the boyfriend experience

Tucked in among the junk mail, a catalog partially wrapped around it, the heavy ivory envelope is still unmistakable. The return address written in careful calligraphy across the envelope flap is in Bayport, New York.

Nancy's stomach sinks. She leaves the handful of junk mail on the small table beside the door and flinches when her keys hit the kitchen table, missing her purse by inches. Her apartment is cluttered, every surface smeared with a fine layer of dust. When she opens her refrigerator, she finds only two already-opened bottles of water and a tub of diet margarine. Her freezer is crammed with low-calorie microwave meals she can't bring herself to eat.

The view, though... She picks up one of the bottles and strolls to the window, leaving her heels behind her as she uncaps the water. The layout of her apartment is good, but the view is why she chose it. Below her, headlights blur and streetlights glow orange. She can see the shadowy border of the park. It's true; New York City never sleeps.

For the first time in a long time, she feels the ghost of arms around her, the memory of an embrace. The apartment clean for fear he would comment on it; the scent of freshly brewed coffee in the air, and golden sunlight warm against her skin, her heart warmed by his proximity.

She's not shocked to receive the wedding invitation, just a little surprised. As far as he's concerned, maybe there's no reason to be self-conscious about it. They're still friends; that was part of the deal. But so much has changed for her.

She can say no. Make up some excuse. Anything other than the truth. She just doesn't think her heart can take seeing him again. She spent so long breaking herself of him, rearranging her life to fill the hole he left behind. Seeing him again, she's almost sure, will rip the wound wide open again.

She would rather do almost anything else.

--

Melanie Harris gives her the idea, in a way.

"Girl. You need to get fucked."

Nancy glances down at her martini glass, the delicate frost of condensation cold against her fingertips, before she chuckles. Mel's lashes are dark, fringing intelligent emerald-green eyes. Her slate-gray dress is form-fitting, leaving her cream-smooth muscular arms and legs on display. On a less vivacious woman, the outfit would be unremarkable. Instead, the dress emphasizes the woman beneath, her shining auburn hair and confident smile.

If anyone is catching admiring glances in the crowded bar, she knows it's Mel. Nancy wears a black satin sheath dress, the skirt sewn with sequins. Her shoes are strappy high heels, and diamonds sparkle from her earlobes. Her heart is too shamefully bruised to let her notice anyone around them, much less flirt.

"Is that an offer?"

Mel's earnest expression becomes a thousand-watt grin. "Don't tell me. One more martini and you might be open to a little experimentation?"

Nancy chuckles. "Not that desperate, Mel. Not yet, anyway."

"So get back on the horse. I'll play wingman. We'll get some hot guy over here and offer him a threesome. By the time he realizes it's just you, you'll be on top of him, getting the ride of your life."

Nancy takes a long sip of her martini. "Good try."

Mel sighs. "How long's it been? Two years, now?"

Two years, three months. Nancy just shrugs in agreement. "So I just need to get back on the horse, huh. Literally."

Mel nods. "I know you've been on dates..."

"And it just didn't work." It will never be the way it was with him. She might find someone else, but it just hasn't been important.

"Tell me he wasn't the last guy you slept with."

"Practically," Nancy admits.

Mel gesticulates, releasing a dramatic sigh, tipping her head back. "Oooh, that reminds me. Speaking of people who can't get laid... no offense."

"None taken." Well, a little taken. She could get laid; she just doesn't see the point.

"Nat was having trouble getting back on the horse after J.J. left her--"

Of course she had. Natalie had been married for eight years, and her husband had left her for a tanned secretary five years younger than she was.

"--and she hired this amazing escort. Like, incredible, apparently."

Nancy's eyebrows rise. "She's switched teams?"

"No, no. Male escort. Expensive and very exclusive. He even said that he had to meet with her before he'd agree to a 'session.' That's what Nat told me."

Nancy finishes her martini in a long gulp, a faint grimace twisting her lips at the end. "I'm kind of shocked she would even talk about it," she admits.

"It was that great, apparently. Nat said she asked for the 'boyfriend experience,' and he did everything. Not just the sex part, which was apparently fucking fantastic--talking to her, complimenting her, making her feel good. And then it's done. He walks away with some cash and you walk away knowing you didn't break some pathetic nice guy's heart with rebound sex." Mel dunks a tempura-fried mushroom in sauce and pops it into her mouth, licking her fingertip in a way that would spike a guy's internal temperature at least ten degrees.

"'You'?" Nancy repeats.

Mel shrugs. "Anyone. But it sounds like just what you need." Mel lowers her voice. "He was an asshole, girl. After what he did to you..."

Nancy glances down at the table. She can't count the number of times she's heard some version of this. "Yeah," she murmurs. It's not that she doesn't know; it's that her heart apparently hasn't caught up with her head.

"So hire some fancy escort, the kind of guy who won't give you chlamydia. Let him shower you with affection and fuck you senseless. It'll be like an exorcism or something." Mel waves a slender hand.

"Of my vagina."

"Exactly." Mel grins. "Just what Dr. Harris orders."

--

Nancy doesn't think about it again until the next time she's home for more than twelve hours. Her hair's tied back, the music's turned up, and she's determined to make a clean sweep of it, of everything. Including that drawer where she threw everything right after the breakup. Under the credit card offers and sales flyers so old their edges are curling and discolored, she finds the invitation again.

We request the favor of a response. Let us know if you will be accompanied by a guest.

A guest. She snickers at the idea. Going alone is bad; going with a sympathetic friend seems worse. Yeah, I've never gotten over you. How's the shrimp cocktail? That suit looks great on you, by the way.

There was a time when she would have taken him back in a heartbeat. She's spent so long breaking that part of herself, but she knows it's still there. She just has to see that handsome smile and those gorgeous eyes gazing with love at another woman, or opening wide with recognition when he sees her, and she fears all that time will melt away and her heart will be freshly broken again.

It would be easier if she could go with a date. Thanks for breaking up with me--it left me free to find the love of my life. Who is better than you in every conceivable way. Oh, how perfect, to show up with a handsome man, hinting that they're thinking of making it permanent soon too, letting a suggestive palm linger on her belly as they murmur about how much they love each other.

It's part of what she does, in her job. She consults with security firms, partners with private investigators, takes on some smaller cases. Half the time she's using a cover identity, pretending she's someone else. For a split second, she thinks of the guys she's worked with in the past, guys who do well undercover--and then she snickers again at how foolish she's being. She would be mortified to ask one of them to be her pity date. For her, it won't be an identity, a persona she can take off. Because he knew her. As thoroughly as that breaks her heart, he knew her, and maybe in some way he still does. He'll see her misery and her longing.

And he'll never come back to her. She can throw herself at him, but it's done. And she can't rewrite the past. She knows herself, and she wouldn't feel comfortable taking a guy she had only dated a few times to the wedding. She has no time, no time to find anyone. To find a boyfriend.

Mel's words come back to her. Maybe she does need a night of crazy no-strings-attached sex. A night of the boyfriend experience, as Nat apparently rhapsodized over.

Or a weekend of it. Once she actually opens the invitation, she finds a smaller card inside. The honor of her presence is also requested at the rehearsal dinner, and at a cookout for close friends and family two days before that.

An entire weekend--half a week, almost--of being around him, hoping the ground will swallow her up before he meets her eyes again. It's a nightmare. It's more than she can possibly endure.

The boyfriend experience.

The idea is even more ludicrous than the last. Hiring some smug, self-satisfied pretty boy who sees himself as God's gift to women to accompany her to the wedding. Her ex seeing through it, and looking at her with even more pity, knowing she's had to pay someone to come with her. It is mortifying. The idea is stupid.

And yet she can't stop thinking about it, worrying it, studying every facet when she's trying to sleep, while she's waiting for water to boil--she's trying to eat healthier, cook at home more often without letting it all go bad--or while she's waiting for a message to come through. A man who will give her everything she asks for, everything she needs--and of course at least a decent fuck; she would be disappointed otherwise. It would be getting back on the horse, in a way. Maybe it would inspire her to find someone else, to finally move on. That, if nothing else, seems worth it.

She can't believe she's considering hiring an escort. She just can't believe it.

When she was eighteen, still living at her father's house in River Heights, all of this would have seemed impossible. All her life had been in front of her, and she had wanted all it could offer: she had wanted a grand romance, a man to sweep her off her feet, who wanted to build a life with her, who could accept her. She moved to New York to pursue her dreams, to solve mysteries and help people, and for a little while, she had been able to imagine how it might be. With him.

In her big, silent bed, with her eyes closed, she can still feel his arms around her, his breath against her hair. She can feel the echo of perfect joy, so exhilarating and pure. That feeling of being home. She hasn't felt it in so long. Hiring a skilled liar won't change anything.

Then why can't she let it go? She remembers Mel's words, that Nat had needed to pass a preliminary meeting before she could even have her "session." To be rejected by a man of negotiable affection seems worse than any other possible rejection.

The sex was fucking fantastic.

Nancy rolls onto her side, closing her eyes. Fantastic sex. It's been so damn long.

It can't hurt to contact whoever Nat had so glowingly recommended. With her luck, the guy will be booked that weekend, and that's that. She'll reply to the invitation with a heartfelt thanks and an excuse. And she will continue pointedly not thinking of him, just as she's done so many nights before.

Maybe it would be good to see him. See if there's anything left. Walk away.

Without someone to pull her back, though, she knows she will drown.

--

Strike one: The guy Nat apparently rhapsodized over is unavailable.

Once Nancy screwed up her courage enough--and had enough to drink--to ask Mel to find out the name, she had been disappointed to find out that the glowing recommendation had been for nothing. The escort had recommended someone else, though, and that particular one was available to meet with her.

That set off warning bells. At least she could have, maybe, if drunk enough, talked to Nat about her experience. Now she can't. That fractional reassurance is gone. She hadn't even been conscious that anything could change how completely unreal and reckless this feels.

Strike two: The restaurant is La Comtesse.

She knows why he picked it, and she agreed, but she's also tense as soon as she walks in. The last time she was here, it was with her Aunt Eloise and Eloise's husband Seth, her father and her stepmother Avery, and--her ex. He had fed her bites of his entree and they had split a dessert. Her father had made a comment after that when they were alone, about how the next gift her boyfriend gave her might be a diamond.

It's strange. Now that he's no longer in her life, the loneliness is acute, almost physically painful, but it's given her more time to devote to her career and everything else she loves. Her life swells to fill the space. After years of setting her own schedule, making her own choices without having to consider anyone else... oh, maybe it's cold comfort, but it is comforting.

Sometimes, for a second or two, she can convince herself that it would never have lasted between them. There was no diamond in their future, no commitment to bind them. Else they would still be together. This has to be for the best.

Doesn't it?

It's when she's winding down in her bed at night that she's sure it's not. They should still be together. Everything would feel right if he was still sharing her bed and her life. In the morning that weakness passes, but for those fragile hours, she's someone else, someone who misses him more than words.

She arrives three minutes early, not wanting to seem too eager for this. She wanted to go home and change, but she wears what she wore to work: black pants, sensible heels, a jewel-toned turquoise button-down in a satiny fabric. She wears no jewelry other than small diamond studs, and she refreshed her makeup a little during the cab ride, but this is who she is. And if she can't be herself when hiring a prostitute, when can she?

"Ah, yes. Right this way." The hostess smiles and leads Nancy to one of the curtained booths, the murmur of conversation, clink of glasses and silverware, and laughter all around them. She smells cream sauce, garlic, seared meat.

She's three minutes early. He was early enough to already be seated.

Their walk is all too short and then the hostess is pulling back the curtain to allow Nancy in, and her heart skips a beat. Escort, escort, she reminds herself. She can't call him a prostitute.

Dark hair, head down, bespoke suit--and she's surprised, but what was she expecting, a mesh shirt and leather pants, gold chains and an almost visible cloud of cheap cologne? She's ashamed to admit to herself that she was, a little. The candlelight flickers golden off his heavy, tasteful watch. A small black notebook is open in front of him on the table, neat slanted handwriting in flowing black strokes. She takes her seat, but not before he brings his head up and rises. It reminds Nancy of when her father pulls her seat out for her, making sure she's seated before he is. Her eyebrows rise slightly, but she tries to make her face impassive when he sits down and looks into her eyes.

Her lips part. Her eyes widen. All thought of looking like a sophisticated, unflappable woman negotiating a somewhat distasteful business transaction goes out the window.

No wonder he's--in this profession. He is the most gorgeous man she has ever seen. There's no contest.

His eyes are a deep, rich brown, long-lashed, observant and intelligent. His nose is perfect, with no telltale bump or ridge. His cheekbones are high, his jawline strong. He looks like he's four or five years older than she is, confident and at home in his own skin, unashamed and at peace with himself. He's classically handsome, and yet it's more than that. He's just--

Her body hums. There's no other word for it.

"Miss Drew."

"Mr. Chandler."

He reaches for her hand and she shakes it. At the touch of his skin against hers--fuck, do all his clients feel this? This sheer, almost terrifying animal magnetism. She doesn't know him, and she's felt attracted to strangers before, but nothing of this magnitude. Nothing so immediate, so undeniable.

And his poker face is complete. Or that unspeakably handsome, impassive expression really does represent his true feelings.

"It's a pleasure to meet you."

She nods. "You too," she says, somehow keeping her voice even.

He smiles, then grins. Straight white teeth. Her knees would buckle if she were standing.

If she wants, if her entire goal is to make her ex jealous, he's perfect.

Their server arrives, and the impossibly handsome man across from her asks with his eyebrows if she's interested in a bottle of wine, as a few are suggested. She agrees, hoping it will help her relax. They spend the next few minutes in silence, looking over the menu and deciding on their meals. She's relieved to place her order, so they can get down to business.

It's not that she's afraid of him, not exactly. She's just overwhelmed by what he provokes in her; she hopes it will be different next time, that she'll be herself again. She hasn't felt like a lovestruck teenager since she actually was one.

The wine, once it arrives, is sublime. She's not surprised that his taste is this good. His entire demeanor, his outfit, his perfect but not overfussed hair... he's an entire package, and the presentation is flawless.

"So tell me the situation. I understand that you're looking for the boyfriend experience?"

She fights the ridiculous urge to glance at the curtain. The server is putting in their entree orders, and won't be back for a while. No one can see them, and as long as their voices are even and conversational, no one is going to overhear them or be curious about what they're discussing. She knows well how a whisper can be just as obvious as a shout.

"Yes," she says. She glances down, clears her throat; she's not quite wringing her hands under the table surface, but almost. This is ridiculous. I'm hiring him. It's a business transaction.

But she's only hiring him if he agrees to it. He can turn her down. Reject her.

And she has no idea how to impress him. She doesn't know what's important to him. What will make him say yes. She's frightened by how much she wants him to say yes. To cover, she takes a long sip of wine and feels a shallow wave of warmth slide down her chest.

"Um. My ex--he'll be at a wedding I'm invited to. I... I'm not with anyone." She shrugs, a sardonic expression on her face as she puts her glass down. Obviously she's not, or they wouldn't be here. "I don't want to go alone."

"So we're talking about the wedding..."

"The wedding and reception after. The rehearsal dinner. A cookout two days before that."

"Three or four days."

"Four. It's in New York state, but I'll be expected to stay around the family... I mean, unless you have--something going on, we could say that you have a work emergency..." She realizes that she's babbling and takes another sip of wine.

And then his dark, incredibly gorgeous eyes fix on hers, searching hers. "Would you prefer I accompany you for all four days?"

She swallows and nods. God. She hasn't felt this unsettled or out of her comfort zone in quite some time. She would almost feel some grudging respect for him, if she wasn't so disturbed.

"The date?"

"June seventh through tenth. Although I don't know how long the reception will be. Maybe I need to--" She falters, not sure how to say it.

"Noon on the seventh through noon on the eleventh?" A faint smile curves the corners of his mouth. He has full, handsome lips. She wonders about how they taste, how they will feel--how they might feel. He'll be her date for the wedding, but that doesn't mean more.

"Yes."

He makes a notation on the off-white page. "Tell me about your ex."

