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  Shaking his head with disgust, he tossed his jacket onto the passenger seat next to him before zooming as fast as his Prius would take him out towards 680, away from her suburban gulag apartment building, past the mall and south out of Pleasant Hill to his cozy five-bedroom custom-built house in the hills of Lafayette. Spent a fortune on a castle, he should enjoy it. Alone. No more impoverished, vulnerable, lonely, married women with small children for him—let alone one belonging with a man risking his life overseas.

  He knew a warning bell when he heard one. From now on he’d be a goddamn monk, even if it meant never leaving the house, and the only woman he’d touch would be carefully screened for husbands and children and poverty before he so much as shook her hand.

  Just as he merged on the freeway, he smelled Bonnie's pussy on his fingers and nearly swerved into a hedge of oleander along the on-ramp.

  Bonnie pulled her t-shirt back on and sighed. Guess he wasn’t as shallow as he’d seemed. Her lips were swollen and her hair was falling in her face and she her teeth were chattering—from the sexual arousal, the come-down, and her neighbor’s unheated apartment. And she still wanted him.

  Compiling her research was going to be harder than she expected.

  She sighed and combed her wild hair with her fingers. That was nice for little Jake, having his dad come home. Hopefully for Shannon, too. Bonnie cleaned up the untouched coffee, barely able to focus on the cups she washed, then locked up and walked next door to her place.

  Her roommates wouldn’t have appreciated her having company over so early in the morning.

  She should have told him, of course. But now she was too embarrassed, and maybe it would teach him a lesson. Until he’d been confronted with a very possible reality, he’d been willing, even eager, to tune out the implications of what he was doing. They were at a preschool, for God’s sake. He must have assumed she was the mother of one of those children—yet nothing was more important than the promise of quick sex.

  At least when he did learn more, or thought he had, he’d made a run for it.

  She half-smiled, half-groaned into her hands, imagining what he must have thought of her. Not that Shannon wouldn’t have deserved some action, working two jobs and supporting little Jake all by herself, her husband a serial philanderer, national hero or no. But Bonnie was supposed to be taking care of Jake for two days, not taking over his mother’s identity. She’d have to find that guy and explain or she’d never forgive herself.

  She went over to her laptop, hands not quite steady, and tried to write down the events of the morning. Her roommates were still in bed, and she wanted to get it all down before she had to pretend nothing had happened.

  “Day One,” she wrote. “Man One. Tall. Broad-shoulders, muscles, shaggy brown hair, probably used to women throwing themselves at him. Wealthy-looking hipster, black leather, silver stud in one ear, dark jeans. Probably over thirty. Didn’t know own nephew’s name. Good, really good, with tongue—”

  Here she had to stop. Her nipples were hard again, remembering. She pressed her palms against her breasts and closed her eyes, forcing herself to notice with a clinical detachment the way her heart was pounding.

  She took a deep breath and forced herself to continue. She had to finish her degree. Even if a Master’s in Post-Modern Gender Dynamics would be useless in the job market, even detrimental, she was going to finish the damn degree and prove she wasn’t the self-indulgent, sentimental slacker her mother always said she was.

  Back to her laptop. “Really good with tongue. Breast man. Nice ass, and didn’t recoil when partner (i.e., myself) expressed moment of sexual dominance by grabbing—”

  She exhaled loudly and quickly hit save. Maybe she’d start tomorrow with another guy, one from a bar, where no confusion or deceit could conceivably cloud the results of her experiment. Yes, that would be much better. This morning was a blip, an unexpected rough draft she’d delete from her brain. A trial run. Off the record.

  Setting the laptop aside, the damp cups of her bra rubbed against her tender nipples and her body flooded with heat. Her body knew she was a liar. Bodies never forget a skilled touch.

  “Damn,” Bonnie said, and went to the bathroom to strip off the bra and wash away as much of Uncle Paul as soap and scalding water could manage.

  And resist the urge to release the pressure with her Water Pik. She needed as much carnal tension as possible to brave a shot at Man Two. Whoever he might be.

