She stroked the boy's short brown hair, looked at the outline of his face in the night-light, and let the tears flow. Charlotte only cried when the kids were asleep. And usually only when the effort it took to stay cheerful in their presence had exhausted her to the core. Today had been one of those days.

Like yesterday and the day before that.

She patted Hoover's head on her way out and smiled at the big dog'. He used to sleep in the hallway at the top of the steps, but on the night Kurt died he began sleeping in Matt's room. It was like he knew the boy needed a protector.

She checked on Hank next. Her daughter lay open-mouthed on her back in the narrow twin bed, her arms and legs flung out like she'd stopped in the middle of making a snow angel. The lightweight blanket lay in a heap on the floor.

Charlotte wiped tears from her face and smiled down at Hank. The child had obviously inherited the flaming red hair from Charlotte's side of the family, but everything else about Hank was her daddy. She was round and solid, with a friendly, open face, wide eyes, and a charming smile. People gravitated toward her, just like they'd done with Kurt She was even named after his mother.

It always amazed Charlotte how children of the same parents could be so inherently different from each other.

Charlotte worried about Matt. She knew Hank would be all right. And she prayed every day that the kids didn't sense the discrepancy.

Charlotte went to her bedroom, closed and locked the door, and arranged the pillows just the way she liked- stacked five high behind her back. Kurt used to tease her, saying that in a bed with six pillows you'd think a man could have at least two, but no…

Some nights she simply missed Kurt. She missed his comforting warmth, familiar smell, and the steady in-and-out of his breath in sleep. Tonight, she missed sex. She missed it with such a sharp emptiness that it made her legs and arms ache. So she put the sixth pillow on her lap, unlocked her nightstand, and got out the cloth-covered poetry journal. She opened it to the first blank page and began to write.

She needed this tonight. She needed to release the pressure building inside her, feel the hot, sharp rush and resulting peace, just to survive until morning.

She'd felt so alone today, especially when she sat at the Raffertys' kitchen table, preparing their low-fat, high-fiber, plant-based, protein-centered meal plan. Her eyes kept returning to the well-formed backside of the pool restorer, his broad shoulders, his neck ropy with muscle and tendon. She stared at him as he measured and prodded and climbed down the pool ladder into the dry depths.

Of course he'd caught her staring out the picture window. How embarrassing! But he'd smiled-a little too brightly-and she'd quickly gone back to printing out the recipe for Chinese green bean and tempeh salad.

Charlotte uncapped the ink pen now and closed her eyes, letting the slap of guilt sting her the way it always did. She fought it off, reminding herself that this little hobby of hers hurt no one, telling herself that despite everything she'd ever been taught, it could hardly be considered a sin.

She was a sexual creature by nature. A grown woman. A widow with vulnerable kids. So what other choice did she have?

In fact,, if the truth be told, what choice had she ever had?

The hurt rolled through her chest and she closed her eyes. Yes, she'd loved Kurt. He'd been a loyal husband, a fun-loving companion, an honorable man, and a wonderful father;

But the sex. Yes, well… the sex.

About six years into their marriage, Charlotte read an article in a women's magazine that said if your partner didn't satisfy you, it was your own damn fault. You needed to speak up. Spell things out. Draw diagrams on a chalkboard like John Madden football plays if you had to-but it was up to you to teach the man what he needed to know.

But she'd wondered-didn't the author realize that some men were too shy to talk about sex? That sometimes in a marriage it was the woman who was more sexual than the man? That sometimes a woman's secrets could keep her from pushing too hard, asking for too much?

Fine. So maybe it was all her fault that sex with Kurt wasn't cataclysmic. But that didn't change the fact that when she'd focused on her husband, looked into his eyes, stayed present with him in the moment of passion- pfft -nothing. Zilch.

She opened her eyes. She put the pen to the paper and let the truth out: that the only thing that had ever worked was the memory of that day so long ago, and of that man.

Always her fantasy man.

Charlotte began to compose her latest erotic poem. It made her smile that Jimmy Bettmyer, of all people, had given her the idea for the title. And as the words flowed from the pen, Charlotte felt the warmth spread in her veins, because the memory of the man from her past never failed to make her unbelievably, wildly, wantonly… hot.

She smelled the honeysuckle, recalling how the little blossoms had ground into her damp skin as they rolled together in the undergrowth, the juice mixing with their mingled sweat to create the most arousing scent she'd ever known.

As always, she tasted the blood, because she'd kissed him so violently that she'd sliced open her bottom lip.

Charlotte let her tongue fiddle with the invisible scar as she wrote:

Meat

Three helpings

I couldn't get enough

It's not polite to devour and run

But I had a plane to meet

Meat

That first time remains

In my blood

And I'd lie if I said

Anything since has been as thick

Or juicy

And filling

As you were

Hungry

Always so empty-hungry-open-ready

Waiting

For your meat

Charlotte put away the poetry journal. She removed her convenient handheld lover from its soft cotton storage sleeve. Then she made that mysterious battery-powered journey through memory and fantasy until she arrived at the only kind of release she'd known since that perfect afternoon thirteen years ago, in the arms of the man with the greedy hands, the insistent mouth, the endless dark eyes that swallowed her soul.

The man of her fantasies.

The man with no name.

"My name is Joseph W. Mills and I'm here to pick up my keys."

The bleached blonde he'd been told was LoriSue Bettmyer rose from her desk and produced a saleswoman smile. Then she smoothed out the nonexistent wrinkles of her tight blouse, in case he'd missed her customized upper body at first glance.

As if anyone could.

"Oh!" She brought a red-nailed hand to her boobs and breathed deeply. "Oh, my! You're our mystery man!"

He smiled politely. "I understand you have the keys to Twelve thirty-two Hayden Circle."

"Well, of course, but… let me introduce myself." She rounded the corner of her desk, brushed a swinging hip against her in-box, and now stood too close to him, close enough that he got a blast of severe perfume and could see right down into the dark roots of her hair.

She held out her hand. "LoriSue Bettmyer. That's my married name. But I'm not married. I mean, well, we're separated." She shrugged and giggled. "I'll be going back to my maiden name professionally. Very soon now. Probably within the month."

"Great." He gave her hand a perfunctory shake. "I'm kind of in a hurry, so if you don't mind-'*