Nancy swallows. "He's a detective, like me," she says. "Um... he's my age. Handsome. What is it that you want to know?"

"How did it end between the two of you? How did it begin? How long was the relationship? What was his favorite position in bed? Did you two have special places, a special song, other sentimentally important events?"

She flushes when he mentions sex, even so politely, and crosses her arms. "You haven't said yet that you'll accept this," she says, searching his serene expression. "And those questions are very..."

He lets her trail off without saving her, taking his own sip of wine. He's far more comfortable in the silence than she is. "If it helps, as long as you're amenable to the terms, I'll take the job," he says. "We have good chemistry; I don't think we'd have any problem convincing anyone we're attracted to each other. But giving you that kind of experience when it's just the two of us, spending a slow lazy weekend in your apartment, is different. Convincing not just you, not just your ex, but his family too--if you're invited to a wedding, we're talking about people who know you and the two of you, and they're supposed to believe that we're in a relationship. We can talk about this later, but trust me, sooner is better." He smiles, and the smile reaches his eyes. "Unless he's a terrible detective."

"He's a very good one," she says, almost grudgingly. "The terms?"

"The agreement is that I accompany you, that I'm your escort at social functions. We don't have to share a room, but it sounds like the scenario you describe would be better served that way. You tell me how you want me to act: solicitous and eager to please, possessive and jealous, macho and borderline alcoholic. If you want me to be paying attention just to other women, or only and always to you.

"If we're convincing your ex that we're really a couple... then we need to go on dates before the wedding. Have some fun experiences together that we can take pictures of and talk about, post online like a trail of proof. We'll each pay our own way, so it's not part of what you're hiring me for, specifically. Just preparation. A kind of rehearsal. It's not required, but I'd recommend it.

"For those four days, at the wedding, you have me entirely. When we're alone together and when we're around other people. Four whole days. We can share the bed if you want."

He leans forward, pausing, making sure her attention is entirely on him. When he speaks again, his voice is still even and conversational, though she hears a quiet edge in it. "Sex isn't included in our agreement. If we sleep together, the decision to do that will be consensual and protected. And if we decide to have sex, I will do absolutely everything in my power to make sure you enjoy it."

The blush that has been heating her chest rises in her face. He has to give her that disclaimer; she understands that. Telling her that she's paying him for sex would break the rules they both know they're skirting.

He's searching her eyes again. "But if you want me to do a good job, I need to know your history with him. If the point is to make him jealous, there are definitely ways I can do that. But imagine how embarrassing it would be if I slipped and brought you--a dish of black olives, and your ex knows you hate them."

"Black olives?"

He shrugs, and in a flash she knows it. "Just an example," he says.

He hates black olives. She makes a mental note.

We have good chemistry. Recalling his words sends an anxious feeling through her belly, anxious and stupidly hopeful. Maybe that electricity she felt when he touched her hand wasn't just on her end.

What does it matter? I'm being ridiculous.

"Okay," she admits, hoping her blush is fading some. It seems mortifying to be self-conscious about sex in front of someone in his line of work. "So if I'm gonna be filling out some exhaustive inventory of likes and dislikes, you'll be doing that too, right?"

He smiles. "It's incredibly unlikely that anyone there will know me," he points out. "It won't matter if you slip."

"You're that good an actor."

"Of course." His smile comes back. "It's part of the job."

"So it's like undercover work," she says, and she doesn't even realize that she relaxes a little. "You just kind of lose yourself in the role. Make yourself into--the person you're asked to be."

"Do you do undercover work?"

She nods before realizing it might be a double entendre, but his gaze seems open and sincere, not mocking. "It is fun, to pretend to be someone else for a little while. You'd probably make a great operative..."

She sees his expression relax slightly. "Oh?"

"Well... except... no. The best operative is a guy--or woman--who can fade into a crowd without anyone noticing. Someone with a forgettable face. And that, you definitely don't have."

His grin returns. "Then you must have the same problem."

She chuckles. "Definitely not."

The server arrives with their salads, and Nancy is grateful; she needs something in her stomach besides the wine. Her date offers her the bread basket before selecting his own roll and buttering it.

"Part of dating before the wedding will be getting comfortable with each other. Some women need that... and it will make it easier for both of us. You'll already be under stress."

She tilts her head, swallowing a bite of bread as he forks up a bite of salad. It's hard to turn off the part of her mind that evaluates the people around her, trying to judge when they're lying, if they're revealing something sensitive or useful. She can see that he's right; if they're going to convince her ex and his family that she's really dating this man, they need to be comfortable and relatively relaxed around each other.

A silence falls over them as they eat their salads; she finds that she's famished suddenly. He's pushed his small notebook to the side, the cover closed, and she wonders what's inside. Notes about all his clients, maybe... although it reminds her of something. She's kept similar notebooks herself, on cases.

He's still chasing a bite of tomato around the bowl when Nancy puts her fork down and pushes the finished plate to the side. "So, the notebook?"

He smiles slightly, waiting until he's swallowed the bite of tomato to answer her. "Just to keep everything straight in my head. I doubt I'll have any trouble remembering anything about you, but it's good to have."

"I knew a few people who kept notebooks like that. They made notes about people they watched... studying for roles."

Something shifts very slightly in his eyes, something wary and watchful. "Which is pretty much what I'm doing," he admits. "It's a role."

"Of course."

"Some of my clients--don't quite get that. For as long as I'm on the job--under contract, on the clock, however you want to think of it--I play the role. I try to do a good job of it. The second the clock strikes midnight--or whatever time--" He snaps his fingers. "Cinderella's coach is a pumpkin. I'm off the clock."

"So you're a little too persuasive and convincing, sometimes?"

He shrugs. "I know many lonely women," he says, reaching for his wine glass. "It feels good to be around someone who seems to genuinely care. I understand that. This, what you want... it may be more like a game. Pulling one over on a guy who would naturally be suspicious. I like the challenge of it. And once the wedding's over..."

"We go back to our lives." How pathetic, how lonely those women's lives must be, that they can find no one else. That they have to pay for companionship.

"So that's why you wanted to meet with me? To see if it would just be a variation on a theme, or something that would pique your interest?"

His smile becomes a grin again. "To be completely honest with you... I have a full slate right now. Regulars and the equivalent of a waiting list. I'm not looking for any new... 'business,' as it were. In fact..."

She raises her eyebrow, taking another bite of bread.

"I've been made a very generous offer. To be exclusive with one client."

"Sounds like a relationship." Why is my heart pounding? Why?

He shrugs. "It's hard to have a relationship where money's changing hands," he says, but he doesn't sound bitter or frustrated by it.

"Wouldn't you want to have one, though? A real one?"

His lips quirk up again. "Just a few minutes ago you were accusing me of asking impertinent questions... which you still haven't answered."

"Touche." She doesn't want to enjoy their repartee as much as she does. "All right. If I'd just wanted a night of crazy sex that wouldn't have been interesting to you. Got it."

"Depends on your definition of 'crazy.'"

Then they're both grinning, and that fascinating, disturbing electricity is back.

For the rest of their meal, they dance around the topics they don't want to discuss. She wonders if he thinks she's being coy or just a prude, when she doesn't want to share her sexual history with him. She wonders if he's intentionally trying to pique her interest, by revealing only tidbits about himself, tantalizingly brief glimpses. Maybe the man behind the facade isn't all that interesting, but he wants to be, and this mystery is all he truly has to keep him that way. But she doubts it.

Once they've signed their checks and she's strangely dreading the end of their time together, he glances up at her, fixing that intense dark-eyed gaze on her face. "Do you need a ride home?"

"I'll just get a cab. No problem."

He nods, still studying her. "All right. As to our first... practice date. Two Saturdays from now, are you free?"

She pulls her cell phone out of her bag, checking her calendar. "Um... all day, or...?"

"Mmm--brunch to early afternoon. If you're free we could meet, grab a meal, do something fun. Start getting to know each other."

"I take it Saturday night..."

"I won't be available."

Sleeping with someone else. This Saturday and next Saturday night, he will be in someone else's arms. Giving another woman the boyfriend experience, then walking out a cypher.

She feels mingled pity, disgust, and awe. She can't imagine living a life like that. Of course she slips into and out of undercover roles all the time, but she's not giving her body. She's not sharing that kind of intimacy with--a stranger.

He'll always be a stranger to her. Just like she shares so little of herself with the people she dupes on her cases. She shares enough of herself to make it seem genuine, but that's all.

He's an escort and this is a game. She doesn't know why it seems so hard to remember that.

"Two Saturdays from now, it is."

He reaches for her hand and brushes a kiss against her knuckles, then releases it. Oh, she knows the magnetism, the pure unadulterated attraction she feels to him is all part of the role he's playing, but it feels real. So fucking real.

"Until I see you again. Nancy."

At least five times in the following two weeks, Nancy considers calling everything off, telling the escort that she's changed her mind. Three of those times, she goes so far as to pick up her cell phone and begin to type the message.

A dozen reasons stay her hand. The thought of attending the wedding alone and seeing Frank there, and feeling completely exposed, completely without armor. Not attending the wedding--and resigning herself to a more and more circumscribed life, away from the people she used to care about. She's not used to backing down from a challenge, and this is definitely a challenge, even if it's only one she's issued herself.

And--him. Mr. Chandler, whatever his true name is, is a mystery all in himself. During idle hours at work she very nearly starts to look him up. Did he have a terrible childhood, or is he nursing a terribly broken heart? Was he a cocky fraternity boy who banged his way through every sorority at his college and discovered an insatiable appetite? His accent is pleasant, almost non-regional. She doesn't think he's a native New Yorker.

The thought of being around him again makes her knees weak. The thought of not being around him again makes it worse.

In all her life she's never felt this attraction to anyone else. She fears it, and she's fascinated by it. And Mel told her to live a little, after all.

She dresses as his text suggested, in an outfit appropriate for jogging in Central Park. She pulls her hair back into a high ponytail and puts on tight black leggings, a sky-blue tank top edged in black with a built-in bra that clings to her as tightly as the leggings, and a zip-up hoodie. Maybe he just wants to see her in revealing clothes, to see if he's attracted to her or not. She's not sure that's much of a concern, or what he intends for their "date" to be.

Her stomach is doing regular sickening somersaults as she takes the metro stop at 86th and jogs the half-mile to the Met, weaving around groups of tourists and people strolling to and from the museum, dodging shopping bags and strollers. The sky is clear, and soon enough she's warm even in her thin clothes. It feels good to run. But her steps falter when she remembers her destination and who will be waiting for her there. She's not sure she wants to meet him glowing with sweat, loose strands of her reddish-gold hair stuck to her temples.

His message said he will be waiting for her near the Alice statue. He didn't bother saying what he'll be wearing, but Nancy can't imagine that she'll miss him. She's thought about him an embarrassing number of times, and come close to fantasizing about him, as appalled as she is by the idea. His promise that she would enjoy their lovemaking doesn't seem idle. She has no intention of taking him up on it, though.

Well. Not much intention of it.

He's standing near the statue. Parents carrying children, pushing strollers, guiding toddlers by the hand, are on the path, gazing up at the statue or heading toward the duck pond nearby. On the sidewalk far above them, crowds of tourists flow to and from the Met.

How they aren't all stopped and staring at him, Nancy doesn't know.

Meeting him at the restaurant, she had only a fleeting sense of the size of him, just an impression of tall, muscular stature. He's incredibly fit. Tall, broad-shouldered, his torso tapering slightly to his waist. She can just make out the indentation of his abs through the fabric of his shirt, or maybe she's just imagining it, a six-pack that would make her mouth water to see it.

He smiles when he sees her, and she feels that same weak-kneed rush of hyperconsciousness. He's also holding a leash, a leash attached to a beautiful golden retriever.

Or at least the leash seems to be attached. As soon as she sees the dog, it's bounding toward her, panting happily. He rushes after the dog, moving what seems to be effortlessly.

"Hey," Nancy says, crouching down. The dog does its best to tackle her and lick her face, and she struggles to stay upright, laughing. He arrives a moment later and Nancy looks up at him, her eyes still dancing.

"Did you lose something?"

"Apparently," he replies with a chuckle. "Hang on... do you mind if I take a picture of you with Sandy?"

Nancy raises an eyebrow.

"It's nothing--bad. You'll see."

She's still feeling a little suspicious, but she's mid-laugh when the flash on his camera goes off. "It's for a paper trail," he explains. "Evidence. This is how we met."

She studies him again, in grudging admiration. She's had cover identities before, but she's never gone to those kinds of lengths--but part of this is fooling Frank, and they'll need all the help they can get. "Good idea. So this isn't your dog, is it."

He shakes his head. "I'm not at home enough to take care of a dog. I borrowed him. Gorgeous, isn't he."

Nancy nods and slowly stands again as he leashes the dog. "And told him to run up to me."

"He didn't seem to need much encouragement."

Nancy smiles briefly. Her heart is beating too fast again, and he doesn't break the silence that falls between them. "So... Mr. Chandler."

"Uh--Ned. Why don't you call me Ned."

She nods. "That's an interesting name."

They fall into step together, walking down the path. His heathered-gray shirt emphasizes his muscular frame. His hair looks like it's just been trimmed. Then he turns to glance at her as they walk side by side, and her next step almost falters. Her heart's in her throat.

She's being ridiculous. She's being--like Bess.

Oh, God. If Bess finds out what she's doing... she'll fly to New York within the next three hours and demand to be told every detail, probably over cocktails. Mel suspects something, but keeping a secret from Mel feels like a game. It would hurt Bess's feelings, though.

All of this is a game. What is between them is a game, and that's all. His staging a meet-cute for the two of them just cements that.

"So, detective. Have you looked me up yet?"

"Thought about it," she admits. "If there's a textbook way to make me curious, you followed it."

"Well, like we've said, it's more important for me to know about you," he points out. "So let's play a game. Two truths and a lie."

She's feeling more comfortable around him than she did last time, but she can still feel that it's dangerous for the two of them to be anywhere near each other. She can't explain it. The danger is its own seduction, though. "You'll just volunteer it...?"

He shrugs. "You could ask me questions..." he says, although he sounds less confident when he says that.

The corner of her mouth comes up. "Perfect," she says. "Okay. What is Ned short for? What do you do when you aren't... doing this? And what's your favorite color?"

"Hmm. Edward, go to school, and green."

"'Edward' was the lie. Your turn."

Ned's eyebrows rise. "Oh, so that's how it is. Okay. Why did you and the ex break up? What's your idea of a perfect date? And what's your favorite color?"

"Ummm... we just grew apart. My perfect date would involve both going out and doing something exciting, and spending some time alone together, in private. Like going to a music festival or going skydiving and then relaxing on the couch for a while. And... blue."

"So that's not why you broke up. Okay."

She glances at him, keeping her expression even. "Isn't that why everyone breaks up?" she asks innocently. "Growing apart, and occasionally ending up on top of other people while you're both naked?"

"There is always that."

"How many women have you slept with? What's your favorite kind of food? And what are you going to school for?"

He looks down at the dog for a moment. "Just keep in mind I'll be following your lead now, Nan. I've slept with eight women, not while on the clock. Japanese, and... counseling."

She's blushing slightly, but she can't look away from his face. "Eight. Hmm. So what is it really, Mexican? Chinese?"

"Mmm. Not your turn."

Eight women. So her theory about his undergrad exploits is wrong. The number even feels low to her, considering his age and how drop-dead gorgeous he is. And she would never have guessed counseling for his major.

"What's your favorite kind of food? What's your favorite position in bed?" She feels a sudden pulse of arousal between her thighs--which is likely exactly what he wants. Damn her sports bra, which hides so little. "And when's the last time you had an orgasm?"

That light blush becomes far more. She's sure her cheeks are tomato-red now. "I... almost anything, honestly. When it comes to food. In bed--" She can't help it; she wants to get back at him. "Sixty-nine while I'm tied up. As for orgasm, it's been... last Wednesday."

"Okay. That's not what you like in bed."

She tentatively touches her flaming cheek. "How do you know?"

He shrugs. "I do a lot of observing people. And the tone of your voice changes slightly when you lie."

"Like yours."

