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  You’re a landscaper?

  No. I’m a manure spreader, a hole digger and rock hauler.

  He had laid himself bare for me–not an apology, but an olive branch. And I felt I owed him some honesty of my own. I touched his wrist lightly, and hazel eyes found mine.

  “You’re not the only one who misrepresented.”

  Jamie cocked his head in question, but didn’t speak.

  “As much as I might want you to believe that I’m the adventurous girl who just accepts invitations to a stranger’s house in the Tenderloin, or lets a man make her–” I hesitated, too embarrassed to go on.

  “Come,” he finished for me, his voice thick.

  “Yes. Come in a public park, no less.” I took a deep breath.

  I had momentarily forgotten about the presence of the bouncers until I realized that they were suddenly appraising me much more favorably. Jamie threw them a glare that would honor a headmistress, and they quickly turned their attention anywhere but us.

  “I wish I were that girl, Jamie, because you deserve someone fearless like that. But I’m not. It’s only when I’m with you…”

  I faltered, and looked down at my hands, feeling suddenly more naked than ever–far more vulnerable to him with my soul than I had been with my body.

  A taxi pulled up and stopped at the opening of the alley.

  “I like it, though,” I offered softly. “The way it feels to be with you. I think I may even need it.”

  The magnitude of that admission was a surprise, even to me. Sometimes you don’t know the real truth of a thing until you hear yourself say it out loud. And I had said it–not just out loud, but to him.

  All around us, the air felt heavy and pregnant. I took a long, jagged breath and prepared myself for what I might see in his face. Would it be panic? Awkwardness?

  No. What I saw there was truly beautiful. He seemed to understand the trust I had just bestowed upon him, and his expression enveloped me like a warm blanket. He stepped forward, setting his hands on my hips, and leaned his forehead into mine.

  “Don’t go,” he whispered.

  “I need to, Jamie.” He squeezed me gently, not happy with the answer. “And you need to deal with…that,” I said, gesturing to the door.

  He exhaled, and nodded ever so slightly against my head.

  Then with great tenderness, he cupped my face with his hand and kissed my forehead, lingering there as though he thought it might be his last. When he finally broke the kiss, I glanced up into his beautiful face. It was a face so full of everything he was: strong and proud, dignified in his way, open to the world. It was a face with so much grace and character, so much determination.

  We came from different worlds; that was true. But maybe there was something special in each of ours that we could offer the other.

  I had already admitted to him that I thought I needed that sense of adventure and vitality that he brought to my life, but I really didn’t know what it was that I could give him in return.

  All I knew was that a strange new part of me wanted to protect him from the craziness that awaited him back in the club–from everything in the world that may injure him or force him to be more guarded than he was. Another part of me knew I should be protecting myself. I was falling hard, and it was terrifying.

  I reached up to stroke his cheek, and he leaned in to press his lips to mine. They were warm and soft, giving instead of demanding. I drank him in gratefully.

  “Can I call you?” he asked softly.

  I slumped the top of my head into his broad chest, and his arms came around me.

  I had arrived at a junction, and no small one. I could easily answer no and go back to a life that I knew would be prudent. The road more traveled is always the safer one. But tonight I had glimpsed the other, a gloriously uncertain path that would take me far beyond my comfort zone, embodied by a man whose heartbeat was fast and strong beneath my cheek.

  What promise did that road hold? And who would I need to be in order to walk it? I didn’t yet have the answer, but I closed my eyes and took the first step, anyway.

  “Yes,” I told him.

  I wasn’t naïve. I knew exactly what I was agreeing to. Not just a phone call, not just another date or another gig to attend. But joy and heartache. Pleasure and pain. Life for those brave enough to really live it.

  In the cool of the evening, I slid out of his grasp and started for the waiting cab.

  “Mel.” I turned at the sound of his voice. “What did you think of the show?”

  I smiled. “It was…exceptional.”

