "Why did you bring it to me?" He looked at the ground. "I just thought you might need a few plants. Nobody's done anything with this place in ages." I was rude to him and he was nice to me. Great. So much for me being ready to deal with the rest of the human race. "What's in there?" I asked. "A few boxwood, some violets and bleeding hearts, a handful of perennials and two dwarf apple trees." "Apple trees?" I asked, my mouth watering at the thought of crisp, sweet, genuinely fresh apples.

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"Yes. This isn't the best time to plant them and they won't produce for at least a year, but if you get them in now and take good care of them, they'll take care of you for a long time." He was thinking that I'd live in that house forever, which surprised me. I'd stopped thinking about forever. Then again, what else did people buy houses for? "I definitely want them, thanks," I said. "I thought you could use the boxwood, too," he said, eyeing my meager hedge. Nobody's done anything with this place in years." He was right, of course. I'd been so concerned with the interior of the house that I hadn't given a second thought to the outside, but it did look like hell. The hedge was dying, the lawn was overgrown and riddled with dandelions, and the there were weeds growing where flowers were supposed to be. Still, I thought I knew what I was doing with that day, and here Tristan was with a truckload of plants I knew little about. So much for my walls! However, I'd been unreasonably rude to him enough for one day, so I took a deep breath. "You're right. I can use all of this stuff. The only problem is that I'm not sure what to do with it. I'm not great with plants." "I am," he said. "I can put it all in for you right now." "Don't you have a business to run?" I asked, wondering if I was being nice or sarcastic. "My manager can run the shop for the day. Don't worry about it." Why was he being so kind to me when I was such a bitch? "I'll help," I said. "I need to know what it all is and how to take care of it. I need to get dressed and eat breakfast first, though. Are you hungry?" I added, hoping he'd say no. I had no idea what I would feed him, or where. I was eating my meals on the porch or the floor of my still-dingy living room. "No," he said, "thanks. I've been up for a few hours. Go ahead, and I'll start on your hedge. And don't feel like you need to rush on my account. I'm the one who dropped in on you without warning." Of course, I did, feeling like a slug even though it was only nine in the morning. What on earth time did he usually wake up? Figured he'd be a morning person. I hated morning people. By the time I got out, he had filled most of the holes in my hedge and was packing earth around a baby bush that looked somewhat out of place among its tired elders. I squatted down beside him to watch. His big, rough hands were quick, competent and surprisingly gentle, and I

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smiled as the morning sun flashed off that exposed steel toe. "What do I have to do to these?" "Just trim them from time to time," he said. "Left to their own devices, they'll go crazy. Part of the problem with this hedge is that it already had, and had to be cut down pretty drastically. It'll all grow back eventually, but it's going to be a little scraggly for a while." He'd probably cut it himself, just before the realtor showed me the house. "How do I know what to trim?" He smiled as he gave the dirt a final, affectionate pat. "You just cut away everything that doesn't fit the shape you want." A hedge of leafy, green penii flitted before me, then I realized that I'd been hearing way too many x-rated stories lately. "Right," I said, trying to get a grip on myself. "Do you want to do the front first, or the trees?" he asked, apparently oblivious to my inner turmoil. "I'm not sure what to do with the trees," I confessed. I had a largish backyard that sloped into the small, wooded area that separated me from a new subdivision that was taking over someone's former farmland. "I guess it depends on what you have in mind for the yard." This time it was a vision of children, two, maybe three, chasing each other with water balloons and laughing hysterically, and my throat knotted up. "Nothing in particular," I said, blinking. "I hadn't planned on doing more than mowing it." "Let's take a look then," he said. We went out back, and I got to see Tristan Millman, Landscape Architect, at work. He knew his stuff. In about fifteen minutes, he had every square inch of my lawn planned so that it would be both attractive and low-maintenance. The hardest part was digging the holes for the trees. The root ball, even on a dwarf apple, is pretty good sized, but he had two shovels in the back of his truck, not one, and he handed one of them to me without any stupid questions about whether or not I knew how to use it. To my surprise, we had everything in the ground by one in the afternoon, and when we stopped, we were both sweaty, filthy and grinning like kids. It felt good to work hard with somebody...well, with somebody, anyway. "I'd invite you in for lunch," I said, "but my kitchen still isn't quite done." "How about we order pizza?" he asked.