He glances at her while smiling. Her heart skips a beat and she misses a step, and he reaches out to help steady her.

"Sorry," she mutters. She's weightless and tingling at his touch, suddenly so energized that her heart is in her throat.

He draws his hand back and glances down at the dog. "So, your turn."

She ponders for a moment. "Why did you and your ex break up? What's your least favorite thing to do in bed? And... where would you retire to, if money were no object?"

"We grew apart," he says, parroting back her answer. "There's nothing off the table in bed. And I think I'd like to be near the water when I'm retired. Either warm or cold."

She wants to reach for his hand. She doesn't know why, but she thinks his first answer is half a lie, and that makes sense--it could very well be that his girlfriend couldn't reconcile herself to his job. Nancy can understand that. She doesn't think she could seriously date a guy who was fucking other women for money.

And he didn't really answer her second question. She wonders what he's done that he doesn't like, in bed.

"Did you grow up near water?"

He hesitates, and for a second she thinks he will shrug off her question to ask his own. "Yeah," he murmurs. "Enough about me."

She laughs. "That was barely anything. Okay, this is our 'meet cute'--what's the back story you'll give someone at the wedding, if it comes up?"

"Which it won't," he says. "Trust me. I'm there for you."

Nancy raises an eyebrow. "Have you not looked in the mirror lately? You're going to be the most handsome guy there, by a mile. All the single women are going to do their best to get you in bed. If my best friend were there... and if she didn't think you were with me..."

"So you think I'm handsome, huh." He gives her a grin that makes her want to melt. She hides it with a playful scowl.

"Obviously I don't need to feed your ego."

"Nah." He's still grinning. "So tell me about your best friend."

"I have two of them, actually. Bess and George."

Ned raises his eyebrows. "What was that about 'interesting name'?"

She chuckles. "You're not being very subtle," she tells him. "So make me a deal. I'll hold off on turning my particular set of investigation skills loose on your past, if you'll tell me about yourself." Off his troubled look, she adds, "Either now or during our next date."

She's a little surprised when he doesn't immediately agree, just gazes at her. Maybe no one has ever been in a position to look into his past before. And as intrusive as a possible financially-motivated sexual relationship might be, this... being able to look beyond his persona to the man he was, or is, might be just as intrusive. She can walk away; he can't, not from this.

"Next time," he finally says. "How many dates until you usually go to bed?"

She waits a few seconds, in case he's picking up their game again, but this seems to be a direct question. She considers it honestly. "Well, I've never had a one-night stand," she admits. "Uh... I think the fastest has been three. It's usually... after I've known the guy about a month or so. Enough to get past the initial butterflies and best behavior."

He nods. "How long before you and the ex hit the sheets?"

She smiles, but there's no humor in it. "That's not really--I knew him when we were kids. We were friends for a long time, and there was attraction between us when we were teenagers, but it didn't work out that we were both out of relationships and ready to get together until our early twenties." She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and the dog pants as he glances between the two of them. "Uh--you mentioned that we could grab a meal, and we could find one of those places where your wingman could get some water?"

It's Ned's turn to chuckle. "Well, beautiful, as much as I hate to bring up the past, it'll help me figure out how to deal with him."

"Won't it seem like I'm still hung up on him, if I've clearly told you everything about him?"

Ned shrugs. "If we were to play it that way."

Despite how depressing she finds it to discuss Frank--it will be infinitely more so when she sees him in person, she's sure--she's delighted by the prospect of the game, this cover identity she and Ned will be selling. "What did you have in mind?"

He glances over at her again. They're heading toward the Met. "First, let's find a place all three of us can go. Then I can take Sandy home and we can really be alone..." He grins, although she can tell he's joking.

They end up at Snapper Five, a quirky cafe with good reviews online and busy outdoor tables. As they wait for the next table to open up, Nancy sees the appreciative glances sent Ned's way, and she feels such a strange rush of pride and possessiveness. He's with her. She doesn't care how anyone sees her; when she's on the job, it's easier for her to fade into the background, to leave her suspect the center of attention. It feels like that same desire for anonymity has bled into her personal life, too. It's easier to listen than to talk.

He will be a lightning rod at the wedding. People will pay attention to him, and not to her. They won't be focusing on how her heart must be broken, to see Frank again; instead, they will be drawn to Ned, his killer smile and great body, and be fascinated by him.

There's no way she can back out, knowing that. He will be perfect.

Sandy drinks half a pan of water while they're waiting, and Ned produces a few treats from his pocket. The dog settles contentedly at his feet once they're seated, placidly crunching on a large bone.

"Are you a breakfast-in-bed-the-morning-after kind of girl?"

She glances up at him, starting to shake her head--it's amazing, that his questions are almost becoming familiar, not so disconcerting. Then she tilts it. "I'm a look-at-what-time-it-is-I-have-to-get-going kind of girl," she admits. "Never had breakfast in bed the morning after. It sounds... decadent."

"It definitely can be. Pancakes... blueberry, banana, chocolate chip, strawberry. That's what I like to do. Depending on the woman in question."

She feels a sudden twinge in her belly and studies his face, wondering if the hunch she has is accurate. She hopes it isn't. She's never really thought of herself as intolerant or close-minded, but... God. It's just some stupid stray thought. She knows it is.

Then the waitress shows up, pad at the ready, and Nancy orders the eggs Florentine with smoked salmon. Ned orders a hash of eggs, potatoes, and bacon with greens and garlic, and a slice of banana bread on the side. They surrender their menus, and Nancy props her chin on her hand.

"So you're good at pancakes?"

He shrugs. "I'm not good at much in the kitchen... but I'm pretty good at pancakes. Fruit salad, that kind of thing. So what's your favorite?"

"Mmm. Any of those sound good, honestly. I haven't had strawberry pancakes in a while."

He nods. "Then that definitely sounds like something we should try. I'm not saying we need to sleep together for it--but if you want me to sleep over, we can do a tryout of the way it will be."

"For a down payment?"

Something in his eyes shifts, and she immediately wants to take it back. Which is foolish. "Like a proof of concept," he says lightly.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean..." She toys with the zipper pull on her hoodie, her gaze on his face. "This is just new to me. I don't mean to offend you."

He smiles. "It takes a lot," he says. "So don't worry about it. But the... I guess I just want a trial run. I feel like we need to build that history together, even if it never involves sex."

"You said you had a plan, for how to deal with Frank."

He dips his head. "If part of what you want is to have him trying to win you back... one way to make him insanely jealous is to think that you haven't told me about him, that you haven't been eating your heart out over him. Which I'm guessing you have."

She gives him a sardonic smile. "It's hard," she says. "I mean, I've known him and his brother for years, and we have a lot of good memories..."

He nods.

"And your eyes are glazing over."

"Because I want to make you forget about him. All those good memories you have--I want to give you better ones. When you see him again, to just smile politely at him and walk away with your arm in mine. If we're at a hotel, I want him to see me pick you up and carry you to our room, laughing and wrapped around each other. I don't want your heart to sink when you see him."

She searches his eyes, unsmiling. "I wish," she whispered.

"And that's one way. But I'll be honest with you. Whoever said the best revenge was living well, was right. When you define your happiness by how much he wants you, you've already lost."

She tips her head. "It almost sounds like you're talking me out of hiring you for this."

He shrugs. "If life were easy, I'd be out of a job," he says. "I'm a last resort. I'm hired by people who need--an anchor. And if I do my job right, afterward, you have that hit of confidence that you needed."

"So, your regulars? The person who wants you all to herself?"

"They aren't ready to move on. To go back to real life. I provide a fantasy, and that's all it is. It's just hard for some people to remember that."

"You think it'll be hard for me to remember that?"

He shrugs, staring straight into her eyes. "For a second, I hope so," he says. "For just long enough. If you want to do a test run, it'll be at your place, on your terms. Any time you want to kick me out, you just say the word."

"You really want this, huh."

They pause as the waitress comes over to refill their coffees and promises their meals are almost ready. "I like a challenge," he says. "I want you to be comfortable with me, and it's going to take more than just a couple of casual dates to get us to where we can fake being in a committed relationship. And I find you attractive."

She can't help it. She grins in delight, and the warmth that tingles over her goes all the way down to her toes. "You say that to all the girls," she says dismissively.

He slowly shakes his head. "I know you'll probably think this is bullshit, but... I do. Find you incredibly attractive."

Nancy takes a breath.

"So I have eggs Florentine?"

Nancy is unable to speak; she just raises her hand and smiles as the waitress places her plate in front of her. Her mind is still reeling. He's right; it is very tempting to dismiss what he's saying as flattery to keep her happy.

But if it were true...

Once they're alone again, she doesn't even bother picking up her fork. "Uh... I mean, you know I find you attractive. So... I'm glad the feeling is mutual."

He nods and looks down. She can sense that he wants to say something else, but he picks up his fork instead.

During the meal, she answers a few more questions about Frank, just to give Ned a better idea of how it was. She and Frank have known each other for years; she can't count all the little in-jokes and callbacks, all the memories they share. She has to divide herself, a little, from the emotional part that wants to break down in tears when she thinks about him, even now. But that's part of why Ned is coming with her, to hold her back. To keep her from sinking into herself.

Ned listens, and makes a few notes in his small book. Her curiosity about the book is insatiable. Does he make notes on what his clients prefer in bed, certain moves that drive them crazy? Is he so busy, hopping between so many beds, that he finds it difficult to remember who likes what?

The meal is great, and he takes a snapshot of her with her half-finished meal, smiling and giving a thumbs-up. "Think about me naked," he says just before he hits the trigger, and so the grin on her face is genuine, and she dissolves into laughter.

"I can't," she points out, still gasping her breath back and giggling a little. "It's all conjecture and wish on my part."

He grins. "Then I hope I measure up," he murmurs.

After the meal, they head to his friend's house to return the dog. When they're walking back to the metro, he glances at his watch.

His other date. Her jealousy rushes back, intense and startling. Did he tell her that he finds her incredibly attractive too? Will she get breakfast in bed in the morning?

I want him to make me breakfast in bed.

The idea of that, the thought of him with her in bed, glowing smile, pancakes, rumpled hair... Mmmmm.

"Do you have to go?"

"Not quite yet." He reaches for her hand.

And then they're walking down the sidewalk, their hands joined, and she thinks she might just start floating.

"Can I take you back to your place?"

So, not a lot of time. Unless she's misunderstanding. "To end our date?"

He nods. "And we can talk about what you want to do for our next date. Our first real date. We've already done the meal thing, but we can do something more formal. I think you mentioned something adventurous and then hanging out."

She nods. "One of the best dates I ever had... it was supposed to be a couple of hours, and it ended up being the entire day. I got home right after curfew. Dad was waiting up for me."

Ned smiles. "And what did you do?"

"Went to a movie. Walked around the mall and didn't buy anything, just talked the whole time and held hands and split a pretzel. Went back to his parents' place and made out in the living room after they went to bed. Then he took me home." She shrugs. "I like excitement, but I think a lot of it is the company, the person I'm with. Doing something together is a distraction. It gives us something to talk about if we're having trouble keeping up a conversation."

"Well... we could do something cerebral. The Met or one of the smaller museums. Or..."

She raises her eyebrows. "Or?"

"I saw something about a couples' cooking class. Next Saturday. It would make a good story, if nothing else. I'm guaranteed to cause at least one disaster."

She chuckles. "You seem to be so collected and under control," she comments. "I can't imagine you trying to put out some minor kitchen fire, or slinging something out of a pan onto someone else's stove. So I think we have to try that."

He smiles. "And what's something you're not great at, so we can do that the time after?"

She swings their joined hands gently. "Mmm. You know those places where you can drink wine and paint something? I've never done that."

"And yet I feel like you're going to be great at it regardless. All right. Let's try that the time after."

"And then... skydiving?"

Ned laughs. "I've done that once," he admits. "So I still have to tandem jump. But, sure. Let me guess, my adventurous P.I.--you can jump alone."

Her cheeks warm slightly at the affection in his voice. "I can. But I can tandem jump with you. We can take a couple of selfies on the way down."

A part of her wants to say goodbye to him on the sidewalk outside her apartment, and even though she hesitates, she finds her keys and Ned follows her inside. "Nice place," he comments.

"Yeah. The view's fantastic. But you don't get to see that yet."

He raises his eyebrows. "So I will. That's good to know."

"I'm just intrigued by this promise of pancakes."

He smiles. "Good. I'm glad. I... I had a good time today."

She glances over at him, trying not to let her skepticism show on her face. If they really had just met at Central Park and spent a few hours together, learning about each other, she wouldn't have questioned it. She's had fun with him too.

"Thanks for suggesting it," she says lightly. "It was nice."

"Damning me with faint praise," he murmurs, as they step off the elevator and walk toward her apartment. "'Nice.' That's how you describe an unexceptional dinner at your aunt's house."

"Or a 'first' date where a guy asked me about my favorite sex position," she replies.

He chuckles. "Which I still don't know," he points out. "Thanks for indulging me and meeting me today, and meeting me again. I'm looking forward to our next date. And learning more about you."

"And we'll talk about you next time. Right? That was the deal."

He dips his head. "Any chance we can forget about that?"

She shakes her head. "Nope. Mysteries are like my catnip. And you're a mystery."

"Catnip, huh?" He grins briefly. "And I'm not a mystery. I just... I don't exist."

She raises her eyebrows, gazing intently at his face.

"I--it's not like that. But what you're buying is a fantasy. This is part of that."

"So you're a wonderfully complicated guy with a little bit of a daredevil streak who was hurt bad--brung low by some woman in your past." She puts a little drawl in her voice. "I may not have done any research yet, but I've thought about it. About how you could end up here."

They're almost at her apartment door. His steps slow, like he senses it and doesn't want their date to end just yet. "If you met me during an investigation--would I be meeting you, or a version of you?"

"A version of me."

He shrugs. "It's like that," he explains. "There's a person I am when I'm off the clock. And I need that."

Her heart skips a beat. Everything about him right now, his expression, his posture, reads as vulnerable. "I don't need everything," she says. "And I know you'll probably have a back story all lined up and ready. So don't give me the scary stuff. I haven't given you the scary stuff. I just want a little."

He nods. "So, something like this again? Brunch and then cooking class?"

She nods. "Without the dog?"

"Yeah." He chuckles. "And you said the quickest anyone's ever seduced you was three dates?"

She blushes again, slightly. "And our first meeting didn't count as a date."

He raises his eyebrows. "Are you saying that you expect me to try to beat that record?"

She shrugs and scoffs. "No girl wants to feel like she's just--a game. So, no. We're not having sex after our third date. I mean..." She swallows, and almost doesn't say it. "Unless you were willing to make it a Friday or Saturday-night date."

"Mmm." He looks like he's actually considering it. "So a post-brunch quickie is out, then."

"No. I intend to--" Get my money's worth, she doesn't say, doesn't even let herself put into words in the privacy of her own mind. "Take my time. Make sure we have plenty of time to get to know each other."

"You like a lot of foreplay." It's barely a question.

"Yeah."

They've reached her door. Their hands are still joined. "And that orgasm you had last Wednesday. That was... by yourself?"

His voice is soft, conversational, his eyes dark and intelligent, searching her face, and she blushes even more deeply. She tilts her head, trying to will the lump in her throat away. "What do you think?" she says, trying to keep her voice light too.

"I think you're lonely and you talked to someone who said you needed to get laid. And here we are." He takes a step toward her and she backs up against her apartment's front door. "And you still need to get laid," he murmurs, moving close to her. His breath is warm against her cheek.

She swallows. "And I'm pathetic for needing to pay for it," she whispers.

He shakes his head. "I told you. You're not paying for sex. You're paying for companionship. Support. The sex is just between us."

"'Is.' Not 'could be.'"

He leans in close, and his lips brush her cheek. "Is. If you feel this electricity between us, you know it's a when, not if. And I will take my time. Trust me."

How can she? How can she, really? His face is so close to hers and she can't catch her breath, can't slow her speeding heart.

For a bare second she lets herself imagine grabbing a handful of his shirt and backing into the apartment, pulling him with her, then stripping off her tight sports tank and jumping into his arms. The join of her thighs tingles at the image.