  Chapter 6

  Mel

  IN MY EXPERIENCE, COMPANIES ARE like people. A few are visionary; most are just average. Some act like bullies, others like babies. And most often, the personality of the company reflects that of its CEO. So, the intellectual property infringement action I was currently assigned was like a breath of fresh air. Our client, a public semiconductor company, was facing claims by one of its much larger competitors. This was a common thing. The semiconductor industry is rife with companies that hold large numbers of patents and defend those rights vigorously.

  In this case, the competitor had made generalized assertions of potential infringement, and we were engaging with their legal team to discuss the matter. We, of course, weren’t conceding that our client had infringed any valid and enforceable patent, but just in case, had identified certain patents that we could assert the competitor may be infringing. That kind of offense-as-the-best-defense tactic was also very common.

  What made this case somewhat uncommon was the fact that both companies were behaving rationally to resolve the dispute with minimal business disruption. They were both open to discussing a cross license that would allow the parties to avoid a costly litigation. And, ultimately, we felt optimistic that the resolution would be reasonable. No drama.

  We were far enough along in the process that we knew our client was likely to have to pay a settlement of some amount, which meant that public disclosures would have to be made. So, on Thursday, I reviewed and made notes on the latest settlement agreement and then set to work on drafting the appropriate risk factor verbiage for our client’s upcoming 10-Q filing with the SEC. I also drafted an extensive Q&A document that our client could use if its investors pressed them for more information during the quarterly earnings call.

  All in all, Thursday was a rather orderly day. Which was a good thing because Thursday evening was anything but.

  Jamie was coming to dinner.

  Jamie’s day job entailed strenuous, manual labor. And I had seen the man eat–he was like a machine when it came to food consumption. A meal of light fish and a salad would not do; I needed to serve him something hearty and satisfying.

  The problem was, I wasn’t much of a cook. I thought seriously about buying something already prepared, but then found a recipe online for a beef stew that looked achievable. It was all cooked in a Crock Pot.

  How hard could that be?

  Plus, the great thing was that it needed to simmer for 10 to 12 hours, so I could set it up before work and it would be ready when I got home. No problem.

  Well, yes, turns out there were problems.

  I dashed home at lunch to check on the meal, but it didn’t seem to be cooking fast enough. So, I turned the slow cooker up to high to speed up the process a little. I figured as long as I left the office promptly that evening at 5:00, I would have enough time to get home, quickly change and be ready for Jamie at 6:00.

  But my client was late to our 4:00 conference call. By the time we got through our discussion of the Q&A, it was 5:20. Traffic in the city sucks at that time, so when I finally burst through the door of my apartment at 5:50, I was sweaty, mad, and plotting to sue everyone for everything.

  I should have gone directly to the kitchen. But as it turned out, vanity, as well as a lack of kitchen skills, could be added to my list of personal deficiencies. So instead of noting the smoke that was creeping under the swinging door to the
kitchen, I went directly to my bedroom to change into a sexy yellow dress and fix my make-up. My newly adopted stray puppy, Atticus, was right on my heels.

  The sound of my smoke alarm put an end to said vanity, as well as every aspiration I had of channeling an inner Martha Stewart, who had, to date, never quite materialized.

  Everything was unraveling fast.

  I had one shoe on and grabbed the other, hobbling down the hall through the living room to the kitchen.

  Unfortunately, the sound of the alarm was followed directly by the sound of my buzzer.

  Shit! Fuck! Jamie’s here!

  I really wanted to cry. The smell of burning meat was like a slap in the face as I hit the button to let Jamie into my building and left my front door ajar.

  I dashed to the kitchen. The whole room was filled with smoke, and the alarm was blaring overhead. The Crock Pot poured smoke from around the rim of the lid, and the only color I could see through the glass was black.

  It was a goddamn mess.

  I quickly unplugged the pot and was in the process of waving a dishtowel in front of the fire alarm like a matador to a bull when I felt a rush of cool air behind me.

  I turned in time to see Jamie manfully wrestling open a window that I would have sworn was permanently painted shut decades ago. The frame protested with an angry squeak, and then gave way to his will.