  Chapter 3

  Paul lasted two days before he had to ask his sister about her.

  “But Jakey’s mom had to go out of town for her job,” Mary said over the phone one afternoon, distracted as usual by children screaming and laughing in the background. “She was begging with the teacher to take him every day for the rest of the week and her neighbor would watch him at night. From her building. A graduate student or something. But they needed somebody on Wednesdays to drop out so he could drop in, because they have licensing laws about class ratios—”

  Paul was too busy feeling a rush of optimistic lust flooding his body to listen to the rest of it.

  A neighbor.

  Before his smart sister could figure out—or have time to grill him—why he’d asked about a woman at her son’s preschool, he abruptly ended the call and ran across his ornately tiled bathroom to shower a second time. And shave. With the good-smelling stuff. Ten minutes later, in a fresh shirt and jeans fresh from the dryer, Paul sent an email off to his team excusing himself for the rest of the day, then ran out the mud room door to his car parked under the porte cochere thing his real estate agent had creamed over.

  Fingers on the wheel, he realized he couldn’t just rush over and start up where they’d left off. As much as he really, really wanted to. He’d thought of nothing else for two days, from the lurid daydreams reliving the slick heat of her body, then descending into obscene nightmares at night where she strapped him to a bed with bungee cords and tormented him until his balls were so blue he turned into a Smurf.

  A neighbor. No wonder she hadn’t been ashamed. She had no reason to be.

  He hadn’t given her a chance to explain.

  She’d tried come off as fearless, but he remembered the flashes of shyness, which only made him want her more, now that he suspected she was just a helpful neighbor with nothing but her own, reasonable needs. And no husband or little kid to worry about.

  Breaking several traffic laws, Paul drove down the secluded hills out of his neighborhood to the flat, concrete ugliness of hers. He parked outside the squat apartment building but didn’t get out of his car. What was he going to say? How would he get in to talk to her?

  Checking his teeth in the mirror, his breath on his hand, then pressing his palm against the fly of his jeans, Paul reminded himself to find more about her this time before they took it too far.

  He had to ring seven of the buttons at the front gate before he found hers.

  “Hello?” she asked through the speaker—her voice, finally, distorted but recognizable.

  His heart leaped. “Bonnie? It’s me. Paul. Can we talk?”

  Silence. Then, “Who?”

  He didn’t believe her. “We can go out for coffee. For real this time.”

  The speaker crackled, then was quiet. Paul stood there, gazing at his own reflection in the glass of the entry door past the battered security gate, wondering if he was a handsome guy.

  He thought he might be, but after spending the first thirty years of his life staring at a computer monitor snorting Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, peanut M ‘n’ M’s, and Gatorade, his self-image was that of a larger, paler, geekier version of himself. Paul 2.0 might look like hot shit, and his sister and surprised coworkers said he did, but he wasn’t always convinced. Past the piercings and Haight Street haircut, he glimpsed the guy he used to be.

  His confused reflection swung away to reveal Bonnie standing in the doorway in a tight white t-shirt and low-slung jeans, her wavy hair down about her shoulders in a dark, messy cloud
that made his breath catch.

  “Thanks for coming out,” he said.

  She nodded but didn’t open the security gate. “Listen, I needed to explain—”

  “You don’t have to. My sister told me. You’re the boy’s neighbor.”

  She paused, mouth slightly open, and then nodded again. “I tried to tell you—” She glanced down. “Well. OK, then. Bye.” She started to turn.

  “Wait!” Paul pressed his palms against the grate. “Hold on.”

  She shook her head, took a step back.

  He sensed her nerves, but she was lingering, waiting for him to reassure her. “Just coffee. Please.”

  She bit her lip. “I don’t think so.”

  “But why?” He let his forehead bump against the gate and gave her the most charming lopsided grin he had. “Look, I’m really sorry I ran out like that. I should have given you a chance to explain.” He hoped he didn’t sound desperate, but he really liked her. He stepped away from the gate and struck an unaggressive pose, fingers stuck into the tight front pockets of his jeans. “Please let me buy you that coffee. One cup. Just to clear the air.”