"You're thinking about it right now. Your pupils are dilated. And if we had time..." His faint smile broadens, becomes a grin. "I'd show you that you have nothing to worry about. For hours."

She opens her mouth and then he's kissing her, firmly, pressing her against her apartment door. She whimpers quietly and brings her hands up, wraps her arms around his shoulders, feeling his short, silky hair against her fingertips. Her knees have entirely given out.

He's a fucking escort, in every sense, and she's falling for his flattery, his charms. And she can't seem to make herself stop.

If his touch is electric, his kiss is a thousand times stronger. She's never felt this way, never. She aches for him to rub against her. She wants to feel him hard and aroused for her, grinding against her, while their tongues slide together, while he strips her naked with nimble, deft fingers.

God. It's clearly been far, far too long since she's gotten laid.

When Ned pulls back they're both panting a little, and the expression in his eyes makes her stomach do a somersault. She's still clinging to him like a lovestruck teenager. It's embarrassing. It's weak.

And she's left powerless.

"Next time," he murmurs, and she doesn't know if it's a promise or a vow.

"Yes," she whispers, not sure what she's confirming, both startled and deliciously aroused to find that she doesn't care how he takes it.

He smiles and releases her. "Thank you for today."

She nods, not trusting her voice, and watches him stride away. Her lips are still warm and slick from his kiss. Her heart is still speeding.

It's only once she's dreamily unlocked her apartment and stepped inside, confused and so, so intrigued by what's between them, that a small voice whispers in her head.

She knows how to manipulate; it's practically a part of her job description. She knows how to draw people out, to encourage their confidence. And she knows how to bluff, and bluff successfully. When someone thinks they know how she lies, it's that much easier to get away with it.

She was doing that, during their two-truths-and-a-lie game. She was letting him see through her, so he would think he knew. She did it without even thinking about it.

Now, her lips still reddened by the press of his, she wonders if he was doing the same thing.

“Dad! Sorry I missed your call."

"Oh, it's fine, sweetheart. Things busy at work?"

"Yeah. Always." Nancy sandwiches the phone between her shoulder and cheek as she pulls the foil off a cup of yogurt. "How are you? Things busy for you too?"

"Always." He chuckles. "I was actually calling because Fenton called me this afternoon. He wanted to see if I'd received the—invitation."

Nancy's heart skips a beat, then sinks. She stirs the yogurt with a few brisk strokes of her spoon. "To the wedding," she says quietly.

"Yes. So Joe invited you too."

"Yeah." Nancy clears her throat. Her father, maybe more than anyone else, knows how hard the wedding might be for her. "I decided to attend. I know it might be a little awkward, but I'll be okay."

"That's good. I'm glad you're going. At least we'll be able to see some of each other."

"Oh?"

"I told Fenton I'd attend too."

For the rest of the conversation, Nancy is listening, responding, but a part of her is screaming. If anyone is able to figure out this deception, it will be her father, and that will be the most mortifying experience of her life.

She and Ned have decided to keep in contact via text—she's sure that's easier, when he's seeing other clients—and he's also asked that they stay in character, that they maintain the fiction they will be living the weekend of the wedding. It will make for good evidence, a long string of text messages, the slow fondness, the jokes between them, the way their relationship grows. She's been through the motions enough times with enough people; she knows the beats they should follow.

But it's never been like this. The truth has never been like this, and it frightens her, how spellbinding, how much more intense than the truth this fiction is. Maybe some elemental part of her is broken from the failure of her other relationships, and the safety of knowing Ned will never hurt her, that she's safe inside this lie, makes it vivid and more than perfect. For as long as she doesn't fool herself and break her own heart.

It's the time between their first real date and their second, and so now is the time to be tentative, cautiously hopeful. Their text messages can stay in character, but she has to be honest with him sometime, somewhere.

She uses another messenger program that he's given her his username on. Just found out my dad will be at the wedding. I'll understand if you want to back out.

Ned's reply doesn't come until a few hours later, when she's settled on the couch catching up on a new episode of one of her shows. In an attempt to work off some of her nervous energy, she went to the store that afternoon and bought all the ingredients to make summer rolls and dipping sauce, and she's thoughtfully chewing a bite, proud of her handiwork, when her phone chirps.

I'm still game if you are.

His agreed-upon fee isn't insignificant. Maybe he would be a fool to give it up. But she wants it to be thanks to his genuine affection for her, his attraction to her.

She knows it's not real. But for a handful of seconds at a time, she can pretend to herself that it might be.

Thanks. It's just... he's a lawyer. Taught me about everything I know about being a detective. He'll know that it's not real—he'll suspect it, even if he doesn't say anything.

His answer this time comes more quickly. But he'd understand. Besides, I appreciate a challenge. This definitely sounds like one.

Nancy smiles as she reads his message. He knows who she is, for the most part. She's dying to know who he is.

For their brunch date, remembering that they will be going to a cooking class after, she dresses casually, in jeans and a blue top printed with an abstract geometric pattern, a black tank top underneath. She hastily puts four slender braids in her hair and then pins it back, away from her face; she wrinkles her nose when she looks at her reflection, wondering if she's trying too hard, but she doesn't take the braids out. She puts on her watch and a handful of stackable rings, then tries to dispassionately evaluate how she looks. She thinks she looks pretty good. It's been a while since she's really dressed for a date, a date that wasn't just for a case...

This feels like that, though. The role she's playing is what's important, not how she feels or who she is. For a moment she just feels weary. She thought that she could be herself with Frank, that when they were together she was truly herself, all her defenses down, stripped bare. And she was. But he wasn't.

She doesn't want to do this. What's so wrong about letting her ex know that her heart is still aching and cracked from his leaving her? Why should she be the one who has to put on a brave face?

Though she tries, her mood hasn't improved very much when she meets Ned. He's smiling when their gazes meet, but his smile fades some.

"What's wrong?"

She shakes her head. "Just feeling sorry for myself," she admits. "A lot of my life is lying. Lying to a guy who was my friend for a long time, who knew me... I guess I'm just frustrated that I have to put on a brave face and he's never looked back."

"You don't know that," he points out. "Could be that not a single day has gone by that he hasn't thought about you and how much he misses you."

"Does it matter?" She shrugs. "If he doesn't miss me enough to call or contact me, it's like he doesn't miss me at all. And it's stupid to be dwelling on someone who doesn't even know I exist."

He reaches for her hand and gives it a squeeze as they walk side by side on the sidewalk, near the restaurant he picked for brunch. "Sorry," he tells her.

She takes a deep breath, and as she lets it out, she tells herself to let it go for a while. Ned didn't have to agree to be her date. He's told her that he finds her attractive, and she has no reason to doubt that. The electricity between them feels real.

"But today's not about me," she says, smiling at him. "Today's about you. How did you end up in New York?"

"So I'm not from here?" He sounds a little bemused.

"I don't think so. You don't have the accent. You don't have much of an accent at all." She gazes up into his face.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out, like she did. "I have a cousin who works at a talent agency," he says, and she doesn't sense that he's lying. "When I was in college, undergrad, he came for a visit and told me I should go into acting. I think he's used to casting things like commercials—you know, not a ton of range or talent needed. But I caught the bug."

"What did you want to do before that? Or had you decided anything?"

He shrugs. "Business, management, some combination of the two... but that seemed boring. Acting... sounded exciting. I earned a degree in drama and moved here, and I was sure I'd be discovered. It wouldn't take long. It was only a matter of time.

"I went on so many auditions. I finally got a few parts, but they were small. A casting director told me that there was nothing—special, about me. I just looked like a background character. No quirk to make me memorable."

Nancy's brow furrows. "Was that casting director blind? I mean, no offense, but... you're not ordinary. You're breathtakingly handsome, and that's not flattery, that's fact. I'd think if anything you'd be typecast as, like, the dashing hero. Or maybe the bad boy, the third point in a love triangle, if you were into that."

He smiles, and that smile stays on his lips even after he's glanced away from her. "Thanks. But there are much hotter guys going on auditions. Everyone needs a gimmick, and I guess I didn't really have one.

"I was waiting tables, just like every other starving actor in the city, making basically shit, and I had student loans to cover. One of my buddies who had come to New York with me, trying to break into acting too—we were rooming together, and he saw an ad for an escort. He started joking, that we should do that. Just to make a couple hundred bucks, to make the rent, to cover our bills. We laughed about it."

He shrugs again. "Then we ran into this guy, Derek, who used to be making the audition rounds with us... but he looked good. Expensive suit, well-groomed, the whole nine yards. He offered to take us out to lunch, and trust me, as broke as we were, there was no way we would turn down a free meal. We hadn't seen him in so long that we'd thought he had gone to L.A. or something, broken in there..."

"But he was an escort."

Ned nods. "I did it the first time to cover the bills, and I was nervous at first, but then I realized it was just another acting role. I'd had girlfriends. It was a part of my brain I could turn on, and it was a role, and then I walked out and shed that skin and I was me again.

"The people who hire escorts... oh, some of them want sex and that's it. But so many of them just want someone to care. To show them attention and love and kindness. To talk. When I kept taking more jobs, I realized I was doing a lot of that, that it was basically therapy, and I enjoyed it. I enjoyed helping my clients that way."

Her lips part, and she's about to ask about the sex, whether he enjoyed that too, but she resists. What he's telling her about feels very personal, probably more personal than he's shared with someone in a while, and she doesn't want to hurt his feelings.

It's strange. He's telling her that he's playing a role... but, in a way, this is almost certainly a role too.

He glances over at her. "Mmm?"

She shakes her head. "So that's how you decided to get a degree in counseling."

"Yeah." He gives her hand a slight squeeze. "Look... you asked. I'm being honest with you. I can't change who I've been."

Her brow crinkles slightly. "I wouldn't ask you to," she says. "I'm just curious about you; I've never met anyone..."

"Who has sex with people for money."

"Yeah."

"It's weird, huh? Feels a little dirty and dangerous, and not in a completely sexy way. I know some people think it's disgusting, or morally wrong."

"Do you? I guess you don't, since you're doing it."

He shrugs. "I trained to be an actor," he says. "If I were offered a role as a drug dealer, as a murderer, and the role was compelling enough... and this is just another role."

How can he have sex and not... she's never slept with anyone she doesn't care about. She's been undercover, playing roles herself, but this has never been on the table. She's never seduced a man as part of her job.

He sighs, and she glances up at him. Maybe what she's thinking is showing on her face.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs. "I don't think it's morally wrong, not if you're doing it of your own free will. If this is something you actually want to be doing. Of course I think it's wrong for anyone to be doing this against his or her will."

He shrugs. "Plenty of people do jobs they would never... choose, for themselves. This pays the bills. I'd like to think I'm good at it."

He doesn't say he likes it, though, and the thought that he's here with her against his will... it makes her skin crawl. "The woman who wants to—to keep you," she says, and she's startled to hear herself saying what she's thinking, but she can't make herself stop. "Do you love her?"

He's quiet for a moment. "I think I've said enough," he says finally. "You wanted to know about me. I need to know more about you, though."

He hasn't told her enough. She wants to know more, know everything. She wants to know if he loves this other woman, if he wants to let his life become a lie while he's with her, or if it wouldn't be a lie because he truly cares about her. Do Ned's parents know how he makes his money? Surely they can't... does he have parents? This would break a mother's heart, wouldn't it?

She tries to imagine the desperate circumstances she would need to be in, to make a decision like he has. This seems to be his job, his career, for now. Once he's finished with his degree, he can be a counselor instead, a licensed one. Unless he wants to keep being an escort.

Why does she care so much? After the wedding, she will never see him again. All this work, building a history, a mythology for their relationship, and then the excuse of a mutual breakup. At the end of the day, nothing will be different. She will still be alone, and Frank will still be oblivious to or untouched by her pain.

"So your dad's a lawyer?"

Ned's voice draws her out of her reverie. "Oh. Yes. I'm really proud of him, actually. He's a criminal defense attorney, but he also works with the state as a special prosecutor on complicated high-profile cases. He's incredibly smart and he taught me most of what I know, about how to be an investigator."

Ned smiles. "And your mom?"

"She died when I was three years old," Nancy says quietly. "I don't remember her very well. But Dad hired a housekeeper and cook pretty soon after that, and Hannah... she's been like a mother to me. She's really sweet, and the food she makes is incredible. So you can talk about being excited for tasting her cooking at Thanksgiving, if that happens to randomly come up in conversation."

"Where is back home?"

"Illinois. River Heights; it's near Chicago."

She sees a flicker of something cross his expression, but she can't name it. "So. Mr. Drew, Hannah, Bess, George."

"Right. George is a girl. Bess and George are both girls. We've been together since elementary school."

They stroll back to the brunch place together, and she tells him about Snowball and Togo, about a few of her more interesting cases from when she was an amateur. She doesn't realize that he's tense until she sees him start to loosen up while they're eating, but she doesn't miss that he definitely seems to be relieved at the change in topic. He still hasn't told her anything specific enough for her to easily discover more information about him. And she wants to know more about who he is than how he became an escort.

Maybe she is more of a prude than she thought. Knowing that tonight he'll be with someone else, that he's been with other people since they last saw each other, makes her feel uncomfortable.

Brunch is fantastic, and she watches, hardly able to believe her own eyes, as Ned puts away an omelet, a small stack of pancakes, bacon and sausage and coffee. Maybe however he likes to have sex burns a lot of calories. It must, if he can eat what he does and look the way he does. Nancy opts for a slice of quiche and two slices of buttered toast with in-house orange marmalade.

He was honest about his lack of cooking skills, she discovers. Most of the couples around them during the cooking class divide tasks; they trade off on sautéing, baking, prepping food. Ned is usually confident and assured, but he becomes flustered and unsure while they're trying to follow the directions. It gives her a little thrill to help him, to direct him, and he's relieved when she asks him to work on prep instead of the actual cooking.

By the end of the class, they have made a flatbread pizza topped with vegetables and roasted chicken, and an apple raisin galette. There's a streak of flour on Ned's forehead, and strands of hair have fallen to brush against Nancy's cheeks. He's made them pause for photos throughout, but when their meal is on the counter in front of them, his pride and congratulations seem completely genuine and spontaneous. He tells her that their success is due entirely to her, and she blushes and demurs, but she loves that he isn't taking most or all of the credit for their creations.

"We make a good team," she tells him.

He snorts quietly. "You'd have done better by yourself, without my screwing up all the time."

She pats his shoulder, then frowns at the dusting of flour her hand left there. "Don't sell yourself short. You did good, Ned."

"We still need to taste it," he reminds her. "See if I swapped salt for sugar or some other stupid mistake."

The flatbread and galette are good. They aren't incredible, but they're good, and she almost tells him that they'll do better next time—but maybe there won't be a next time. She doesn't know.

They wrap up the leftovers, split into separate packets so they can take them home. She hopes that later, when he finishes it, he thinks of her, that he doesn't split it with whatever woman he's about to see. The thought drives her crazy. But she can't say anything. It's his life and his choices.

"Can I walk you home?"

She considers it for a few seconds, unable to forget the kiss he gave her last time. They need to be comfortable with each other. This will help. "Okay."

"So why'd you come to New York?" he asks, once they're on the subway.

"Part of it was to prove to myself that I was more than my reputation," she says, after considering for a moment. "Or my father's, really. People who lived near Chicago, when they heard who my father was, that was it. I never knew if they were really seeing me, or if they just wanted to suck up to him. I came here to make something for myself. And of course part of the reason I moved here, I'm sure you've realized by now—Frank's family lives in New York state. It was partially to bring me closer to him." She shrugs. "I love the city, and I don't regret being here. I miss home, and my dad, and Bess and George... but the city is incredible."

He nods. "I know exactly what you mean."

"Do you miss home?"

He glances away. "Doesn't everyone?" he says lightly.

She doesn't answer, because she can see that tension creeping up again. If she presses too hard, he will slide away and his walls will be back up, even more intractable than before.

"Did you want to do the painting and drinking class next time?" That seems like a neutral enough topic.

"I'll check that soon. Is that a night thing?"

