My god, he’s gorgeous. I start to bend down and he stops me with a kiss.

“Not here. Not yet. You first,” he rasps.

Nick pulls me to my feet and kisses my mouth again. We stumble through my open door. He kicks the door closed and I’m on my back on the couch, my skirt riding up, his face between my legs. There is no pretense here. No quiet flirt, no mixed drink, no spiked coffee and coquettish glances. This is pure, raw energy in sexual form, and we’re drawn to each other’s hot skin like a magnet to iron.

“You’re just as beautiful here as everywhere else,” he says softly, and covers me with his warm mouth, his tongue circling slowly, then faster, fingers pulling my thong to the side, his hot breath nearly enough to send me over the edge, and oh, God, this feels divine. I push my hips forward, abandoning myself to the feeling, familiar and yet completely new, as I feel him smile against me, his attentions both masterful and uninhibited.

Now I know how to make him smile.

I am moaning now, in a language even I don’t understand. The sensation builds, and builds, my fingers tightening in his hair, until it crests and the intense shimmering heat spreads all through me.

And all I want is more of him.

“You’re delicious,” he tells me, continuing his gentle sucking as I shudder, half my mind blown away by the sudden intimacy and craving for ten thousand layers more of this man, the other half shattered into ten thousand pieces of confetti that whirl around like a cyclone of arousal.

“I want you,” I tell him, sitting up, legs weak and thighs wet as I strip out of my t-shirt and he pulls his polo shirt off, our hands frantic, breathing labored.

He steps out of his jeans and, bending down, picks me up in his arms.

“Where is your bed?” he asks.

I point and whisper, “In there.”

Then he’s laying me down and he’s over me, his strong arms on either side, pulling the rest of my clothes off until we’re both gloriously naked, the need to touch like a fever that won’t break.

I open myself to him, then wrap my legs around his waist. He pauses. I reach for my nightstand drawer and open it. He pulls out a condom and takes care of the niceties, then enters me slowly, his eyes locked on mine, and he gasps. I can barely hear his words, but I think I hear him say, “My Chloe.”

Our eyes meet.

“You,” he says as he begins to move, then dips his head down to suck one tight nipple into his mouth.

And then he starts to move. We move together, faster and more urgent, until his breathing changes to something more ragged. He makes his final thrust. With a kind of quiet roar, he explodes into me, and his hot pulsing pushes me into my own climax, matching his.

I am his.

* * *

I wake up slowly, but don’t open my eyes. There are strong arms around my waist and slow, steady, warm breath on my neck.

That is not Minky’s breath.

Oh my god oh my god, it’s Nick!

Lie perfectly still, Chloe, don’t wake him up. Try to breathe like a sleeping person. Sloooowly. I just want this moment to last, like forever, and if he wakes up he will grab his clothes and run out the door and I’ll be left here making one cup of coffee and trying to smell his scent on the bed pillows. Again.

Or—wait—that was Joe.

But dammit, I have to pee.

And brush my teeth. My mouth tastes like cat box. I can’t stand it.

But if I move, he’ll wake up and this moment will be over.

My leg is asleep. I can only feel vaguely uncomfortable pinpricks. I need to shift, but if I move…

Concentrate on how wonderful his skin smells. Concentrate on the feeling of being held. Relax and concentrate on his breathing.

I can’t. I really have to pee.

Maybe if I slowly inch my way out of bed, not moving the mattress at all, and silently slip to the bathroom, and gently close the door so the latch doesn’t click, and…

This is ridiculous.

I am an adult.

A slightly hungover adult.

Tequila.

Sigh.

I stand up. And almost fall down from my tingling leg.

Nick stirs, and stretches. He opens one eye and smiles sleepily.

“Hurry back,” is all he says.

Oh, I hurry. Yes I do. Dash to bathroom, pee, brush teeth, wipe off last night’s lipstick, brush hair, little spritz of perfume on all the places that count. All of them.

Takes me thirty seconds, tops.

Sliding back into warm, sex-smelling sheets and feeling your lover’s skin welcoming yours, with nowhere else to be and time to spare, is the greatest luxury known to a woman. This is exactly the experience that O tries to approximate for every client. And we can’t even come close to the real thing.

His breathing evens out as he slips back into sleep and I curl in his arms, relaxing in a way that is new. No man has spent the night in my bed in a very long time. Joe never did. His wife would wonder. Even when I suggested he pretend he was on a business trip, he always had an excuse.

The slimy ones always do, right?

It’s daylight, and I’m entirely sober now. I can really look at Nick, see the muscles in his shoulders and his ass, see where the hair on his chest begins and ends, see how he responds to every touch. His face is relaxed in sleep, light brown hair mixed with dark blond and a little silver, with that slight coloring at the temples that makes him look distinguished. His beard stubble has more grey than brown, and I want to lick his lips. He tasted so good last night.

He was so good last night.

I sigh, his arms tightening around me, and I find my mind sinking into a soft place I never go, a place where I just am. I’m not a design director, not a mother-to-be, not a mistress, not a daughter.

I get to be me.

And as I fall back asleep, I wonder if Nick feels what I feel, too.

Nick

I haven’t woken up with a woman’s ass curled against my front in a long, long time.

I’ve forgotten how good it feels.

Chloe is soft in slumber, her skin golden and relaxed, fine bones angular and artistic in the morning light. She’s breathing deeply, slowly, her body loose. I sit up just enough to look over her shoulder and see the sheet is my friend, her breasts peeking out, uncovered. She smells like her verbena perfume, the scent so strong that I wonder if she sprayed herself earlier, when she got up for a moment.

I slept over. In a woman’s bed. She’s beside me.