  Suddenly, the alarm stopped and the chaos settled.

  And there I stood, in the middle of my kitchen with my yellow dress not yet zipped, wearing only one shoe and swinging a dishtowel.

  A disgraced Martha Stewart.

  Unlike my dinner and me, Jamie looked delicious. He was perched by the window, freshly showered and wearing a navy button down shirt and jeans. His beautiful auburn hair was artfully ruffled, and on his face sat two deep dimples as he watched me with curious amusement.

  “How’s the craic?” was the first thing out of that sexy mouth.

  “The craic is shit,” I snapped in total frustration. Did that even make sense?

  He closed the distance between us in two quick paces and wrapped me up in strong, sympathetic arms. He smelled divine, like soap and the musk of light exertion. I buried my nose into his neck and just inhaled. I loved his skin.

  Finally, he released me and grabbed a potholder from the sink. Lifting the lid of my Crock Pot released a billow of smoke. Oh, God. This was not the dish I had envisioned.

  As I stood hopeless, Jamie launched into action. He opened and closed various drawers in my kitchen until he found a fork, and then he dipped it into the charred remains of the beef stew. I watched in absolute horror as he literally pried a piece of meat from the bottom of the pot.

  “Jamie, you can’t eat that,” I insisted.

  “Why not?” He put the whole piece into his mouth. “Fu-!” he exclaimed, exhaling mightily around the scorching meat. “Ifs ho-!”

  “Of course it’s hot, you stubborn oaf! It was on fire a minute ago.”

  He chewed vigorously, and then swallowed hard, sucking in air to cool his burning mouth.

  “Needs a little salt,” he finally said, reaching around me for the saltshaker on top of the stove.

  It was a charred mess. It didn’t need salt. It needed a Brillo pad and a garbage can.

  “Mmmm, perfect,” he said, chewing another bite. He was pulling off bits of vegetables and meat with his fork, most of it black and nearly unrecognizable from its earlier glory. I drew in a ragged breath and exhaled, bringing the heels of both hands to my eyes. I couldn’t bear further witness to this disaster.

  “I am so sorry. I’m not much of a cook.”

  I heard the fork clank upon the counter. Jamie wrapped his hands gently around my wrists and pulled them from my face, pinning them behind my back. In the process, he stepped in very close. I wasn’t looking at him, but I could feel his breath. He said nothing, just waited for me to acknowledge him. I didn’t for another long moment, and he squeezed my wrists a little more tightly. There was no place to hide from my embarrassment. When I finally met his gaze, which was inescapable, he was unyielding.

  “I’d rather eat a meal from this pot right here than from any other in the world.”

  “Then you are a fool,” I said haughtily.

  In truth, this was the stuff that made me melt for him. And melt, I did.

  Reluctantly, a little smile began to tug at my lips and was met with a much larger one developing on Jamie’s face in response. He glanced again into the pot.

  “My mum always says that hunger is the best sauce. And just look at the glaze on this carrot. That’s professional grade.”

  I watched with no small amount of gratitude as he detached one from the carnage with his finger.

  Gratitude became adoration, and that quickly gave way to lust.

  I took his hand in both of mine, removing the carrot from his fingertips with my lips. Then, holding his gaze, I licked away all traces of its existence.

  He froze.

  It’s not just food itself that makes eating so sensual; imagination is an equally powerful aphrodisiac. Jamie’s small smile revealed an imagination very much at work.

  Even if I had wanted to, I couldn’t have hidden where my own imagination had gone. Every inch of his body called to mine. His fingers in my hand were large and rough. I bit down gently on the pad of his index finger as he drew it from my mouth. Then, he pressed his thumb to my lower lip and I opened wider to take it in. His eyes were ablaze. In and out, I sucked the tip of his thumb while he stood, statue-like, staring. Arousal was radiating off of him in the short, shallow bursts of his breath and in the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

  “Don’t tease me,” he finally whispered, his voice hoarse with desire.