She shrugs. "Last time I checked, the studio offered classes early and mid-afternoon, on the weekends anyway. And at night. I know you'd probably prefer an earlier time anyway. You have regulars."

"I do." He reaches for her hand. "I'm sorry that upsets you."

She shrugs and shakes her head. "Why would that upset me?"

"I'm not sure." She can't quite meet his eyes, but she can tell that he's looking at her.

"I mean, it's almost like you're dating, right? If you see a woman every Saturday night, that's usually implied." Her lips turn up slightly into a humorless smile. "So I'm like the other woman."

"When we're together, you're the only woman. That's part of the deal."

"And the second you leave my sight..."

"That's the way it has to be." His voice is quiet but his tone is firm.

"Unless I did what that other woman is offering you. I just..."

I just can't imagine paying someone to stay with me for years, or for being someone who does that for a living. It has to be flattering and lonely, to know someone wants you that much—but it's never real. It's never actually real. And that's just so depressing.

"You just what?"

She can't say what she's thinking. "Do you ever have time to yourself, to go out with friends? To—I guess you have to study sometime, too..."

His hand is still holding hers, but he looks down. She can feel that he wants to say something, but he doesn't find the words. "I find time to study," he says finally. "The trick to all this is discipline, like anything else. Making a schedule and sticking to it."

When he glances up and directly into her eyes, the attraction between them practically sizzles in the air, and she's shocked that anyone could tell him there's nothing special about him. It's both everything, and it's more than that. He's incredibly, breathtakingly, drop-dead handsome, but it's the way he carries himself, both confident and vulnerable, sincere and cautious—and it's something about him that she just can't put in words. The more time they spend together, though she would have sworn it was impossible, the more she's attracted to him.

And that's dangerous. She feels reckless. She feels like she's sixteen and he's her first crush, like with him it would somehow work, like he would never break her heart.

She's falling for someone who doesn't exist. Ned is just a role this guy plays, a skin he peels off once he's alone.

"So if every time you do this, you're playing a role, what role are you playing now?" She keeps her voice light. "Graduate student on a second date with a girl he likes?"

He nods. "Yeah," he murmurs, and his gaze flicks to her lips, and she feels lightheaded for a second, her stomach fluttering. "Something very much like that. And what role are you playing?"

She shrugs. "Woman on a second date with an alluring, mysterious, smokin' hot guy. Wondering if he'll be the right guy to take to the wedding. Wondering what will happen between. Wondering when we can have more than a few hours alone together."

He searches her eyes. "So you want to take me up on that proof of concept?" he says quietly.

Just then, the train pulls up at their stop, and they rise quickly to make it through the doors before it departs. She waits until they're on the sidewalk again, his hand reaching for hers again, to answer his question. "I don't see how we can," she admits. "You have a regular schedule, after all..."

He shrugs. "People leave town for holidays and business trips. In fact, I think my Friday nights client is going to be out of town in three weeks."

She can't tear her gaze away from his. She feels like she can't draw a full breath. "Um... so if I want to do something that night, I should say now," she manages to say.

"If you're free. I know your job can be kind of unpredictable too."

It can, and it's entirely possible that he's right, that she'll be on assignment and unable to make a date with him. But the possibility seems remote. Most of her work is done during the week, because most of it deals with crimes in or around work: spouses who take the day off to meet boyfriends or girlfriends, employees selling secrets.

She licks her lips, then nods. "If... you're free, then I'd like to see you that night."

The corners of his own lips curl up in a faint smile. "All right," he murmurs. "But in the meantime, painting and drinking. And skydiving?"

She can't stop herself from laughing. "You're just really excited about the skydiving, huh?"

He nods. "Of course. It's a lot of fun, and I've never had someone else suggest that for a date. Assuming you don't kill me when we tandem jump, we can have lunch after."

"I don't even know how many times I've jumped. You'll be fine," she assures him. That shakiness in her stomach is slowing down.

In three weeks... she might have sex with him.

She wants to have sex with him.

And he's reluctant to tell her about himself. Does he fear that she would come to his school, find his actual social media accounts and tell other people how he makes his money and spends his time? If his parents don't know, he would want to keep this from them. If he has friends who don't know, an actual girlfriend who doesn't know...

But she thinks that between studying and his clients, he doesn't have time for an actual relationship.

She can feel that she doesn't truly know him, and maybe she never will. The attraction between them exists despite it, like it's something elemental, like it would have happened regardless of how they met. If their gazes had met across a crowded Chicago club, if they had been waiting for the next train on the subway at the same time...

At her apartment door, she takes a deep breath and then glances over at him. "Do you have time to come in and see the view?"

His eyebrows rise slightly. "I have a few minutes," he says cautiously.

It's foolish, ridiculous, and undeniable. She wants to pull him into her apartment and make him forget that he's supposed to be with anyone else today. She wants him with her, only her; and she wants him, the man he truly is, not the role he's playing. Not the perfect-boyfriend character that he's promised to play for her.

And then she wonders if it's something to get out of her system, if giving in to the crackling tension between them will allow it to consume itself, to burn out in the intensity. If, by the time the wedding happens, they will be on the other side of the bell curve, cooling, drifting apart.

But she's pretty sure that once she has a taste, she will only want more.

She opens the door into her apartment and Ned's hand drifts across the small of her back and she shudders, putting her purse and keys and wrapped leftovers on the small table beside the door with a swift, almost impatient gesture. He wraps his arm around her waist and gazes at her, then turns to look directly at the enormous, unshaded windows.

"You weren't kidding."

"No." She closes her eyes briefly, telling herself to calm down. Just because he's an escort—they're alone together in a room and that doesn't mean that they should immediately have sex, or that he wants to.

Does he want to? It's his job; maybe to him it doesn't matter whether he wants to. He told her that nothing is off the table in bed. Maybe the best thing she could ever do for him is to let him sleep without performing for her, literally or... literally.

He walks toward the window and she comes along with him, his hand warm against her side. "I'd kill to have a view like this," he murmurs. "Wow."

She can't help smiling, glad she's impressed him. "Definitely the selling point in this place," she says. "Do you want something to drink?"

He shakes his head. Then he searches her eyes, and she feels her heart rise into her throat when his gaze flicks down to her lips, then back up. She sees a flicker of emotion cross his face; in that instant, she senses something like grimness, like determination, and that fluttering in her stomach fades. He's resolving himself to performing this role, to pretending.

But when he kisses her, it's not like their first kiss, almost brutal, almost like a battle between them. It's gentle this time, soft and sweet. His palm cups her cheek.

Despite her fear, her belief that this is just him pretending... if this is his pretending, she can't even imagine how it must be when he's truly, passionately in love. It's not the furious, lusty, intense kiss she's imagined, but it's so much better.

It's tender and slow, and his tongue gently slides against hers. A blush rises in her cheeks, and she wraps her other arm around him. She loves the feel of his hair under her fingertips. She loves feeling his warmth through her clothes.

He kisses her again, again. She feels him gently guiding her back, and then he lowers himself to the couch and she moves with him. She shivers and straddles his lap, kissing him again, and he kisses her too, embracing her, holding her to him.

A distant, small part of her is warning her, telling her that this is dangerous, that she needs to stop this. But she can't give him up, can't give this up. She luxuriates in it, in the incredible joy of it.

When they break the kiss, she realizes her arms are wrapped around him and his around her, and she rests her cheek against his shoulder. He feels like... like home. Like she's safe.

He strokes a hand over her back, and she can feel her nipples tighten when his fingertips barely brush against the back closure of her bra. Her hips are practically pressed against his, and it's only the thought of how mortifying his rejection will be that keeps her from moving closer. He's already told her that he has to leave soon.

She wonders how many other women have felt this way. Maybe it's part of the gimmick: show her something so tantalizing, just out of her reach, and let her decide that she can do it. She can work her way past his defenses and make him truly care for her, seduce him. He won't just be pretending that he's irresistibly attracted to her.

It makes her want to do incredibly dirty things to him, with him. But she'll never know if she's truly touched him.

What does he want? Has anyone ever asked him what his fantasy is?

She kisses his neck, then just behind his ear, and his hand slides under her shirt, against bare skin. "Nan," he murmurs. "I have to go."

"I want to be what you want," she whispers, directly into his ear. "Do you want me?"

"You know I do." He slides his fingertips up and unclasps her bra.

"And yet you're willing to wait three weeks?"

She doesn't know what she's doing, but her heart is beating wildly. When she looks into his eyes, the expression there makes her shiver.

"Because we're going to do this right." He moves his hands under her tank top, under her bra, and cups her bare breasts, and she moans softly. "We're not going to have a quickie on your couch. I'm going to come over here and we'll have some wine and talk, and when we go to bed..." He very gently squeezes her nipples between his index fingers and thumbs, and she shifts her weight with a gasp. "It will be for the entire night. All the foreplay you've ever wanted, until you're insanely wet and ready for me. Not like this." He gives her breasts one last squeeze, gently, then makes sure her bra is readjusted and clasps it again. He does it all without looking away from her face, and even though she knows he must have had so much experience at it, she's still impressed.

"And then what," she whispers, and her voice is almost gone. She clears her throat.

He smiles. "Whatever you want, beautiful," he tells her. "You call the shots."

She doesn't have to worry about pleasing him in bed, not if she doesn't want to. She can tell him every fantasy she's ever had and ask him to do that for her. It's a heady feeling. She's starting to understand what Mel meant, when she said Nat had such a good time.

"The first time?"

He grins. "Every time. If you want it every night we're at the wedding... I will be more than happy to give it to you."

The wedding. And then... nothing.

But until then...

She holds his gaze another moment, then reluctantly moves off his lap. "Wine and painting next weekend," she says.

He nods. Then his palm is cupping her cheek again, and she moves forward, meeting him as he moves to give her a long, lingering kiss. Maybe he doesn't want a quickie on the couch... but she doesn't either. She knows she won't come that way.

And she wants to come with him. God, she wants to come so bad.

He releases her. "All right. Next weekend."

As soon as he's gone, she bolts the door and rushes to her room, rifling through the drawer beside the bed before shucking her clothes off. She's trembling as she lets herself imagine it, remembering the feel of his hands on her breasts as she touches herself, feeling his breath on her skin as she spreads her legs and begins to work the vibrator up inside her. When the attachment presses against her clit, she taps the controls and lets out a desperate cry as it stimulates her tender flesh.

She imagines him holding the vibrator, gazing down at her. Becoming so aroused at the sight of her pleasure that he has to touch himself too. Those sweet dark eyes, those nimble fingers...

She cries out again, lustily, tipping her head back. "Oh my God," she gasps, moving the vibrator in and out of her slick, tender sex in more and more rapid strokes. She arches her hips up off the bed and works it deep inside her, and the vibration against her clit makes her sob as she comes.

She's trembling with the aftershocks, moaning, and then she imagines him taking the vibrator out of her so he can fill her himself, imagines feeling his weight and warmth pressing her down as he works his big, hard cock inside her—

The vibrator is still buzzing between her legs as she cups her breasts, fondling her nipples, rocking her hips and quivering at the stimulation. She cries out again.

That's right, beautiful, let me feel it, let me hear it...

He'll fuck her with the vibrator if she asks for it. He'll fuck her and use the vibrator on her at the same time, if she wants that. He'll bend her over the kitchen counter and give it to her from behind...

After her third orgasm, she switches off the vibrator and gently slides it out of her sex. It's gleaming with the trace of her arousal. She imagines seeing his cock like this, wet from being inside her.

She's fantasized about him, now. Until he's had sex with her, she knows she won't be able to stop this. She will keep fucking herself with the idea of his cock until she's truly felt it.

For a second she imagines taking a photo of herself like this, naked with the wet vibrator still in her hand, and texting it to him with some winking promise of their Friday-night date. But she can't. Instead she curls up on her side and waits for the trembling to pass. As always, touching herself has made her feel... cheap, pathetic.

Just like paying for him to fuck her is.

She closes her eyes, curling up tighter.

She did this to show Frank that she was over him, but now she's wondering if she's just found another way to hurt herself, impossibly, even more.

It's the worst day of her life.

The girl was a month shy of her seventeenth birthday, and she was going to be a beauty. Long glossy dark hair tumbles over her bare shoulders. Long lashes leave dark shadows against her cheeks.

She's been dead three days.

It should be some reassurance that Nancy could never have found her in time, that she was dead before the girl's parents ever contacted her, but that somehow makes it worse. She never had a chance.

Her best friend's father is responsible. Nancy found the evidence in the girl's online diary that morning. She was seeing a "much older, very sophisticated" man, and Nancy's pulled the father's credit card records. Amazing, how little it took to impress her, to keep her quiet and adoring. A nice purse, a pair of shoes, a fashionable charm bracelet.

Her last post is a veiled promise that no one will believe what she's about to reveal, but she can't live with the guilt anymore.

Neither could he, apparently. He couldn't let her live, not if she was going to tell. Nancy is sure he doesn't see it that way; his last messages to the girl whose life he ruined talk about how she was so beautiful that he lost control, that this isn't his fault, that if she says anything she will destroy his family and his marriage. He promised her that they would be together again, that he would make it up to her, then told her she was being selfish and dramatic when she said she felt guilty and upset about their relationship.

He's an asshole. Nancy is happy to turn all the evidence she has over to the police, but that gives her no resolution, no lasting joy. Nothing will bring the girl back to life.

When Mel hears about it, she tells Nancy that they're going to the club. They're going to drink and dance with strangers and work on forgetting this.

As though she can. As though she ever will. She's been through so many days, so many nights like this one, and they never truly leave her, the ones she couldn't help, couldn't save. The innocents especially.

When she's riding the subway back that night, on the way to her apartment to change before she meets Mel, she wants to call it all off. She wants to stay home and pull the covers over her head and sleep for three days, until this has all faded to a more distant nightmare, until her heart has stopped aching. The poor girl. Reading through her diary has made Nancy feel like she knows her, and this... all her dreams, gone. She was sixteen; she had been too young to understand what was happening when her best friend's father, a man she had known for ten years, had started paying attention to her. Seeing her as easy prey.

Nancy feels her phone vibrate in her pocket, and pulls it out. Was just thinking about you.

Their painting and drinking session had been great. Ned had spent their class complimenting Nancy's work and denigrating his own, joking with some of the other people in the class and gently ribbing the instructor's relentless optimism in the face of talentlessness. Nancy had opted not to drink, and Ned hadn't been drinking either, so they couldn't blame the quality of their attempts on inebriation. They had talked about sailing; Nancy had chosen a picture of a sailboat heading toward the sunset. Nancy hadn't even imagined that Ned might like to go sailing, but they had talked about doing that on another date.

During the following week, Ned had been sending her text messages, just letting her know he was thinking about her. One had said he was studying, and her heart had been lighter, knowing that he wasn't sending her a message on his way to some other woman's place. She had told him that she was on a stakeout, and when he asked if she wanted some company, she had known what the right answer was. Ned would distract her, and be a liability if something happened... but she told him where she was anyway, and he had come to see her, bearing boxes of Chinese takeout. They had both worked; Ned had been studying while Nancy was keeping her gaze on the building, waiting for the mark to leave. They had talked too, a little. But it had felt companionable to be beside him, eating with him. It had felt like a real date, not the practice dates they had gone on so far, and the fond smiles they had directed at each other had been genuine.

She hadn't thought that seeing him study would feel intimate, but it was something true about him. Maybe it was minor, but there was no posturing about it. It was both of them together, as they really were, and she had loved it.

Skydiving had been amazing, more exhilarating for her than it ever had been before, because he had been with her. The pictures had been incredible. Being so close to him, that hadn't been so bad either.

And though she's not thinking about it now, she doesn't know how many times she has touched herself while fantasizing about him. She doesn't want to become so keyed to her own touch that she's not aroused by his, but when she's masturbating, it excites her to imagine Ned participating with her.

When she looks down at her phone, though, that's a million miles away from her thoughts. Wish you were with me tonight. It's been a really shitty day. I just want to sleep for the next three days.

What's going on?

She explains it to him as simply as she can. She isn't expecting anything from him other than sympathy, and though she's using their "dating" account to communicate with him, for her this isn't just another link in the chain of evidence.