  She glanced behind her, hesitated, turned back. “I only have an hour.”

  A surge of desire washed through him. He propped his forearm against the gate and smiled at her through the bars. “Great. Thank you.”

  “I’ll be right back.” She disappeared into the gloomy hallway, returning moments later with a purse over her shoulder. She swung the gate open and marched ahead of him. “There’s more you should know.”

  He lifted his gaze from the sway of her ass. It was even sexier than he remembered, as high as it was wide, and from the way she wore her jeans low and tight, she had to know she had something good. He wanted to see the tattoo again. Touch it. Lick it. But her words cut through the fog of lust. “More?” He inhaled deeply, forced himself to concentrate. “You’re married?”

  She snorted. “Now you ask.”

  He deserved that. “Kids?”

  “Would you leave me alone if I did have one?”

  He swallowed. Formative years of geekdom had left scars, and no matter how devoted he was with a naked woman, his romantic confidence at the onset didn’t match his looks. No matter how pleasantly surprised women were when they finally got in bed with him, he questioned his ability to get there with someone new.

  He sighed. “Of course,” he said. “If you wanted me to.”

  Her scowl softened into confusion. “What’s up with you, anyway?”

  “I like you. I can’t stop thinking about you. But I don’t know you, and I want to.”

  She continued to stare, there on the sidewalk with the winter California sun shining low and bright over her face, illuminating the golden flecks in her eyes. He realized that she had stepped closer to him, or him to her, and he could imagine the heat coming off her body. Her face didn’t look angry anymore, but it wasn’t smiling. Deep in his chest, his heart strained and began to pound.

  “Touch me,” she said.

  Two words, and he was hard. Just as he had in his dream, he reached up and brushed a corkscrew of hair off her cheek, aching at the silky perfection of her skin under his fingertip. Her mouth, that pink and inviting mouth falling open. He rubbed her full bottom lip with his thumb, back and forth, vaguely aware that his lungs were empty.

  “I don’t have any children,” she said, closing her eyes. “And I’m not married.”

  He managed a half-smile, letting his head sink down until his mouth was so close he could taste her breath. Smelling something sweet, like candy, on her lips. Gloss. Wet, shining lips. “Me neither.”

  He licked. From the left, shadowy corner of her mouth, along the swell of her lower lip, grazing her teeth, then over to the other corner, where he lingered until he felt her hands come up behind his neck, burrow into his hair, and pull him closer.

  They hadn’t kissed before, not on the lips, not with hungry, wet mouths wanting each other. Personal, real.

  A car drove past and she jerked away. “God,” she said. “We’re on the street.”

  “Sorry.” He cupped her cheek with his hand and nuzzled the hollow below her ear, felt her tremble under his touch.

  “I don’t drink coffee,” she whispered.

  He slid his arm around her waist. “Hate the stuff.”

  “I want you.”

  He groaned into her hair and pulled her hard against him. “Let’s go inside.”

  Bonnie’s knees locked, trying to hold herself upright when her body wanted to collapse, naked and limp, in his arms.

  He was in that black leather again, and smelled like cinnamon and sex and that cologne she hadn’t remembered consciously but now was making her wet just from breathing near him. She hadn’t been able to make herself continue the social research she’d planned, even though she was already months past her thesis deadline. The idea of touching anyone but him turned her cold. Until she got this guy out of her system, she’d never be able to approach any other guy with a clear head.

  What had he done with his tongue? She’d expected a kiss, but that lick—like an animal marking his mate, his prey, then waiting with that damn male confidence for her to follow.

  “We can’t,” she said.

  His eyes were black, gazing at her without blinking. “Why?” he asked, his voice like gravel.

  He thought she was rejecting him. As if she could. “I have roommates.”

  “I don’t.” He hooked his arm around her roughly to lead her down the sidewalk.