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"Sounds good," I said. "I get first dibs on the shower, though." He laughed, but he didn't argue. I was in desperate need of it, so I dashed up the stairs and he pulled out his cell phone. Knowing pizza delivery, I had about forty minutes and I was torn between using it and hurrying. For the first time in a long time, I wanted to look good, so I went for my cleanest jeans, a pastel Tshirt that actually fit, and lipstick. Then, when I got a good look at myself, mascara. I skipped foundation and just went for a moisturizer. I wanted to look good, but I didn't want to look desperate. When I went downstairs, I found Tristan looking at the kitchen from the relatively safe vantage point of the doorway. "Nice job you've done here," he said. "When were you planning on starting on the walls?" "Today," I said. "Damn!" he said. "And I just dumped a truck-load of plants on you. Sorry about that." "No problem," I said, far less put out than I had been that morning. "I can do it tomorrow." "No, let's do it today. I'll make it up to you by helping. What did you get?" "A one-coat finish," I said. Amazing how much paint and varnish had changed since my father died. "We should be able to get that on in a few hours." "Are you sure you want to spend your afternoon finishing my walls?" "Sure, why not?" He grinned. "It will be fun." I gave him a look. "You have strange idea of fun." He laughed outright. "That makes two of us, doesn't it?" I laughed, too, because he was right. So together we tackled the walls. I watched him covertly for a while to make sure he knew what he was doing, but his body moved with the speed and certainty of experience, and the finish went only where it was supposed to. He wasn't the talkative type, but I needed to concentrate if I was going to do a good job, and I found the silence companionable, not awkward. We worked well together. Just under two hours later, my walls were shining and my nice, clean jeans and shirt were no such thing. It wasn't dirty work, exactly, just hard and sweaty, and I was thinking I needed another shower. Tristan looked the way any man looks after doing something like that,

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sexy rather than slovenly, and I was beginning to resent him again at the same time that I realized my gay ghost was right. Sweaty men smell very good in a certain way. "I'd offer you dinner in thanks," I said, "but I have nothing to cook on or eat off of." That and the kitchen stank of stain. He glanced at his watch. "Actually, I'd have to decline." He was seeing someone. I felt myself blushing and hated myself for it. "My mother," he added quickly with a quick, embarrassed smile. "She thinks she needs to take care of me since the divorce." "Oh," I said stupidly. I was losing my mind. "Of course. Have fun then." He rolled his eyes, but the twinkle in them told me that he wasn't entirely serious about it. "I always do." He helped me clean up and I watched with mixed emotions as he backed out of my driveway. He hadn't invited me to go with him. I wouldn't have gone if he had, but part of me was wishing that our relationship was such that he would have asked.

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Nine We probably wouldn't have excited anyone. This voice was softer, diffident, a little sad. Why do you say that? We never did anything crazy. Nothing wrong with vanilla sex, I said. That's what most of mine had been. And we were married for fifty-three years. I was hit with a stab of envy. I'd been married for a tiny fraction of that. Then I realized that I had a perfect chance to ask a question I'd always wanted an answer to. Was it always intimate? Oh yes! We didn't have Viagra in those days, but he still had it in him right up to the end. I smiled. What about you? I remembered my mother's rants about menopause and "drying up." Well, a little oil never hurt anyone. I could hear her faint giggle. In fact, I think it was good for my skin, kept it soft. He used to say that it did, at any rate. Tell me, I said, wondering what I had missed. Well, as we got older, it got very slow and lazy. Neither of us could move very well. I had arthritis, of course, and so did he, but he also had a bum knee that didn't bother him so much when he was young, but when he got older it was a real problem for him. Pretty much the end of him being on top. What did you do? He'd lie on his side, see? And I'd lie curled up with my back to his chest. He'd rub his penis against my rear until it got hard, then he'd put it between my legs, not inside me, just on the outside. That's when I'd get out the oil, so he'd slide nice and easy, and he'd kiss my neck, rub my back, play with my breasts. It was lovely like that because we were both relaxed and we both needed time. Why?