She's starting to see him as a friend. The night of the stakeout did it. She can't help wishing that they had met under different circumstances; she knows they can't be friends, that he's too wary to share much of himself with her, but that connection between them seems to feed on any contact, even if it's platonic. She can't help wondering if he feels the same. She can't help wondering if she's reducing all they could possibly be to each other to a brief, intense sexual relationship, and nothing beyond it.

As though they could be anything else to each other. She's not sure what's gotten into her. It's just been a hard, rough day.

She forces herself to put on a dress she hasn't worn in months, blue and sweet without being revealing, the hem falling just above her knee. She doesn't have the heart to walk into the club in something slit down to her navel and up to her hips. She just wants to drink until she's numb.

Mel is sympathetic, but she has no intention of dwelling on Nancy's case. She's invited a group of people to go with them, several of them women who work as private detectives, operatives, paralegals. Even though it's a Tuesday night, they still form a large, raucous group, and the evening has turned into a belated birthday party for Lisa. Their first stop is at the bar, and Nancy takes full advantage of the drink menu. She's feeling buzzed when they stumble into the club after, but it hasn't taken the edge off. She has a feeling nothing will, tonight.

Where are you?

She sends him the name of the club, wondering if he's been here before—with other clients. The thought makes her feel bitterly jealous. She was surprised when he was actually studying, the night he came to see her during her stakeout. He's so incredibly handsome that she thought he was with clients every night. Knowing there are nights he's not with anyone, but he's not with her—

He's not my friend, not my friend. I'm paying him. That's all. This isn't a relationship.

It's just that she's imagined that every night he's in another woman's arms, showing her incredible pleasure, waking up in beds all over New York, making pancakes for breakfast and being generally charming. To imagine him going quietly about his own life, buying groceries, studying... she wants to be near him, with him, talking to him. She wants the fiction he's giving her to be more than just once a week.

She's been missing Frank for a while now, but the feeling that any day now he will come back to her and they can just begin again, that feeling has become less urgent than it once was. Of course, she imagines Frank seeing her with Ned and being overcome with both desire for her and jealousy that he's not the man with her. She wants him to say that he was wrong, that he's missed her every day and can't believe what a fool he was.

What she told Ned is true, though. Frank hasn't contacted her. In the months they've been apart, he hasn't missed her; he hasn't realized that only the sound of her voice, only the comfort of her arms will make him happy. Maybe, just maybe, if he isn't with Callie anymore, if he's alone and she is too, if they find themselves on a dance floor with only each other, if their eyes meet...

But she knows, in her heart, that their time has passed. Only a spark of hope remains in her. It would be easier if she could let that go, too.

She's been alone for so long now that she doesn't even just miss Frank. She misses having a partner in her life and in her bed. She misses having a real boyfriend. And because Frank was the only person who has ever been all that for her, he's the only person she can imagine loving her that way or wanting to be with her that way.

With Ned, it isn't real. She has to remind herself that, over and over. He's a cipher who is fulfilling her fantasy.

His concern via text message touches her—he's a human being, after all, and he's just doing what anyone else would to be polite—but it's not enough to lift her mood. At the club, Mel does her best to beckon Nancy out onto the dance floor; she begs off, saying she needs to have a few more drinks first so she can loosen up.

Angelica. Nancy sees a girl with dark glossy hair laughing as she clings to her boyfriend's arm, and she sees Angelica again. Frozen before she could quite grow into her beauty, her innocence lost, her heart broken. She'll never have a chance to become a woman, to truly fall in love with a man who cares about her.

Sometimes, especially on nights like this, nothing seems to matter. Nancy knows the feeling will pass, because it always does, but for tonight she just feels defeated.

She's just finished her third drink of the night when Mel returns, flushed and glowing and happy, and she won't take no for an answer anymore. She draws Nancy out onto the floor, and Nancy reaches deep into her self-control and makes herself smile. She makes herself move with the music, even though it takes so much more effort to pretend she's like everyone else around her. When a guy approaches them, Nancy looks away, and soon he's dancing with Mel, and she's grinning as she gazes up at him. Mel's attracted to people; she will flirt with anyone, and on some Monday mornings, the bright spot for Nancy is Mel's breathless, dramatic account of her weekend conquests.

Nancy gathers her hair and sweeps it up off her shoulders, and her heart is like lead in her. She stops, in the chaos, the raw energy, the sexuality of the dance floor, letting it swirl around her, but she's not a part of it tonight. The people around her swirl in their orbits and she's motionless, alone.

She's just heading back to their table, her head down, already anticipating her next drink. Mel is wrapped in the random guy's arms; the other women and men in their group are boisterous and happy. Only Nancy seems unable or unwilling to join in.

When she feels a hand touch her wrist, immediately her other hand whips to the small of her back, where she generally keeps her weapon while on the job—but it isn't there. She looks up at the person who is touching her, her lips parting, caught between telling him off and politely dissuading him.

The man who has his hand on her wrist is Ned.

"What—" She draws a sharp breath and then their arms are wrapped around each other. She breathes him in and feels herself relax, but then she shakes her head. "You—How...?"

"I was studying," he says. "I thought you might need someone to talk to."

A part of her wants to draw him out onto the dance floor, to lose herself in the music, to press her body against his in wordless invitation and promise. Instead, she leads him back to the table their group has claimed for the night, and he sits down beside her. His dark eyes are focused on her face.

"I... thanks," she says, searching his eyes. "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean for you to—I didn't mean to interrupt you."

He shrugs. "It was my choice," he says. "So tell me what happened. Or tell me about anything else. If you don't feel ready to talk about it yet."

She sighs softly. "You didn't sign up for this," she says.

He smiles, humorlessly. "You're actually doing me a favor," he points out, propping his chin on his hand. "Giving me an opportunity to practice what I'm going to school to do."

She gives him a weak smile too. "It just feels like a waste," she says. She hates having to talk so loudly, but over the din of the club, they have no other choice.

"What does?"

"Her death. How little of her life she had a chance to experience. And the guy... the man who's responsible for this, he knew that she was a child and she didn't understand what was going on. It made me so sick and sad, when I was reading her journal... this amazing older man who started paying attention to her, giving her little gifts. He's over twice her age, Ned. She was his daughter's best friend."

Ned shakes his head. "That's awful. And you found her?"

Nancy nods, glancing away, smoothing her hair with her palm. Even talking about it makes her feel exhausted. "I hate finding bodies," she mutters.

"How many have you found?"

She shakes her head. "I don't even know," she admits. "It makes me think about how... everything I want to do and be and achieve, it can be over like that. A car accident, a jealous stalker. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"I'm sure it's disturbing. Thinking about your own mortality."

She nods. "I mean, wouldn't you feel cheated? You're working toward a goal. And at least you've lived."

"Do you feel like you haven't?" he asks, searching her eyes.

"And who is this?"

Nancy glances up, a slight flush rising in her cheeks. "Um... Mel, this is Ned. Mel and I work together... Ned just came out tonight because I was feeling bad."

Mel extends her hand to Ned, and her eyes are alight with definite interest. "Pleasure to meet you. So how did you two meet?"

"Nice to meet you too, Mel. We actually met when I was walking a friend's dog in Central Park. Sandy got off his leash and Nancy was nice enough to return him to me."

"I can't believe you didn't tell me about him." Mel has a look on her face that Nancy knows well, and it makes her feel both proud and defensive. Mel is interested in Ned.

Any woman who has any interest in men would be interested in Ned. Hell, any man too, for that matter.

"We've gone on a few dates, but we're not—official," Nancy says. "Although I've had a great time every time we've gone out."

"Same here." Ned gives Nancy the slightest wink, then turns back toward Mel. Nancy is warmed by it. She likes feeling like they share some secret, even beyond the cover story.

"You two should get out there," Mel says. "That will cheer you right up. Dancing with such a gorgeous guy. No wonder no one else in the place could catch your eye tonight."

Ned glances over at Nancy again, and his eyebrows rise in the faintest comment. Nancy blushes slightly in response. What Mel is saying is true. She doesn't have eyes for anyone else, especially with Ned here.

"I... we'll have to do it another night," she says, and realizes that other than the stakeout, they haven't really had a night date. They haven't had the chance to go dancing, and she's sure he's an incredible dancer. "I mean, Ned, if you feel like it, I'm sure Mel would love to dance with you."

The words taste so bitter on her tongue. Mel will rub against Ned, grind on him, do everything she can to turn his head. And Mel's interest in him is genuine, not prompted by desperation or a financial arrangement...

Ned reaches for Nancy's hand, out of sight under the table, and gives it a little squeeze. "It'll be some other night," he says. "I'm actually pretty tired. Nan, I'd love to escort you home, when you're ready to go."

She nods. "That would be great. Let me just go to the restroom..."

Nancy fully expects Mel to stay behind, chatting and flirting with Ned, but she introduces Ned to a few other members of their group and follows Nancy. "So did you take my advice or what? Because that guy is insanely hot."

Her first impulse, the one she almost obeys, is to immediately deny it. It's hard to lie when she's had this much to drink, but she's had a lot of practice. "How'd you know?" she replies instead, with a teasing grin. "I mean, look at him. He's gorgeous."

Mel grins too. "And you're one lucky bitch, to run into him in Central Park. Tell me he's great in bed. I need some vicarious fun."

"Like you won't find someone to take home with you tonight," Nancy replies. "But yeah, I am lucky. Sometimes I look at him and I'm just amazed that he wanted to go out with me again. I mean, God, when we met, I was in jogging clothes, sweating..."

Mel's grin becomes a smile. "And he's managed to do what I couldn't," she comments.

"Hmm?"

"Take that stricken look off your face and make you smile. Girl, I'm glad you found someone. I like him."

"Me too."

Once Nancy and Ned are outside, she takes a deep breath and lets it out. "Thanks," she says. "I appreciate you coming out tonight. You didn't have to, but... thanks."

He's still holding her hand, and he doesn't seem eager to release it. "Are you feeling better?"

She almost, almost lies. "I will be," she says. She wants him to come home with her. She wants... she just wants to feel safe.

"I'll walk you home." She nods once and they start toward the nearest metro station. "You look really pretty tonight."

She glances over at him. He can wear the most casual clothes she has ever seen, a plain t-shirt and jeans, and still look like he's just stepped off the pages of a catalog. He's wearing a black button-down, washed soft and open at the throat, and well-worn jeans. "You look great. But you always look great."

He smiles. "Are you... I didn't mean to take you away from your friends. You just looked miserable."

"I was. I knew it was a bad idea. Tried to talk Mel out of it." She shrugs, and the motion makes her stumble a few steps. She had little to eat today, after, and her drinks seem to be catching up with her.

Ned tucks her arm through his. "How much have you had to drink?"

"Not enough." Her stomach gives an ominous rumble, seeking something more substantial than diet soda.

"Do you have anything to eat at your place?"

"Not really hungry."

Once they arrive, if she had any thought of wishing him a good night and then going to bed alone—he doesn't go along with it. Instead he follows her inside, taking his messenger bag off his shoulder and leaving it. He goes through cabinets, shaking his head.

"Well. I guess toaster strudel is better than nothing. Sound okay to you, or do you need crackers?"

"Toaster strudel is fine." She wrenches off her heels, almost moaning when her bare soles touch level floor, and sweeps up the clothes she hastily discarded earlier, trying to tidy up the place. "Thanks. I'm sorry."

"No problem. Should be ready in a minute."

She uses the time to scrub her makeup off and change into a long-sleeved t-shirt and shorts. It's hard to keep her balance, especially when her eyes are closed. When she looks into her own gaze in the mirror, another wave of sadness washes over her. She wants another drink.

She needs to tell Ned she's fine so he will go home. The longer she's around him like this, the more likely she is to do or say something stupid. He's here, at her place, and he's treating her... he's actually giving her the boyfriend experience, right now.

A wave of nausea hits her, and she moans quietly, trying to keep herself steady. Everything feels blurred. He doesn't have feelings for her, but sometimes it feels like he does. They don't have a real relationship, in any sense of the word; she doesn't know enough about him, and it's so, so easy to believe the role he's playing, the fantasy she's bought.

She hasn't actually paid him, though, beyond the deposit. Per their agreement, he will be paid for accompanying her to the wedding, four days of serving as her escort, giving her the illusion of his affection and desire. All of this is just practice.

Why did she agree to this?

Because she's desperate. And he's here with her, making her something to eat because he's worried about her, and it feels like he cares about her.

How did her life turn into this? She feels like she has nothing real.

She opens the bathroom door and keeps her hand on the wall so she'll stay upright. As much as she knows she should send him home with some protest of exhaustion, her loneliness is fighting it. If he's here of his own free will, why should she send him away? She imagines just wrapping her arms around him again and feels almost lightheaded with need.

He's so, so good at making her believe. Too good.

She can smell warm, flaky pastry when she comes back into the kitchen. Ned glances over at her and then turns back to what he's doing so quickly that she can almost believe he's feeling embarrassed. Which is ridiculous. He's seen women in every possible state of undress. This must seem almost puritan.

She stands on her tiptoes to reach the cabinet above the refrigerator, where she keeps her alcohol. Ned steps behind her, wrapping his arms around her; he could easily reach it. "You don't need to drink anymore," he murmurs.

Nancy closes her eyes, feeling almost weightless, almost lightheaded. "What would you rather I do," she murmurs.

"Eat some of this and relax. We can talk."

She turns around and his arms are still around her, and her body is pressed against his, and she looks up into his dark eyes. "You're so good at this," she tells him. "I could believe that it's real. We're practicing, aren't we? Is that what this is?"

"That's what we've been doing."

She sighs. "I just want to stop seeing her face," she whispers. "I just want to sleep without any nightmares."

"Sit down. I'll bring it to you."

She can only sit up straight on the couch with determined effort, and it's beyond her will or her strength to pick up the remote and find something on television. He brings her two pastries and the icing packets, and after she's eaten half of one, she has to admit that she feels better. Suddenly she's ravenous.

"Did you want anything?" she asks, when she's licking the last trace of icing from the side of her finger. "I think I have some pita chips in the cabinet. Sorry. I was going to go grocery shopping Friday."

He shrugs. "I'm all right. But I'd like some water. Want some?"

She drags her hand through her hair. Being around him in her pajamas... he hasn't shown any interest in taking things further tonight, not really, other than embracing her. It's just that she's keyed up, and she wants anything to focus on beyond Angelica.

Ned returns with two glasses of water and sits down beside her. "So what's in the bag?" she asks.

"Oh. My books. I was studying."

When a thought strikes her, she stares at him. "Is this all for research?" she whispers. "All this? Like some weird kind of behavior modification thing..."

Ned laughs quietly. "No. Not at all. That's not what I meant earlier... are you feeling better?"

She shrugs. "As soon as I'm alone I'll see her face again," she murmurs. "And I don't want you to leave." She snickers quietly. "I'm such an idiot."

"You're not an idiot."

She shakes her head. "You told me some women can't separate the fantasy from reality... and I pitied them. I didn't think I was one of them. That, or you're just insanely good at your job. I feel like, the other night when you came to see me on my stakeout, like that was our first real date. That you're here with me tonight because you care about me, not just... for the fucking paper trail."

He searches her eyes, but he doesn't say anything. She feels frustrated, bitter tears rise in her eyes, and sniffles as she looks away.

"You said earlier that I have my life ahead of me," he says. "Do you feel like you don't?"

She reaches for the throw tossed over the back of the couch and drapes it over her bare legs and lap. "I knew where I was going, with him. I could see how the rest of my life was going to be. I don't know anymore. I feel like I'm waiting for something new to start, but I don't know what to do to make it happen. So I just go through every day and nothing changes."

"Something new—a new relationship."

She shrugs miserably. "I guess. I haven't really dated since we broke up. You're the closest thing I've had to a boyfriend. Pretty sad, right?"

He shrugs. "Your life is only sad if you perceive it that way," he points out. "Some women decide a career is more important than a relationship, and focus on that instead. If you're disappointed, if you need companionship—and I think you reached out to me because you did. This is a sign that you're ready to start—looking again." He glances down, then back up. "So that's positive."

