The last part is said in a teasing tone, because the last thing that Jake Tanner feels is insecure. I know it in my bones. His steps are confident; his actions decisive. His behavior is that of a man who not only knows what he wants, but gets it.

That he wants me is the only incredible variable in this whole scenario, but he deserves an honest and sincere answer even if he wasn’t looking for one.

“No. I’d want to spend time with you, no matter what. Because to you, people really are the sum of their parts. Plus, I like the sound of your voice and the way you make decisions. There’s no wavering with you. I like that. If I’d met you before, I’d have followed you home and I would’ve sat outside your apartment until you came and talked to me. Then I would’ve stalked you repeatedly until you had no choice but to let me into your life.”

He smothers a laugh. “Good thing, then, things didn’t play out that way or I’d be applying for conjugal visits.”

My breath catches. I want him inside, next to me. No, I want him inside me. I want to know what it feels like to have his hand on my skin. I want to feel his lips trace a path along my neck. I want to watch in breathless anticipation as he lifts my shirt and uncovers my breasts. I want his mouth on my nipples, between my legs. I want to trace his body with my hands and with my mouth. I want him to take me and I want to take him a thousand times until we’re sweaty and weary and too weak to even lift our heads off the ruined bed. “I want to open the door,” I whisper shakily.

His swift intake of breath at my husky words causes me a corresponding tightening of my core.

“Why?” he demands.

“You know why.”

“I want to hear you say it.” His tone strains with his effort at control.

I press my lips together. It’s one thing to joke about phone sex. It’s one thing to write a sex scene. It’s an entirely other thing to say it out loud.

“What would you do if you opened the door? Would you want me to touch you? Or would you want to initiate it? Tell me,” he says with fierce insistence.

The desire we have for each other is a palpable thing. I can feel it pulsing in the air, making it harder to breathe, heating the room with its very presence.

“I’d want you to touch me and undress me.” Remembering our conversation the other day, I look down at my off-the-shoulder knit blouse and tight black leggings. “I’m wearing a thin sweater. It’s light blue with a black trim around the neckline. The black sets off my skin, makes it look paler, and the blue makes my eyes look more green than brown.” I pause and take a sip of water. Outside I hear nothing but his heavy breaths, currently the hottest sound in the universe. The bundle of nerves between my legs are aching and on fire. I slip my hand inside my pants to ease the pain as I continue. “I have black leggings on and my toenails are painted blue to match my sweater.”

“What color is your bra? Your panties?” he asks.

“I have no bra on.”

He hisses in response. “How hard are your nipples? Reach up and cup your breasts. Describe them for me.” Each word punctuates the silence around us.

I do as he commands, slipping my hand out of my underwear so each hand cups a sensitive breast. “It feels like they weigh more. And they’re hot. It’s so hot in here.”

“Take off your sweater. Bare your breasts.”

I whip off the offensive cloth and toss it to the side. Taking my breasts in each hand, I squeeze them. The rough touch eases the ache momentarily, but it roars back in a hurry. I pinch my nipples and rub my legs together.

“Oh, sweetheart, what are you doing to yourself? The sounds you’re making, fuck—” He breaks off.

I didn’t even realize I was moaning but I am. I’m moaning and whimpering. “It’s not enough, Jake.”

“Do you have a vibrator?”

“Yes.”

“Go get it,” he orders.

I rise on shaky legs and stumble to the bedroom. The batteries still haven’t arrived, or they might have and they’re down in the mailbox. In my preoccupation today, I forgot to check with Jason, the day doorman. Shit. Back in the living room, I slide down onto the big floor cushion in front of the French doors. Before Jake came, I drew the curtains closed as he’d instructed. Now, though, it seems too private, almost claustrophobic, but my window balcony faces the street and I’m not prepared to open the curtains so people can see in while Jake and I share this intimate moment.

“Do you have it?” he asks.

“Yes, but it’s not working. I don’t have any batteries,” I vent in frustration. Earlier today when I used it, the relief it brought was only transient and not as powerful as the need it left behind. I don’t want to be half satisfied again.

“Shhh,” he soothes. I hear him shift outside. He’s closer now. Before he was on the chair and now I nearly feel him, only a few feet away. If the doors were open, we could touch.

I roll to my knees and reach toward the door, but just as I place my hand on the doorknob, he speaks. “I’m going to make it all feel better.”

And I’m curious. Can he, just through talking, make me come? I don’t believe it’s possible, but then if you’d told me a week ago I’d be having dinner with a man like I did tonight, that wouldn’t have been believable either. I ease back onto my cushion.

“Are you still wearing your leggings, sweetheart?” he asks.

“Yes.” And just like that, the tension is curling inside me. “Do you want me to take them off?”

“Place the vibrator on your right and then peel down your leggings, slowly. No rush.” His instructions are explicit and detailed, and I wonder what he did in the army. It must have involved telling people what to do. He’s very good at it—a natural leader. I heed his commands nearly without question. It’s nice not to think about things, not to have to worry about my next move.

I can place myself entirely in his capable hands. I wouldn’t feel this comfortable with someone else—or with anyone else.

“They’re off.” I kick the leggings to the side and await his next order.

“Lie on your back right along the door. Take your left hand and touch your panties. How wet are they?”

I gasp when I touch my panties.

“Dammit, how wet?” His voice is tight, hot.

“W-wet,” I stammer, unused to this dialogue. I lick my lips and try to give it back to him—to give him what he wants. “I’m very wet—I want to take them off. Can I, Jake?”

He’s so close I can hear his heavy, labored breaths and the way he tries to grapple for his own control. I wonder if he has himself in hand. What would he taste like on my tongue? As these thoughts run through my head, I rub myself through the already moist cotton.

“Yes, take them off.” The words have a slight shake to them, which fits my state of mind exactly.

I’m unraveling like a ball of yarn tossed across the floor. Excitement runs through me as if he’s poured liquid aphrodisiac through my central nervous system and it’s chasing down my veins, lighting up every neuroreceptor in my entire body.

“They’re off, Jake. I don’t have anything on.”

He takes a breath and then another. “Pick up the vibrator and rub it on your clit. Just tip on tip.”

I do as he says. As I rub, my toes curl into the floor and I draw my knees up to give me better leverage, although not for the vibrator and not for my fingers. I’m readying myself. My knees fall open and I know this will turn him on and drive him crazy so I describe it, in explicit filthy detail. “I’m rubbing myself with the vibrator and my other hand is squeezing my breast, my right one. My nipple is hard. The vibe is getting slippery. My knees are wide open. I look—” I struggle for the right word.

“—Beautiful.” The compliment is bit out like a curse. “Fucking beautiful. I want to be the one touching your skin. I want my fingers to be slippery from your juice. I can see the light under the curtains. There’s shadows there, hinting at what you’re doing, and it’s driving me crazy, sweetheart. My cock is like stone right now. I swear to fucking God, I could drill a hole in your balcony with the goddamn thing.”