“I’m sorry, Duncan,” she whispered.

“He tried to explain it to me before he left. How love was this great force he couldn’t resist. It was just his dick that he couldn’t resist. But his family paid the price.” Duncan shook his head. “He divorced Sylvia seven years later. Traded her in for a younger model. There you go. There’s the power of love for you.”

The bitter contempt in his voice chilled her. “That’s not love,” she said quietly. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s not love.”

He made a low, harsh sound of negation. “Whatever it is, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It depresses me. Let’s go upstairs.”

He got out of the car. She flung the door open before he could come around and do it for her. She followed him into his building, miserably aware of having maneuvered him out of that wonderful, close place that they’d been before. She’d made him tense and defensive. Clumsy of her.

Well, hell. There were ways and ways to sweeten his mood. And she was not without her resources.

Duncan stood aside to let her in first, and flipped on a small row of track lights near the entry space, leaving the rest of the apartment in shadow but for the glittering cityscape outside. The delicious imminence of sex trapped her air in her lungs. She drifted over to the couches. They were big, oversized. Gray, velvety, plush. An odd choice, for him. She would have expected gleaming black leather, stainless steel, and glass. She sank into one with a sigh and stared at his perfectly proportioned black silhouette standing there. A hot sexual energy pulsed out of him, all the more potent for his silence, for how fiercely it was controlled.

It made her hot, shaky. Unstable inside. She could hardly wait.

“All evening, I’ve been thinking about your bare ass under that skirt,” he said.

She grabbed handfuls of the knit fabric, and screwed up her courage. “Do you, um, want to see it?”

“Yes,” he said. “Show me.”

She took her time pulling her skirt up. She drew it out, gathering up folds of fabric inch by inch, until she had an armful of knitted jersey pressed against her belly, and the tops of her stockings showed. And a strip of pale thigh above them. A tuft of her dark, curly pubic hair.

But her legs were still clamped together.

Duncan sank to his knees in front of her. His hot hands settled on her knees, pushing them wide. She closed her eyes, her face hot.

He sighed. “Ah, God. I love the stockings,” he muttered. “You are so fucking beautiful, Nell.”

She felt more naked like this than she had when she hadn’t worn a stitch with him. He grabbed her hand and pulled it down, arranging her fingers so that her clit was gently clasped in the V between her index and middle finger. “Touch yourself,” he said. “I want to see how you do it. You know. Watch and learn.”

She laughed silently, parting herself for him. Aroused by his intense attention. The feeling of exposure was transforming into something pleasurable. She slowly relaxed into it, like a cat sprawled in a patch of sunlight. “That’s one area where you don’t need any lessons.”

“I’m gratified to know that I’ve got at least one piece of the puzzle in the bag,” he muttered.

She ignored his sarcasm, and stroked the jut of his cheekbone with her finger. His skin was so hot and supple. “I fantasized about you, ever since you started eating lunch at the Grill,” she confessed.

He pressed a hot, lingering kiss to the top of her thigh. “Is that a fact? What did I do to you in those fantasies?”

“Lovely things,” she admitted.

He grinned, caressed the crease of her groin. “Such as?”

He waited, but she couldn’t speak. Her lips were trembling too much. “My mouth is watering,” he said, parting her labia tenderly, and slowly penetrating her. “Did I lick you in those fantasies?”

“Oh…yes,” she said, jerkily.

“Was it good? Did I treat you right?”

“It was amazing. It was…it was superdeluxe.”

He bent lower, and lapped the length of her labia voluptuously with his tongue. “And how do I measure up to myself?”

“You surpass yourself,” she admitted. “There’s more of you in real life. More of everything. More feelings, more orgasms. More problems.”

He chuckled, silently, his lips tenderly holding her clit, his tongue fluttering expertly, swirl, flutter, swirl. “Never mind the problems,” he suggested. “Let’s just stop at the orgasms. And linger there.”

“Okay,” she agreed.

“Forever,” he whispered.

It was the word that set her off. Forever. It made her pleasure rise to a crest and break in great, pulsing ripples of milky foam through the endless ocean of sensation. That sweet, hot swell of…hope.

After that, they went wild. A frenzied, feverish blur. No control, no need for it. His clothes came off, her blouse was ripped open, her bra unhooked. He produced a condom out of thin air, and he was inside her, pressing her down onto the couch. Folding her legs high. Hard, driving. Demanding and wonderful. They struggled, twining and writhing and pumping toward a violent, explosive shared orgasm.

His vital energy poured into her. She clung to him and felt its wonderful heat, transforming her, and a single, piercing thought formed in her mind. He lifted his face, and it popped out. “I love you,” she said.

His eyelids went tight. His face, blank.

Fear stabbed through her like a blade of ice. She’d ruined it. Now he would take back his intense, passionate attention—never mind that it wasn’t love—and she would proceed to shrivel up and die.

Then came anger. How humiliating, to be terrified just because she told a man she loved him. She had nothing to be ashamed of. He should be grateful. She should not have to beg for any man’s love.

“Nell,” he said, sounding pained.

“No. Forget I said it.” Nell tried to wrench herself free, but his full weight was pinning her down into the squishy couch cushions.

He rolled off the couch, onto the floor. “Nell, I’m sorry if I—

“Shut up, Duncan. The worst thing you could do would be to apologize. It’s the one thing I could never forgive you for.”

“So what can I say?”

“Nothing,” Nell whispered. There was a burning tightness in her chest. It felt like her heart was imploding. She collected her clothes and marched into the bedroom. He followed her in on bare, silent feet. Disappeared into the bathroom for a moment, to deal with the condom, and then appeared in the doorway again.

“Nell, don’t,” he said, his voice rough. “Don’t do this to me.”

Nell fought the tears. “Please, Duncan. Just give me some space. I’m too embarrassed to talk to you right now.”

“Don’t be. Please.” He slipped his arms around her from behind, and squeezed. “Thank you for saying it. Thank you for giving yourself to me like you do. You’re beautiful and special, and you make me feel awake and alive like nothing else. Please. Don’t be embarrassed.”

Nell covered her face. “You drive me crazy when you talk like that,” she whispered. “You’re schizo, Duncan. Don’t confuse me.”

“I’m just telling you how I feel. And being honest. Isn’t that what women say they want from men?”

“What I want and what women in general want are two separate things,” she said haughtily. “Do not generalize me.”

“Never,” he said, smoothly, fervently kissing her neck.

Nell sighed. “It’s strange. All those things you say, about how you feel about me? That’s exactly the same way I feel about you. I just interpret those feelings to mean that I’m in love with you.”

Duncan’s arms tightened. He buried his face in her hair.

“But we define those feelings in such different terms,” she finished. “And that shouldn’t be so important. But…but it is.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. Tears overflowed. She let them slide down her cheeks.

He jerked as a tear splashed his forearm.

Nell stroked his arm, brushing the moisture away. “It’s okay, Duncan. I appreciate you telling the truth. Honesty is better than lies. I guess.”