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Well, as we got older, neither of us came as quickly as we used to. I didn't mind because I didn't usually come that often, but it bothered him something awful so instead of at night, we'd do it in the morning, when we were both rested. I'd use the bathroom first, then he'd go, then we'd go back to bed and just lie there and play. **HERE** With the children grown, it was so much easier to find time. It was like a second honeymoon. We slowed down quite a bit as we got older, but that wasn't a problem in bed at all. He used to miss being young, but I liked it better that way. Can you imagine? Yes, I can, I said, curled into a miserable ball of envy. It was everything I'd wanted and hoped for when I said my vows. We'd spend the morning in bed just playing together, running our hands over each other's bodies, kissing. He'd suck my nipples, and I'd run my fingernails through his hair. He still had a full head of hair. Sometimes he'd go down on me. It was the best way to make me come, with his tongue, I mean, and after so many years, he was pretty darned good at it. If he didn't want to play between my legs, I went down on him and sucked him until he got hard. I liked feeling him grow in my mouth. It didn't get hard like it did when he was twenty, but it was quite respectable, even at that age. I was proud of him. I can see why. Well, then we'd make love for a while, very slowly, him lying on his side and me on my back with my leg over his hip. We used to talk more as we got older because it got less overwhelming, you see. It was just nice, very warm and close. He got more and more romantic as he got older, which was strange since I wasn't nearly as pretty by then. Then again, I got a lot more relaxed about the whole thing, so perhaps we just got better together. We'd talk and laugh, and he'd keep up that slow rhythm of his until it got too intense, and he had this funny little frown he made when he came. Ooooh! he'd say, and I'd know he was done. I had put some effort into the chronology of my ghosts, but I was having a horrible time with it. Problems with inhibition, fear, repressive upbringing, and rebellion were, I realized, age-old. Vocabulary wasn't much help because the communication wasn't really verbal. They were using my words, so I couldn't be sure if this woman was talking about the 1950s or the 1850s or something without a 50 in it at all. She was just a woman talking about her marriage. Are you all right? she asked suddenly.

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No, I said, biting back tears and not succeeding. What's wrong? My marriage didn't last long. Oh my! Yes, you do divorce quickly these days. I didn't have a choice! In my day, we had to make it work. The tears attacked full bore. You don't understand. I understand that it isn't always easy. That doesn't mean you just give up. She was reacting to a stereotype, not my life, assuming she knew what had happened because it was a short marriage. The reality was that she had no idea. Yes, I had chosen my husband, which made me sick with guilt and fear, but was staying with him until death separated us really a fitting punishment for a rotten judgment call? Did I really deserve to live in hell because I fucked up once when I was young? You know, often if a good woman stands by a man, he can get over his little vices, she prodded. I lost it. It wasn't a little vice. And he wasn't going to stop. He didn't stop, not even when it put me in the hospital. He didn't care what he was doing to me. And the worst part was that he had divorced me. I hadn't cared enough about myself to divorce him. **** So there it is. Even now, it's hard to say that, hard to say that my exhusband's persecutions led to a breakdown so complete that I spent a few weeks in a locked-down ward where the windows were barred and the bulletin board was bolted to the wall. I was on drugs that made me woozy and lethargic, spent time in individual therapy, group therapy, art therapy, pet therapy. But I have to say it because it's true. I have to say how grateful I was that we didn't have kids, how strange it was to try to go back to work and find out that I couldn't. Thanks to my medication, I couldn't remember jack shit and I just couldn't cope with people anymore. I had no idea what I was supposed to say to them or how I was supposed to act. And then there were my husband's visits; how solicitous he could seem when he wanted to. I was grateful that my therapist had experience with domestic abuse because I thought I really had gone crazy, that I'd imagined all of the things he'd said and done. I kept clinging to the fact

