She exploded under him, her body writhing, straining, then gathering itself for another leap. Her nails bit into him, her hips pistoned until he was as wild as she.

They rolled, grappling for more in a slippery, mindless battle that had thrill ramming into thrill. Her mouth was fevered and ravenous, her hands greedy and swift.

He knew he’d rather die warring with her than live in peace with anyone else.

With her breath sobbing, she rose over him and took him inside her with one hard thrust.

The dark glory of it gushed through her, flooded her until the anger and doubts drowned.

This was real, she told herself. This was enough.

And she watched him watch her take him.

Fast and hot, focused on those twin goals of pleasure and release. She rode him with a ruthless energy that turned her own body into a morass of greed. For speed, for passion. For more.

When she felt his fingers vise her hips, when she saw those brilliant blue eyes go blind, she threw her head back and flew off the end of the world with him.

She was still shuddering as she slid down to him. Her breath was as ragged as his when her head fell heavy on his shoulder. He managed to hook an arm around her and decided he would probably regain feeling in his extremities at some point.

For now, it was just fine to lie there bruised, battered, and blissful.

“Feel better?” he asked her.

“Considerably. You?”

“No complaints. When my ears stop ringing, you might want to tell me what set you off today.”

“No one thing.” She lifted her head just enough to sweep her hair aside so she could feel her cheek against his flesh. “I just feel like I’m fumbling at most everything, but then I remembered this is one thing I do really well.”

“You won’t hear any argument from me on the last part. What’s the fumble?”

“You want the list? I feel like I’m so close to finding the key, then I don’t. Then I feel like I’m miles away from it, and the whole business is going to crash and burn. I spent most of the day painting because I exhibited very little, if any, aptitude for hand tools.”

“Then you probably don’t want me to mention you’ve got some paint in your hair.”

She heaved a sigh. “I know it. Even Malory’s better with a screwdriver than I am, and she’s a total girl. And Zoe? She’s a regular Bob Vila with br**sts. Did you know she’s got her belly button pierced?”

“Really?” There was a long pause. “Really,” he repeated with enough male interest to make her laugh.

“Anyway.” She flopped over on her back. “There was all that, then I started doing some mental number crunching and got depressed realizing how close to the edge financially all this stuff is taking me. All the output, no income—and without the output there’ll never be an income. And even when the income comes, it’s going to be a serious juggling act for the foreseeable future.”

“I could lend you some money, give you some breathing room.” Her silence spoke volumes. “It’d be an investment. Writer—bookstore. Makes sense.”

“I’m not interested in a loan.” Her voice had chilled, and just under the chill was a sulk. “I’m not looking for another partner.”

“Okay.” He shrugged it off, then tugged on her hair. “I’ve got it. I can pay you for sex. Like you said, you are really good at it. But I’d get to set the price for each specific act, and I think there should be something in the rates about buy three, get one free. We’ll work it out.”

Since he was watching her face, he saw her dimples flutter as she struggled with a grin. “You’re a pervert.” She rolled over on her stomach, braced herself on her elbows. “It was nice of you to reach down into the gutter to cheer me up.”

“We do what we can.” He trailed a finger down her cheek. “I bet you could use some food. You want to go out to eat?”

“I absolutely don’t want to go out.”

“Good. Neither do I.” He shifted a bit, worked considerable charm into his expression. “I don’t suppose you’d care to cook.”

“I don’t suppose I would.”

“All right. I will.”

She blinked, then sat up and tapped her fingers on her head. “Excuse me, did you just say you’d cook?”

“Don’t get excited. I was thinking of something along the lines of scrambled eggs or grilled-cheese sandwiches.”

“Let’s damn the cholesterol and have both.” She leaned down, gave him a quick kiss. “Thanks. I’m going to grab a shower.”

WHEN she came out, comfortable in sweats, he was in the kitchen, pouring eggs into one skillet while sandwiches browned in another, and the dog inhaled a bowl of kibble.

He was missing the frilly apron, Dana noted, but all in all, he made a hell of a picture.

“Look at Mr. Domestic.”

“Even living in New York, it pays to be able to throw an emergency meal together. You want to get out plates?”

New York, she thought, as she opened a cabinet. It wouldn’t do to forget the guy lived in New York and wasn’t going to be making her grilled-cheese sandwiches on a regular basis.

She pushed the thought away, set the table, and added a couple of candles for the fun of it.

“Nice,” she said over the first bite when they’d settled down. “Really, thanks.”

“My mother used to make me grilled-cheese sandwiches when I was feeling out of sorts.”

“They’re comforting—the toasty bread, the butter, the warm, melty cheese.”

“Mmm. Look, if you’re interested in my hands doing more than driving you wild with passion, I can give you some time tomorrow.”

“If you’ve got it.”

“I’d have come by today, but I had homework.” He pointed toward the envelope he’d dropped when he’d come in.

“Oh. You wrote everything up.”

“Think I got it all. You can look it over, see if I left anything out.”

“Cool.” She got up, hurried across the room to fetch the envelope.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s impolite to read at the table?”

“Certainly not.” Tossing back her hair, she settled back down. “It’s never impolite to read.” She tapped out the pages, surprised to see how many there were. “Busy boy.”