He’s losing control, which affects me like gasoline on a fire. I’m enflamed.

“Jake,” I pant, “I need . . . I need . . .” God, what do I need? More than I have here at my disposal. I need him. I want his big body pressing mine into the floor. My stomach tightens and my legs grow taut at the idea of his rough body moving in long, slow motions over mine.

“I’ve got you. Take the vibrator all slick with your juice and ease it inside you. Do it slow. You like your clit licked, sweetheart? When you close your eyes, what do you think about?” He doesn’t give me time to answer but floods me with more sensory images. “Am I standing or kneeling between your legs? When I’m licking you, are you squirming or can you hold yourself down?”

“All of it,” I cry. “All of it.”

I work myself faster, thrusting the vibe repeatedly until the tight mass inside me explodes and my hand cups the vibe as if by holding it in I can draw out the pleasure. I can’t hold it in, crying out, something like “Jake, my God, Jake.”

When I come down off that high, I’m aching. It’s too much and not enough and it’s everything and nothing. Because I’m alone.

He’s just outside the door.

If I make one act of courage, I could have him and this emptiness will be gone.

“Jake,” I whisper.

“Yes, baby?”

“Will you come inside?”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

JAKE

Her words are hardly more than a whisper, but as powerful as if she’d shouted them from the balcony.

Open the door. Open the door. Open the door is the mantra that runs through my mind. But I told her I wouldn’t ask. I told her we would wait. After hearing her, after listening to her sweet orgasm fill the night air, after feeling the gasp of frustration, I’m driven with the need to burst inside.

I lean my forehead against the cool glass and massage my aching erection. It was hard to stay in control when her sultry voice described her clothes, her lack of underwear, and how slick and wet she was. While I want nothing more than to open the door, pick her up, and cover her with my body before the door closes behind me, I pause to think. Is this too fast? Am I asking too much? I can provide distraction all night, but at some point, she’s going to come out of her sexual haze and realize that there’s a near stranger in her apartment. I’d rather wait—No, you fucking don’t want to wait, my dick screams at me—because it might mean a greater reward later.

Risk versus reward.

I have always been a risk taker.

The sound of the lock being disengaged pierces the night like a rifle shot. I stand and turn the knob slowly, giving her every opportunity to draw back. But it opens easily and I fill the doorframe, a big hulking shape against the dark night.

I take a step over the threshold but freeze when she gasps and covers her mouth in what looks like horror. Not since my early days have I felt this prickling of discomfort at my physical appearance. I straighten, ready to march out without another word, when she knocks me off center again.

“You don’t look anything like Seth Rogen.”

“I—I have no response to that.” I come all the way in, reach around to grab my duffel and then lock the door. Turning around, I face her, and this time I don’t see horror but hungry delight. Her eyes rove over me, not stopping at my left hand but taking me all in.

“Holy crap, you’re beautiful.” There’s a bit of dismay in her voice, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep me from smiling. “I had prepared myself mentally for someone else. You look more like—I don’t know—Mr. January from an NYFD calendar.”

I grin at her obvious agitation. “What station? I’m curious to see what my doppelganger looks like.”

She presses both hands against her reddening cheeks. She’s gorgeous. I much prefer looking at her when she’s upright and conscious. Her honeyed hair spills in loose curls around her oval face. Her delicate, unmarked skin is framed by the sofa throw she’s draped around herself. My body tightens at the knowledge that under that blanket there is nothing but acres of her precious skin. So this is it. I can feel my bachelorhood folding its tent and packing itself away, because one night won’t be enough with her.

“I wasn’t prepared for you,” she repeats in some frustration. “Tell me your flaws.”

“Apparently I don’t describe myself well. I told you how tall I was.”

“I don’t know what that means. I thought you were tall, but had a nice soft pooch in the middle.”

Deliberately I raise my shirt. I know I look good there. It’s why I eat chicken and broccoli. Her swift intake of breath at the sight of my ridged abdomen and defined obliques that form a V. “You can throw me some pillows and we can pretend, if that’s important to you.”

She sighs and slumps on the sofa. “You’re out of my league. I can’t have sex with you now. I know your type. You date the type of women Oliver dates.”

“I’d think that was an insult, but I know you love your cousin, so, thank you?” I drop the duffel bag and join her on the sofa. I gather her soft body in my arms and tuck her head into my neck so she can’t see my grin.

“I need you to go away and come back less perfect,” she mumbles against my skin.

I shouldn’t be surprised at how that almost innocent contact burns in the best possible way.

“You do remember my hand and leg, right?” I tap her with said hand.

“Are you bragging about your superhuman abilities right now? Because it’s not the time,” she says in an indignant huff.

I choke on my laughter. “I’m not the bionic man yet, but I bet I can make you feel better.”

“You know, as Mr. January, you have to have options, right?”

I can’t hold back any longer and I shake with laughter. Literally throw back my head and howl. Finally, I say, “Not as many as Mr. December. He has the whole year to collect numbers.”

She grumbles but doesn’t move away. She burrows into my embrace and wraps her arms around my waist. With a finger under her chin, I tip her face up. I want to kiss her, but more than that, I want to see her. Her hazel eyes, a golden brown, sparkle at me in rueful amusement, and behind that is banked heat ready to be stoked.

“You’re not broken. Adversity has bent you, but you aren’t broken. You left your apartment and went to the subway station. In another couple of months, you would have gotten on the train. You’re going to do that again.”

She sighs and I feel her slight body push against mine.

“Jake, I think I need you to be my therapist.”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

“Why?”

“It’s unethical to sleep with your patients.”

I’m done with talking. Swooping down, I take her mouth in mine. She is surprised, and then her lips fall open and she’s kissing me back, just as hard and just as hungry. She moans and the vibration echoes between my ears and thunders down my spinal cord. Her tongue isn’t tentative nor is her tight grip in my hair. She tastes me with the fervor and passion of a woman who hasn’t been kissed in more than three years. Maybe she’s never been kissed this well. Maybe she’s never been wanted this badly.

I hold her jaw between the fingers of my good hand and leave my left one at my side. But she surprises me, as she always has, and releases her death grip on my head. Her hand drops down and runs lightly over my left arm until she clutches the wrist. Not once does she lift her lips from mine. Not once does her fervor let up. Not even when she lifts my wrist to place my hand around her breast.