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that he'd never hit me until she asked me flat out, "So he didn't hit you. So what does that prove?" Nothing, I realized. The best torture leaves no marks. No, the evidence was in my life, in the lost keys, the lost jobs, and eventually, the lost mind. The real proof, in the end, was that it got increasingly obvious that he didn't want me to get well. Once I was released from the hospital, his tormenting reached a fever pitch and he began to tell me how much he wanted to hit me, how much self-control he was showing in not hitting me, how nobody would put up with my shit, as he called it. He resisted the joint therapy sessions, refused to get counseling himself, and eventually divorced me. The only thing that protected me was our state's no-fault laws and a compassionate judge. He would have divorced me on grounds of some kind and left me penniless if he could have. The worst part, though, was that I knew on some level that my ghost was right. Love does heal. That was why I stayed, because I thought if I loved him enough, it would all change. The only problem was, I didn't love him and on some level, I didn't even want to. Just as he'd wanted me to be different, I wanted him to be different, too. I used his abuse as leverage against him, used my victim status to gain points in a game that nobody could win. Oh, I didn't deserve what he'd done. Nobody did. But had I responded differently, responded lovingly, a lot would have changed. Maybe not him. Maybe the most loving thing I could have done was to leave him, but wanting him to change, I realized, wasn't nearly as loving as I thought at the time. I thought I wanted the best for him. In the end, I realized that what I'd really wanted was to make him apologize, even grovel, as well as to make him stop, and when it all came out, I curled up in my therapist's armchair and sobbed for half an hour. After that, the divorce was like the extraction of an abscessed tooth, but once it was over, I began to heal with astonishing speed. I was no longer on Welbutrin, I could sleep without Trazodone, and my therapist had cut me loose on the general population, but I didn't feel anywhere near ready. I no longer trusted myself, and I was still afraid of men. I had chosen, even married, a man who was paranoid and lashed out indiscriminately at whoever happened to be within range. Even worse, there had been warning signals from the very beginning, and I had

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ignored them all. Every wrong thing I had done, I had done instinctively and with the best of intentions. How could I be sure that I wouldn't make the same mistakes again? The other part of the problem was that I didn't want to live a lie, but I didn't know when and how to tell the truth. When does one disclose something like this? Okay it wasn't a disease or anything, but it was still a bit of a hot potato. Should I say something on the first date? On the second? Third? Maybe after a month, I could say, "By the way, honey, there's something you should probably know?" Anyway, who goes out with crazy people? Especially crazy, unemployed people? I had my whole life ahead of me and nothing to look forward to. Except, of course, installing my cabinets and dealing with the appliance delivery. I woke up early to make sure I'd be done on time. The cabinets were a bear of a job, especially since I was doing it by myself, and if I hadn't helped my father a few times, I would have been sunk. I double-checked the location of the studs and took all of the doors off first. Then I put in the ledger board, which was substantial enough to help hold the weight of the cabinets themselves, and then started with the corner and worked my way out. The house was old enough so that the juncture of ceiling and wall was not level. There'd been some settling over the years. To compensate, I'd bought cabinets that were on the small side, enough so that I had about a foot of space between the top of the cabinets and the ceiling. I could put something decorative up there eventually, turn the room's deficit into something beautiful. I needed a few shims, since the lines of the old cabinets and the old house weren't exactly even, but my measurements so far had been correct. Everything was fitting the way it was supposed to. Of course, the real test was supposed to show up sometime around 4:00 pm, and I had to work hard and fast to be ready. The deliverymen showed up just as I was screwing the last of the base cabinets into place. They hauled out my old stove and fridge, and put in a new stove and fridge, and a new dishwasher and garbage disposal, too. I'd gotten it right. Everything fit. The men were large and friendly, their bigness a combination of physical work and an equally physical enjoyment of beer, the kind of men my ex used to turn his nose up at. For that matter, my father hadn't liked them much, either, for all that he might have been one of them. He used to rant and rave about deliverymen, subcontractors, and anyone else whose standards he

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thought were lower than his. In other words, the entire world. But these guys were nice. Whether they always were or if it was the influence of Mr. Millman, I wasn't sure, but I appreciated it, and I especially appreciated my new appliances. They looked wonderful in my new kitchen, which had all these nice new cupboards to boot. I still had some finish work to do, but it could wait a bit. I went downstairs for my kitchen boxes, and cooked dinner on my brand-new stove, while the new dishwasher hummed quietly away.

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Ten My parents were miserable. That was a shock. Usually they wanted to talk about themselves. What do you mean? They were miserable. They fought constantly. They couldn't leave each other alone. They had to snipe at each other all the time. I suppose they couldn't divorce. No. It was unthinkable. Anyway, I left, joined the Army, which was the quickest way out in those days. Of course, I ended up in Vietnam. I'm sorry. Well, I'm not. There was a girl there, in this village, and she'd lost her family to the Vietcong. I gave her some of my rations--she was a half-starved little thing--and to make a long story short, I married her and brought her back with me. How did it go? I asked. Depends on how you look at it, he said, a bit of wistfulness in his voice. My parents were furious, of course, and people called her names. She changed her name to Marjorie, which was okay by me, and maybe it helped but maybe it didn't. She never lost her accent. But she was a hell of a lot better off and so was I. Why? I asked, thinking of him rather than her. The advantages to her were obvious. She taught me so much. Marjorie had it so much worse than I did, see? It was what you'd call a reality check. Tell me. He hesitated a while, also unusual in my ghosts, then continued. My wife was a prostitute. She had no choice; she had two little brothers to support and no other way. That's how she learned her English, by sleeping with soldiers. I never paid her, he added quickly. It was never like that with us. What was it like? I asked, rabidly curious.