  “I wouldn’t.”

  I couldn’t, honestly. I wanted him that fiercely. I was sure that my body was already primed for it.

  Suddenly, he spun me to face the sink and I felt the cool edge of the countertop cut across my abdomen. There was a window directly in my view, but my mind’s eye was focused intently on the press of his body behind me. His hands brushed my hair forward to one side. As he traced my neck and shoulders, I could feel the calluses on each fingertip from his instruments, and on his palms as a consequence of his work. My own hands clenched into fists and felt soft and untested by comparison.

  He crested my shoulder, and my dress slid off into a pool of chiffon at my feet. My bra followed seconds later. With a brief, inelegant struggle, Jamie was out of his shirt and shoes. Heat seemed to pour off of him in waves as he stepped close enough to graze my ass and shoulder blades with his hard torso. His erection was prominent.

  The smell of smoke and burning meat still hung in the air of my tiny kitchen, but the cool evening breeze carried in the scent of the marina, as well. It raised goose bumps on my skin that were indistinguishable from those inspired by his proximity.

  “Do you want me?” he breathed into my ear.

  “You know I do,” I gasped.

  His hands came around to cup my breasts possessively and pull me deeper into his embrace. I felt him lean forward and press his lips to the line of tendon between my neck and shoulder. I closed my eyes and exhaled.

  “Turn around.”

  §

  Jamie

  Years later, I would write a song about that yellow dress–the way it fell from her shoulders; the way it looked like spun sugar on the floor. That’s how deeply the image was branded into memory. A picture worth a thousand words.

  There were other images, too. A kaleidoscope of them.

  A velvet tongue on my nipple.

  Soft strands of hair in my fists.

  Red lips encircling my cock.

  Warm breath.

  Relief and urgency. Ah…yes…sweet Jesus…

  Relief.

  Chapter 7

  Mel

  JAMIE’S FLY WAS STILL OPEN as he held me to his bare chest and carried me down the hall. He kicked open my bedroom door and set me on my feet beside
the bed.

  The side table light was on, casting a warm, soft glow to offset the gray cast of the late evening sky. For the first time tonight I felt exposed, standing in front of this man in only my underwear, the taste of him on my lips. He could read it in my downcast face, I’m sure, and lifted his hands to cup my cheek.

  “How long has it been?” he asked me.

  “Um,” I laughed a little nervously. “About, maybe, eleven and a half months. About. Give or take a few days. I think.”

  His eyes shone a little–probably because of my embarrassingly precise accounting–but to his credit, his face was soft and serious. He could see how vulnerable I felt. I was shaking. God, I was shaking. I wasn’t even sure why. It was a combination, I thought, of nervousness and exhilaration.

  But I wanted this; I wanted to tear into him and have him tear into me. I wanted to completely lose myself in pleasure until my brain just unraveled into a gooey, messy mess.

  Still, Jamie was waiting, letting me catch my breath. He moved his hand to stroke my hair, over and over. He was soothing me, gentling my nerves with soft touches and whispers of how beautiful he found me, how much he wanted me. He leaned in to kiss my neck, teeth grazing my skin, telling me he would take his time and give me anything I needed. The brush of his lips left a trail of heat, and I shivered with anticipation.

  I folded my arms around his shoulders and pulled him in closer, until there was only space enough for heat between us. His hands found the sides of my breasts and skimmed down my body to my hips. As he sealed his mouth over mine, the buttons of his open fly pressed into my stomach, and his erection, wet at the tip and warmer than any other part of his body, rubbed insistently at my navel.

  To the extent I could, I grabbed handfuls of his hair and pulled his mouth deeper into mine, our tongues sliding seductively against one another.

  His hands squeezed my hips, and then glided slowly over the round of my ass, kneading it gently in his palms. His mouth was hungry against mine.

  But just as I was getting lost in the intoxication of his kiss, he pulled back, and I dropped my arms from his neck. I missed his warmth against my body immediately.