"You really think so?"

"Yeah."

Conversation between them trails off. She looks down at the coffee table. Before them, the New York skyline is spread out, dotted by lit windows, and people around them are coming home, greeting significant others, spouses, children, pets.

Children.

She sniffles. "I should never have done this," she whispers. "I was okay before. I can't..."

He reaches for her hand and laces his fingers between hers. "You can't what," he murmurs.

She shakes her head. "You're going to hurt me," she whispers. "I—it won't be you, I'll be hurting myself, but I... I don't want to be hurt again." She sniffles again. "I thought it would just be a cover. I thought... that it would probably just be meaningless sex."

"Have you ever had meaningless sex?"

"No."

He brushes his thumb against her hand. "I don't want to hurt you," he says, so quietly. "I never... that's not what I wanted. I'll leave right now if you ask me to, if... if dating is upsetting you. We can just... do the wedding, if you still want that."

The thought of the wedding makes her stomach twist unpleasantly, even now. Part of why she wanted someone else to be there was to keep her from becoming involved with Frank again; part of it was to make her seem more attractive to him, so he might consider renewing their relationship.

We were made for each other, Nan.

And it feels like her skin has been hollowed out from the inside, so thin that a breath will break her. Everything has worn her down. "I don't want to decide this tonight," she whispers. "I just feel so sad."

"Do you want me to leave?"

"No." She can't look at him.

He rubs his thumb over her hand again, then releases it. She's fighting the sudden ache of tears in her throat when he drapes his arm over her shoulders and pulls her to him. "I never want to hurt you," he whispers. "I'm sorry."

Her heart sinks as she murmurs, "Can you just hang out with me? You can study... I just think I might keep drinking if I stay here by myself."

"Okay. Why don't you put on your favorite movie or something? Just lay down and try to relax."

She doesn't feel up to watching her favorite movie; instead she cues up something new on her streaming service. She knows that she'll never forget this, she'll never forget the circumstances of tonight. If she ever watches this movie again, she'll be back here, with him at the other end of the couch, with her heart breaking.

You've been walking out from the moment we met.

She has no words for it. She's never felt it before, this certainty that she's on the edge of some decision that she will remember the rest of her life. She knew that when Frank left, her heart broke, but this... she's been too honest with him, she's too drunk, she's too heartsick and sad to be thinking clearly. There's nothing earth-shattering about watching a movie while he studies. And she's stronger than this.

But tonight, she isn't.

She falls asleep, a few tears drying on her cheeks, and wakes when she feels something moving her. She opens her eyes and sees Ned above her. The room is silent and he's sliding his arms under her. She makes a soft noise and he looks into her face, and he gives her a small smile as he picks her up. He's holding her in his arms, one arm supporting her back, the other under her knees. He's so warm.

"I thought I'd tuck you in. If you want me to."

She nestles her head against him and lets him carry her to her bed. When he puts her down, she blinks up at him.

"Stay with me tonight," she whispers.

He takes a deep breath. "On the couch?"

She shakes her head silently, still looking into his eyes, willing him to do it. To hurt her. She can see the doubt in his expression.

"I'll be right back," she says, and sits up. "If you don't want to stay, I—I'll lock the door behind you. And I understand."

She gives him time, while she's in her bathroom, brushing her teeth and preparing for bed. She doesn't want to have sex with him, not tonight, not while she's feeling this way. She just doesn't want to be alone.

He's standing in the doorway of her bedroom when she returns. "I... I need to finish this up, and then I'll come in here, okay? It won't be too long."

Her heart gives a hard beat. "Okay," she tells him. "Thanks."

She can't sleep. Instead she listens to the quiet sound of him in the other room and concentrates on her own breathing and does her best not to think about Angelica, or about how many times she's fantasized about him in this bed, or how crushingly lonely she feels.

It's better to guard her heart, better to grow accustomed to being alone again. She can tell him that she's changed her mind, give him some payment for all he's done for her, and go to the wedding alone. Despite what he said, she doesn't think she's ready to date again. At least, not the way she feels tonight.

He turns off the light in the main room, and her bedroom is cast into darkness. He steps in and her heart skips a beat, as he toes his shoes off, as he takes a few steps toward the bed. She hears his clothes rustling in the darkness.

He comes to her bed in a pair of shorts. She knows it because he slides beneath the cover beside her, and she takes a breath before moving toward him. He drapes his arm over her as she cuddles close to him, and his skin is bare under her cheek.

She closes her eyes. Her body has bought the lie. Later, this memory will hurt her. Later, she will regret all this, every time they touched, every time her heart skipped a beat at the thought of him.

But this isn't later, this is tonight, and she falls asleep in the arms of a man she wants to believe cares about her.

--

"Nancy."

She's feeling better. She's still not quite herself, but she doesn't feel the despair she did just after finding Angelica's body.

But that voice... that voice is enough to make her feel like she's dreaming.

She turns and sees him, and he looks, impossibly, just the same. Wavy blond hair, dancing eyes, a charming grin. "Mick," she replies, and she can't stop herself from smiling. "It's been too long."

Mick Devlin is undeniably handsome. He has a dimple in his chin that makes knees weak, and a dreamy, cheeky Australian accent. He's shared her bed a few times, but she hasn't seen him since she and Frank moved in together. The crush she had on him then is still there, though.

"Hey beautiful," Mick says, giving her a slow grin, the kind meant to send a bolt of arousal straight down her spine and between her legs, and it does. "It's been far, far too long. Tell me you don't have much going on in the next few days."

"Don't tell me that the great detective needs my help."

His grin becomes almost wry. "I was thinking that we could catch up over dinner. You can tell me all about how you've been doing the past few years. I can fill you in about some of my more interesting cases. Candlelight, maybe some dancing. And then going back to your place... after a stakeout?"

Nancy crosses her arms. "Mmm," she says, without agreeing. "Stakeout where?"

Once he explains, she finds it almost impossible to resist. Not going to bed with him; that is so far from her mind that she doesn't even think about it. But the case is intriguing. Mick is tracking a band of thieves and smugglers that has set its sights on a collection of royal jewelry being transported by special armored courier to a museum exhibit. They have already made one attempt, and even that went almost undetected, thanks to their skill. Now Mick is on the case, and he's almost certain they will try again in the next few days, before the exhibit is unveiled.

He works out the details with her boss, and then she's in a cab beside Mick, feeling almost like she's eighteen again. When she and Mick met, it was during that time when she and Frank had feelings for each other, but the timing just hadn't been right yet. She remembers Mick fondly, and she looks back at her angst over his proposal of marriage with a mixture of embarrassment and pity. Mick is great fun. He's charming and he makes her laugh, and he's damned good in bed. But he's not anything near husband material, not at this point in her life. She doesn't know if he ever will be.

And that's all right. A part of her will always be attracted to him, but that doesn't mean they can't have fun together. Mel would undoubtedly recommend inviting him to bed, just so Nancy can get back on the horse.

For a few seconds, she lets herself think about it. Mick in her apartment, in her bed, alternately playful and intense, utterly adoring and cocky as hell. They'd have a good time.

Then he glances over at her, and she knows from the warmth in his eyes that it's not a decision she has to make. All she has to do is let it happen. That's alluring in itself.

That night, when they're standing at her apartment door after the stakeout is over, it's impossible to remember why she should refuse this. In fact, a part of her is even imagining how it would be to take Mick as her date to the wedding, if he can make it. His presence would undoubtedly drive Frank crazy with jealousy. He's attractive and alluring, and it wouldn't be a lie. Not the way her relationship with Ned is. It would be nothing that would make her ashamed or embarrassed later.

But the second Mick's lips brush hers, Nancy feels—uncomfortable. When she realizes it's guilt, she flushes with embarrassment as she pulls away. Guilt for what? Her relationship with Ned isn't real; it's a fiction both of them find convenient. There's no reason she can't invite him inside, share her bed with him tonight. They're adults...

"So, beautiful." He cups her hips, steps closer to her, until she's almost pinned against her door. She should find it sexy. He's almost impossible to resist. And then he ducks down toward her again, until she can feel his breath against her skin.

"I—I'm really tired," she stammers. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

He tilts his head. "Really?"

"Yeah." She forces a smile. "I'm sorry. It's been really good to see you again. Have a good night. I'll call you in the morning."

He releases a disbelieving chuckle, then shakes his head as he reluctantly steps back. "Um... sorry. I just... I'll see you tomorrow."

She keys into her apartment, her cheeks still flushed, and takes a few deep breaths. She can still feel the warmth of his lips on hers. When they first met, she would have sworn that the attraction she felt for Mick was just as strong as she had felt for anyone else. Now...

She wants to talk to Ned.

And say what? She has no answer. She feels like she needs to confess that she spent most of the day with an ex, but she has no idea why. And that's foolish. She could be with a different man every night, and it wouldn't make any difference to Ned. He's with a different woman almost every night.

That's what makes her realize it, suddenly. She doesn't want him to be with any other woman. She wants him here. She wants to sleep in his arms again.

Maybe he's free.

She wonders, with a stab of guilt, whether manufacturing some stressful situation would make him more likely to come over. But that's too much, and there are so many lies between them already. She knows so little about him; she wants to believe that what she sees in him is true.

She's able to hold out until she's in an oversized shirt, teeth brushed, almost ready for bed. She takes out her phone and considers for a moment before pulling up his name, the way she messages him to contribute to their ever-lengthening paper trail.

Hey. Busy tonight?

She can't believe how hard her heart is beating. She gazes at the phone, willing him to respond to her, willing him to say No, nothing going on, what's up?

But the minutes stretch by, agonizingly slowly, and slowly Nancy finds other things to do, to distract herself from just waiting on the phone. She checks her email, makes a few notes in her journal, turns on a new television show and turns it off five minutes later, picks up a book and can't comprehend a word of it. All of her feels somehow attuned to—to her idea of him. She imagines him bent over books, brushing thick dark hair off his forehead, his jaw set, intelligent dark eyes flitting from one piece of information to the next. She thinks of him, that slow smile, and she feels it again, what she doesn't want to put in words. Not now and not ever.

It's just past midnight and she's lying there awake, just beginning to feel tired, just admitting to herself that he's not coming, when her phone chirps. Instantly she's wide awake again.

Sorry, had something going on. What's up? Are you ok?

She knows it; she feels it, certain as anything. He's just left an apartment, a house, a hotel room. Hastily dressed. Someone else's sweat drying on his skin.

She knows this is what he does. She has no right to feel this bottomless sadness, like he's betrayed her.

I'm ok. Just miss you. Have a good night.

You too, Nan. Sleep well.

In less than a day, now, she might be the one, the center of his attention, of his whole world. His warm body against hers, their limbs tangled together, his heart beating against hers. His phone quietly vibrating in the next room, seething with messages from other women, other women who think they are the center of his world.

She feels helpless. The only power she can take back is to reply, tell him something has come up, that she can't see him as they had planned... but that's beyond her strength. She craves him now, already, wholeheartedly.

But she can feel it. If she does this, if she sleeps with him... there will be no going back. She doesn't know what that means, but she has no doubt. She'll be giving up a piece of herself she's not sure she can afford to lose, and when he goes, he will take it with him.

And he will go. She has no doubt of that either.

We have this time together. We have what is between us. That's all we can have, and all we ever will, so let's make the most of it.

She rolls onto her side, curling up into a ball, the red glare of her alarm clock a blur in her unseeing gaze.

How do you say goodbye to someone you've never really met?

To that, she has no answer.

Tell me what you want tonight.

The message comes through on the private messaging, off their paper trail, where they are honest with each other. Where he's an escort and she is his client and what is between them is an arrangement, an agreement. A service bought and not quite paid for yet.

Mick's made it clear that he will be in the city through the weekend, that he would love to see her, even though their work together is over for now and the authorities are on the case. She can't take him up on it. All she can think about is Ned. Like a moth to the flame. He's that dangerous.

What do you mean?

Do you have a particular fantasy?

Despite herself, Nancy finds that she's blushing. She does, but her fantasies feel divorced from reality. They existed before she met him, and now, with him... But she can't tell him what she actually wants. She knows that.

Like what?

Ned's response takes more than an hour, and during that time, her heart has just begun to slow, the flush has just begun to fade in her cheeks. She's at work and she can't think about this. She can't think about how she cleaned the apartment specifically because she knew he would be coming over. She can't think about the condoms and lube and vibrators in the drawer of her bedside table. She can't think about him naked in her bed. How incredible he will look. And he will be hers, even if it's only for a night.

I'm a stranger at the club who starts flirting aggressively, and you take me back to your place. I fuck you against a wall, against any available surface in your apt, and I'm gone when you wake up.

The join of her thighs tingles when she reads his message. She doesn't have time to even imagine a response when she receives another.

I walk in, carry you to the bed and tie you to it, blindfold you, and fuck you whatever way you've told me to before we start. Toys, spanking, whatever.

It's our first night together, our first time, and we take things slow and sweet. I make breakfast and we eat it in bed and then have sex again.

We've had sex a hundred times, we've been in a relationship for a long time, and I've just come back from a trip. Slow reunion sex and wine.

Is this what he wants, or what other women have asked him for? The script he finds it easy to follow? Women who fantasize about one-night stands when they can control everything, women who want to act out some bondage fantasy? She doesn't know. She only knows that her entire body feels flushed, her skin too sensitive.

Of course those are just a few.

You've done those before? She's not sure why it matters, but she wants to know. There are only so many ways to fuck, and if she has some specific, pseudo-therapeutic way she wants it, he will give her that.

But that isn't what she wants.

She can't have what she wants.

Yes. But I'll give you whatever you want. You don't just have to pick from some menu.

She eats lunch. She answers emails and messages from Bess and does research for another case. And the entire time her stomach is tense and her heart is beating faster.

This is a mistake. This is... this is reckless and dangerous. And utterly, completely irresistible.

I want to make dinner for you and relax with you, like we have been. And we can treat it like the first time, because it will be. Slow and sweet. She's blushing as she types it, as she taps the Send button.

Treat me like you love me. She can't tell him that, because it would break her own heart. But Ned will be playing a role tonight, and Nancy should be too. She should treat this like a cover... but she's so far past that. She just can't.

All the more proof that she should turn back before it's too late.

I can definitely do that. What time?

She considers. 6:30?

I'll see you then. Do you want me to bring anything?

Dessert?

Anything in mind?

Whatever you want. I like pretty much all desserts. I don't care if it's a pack of Oreos.

Sounds perfect.

The closer the end of her workday comes, the more anxious she feels. She already asked him if he has any allergies or food sensitivities, and he doesn't. Even if she burns everything, she can still order delivery pizza. He won't judge her—or if he does, he won't say anything. It will turn into another story, another part of their mythology.

Mythology.

All the experiences she's shared with Bess and George are part of the story of their friendship. And all of what she and Frank shared is part of their history too. Maybe in some way all of it is lies, constructed memories, things that are only in her own mind.

She can't see into Ned's mind, what he's thinking, what he's feeling, and he's intentionally made it that way. He has to keep some part of himself safe and protected and—inviolate. And all she wants is for him to let her in.

Maybe this is just what he does to all women.

But how can anyone else look into his eyes, his face, and see him as—as a Ken doll to pose and program and fuck? How can they want him to just ignore all he is and all he wants...

She keeps circling back to it, worrying it, cursing herself for being such a fool. She isn't special. The attraction that sparks between them, that practically scorches the air whenever their gazes meet, is likely what he feels for anyone. Regardless of what he said to her on their first real date.

It wasn't real, it wasn't real, it wasn't...

It isn't real. She keeps telling herself that. It's as real as any dream can be. Insubstantial as mist.

She's later leaving her work than she wants to be, and she rushes home. If their date had been for Saturday night, she would have put together something fresh; instead, she woke up early and put together beef bourguignon to simmer in the slow-cooker all day long. She has a loaf of crusty French bread to heat in the oven, and all she needs to complete the meal is mashed potatoes. From all her time with Hannah, she couldn't bear to just pick up one of the instant packets she could whip up with butter and milk. Instead, she has a bag of red-skinned potatoes waiting for her.