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Slow and easy, he said. We spent a lot of time just cuddling, whenever we could, and we'd just lie there and talk or look up at the stars. She was sanity in a mad, fucked-up world. I didn't want to ruin it so didn't make a move. I waited for her to do it. And she did? Yes. How? I asked, wondering what had been the difference between customer and lover, especially for such a damaged woman. I could almost feel him smile. I could feel it. Everything about her had changed. She no longer seemed shy at all. She rolled me onto my back and I thought I was holding a goddess in my arms. She moved like water and smoke, rocking on my body as she kissed me, and her hair fell all over my face. Sexiest thing imaginable. She tugged at my belt a bit, so I got out of my pants, but that was the only thing I did. She completely took over. What was it like? I asked, trying to imagine how it had felt to be the girl in his arms. Incredible. I don't know how she was with her customers because I never was one and I never asked, but usually with me she was shy. She'd cuddle in my arms, maybe give me a peck on the cheek or mouth, but that was it. That night, she was intense, quiet and intense. She pulled my undershirt over my head, then she kissed my face, my neck, my chest; she went back up and bit my earlobe, then she kissed my mouth hard and slow. Her hands were everywhere on me, even on my cock, and I thought it was going to burst. She kissed it, and my balls, too, not a full blow job but just wet, sweet kisses, and I just lay there, astonished. I felt like I was being blessed by an angel. I touched her back, caressed whatever I could reach, but it was her night, not mine, and we both knew it. Finally she straddled me and held my cock in her hand, held herself open, and sat on me. I hadn't touched her pussy, but I slid in so easily that I knew she wanted me. It was so good that I had to stop her from moving and take a few deep breaths to keep from coming just then. She smiled at me, then she ground herself down into me like she couldn't get enough of it. A goddess and an angel both rolled into one. I forgot all about the bugs and the heat and the ache in my leg where they'd just dug out a piece of shrapnel. Shrapnel?

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Yeah. I came home with a Purple Heart. The leg still hurt like hell, but I completely forgot about it because she gave herself to me that night, I didn't have to buy her, and she gave me everything, not just her cunt. And that was such a gift. Such a gift! I don't know if a woman can really understand what it's like to be blessed like that. She rode me nice and slow until I came inside her, and for the first time in my life, I was praying to make a woman pregnant, partly because I could keep her if I did and partly because the idea made it even better. Afterward, she curled up on my chest, with my cock still inside her, and I knew then that I would marry her and the world be damned. I don't know if she knew it, but I did. **** I cannot describe what it felt like to walk into that kitchen in the morning. Even the faint off-gassing from all of the finishes didn't bother me. I opened a window, no longer painted shut, and just inhaled. It was lovely, so lovely, and it would have been so much better if I'd had an actual table to sit down at. I would need to decorate. There was a cheap way to handle that, something I hadn't done since I got engaged, something that my husband had been bitterly ashamed of, but it was a lovely Friday morning, just perfect for what I had in mind. I finished my coffee and toast, showered, and went garage saling. I love garage sales. Not only is it possible to get pretty good stuff for a song, but it's interesting to see what other people have, what they once thought was important, and what they now considered expendable. Within the first hour, I found a little table that would fit perfectly in the kitchen, and four chairs that matched it reasonably well. I was grateful for the SUV because everything went in the back with room to spare. I also found a new blender, a couple of funky mixing bowls, even some pale yellow valances that would go just fine over the windows. Two houses later, I found some curtain rods. I couldn't be absolutely certain that they'd fit, but they were adjustable and for two dollars, it didn't matter. If they didn't work out, I'd donate them to the Salvation Army. Everyone was so nice. When I mentioned that I had just moved, they pointed me toward whatever kinds of things they thought I might need. In some cases, they were off by about a mile, but all I had to do to