  “Where—”

  “My place. In Lafayette. It's just down 680. Ten minutes, max.”

  They were going to do it at his place. He was so sure of himself. So natural, to invite—no, compel—a stranger to have sex with you. “You never even told me your last name.” Though she had found it out from her neighbor, that and a few other things, or she’d never be running off with him now.

  “Ash,” he said. “Paul Ash. I'm thirty-two, grew up in Portland, have one sister, four nephews, one horny God-fearing brother-in-law, two parents, and a career in software engineering.”

  This speech poured out in a low monotone near her ear while he guided her down the sidewalk, the whole time his hand was exploring her lower back, vertebra by vertebra, until his thumb was hooked under the band of her thong. Vaguely reassured by his biography (which matched the gossip she’d pulled out of Shannon), Bonnie let herself focus on the maddening sensation of lace and elastic underwear being pulled tight into the crack of her ass with each step. She stumbled over a patch of broken sidewalk.

  “Easy.” He smiled down at her with that grin that had devastated her at the gate minutes before. Confident but self-mocking. Hot.

  He probably practiced it in the mirror, and knew what it did to women. This was just a quickie to him, she didn’t need to feel guilty about not telling him about the research project—

  The car was an older Prius, dusty powder blue and dented on one side, but clean. Not what she expected. “This is your car?”

  His grin wavered. “Problem?”

  “Harley in the shop?”

  “Afraid so.” His cocky smile came back in full force. His hand lingered at her ass, his warm fingers tugging the thong upwards in an increasingly hard, kinky rhythm as he leaned down and brushed his lips in a feather-light kiss across the bridge of her nose. “Nice freckles,” he whispered, then released her and nudged her into the passenger seat.

  Her underwear, a narrow band of thin stretchy nylon, was wet and slippery inside her jeans. As the car vibrated and rolled over the roads, her clit began to complain from teasing and neglect. She wiggled in her seat, going mad with the growing ache. “Ten minutes?”

  He gave her a fast, wolfish glance, then reached over and slid his hand between her legs. “A woman like you shouldn’t have to wait.” His fingers wrapped around her left thigh, then edged up to the tight seam of her jeans, rubbing softly at first, then suddenly gripping her mound between his thumb and forefinger
and squeezing roughly through the denim.

  “God,” she gasped.

  “Unzip your pants.” He wasn't looking at her. Turning onto the freeway, checking over his shoulder, merging.

  “Are you sure that's safe?” She heard herself ask the question and groaned inwardly. Fuck safe.

  “Reverse commute direction.” He accelerated to pass a Wal-Mart semi that loomed over the road, the cab certainly high enough for the driver to see right down through the sedan’s untinted window into her lap. “I want to taste you,” he said.

  Desire flared hot in her veins. “How are you going to—” she began, but the warning voices in her head were growing weak and unreasonable. “Never mind,” she whispered, and leaned back to open her pants.

  The sound of the metal zipper sliding open filled the car. There was no question now of stopping, of taking it slow, of pretending they were strangers. They were going to take it all the way, wherever it took them.

  The muscles along his jaw twitched, and he gave her a long, smoky stare of blatant lust. He jerked the car over into the slow lane with his left hand while his right reached over and dove down the waistband of her gaping jeans. Large, determined fingers thrust past the elastic of her undies and slipped deep inside her. She groaned and involuntarily lifted her hips to meet his hand. Nothing like this had ever happened to her. A man she barely knew, touching her, with the world driving by around them, looking in.

  Hot, wet, reckless wanting overtook her.

  Let them look. She was going to take what she wanted and let him take what he wanted.

  He lingered just long enough stroke a deep circle, then pull his hand back out. To his face. Watching her with eyes almost black, he sucked his finger deep into his mouth, all hint of mockery or playfulness gone. The gaze was intense, a declaration of intent, and she shuddered as she recognized the primal satisfaction deep in her soul that he knew what he was going to do. And that whatever it was, he was going to do it to her.