She wasn’t just an interesting, attractive woman. She was Laurel. Tough and funny, smart and resilient Laurel McBane. She had so many of the qualities he admired in a woman—and all in one sexy package.

All these years, he mused, he’d considered that package off-limits. Now that she—he—they, he decided, had torn down the restrictions, he wanted her more than he’d anticipated.

It added another reason for the wait.

Impulse was great; he was a fan of acting on impulse. But not when it came to someone who mattered as much as she did, and on so many complicated levels. Slow and sensible, he reminded himself. It was working, wasn’t it? In a short amount of time they’d learned things about each other neither of them had explored in all the years they’d known each other.

They’d spent the holiday together as they’d spent countless others—but in a whole new light, with an entirely different approach. That was the sort of thing they needed to do more of before they took the next step.

He was fine with it; he was good with it.

He wondered if the month would ever end.

Swim, he ordered himself an instant before the banging on his front door, the insistent buzzing of his bell, had him rushing back through the house.

Sharp claws of panic ripped viciously through his gut at his first glimpse of Laurel, winded, wide-eyed, and flushed.

“Was there an accident? Parker.” He grabbed her, checking for injuries even as his mind jumped forward. “Call nine-one-one, and I’ll go—”

“No. No accident. It’s fine. Everyone’s fine.” She waved him back, sucking in a breath. “Here’s the thing. You can’t count today, and it’s actually tomorrow, so you can’t count that. Or the first day, because it’s the first.”

“What? Are you okay? Where’s everyone? What happened?”

“Nothing happened; I came back.” She held up one hand as if to calm him and shoved the other through her hair. “It’s just all about the math, really, and today being tomorrow because it’s after midnight. So there’s that. Plus you don’t count weekends. Who counts weekends? Nobody does. Five business days, that’s what they all say.”

Panic throttled down to bafflement. “About what?”

“Everything. Pay attention.” She jabbed a finger at him. “Keep up.”

“Well, I would—could—if I knew what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Listen, okay?” She started to slip out of the sandals she’d changed into after the ball game, but stopped. “This is how it works. You take off the first day and today, and the weekends. That’s like ten days, which is actually two weeks by most definitions.” As the words tumbled out, she gestured, one hand, then the other. “Plus, I don’t think thirty days works when you really meant a month. That’s four weeks. Twenty-eight days—seven times four. It’s just basic math. Then if you take off the two weeks that don’t count due to weekends and whatever, we’re actually behind.”

“Behind wh—Oh.” Understanding brought relief, amusement, and gratitude in one big rush. “Uh-uh. I’m not sure I got all of that. Can you run it by me again?”

“No. I figured it out. Take my word. So I came back because we’re falling behind.”

“Can’t have that, can we?”

“That’s the math. Now we have the multiple choice portion. A, you take me home; B, I call a cab; or C, I stay.”

“Let me think it over. Done.” He grabbed her again, took her mouth with his.

“Correct answer.” She boosted herself up to wrap her legs around his waist. “Definitely the correct answer. You can thank me later for figuring it out.” Her mouth found his again in a hot, urgent kiss. “But now, I’m going crazy. You’d better be going crazy, too.”

“I was thinking about you, and wanting you.” He started up the stairs. “It’s all I could think about. Thank God for the five-business-days rule.”

“It’s industry standard,” she managed as her heart began to pound in her ears again. “We made it too big a deal. The sex. I can’t think straight when I’m obsessing, and I can’t think about anything else but wanting to be with you. I keep thinking about how it’ll be, but I don’t want to think. I just want it to be. I’m talking too much. See? Crazy.”

“Then let’s be.”

When he lowered to the bed with her, her legs tightened around his waist, her hands skimmed down his back and up again. She felt the first twinges of desperation even as their mouths met again. Heat washed over her, spilled into her—so fast, so intense she lost her breath. Too long the waiting, she thought, and the wondering and the wanting.

She gripped his hips, arching up as his teeth scraped lightly down her throat and awoke dozens of nerve endings. She tried to get her hands on the button of his jeans, but he took her wrists, brushed his thumbs over her drumming pulse.

“Too fast.”

“It’s already been forever.”

“What’s a little longer?” He eased back and in the swatch of moonlight began to unbutton her shirt. “I’ve spent a lot of time not looking at you in a certain way. I want to enjoy the looking. And the touching. The tasting.” As he spread her shirt open, his fingers trailed down her skin.

Touching her was like finally understanding a puzzle, seeing for the first time the beauty and complexity of it. The angles of her face, the curves of her body, his now to explore.

When she reached for him, he drew her up so he could slip the shirt aside, taste the smooth skin of strong shoulders. He flicked open the catch of her bra, heard her little gasp before he smoothed the straps off her shoulders. More silky skin pressed to his as she tipped her head back to invite his kiss.

Slow, smoldering, deep with tongues sliding as he lowered her down again to look into those bold blue eyes, as he feathered his fingers over her br**sts. She quivered, and her reaction coiled need, hot and hard, in his belly.

“Let me,” he murmured, and closed his mouth over her breast.

Pleasure seared over her skin and flashed through her body as she gave herself over to his hands, his mouth. He wanted; he took, but inch by scorching, torturous inch, exploiting her vulnerabilities, her longings, as if he knew every secret she held.

“I’ve wanted this. Wanted you,” she murmured.