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keep from hurting feelings was to say that I already had one, even if the item in question was a set of salt and pepper shakers shaped like purple cows. Not difficult to see why that was on the garage sale table. Other things, however, were more helpful. Someone was selling a set of really good knives, Solingen steel in a hardwood block. For her they were a redundant Christmas gift, but for me they were a Godsend. Someone else had an electric can opener I could mount on the underside of my newly-installed cabinets, someone else had a better food processor than mine, and a few somebodys had yellow knick-knacks that would go just fine in that space I'd left between the top of the cabinets and the ceiling. I headed home around 1:00 pm, hungry and very happy. The curtain rods were barely the right size, but barely was good enough and the new yellow valances gave the kitchen a nice, sunny feel. Anything dish-related went into my new dishwasher and other things were carefully washed by hand. Some needed scrubbing, but while they might not have looked good as new when I was done, they looked pretty damned good to me. I heard a knock on my door as I was taking an old toothbrush covered with Murphy's Oil Soap to the joints on my new table. Cursing under my breath, I wiped my hands on my jeans and answered it. It was Tristan Millman. "Hi," I said, trying to be gracious. Why the hell did I keep reacting so badly to the man? "Hi," he said. "Sorry to be a pest, but I have one more plant for you." "What is it?" I asked. "Come look." That day he was driving the good truck, the quiet one, but there was one, lone pot in the back and no doubt as to what it was. I would know the growth habit of a baby rosebush anywhere. It looked a little brown and sad, but not entirely dead yet, and my heart went out to it. I knew exactly how it felt. "Do you want it?" he asked. "Yes," I said, not caring what color or shape its flowers would be. I wanted that bush just like I had wanted my house. "Where should I put it?" "It's a hybrid tea," he said, "not a climber, so put it someplace where it's got room to grow. In fact, you could put it on one side of your porch

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and next year, you could root a cutting from it and plant that on the other side. It will be a while before they even out, but once they do, it will look wonderful." "Thanks," I said as he reached into the bed of the truck and pulled out my new rosebush. It looked even worse up close, but the hints of green gave me hope. I wanted to make it bloom, make everyone forget that it had once been this sad, sorry bundle of twigs. "What do I need to do?" I asked as I watched Tristan dig a hole for it. "Mulch it and water it," he said. "I'll give you some fertilizer and all you have to do is follow the directions of the package. I'll also leave a little booklet on rose care with you and that will tell you what you need to know about the diseases these plants are prone to, but my best advice is that if you ever see anything on a leaf that you don't like, cut it off and throw it away in the garbage. Don't try to compost diseased rose parts because the disease will keep coming back." This was starting to sound complicated, but another, larger worry was nagging at the back of my head. "What do I owe you for all of this?" "Nothing," he said, looking at me in genuine surprise. "You're doing me a favor. I don't like throwing live things away, and I live in an apartment. I have no space for this stuff. You're giving it a good home." "Thanks," I said. The ghosts must have really given him hell for him to have passed up this house. I'd originally thought him a mercenary. Now I felt sorry for him. He could have made something really good of this place if the ghosts hadn't driven him out. He gave the dirt a final pat and stood up, wiping his hands on his jeans just as I had done a minute earlier. "Hang on. I'll get your stuff." He went back to the truck and got a bag full of plant food and a small book with a large rose on the cover. "These are yours," he said. "What have you been doing today?" "Nothing much," I said. "Just decorating." "Can I see?" he asked. I didn't want to show him. I didn't want another man to laugh at my impulse toward second-hand décor. "Sure," I said. He took the porch steps two at a time and went straight for the kitchen. "Wow!" he said. "It looks great in here. Like a home." If he noticed that things weren't exactly brand-new or even entirely finished, he didn't say. Instead, he ran his hand over the cabinets. "Did you do this

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all yourself?" "Yes," I said, feeling myself cringe in anticipation of a verbal blow. "I'm impressed. You do good work." He gave me a hard look. "You're sure the ghosts don't bother you?" Bother was one word for it! "They're interesting," I said. "They tell me about their lives. In fact, I've been wishing that the house hadn't been emptied out so completely. I'd have killed to have found a trunk in the attic." He laughed. "Family papers allowing you to identify the spirits? Sorry. Mostly it was full of garbage, and I mean that literally. My greataunt was a pack-rat toward the end." I wondered suddenly if she might be one of my ghosts. "Tell me about her." He looked sad. "I've heard that she was a beauty in her day, but by the time I knew her, she had declined so much that there was nothing of if left. She started slipping when she reached her mid-fifties and it was all downhill after that." "What about her husband?" "He never physically left her, but he might as well have. I don't think they ever loved each other." The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I had this horrible feeling that his name was Harvey, but I didn't dare ask. "Was she close to any of her children?" "She favored her daughter Ruth, but Ruth married some guy from California, mostly to get away from her, from what I heard." A favorite daughter. I felt the hair on my arms rise. "Did she have any other children?" I asked, slowly and in a voice not entirely my own. "Three sons and another daughter," he said. "I don't know them, but I do know that one of Sally's sons was a Vietnam veteran. He married a woman he met in country and he died of what they thought might be Agent Orange. Why? Is Aunt Sally talking to you?" His voice was light, but his eyes were not and it took tremendous effort to keep my voice level. My entire body was covered in goose bumps and I could feel every breath, every beat of my heart. "I have no idea," I said, and really, I couldn't be sure, not absolutely. "They don't identify themselves by name." "Too bad," Tristan said, and the moment passed. "It might be fun to look them up, find out who they really were. Listen." He was suddenly

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nervous. "I was wondering if maybe you'd like to have dinner with me. I mean...if you don't, I'll understand, but..." I was hit by rage again, but this time I knew why. The flip side of anger, I knew, was fear and I was scared to death because I liked this man far too much and had from the very beginning, and I knew that he liked me. He hadn't exactly been subtle about it. I didn't want to try again. I didn't want to take another risk, especially not one so terrible, and I opened my mouth to say no. But a shock of cold nearly knocked me off my feet. I heard once again the midnight conversations of my ghosts, all of them run together at once like Tristan Millman's Tower of Babel, and in that cacophony two things became clear. One was why he hadn't been able to live there. The noise was horrible, even if it wasn't physical. The other was that there was no reward without risk, and risk and reward ran in equal measure. I was scared and angry because I wanted him so very much, and it was only possible if I said yes, and took the risk of being wrong again. There were no guarantees. Even the warranty on my refrigerator would run out. "I'm sorry," Tristan said. "I guess I'm out of line. Can we still be friends?" The chill went straight to my bones, making my eyes water, but I understood perfectly and I swallowed hard before I spoke. "No," I said. "I don't want to be friends." God, that came out totally wrong! "I mean, not just friends. I would love to have dinner with you." The room warmed as I looked up to meet his eyes. Someday, not today but soon, I was going to have sex with this man and I wanted to very much. He was smiling with relief and joy. "Would tonight be too soon?" "No," I said. "I'd like that." "I could come back around seven," he said. "Would that work?" "That would work just fine," I said. "Good. I'll see you at seven." He looked like he wanted to hug me but wasn't sure how I'd take it, so I threw my arms around his neck. It felt surprisingly comfortable. "I'll see you at seven," I said, and then I let him go. No need to cling. I would see him later. When his truck pulled out of my driveway, I started to laugh,

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irrationally, almost hysterically. The usual thoughts were running through my head, of course, where he might take me and what I should wear, but over them all was one pressing concern. I wondered if my ghosts would shut up for a night if I had company.

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About the Authors Alessia Brio is a sassy tart who burst (or tip-toed, depending on who you ask) onto the erotic romance scene in the latter half of 2005 with two e-book publications from Phaze. Until that time, she'd been giving her stuff away on Literotica. Now, she gratefully accepts money for it. (That, she's aware, is the difference between a slut and a whore.) Alessia writes erotic romance, erotica, and poetry both independently and collaboratively (with Will Belegon). As a participant in the philanthropic publishing venture Coming Together, Alessia has helped to raise money for organizations that protect our online freedoms of expression. When she's not writing, editing, designing covers, or researching, Ms. Brio is performing her domestic duties as a work-from-home mom, kicking ass (or kissing it) as a civil rights advocate/activist, or wasting time on the Internet. She is addicted to SuDoku, rare steak, and sex (not necessarily in that order). Alessia lives in the mountains near Pittsburgh where she masquerades as a soccer mom. Readers can visit her online at www.alessiabrio.com Leigh Ellwood is a multi-published author of romance and the creator of Phaze's award-winning Dareville series. An EPPIE nominee in a former life, she was honored with the 2005 Golden Rose Award for Best Erotica (Dare Me) and the second place prize for Best Pansexual Erotica by the ERWI (also for Dare Me). She is proud to make Phaze her primary home for her romantic novels and short stories. Readers can visit Leigh at www.leighellwood.com.

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Don't let the 1940's-sounding name fool you! Though she may sound sweet, Bridget Midway writes what everyone else fantasizes about. An avid writer for all things fun, unusual and passionate, she enjoys making her readers laugh as much as she likes seeing them fan themselves down after reading a hot, sexy scene. She writes long contemporary romance, single-title romance, some light paranormal romances, science fiction, historicals and erotica, all with multi-racial characters and/or with interracial romances (because when you have a box of chocolates, you have to taste each one and enjoy the differences). Some of her short stories have been accepted for publication by The Sun magazine. She was a finalist for the title of Sexiest Fiction Writer sponsored by BetterSex.com. After having her initial 850-word short story, "Adam and E.V.E." rejected by The Sun because at the time they weren't accepting science fiction romances, Bridget decided to expand the short tale into a 12,000+ word novella and send it to Phaze. So Bridget's first rejected story from The Sun and her first attempt at writing a science fiction erotica won over the editor at Phaze. Bridget is also the author of "Walls," a Phaze Sparkler short, and other novellas and novels with other publishers. Visit www.BridgetMidway.com for more information. Ann Regentin has written for such diverse publications as HUES, Conversely, Home Education Magazine, Washtenaw Parent, Hip Mama and the Ann Arbor Observer, as well as writing reading comprehension tests for the Harbor Springs Public Schools and entries for Gale Group’s What Do I Read Next? database. Her fiction and poetry have appeared online at Slow Trains, Mind Caviar, Ophelia’s Muse, Scarlet Letters, Desdmona, The Erotica Readers and Writers Association, Clean Sheets, where Ann is a Contributing Editor, and in print in the Albion Review and International Journal of Erotica, Lovers Who Stay With You, Peep Show Vol. I, and Best S/M Erotica 2. Ann also has stories in six upcoming anthologies including Best Gay Love Stories and Best Women’s Erotica 2005. She is the author of four

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e-books, The Dream Ring and Aural Sex, from Phaze, the EPPIE nominee Second Sight, and The Measure of a Man, a winner in Amber Quill’s Amber Heat Wave Contest.

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If you enjoyed this title, may we recommend…? Tempting Fate, by Kally Jo Surbeck, Melissa Schroeder, Rena Marks, and Kara Fay ISBN 1-59426-599-2, $6, available in eBook format Sometimes Fate has it in for man, but in this sizzling anthology by four of today's hottest romance authors, passion has it in for the Fates! A Rogue Soul by Kara Fey: Tony had no idea that by defying death, he'd unravel the Fates perfect world and risk all mortal existence. The Fate of Lachesis by Rena Marks: Chesis has no idea her careless daydreaming can get out of hand when an angry Aaron of Arcules comes knocking. The Awakening by Kally Jo Surbeck: Can Atropos, the eldest sister of the Fates, find strength through love? Chasing Luck by Melissa Schroeder: Luck settles into a West Texas town, hoping for normalcy. What she found was Chase Franklin.

Lipstick and Other Stores, by Petula Caesar ISBN 1-59426-541-0, $6, available in eBook format, coming to print 2007 Ariana Winner for Best Cover Art, Mainstream/Single Title Category! An overzealous student taking a class on oral sex is eager to pass the exam, two roommates find love in the least expected place, a poignant story of passion and love in the wake of 9/11…these are just a few of the sizzling tales offered by an emerging talent in erotic fiction. Join Petula Caesar for an all-senses assault, and don't forget the lipstick.

Now available at www.Phaze.com!

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The hottest romance, the most memorable heroines, and the most gorgeous heroes… Welcome to the next PHAZE in erotic romance! Join us online for author chats, writing workshops, and big prize contests with our FREE newsletter!

www.phaze.com groups.yahoo.com/group/PhazeChatters eBooks available at Fictionwise.com, CyberRead.com, and AllRomanceeBooks.com, print titles available at Amazon.com, BN.com, BooksAMillion.com and on the shelves of Borders bookstores!

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