The apartment smells incredible even when she's still in the hallway fitting her key into the lock, and she smiles to herself. The beef and vegetables are simmering in beef broth and Pinot Noir. It's been a long time since she's put together a meal like this, and it actually feels good. Like she's accomplished something.

She starts taking her work clothes off before she's even reached her bedroom, but once she's there, her mind is spinning and she can't decide what to wear. Something sexy? She doesn't want to stain anything while cooking. But she wants to wear something he will like.

Nancy settles on a black floral wrap top with half-sleeves; the neckline is low, but not immodest. She wriggles into a pair of skinny jeans and leaves the diamond studs in her ears. When she's in the kitchen she puts an apron on immediately, tying her hair back.

Ned will be here soon. Ned will be here soon.

Her stomach is jumping; it's far, far more serious than butterflies. She feels as jumpy as a five-year-old on Christmas morning, ablaze with anticipation.

The potatoes are finished and in the pan warming. Another bottle of Pinot Noir is ready to be uncorked and poured. The table is set. The TV is tuned to a music channel, playing songs she remembers from high school.

At six-twenty-nine, she hears a knock at the door and her heart almost beats out of her chest. She rushes to the door before she can talk herself out of it, then smoothes the skirt of her apron and tugs the elastic out of her hair, smoothing that too. When she checks, she sees Ned standing on the other side of the door. His expression is relaxed, pleasant, but he's unsmiling.

And as soon as she opens the door, he is smiling. "Nan," he murmurs, stepping inside, and wraps an arm around her waist as he lowers his face to hers.

It's so sudden, but she melts against him, her lips parting to his kiss. She strokes her hand over his hair and his tongue slides against hers and her knees go weak.

"Hey," she murmurs once he breaks the kiss, and she can't help smiling too. "Thanks for coming over."

He nods. "Thanks for inviting me. It smells incredible. You really are a great cook when I'm not around."

She wrinkles her nose at him, closing the door. "You sell yourself short," she says. "Oh my God..."

He has a crooked half-smile on his face as he shows her what was behind his back: a plastic bag presumably holding their dessert, and a bouquet of red, pink, and white roses and mini calla lilies. "It seemed appropriate," he says softly.

"Oh, it's gorgeous. Thank you. It's so sweet." She can't believe it. Her eyes are pricking with tears, and she can't seem to turn it off. At some deep, visceral level, she's bought into it.

"We might both regret it if you take me up on this, but... need any help?"

She wrinkles her nose at him again. "Let me find a vase and we can put the flowers on the table? It'll make a beautiful centerpiece. Dinner's thirty seconds from being finished, I swear."

She dishes up the potatoes and the entree while Ned slices the warmed, crusty bread. His contribution, a store-bought chocolate-marbled cheesecake, is in the refrigerator. He handles the corkscrew like a pro, and all too soon they're seated at her small table, facing each other.

He'll be making love to her tonight. If she wants.

Her heart is in her throat. She's not sure she'll be able to eat a single bite.

He looks so handsome. He's dressed in a black button-down and jeans, with no ornamentation, no earring, no necklace or bracelet or rings. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and the first button of his shirt is undone.

When her gaze rises to his face again, he smiles at her. "You look beautiful," he says softly.

She opens her mouth and closes it again, ducking her head slightly.

"No, don't do that," he says, reaching across the table and touching her chin, and she meets his gaze again. "You look beautiful. You can relax, okay? This dinner looks incredible, and we have all night."

She nods. "You look... you look so handsome," she says. "And I'm glad you're here with me."

"Good." He gently strokes her cheek, then moves back again. She can't help watching anxiously as he forks up the first bite of the entree. "This is... babe, this is amazing."

She grins. "Really?"

He nods. "You've missed your calling. I love it."

A warm flush of pride fills her chest. "I'm glad you like it. I mean, it's nothing much..."

"And there you go doing it again," he says, raising an eyebrow at her. "Trust me, it's well beyond anything I could do."

"Want to bet?" She smiles as she takes her own first bite. "Because I bet I could teach you how to make this. Maybe for our next date."

"I love your optimism." He smiles as he takes his next bite. "So you texted me last night—was anything going on? Or were you just having a sleepless night?"

She considers for a few seconds, but it's too tempting. "A little of both," she replies, forking up a bite of mashed potato. "I... I was working a case with an old friend. Not Frank... someone else."

He studies her expression for a moment. "An old boyfriend?"

She shrugs. "It was never that formal. Mutual attraction. He's a lot of fun. He even—proposed to me, a long time ago." She chuckles. "And I realized practically immediately that he's not meant to settle down, at least not with me."

Ned swallows and takes a sip of wine. "He must be a detective too. He lives in the city?"

Nancy shakes her head. "No. He's Australian, and he travels all over the world. We met in Europe, actually."

"Sounds very romantic."

Maybe he thinks he sounds neutral. Maybe she's just imagining the slight bitterness of jealousy in his voice. "He brought me home last night," she says, and though she wants to stare at him, to detect any split-second shift in his expression, she forces herself to glance down at her plate a few times. "Wanted to come inside, make up for lost time... I turned him down."

She didn't make her bed this morning with fresh sheets to hide the shame of what had happened last night, because nothing did. Nothing could have. She has no space for Mick in her heart or in her bed right now.

Ned's shoulders slump almost imperceptibly as he relaxes and takes another sip of wine. "I'm sure he was disappointed," he comments, then glances up into her eyes.

And she can swear that he knows. He knows why she turned Mick down.

Because the temperature between them seems to spike another ten degrees from simply the warmth in his gaze. "He was."

"And did he and Frank ever meet?"

"A few times." Her lips curve up in a wry smile. "No love lost between those two."

Ned's quiet for another moment, as he takes another bite of their dinner, and she does too. "Sounds like he would be perfect, for what you have in mind."

He sounds reluctant to voice the idea. His gaze drops to his plate, then rises to her face again. He's desperate to see her reaction to his words.

"I'm sure he'd agree to it," she says, reaching for her glass. "I'm less sure that he'd actually show. He's a handsome, charming guy, really smart and a lot of fun; he has the best intentions in the world, but sometimes life gets in the way. And I've met someone else, someone who completely blows him out of the water. An impossibly handsome, amazing guy who I can't seem to get enough of. When Mick kissed me last night, it felt... wrong. Because it wasn't you."

She can feel her heart practically pounding in her throat, and Ned has stopped eating; they're just gazing at each other. She feels so anxious that she could easily throw up. But she can't look away from him. Maybe to him this is a role, and maybe she can hide behind that excuse, but every single word she's just spoken is the truth.

Ned coughs. "So my kisses made that much of an impression," he says, keeping his voice light, and like that the momentary spell is broken.

"Your kisses, you stealing second..."

"While you were on my lap practically grinding against me," he says, and she flushes slightly at the memory. But his tone is amused.

"You wish," she shoots back.

Then he grins. "I do," he concedes. "Maybe for dessert."

She chuckles and shakes her head, then reaches for a slice of bread.

"You can't get enough of me?" he says, his voice softer now, like some secret they're sharing. Like this isn't for the benefit of their invisible audience, seeking a paper trail and evidence of their forged relationship.

"I thought that was obvious," she replies. "I'm glad if it isn't. But I do really love being around you, even if all we do tonight is talk."

"Did you want to talk?"

She swallows, then nods. "I'd be disappointed if we didn't," she admits.

"Beyond the sweet nothings I'd be whispering while slowly taking your clothes off."

She shivers. Somehow the sound of his voice seems to resonate in her, sending ripples racing up and down her spine. "Beyond that," she says, and clears her throat. "Because I at least want to be able to hear it and respond coherently. In something other than just long moans."

"We'll have plenty of time for both. Beautiful."

They settle into a discussion of how her work has been the rest of this week, other than the outlier of Mick's unexpected presence, and she slips out of the game and back into herself. He's seen her as she truly is, and it's intoxicating to just be herself around him. God help her, but she thinks he genuinely likes her, or maybe she just wants to believe it so badly. His laughter rings true, and the humor in his eyes when he reacts to a clever turn of phrase seems genuine. And she basks in it.

No one else has treated her this way. No one else has ever made her feel this way.

And it's all a lie. At some level, everything between them is utter bullshit. But tonight she doesn't want to know where the line is. Tonight she wants to let herself believe all of it.

She's pleasantly warmed by the wine when he suggests they take the cheesecake to the couch and relax there, and she nods in agreement. After her first few bites of dinner, her appetite came back despite her anxiety, and now she's regretting the choice of skinny jeans. And what will he think, once they're in her bed? Will he be disappointed with the way she looks?

It won't matter what he thinks. He's a professional, and so much of him is buried inside that she'll never know.

She brings two saucers and forks, and he works his way under the domed plastic cover and reveals the cheesecake with a flourish and a smile. "And you've definitely picked some romantic music for tonight," he comments, nodding toward the TV.

She chuckles. She knows the songs are cheesy, the arrangements ridiculously dated now. But some part of her is still that innocent sixteen-year-old from River Heights, who dreams of the impossible, a man who will let her be herself and share a fierce, infinite love with her. "I danced to this one at prom," she informs him in a mock-prim voice, then giggles again. "And we did think it was very romantic."

"I bet you had a partner for every dance."

Her grin fades into a smile as he serves her a slice of cheesecake. "I'm sure Don would have danced with me every time, but... You know how sometimes you meet someone who worships the ground you walk on, who utterly adores you, and you want to feel that in return, but... it's just not there."

"That's how he was for you?"

He hasn't answered her question, but he has to know what that's like. "Yeah. And there were a few other guys, but I wasn't all that popular in school." She forks up a bite of cheesecake. "But I'm sure you have no idea what that's like."

"Did something happen?"

He does everything he can to draw her out, while still remaining firmly hidden. After another glass of wine, she won't be able to hold her tongue from commenting on it. "My nickname was 'Nancy the Snoop,'" she says. "And when people start thinking that all you want to do is find out their secrets so you can gossip about them, no one wants to be around you. Bess and George knew better than that, but... kids can be pretty mean."

"Yeah." Ned's slice of cheesecake is already half-finished. "I hate that for you, anyway. I'm glad you didn't let it get you down."

She shrugs. "It helps to be here," she says. "Where no one remembers who I was, only who I am. Back home I'm still Carson Drew's little girl and Bess and George's best friend, the girl who couldn't stop poking her nose into other people's business. Here, I'm..."

"A beautiful, intelligent woman," Ned fills in when she trails off. "Successful without needing to depend on her father's name, who can help people without their suspecting ulterior motives. But whose heart still breaks sometimes."

She nods slowly, gazing into his eyes, belatedly swallowing a bite of cheesecake. The wine and her damned attraction to him are getting to her. "You think I'm beautiful?" she whispers. "Do you really, Ned?"

He nods. "You're gorgeous. Don't ever doubt that."

It takes supreme effort to pull her gaze from his, but she's afraid she will say something that will mortify both of them, that will make him pull away from her. To cover, she forks up another bite of cheesecake. "Thank you for saying that."

Once Ned finishes his slice, he puts his plate down and brings his overnight bag to the couch. "Before we go further," he says, and her heart starts beating faster. He pulls out a slender folder and takes out a sheet of paper, then hands it to her.

"What is this?"

"My latest test results," he says, and she flushes. "For your peace of mind. Of course anything that happens tonight will be protected, but..."

She barely glances over it. HIV, negative. She hands it back to him without looking at his face. "Thanks."

"It's just the fine print," he says, almost apologetically. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

It's another reminder of the gulf between them, a glimpse behind the curtain that she didn't want. He has to be tested because he fucks other women all the time. And this is just a job to him. She places her saucer on the coffee table, unable to finish the last bite.

She's such a fool.

She has to get out of this. She has to get out now. It's almost too late. She's changed her mind. It's too—real. What he is and what she is...

Her rented Ken doll. She can pose him and write the script that comes out of his mouth. And it's worse than pretending, because it's so seductive.

"Nan?"

For a second, she can't move. She can hardly even breathe. She doesn't want to look at him. She feels such distress that it's almost like intense pain.

"Nancy," he breathes. "Please talk to me."

She shakes her head and draws a sharp breath that ends in something uncomfortably close to a sob. "I don't know what to do," she says, and her voice is trembling a little. "I can't do this."

"Everything is in your control," he tells her, and his voice is gentle. "We aren't going to do anything you don't want, wholeheartedly. Shh."

"But I don't want this." She glances over at his face, and for the instant before he schools his expression, she sees a flash of pain there. "I don't want a lie."

He takes a deep breath. "I don't think there have been any lies tonight..."

"But I'll never know!" She sniffles and grabs a tissue, blotting under her eyes. "I don't know what you want! Because it's not important, right? Because it doesn't matter what you want. You're just—a Ken doll."

His eyes widen. "Is that what you think of me?"

She shakes her head impatiently. "Not at all. But it's how other women see you. And I don't want it to be like that with us. And I don't know how to fix it."

Very tentatively, his hand brushes hers. She gently wraps her fingers around his palm. "I know there's nothing I can say to convince you, but please believe me when I say this," he says softly. "This isn't... I'm not pretending that I'm attracted to you. I am. I want to have sex with you, if you want that. But above all, I care about you, and I hate to see you in pain like this."

Her stomach clenches hard, in anxiety, in the sudden painful euphoria. "I wish we'd met another way," she whispers. "I wish it hadn't been like this."

He swallows. "Me too."

She looks down at their joined hands, trying to calm herself down. "We can just go to bed and hold each other," she whispers. "Like we did the other night."

"Of course we can. We'll do whatever you want."

Her chin jerks up and her gaze locks to his. "What about what you want to do?"

"I want to make you happy."

She sighs in something uncomfortably close to disgust. "Is there anyone in your life who makes you happy?" she says.

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me." She wipes another tear away. Then she shakes her head. "What the fuck is wrong with me," she mutters. "I have no right to talk to you this way. This is a job. This is just—"

—and then he's touching her chin and bringing her head up, and her lips are parted when he kisses her, almost fiercely, with such passion that she can't breathe. She whimpers and wraps her arm around him, and then he's drawing her onto his lap, his tongue in her mouth, his palm cupping her cheek. They kiss for a long, long time, breaking one just to begin another, and when it finally ends she's panting, slumped against him, her forehead against his.

"I care about you," she tells him, still trying to catch her breath. "Goddamn you, I care about you and I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable, I..."

"I care about you too."

Her heart rises as she gazes into his eyes, but the trembling hope deflates almost immediately. Tears prick in her eyes again.

Ned sighs. "You want the truth from me but you won't hear it," he says. "I want you, Nan. I'm attracted to you in every way I've ever experienced, and beyond that. And I do care about you. Whatever happens tonight, it won't be meaningless."

She tries to guard her heart, to remind herself that he's telling her what she wants to hear. But she can't help it. She drinks it in like water to starved earth. "It won't be meaningless for me either," she admits. "It couldn't be. I... I just hate the idea of making you do something that you don't actually want to do. Not this, especially. It would be... it would be like rape."

Because she's afraid of it, she sees the almost imperceptible tightening of his lips, a faint tell. "This is completely consensual," he tells her again. "I mean that from the bottom of my heart. Do you want to go to bed, Nan? We can just sleep, if that's what you want. If you're too upset, I'll leave, but only if that will make you feel better..."

"Will you promise me one thing?"

"What is it?"

Always so cautious. She can't blame him, given everything else. "That you'll tell me 'no' if you need to," she says, searching his eyes. "You're not a Ken doll. You're not just a toy for my pleasure. You're an incredible, sweet guy. And it would make me happy to know that you won't just blindly agree to whatever I say."

He searches her eyes too. "I promise," he murmurs.

She reaches down and unties the bow holding her top closed, still holding his gaze, but she can tell when he inhales that he knows what she's done. "I don't want to have sex with you tonight," she says, and she can feel every beat of her heart pounding through her. "I want you to make love to me, with me. Can you do that?" It's hard to speak, she's so nervous. She couldn't be more vulnerable if she were stripped naked in front of him in this moment. "You can say no."

He opens his mouth once without saying anything, and nothing can make her look away from his handsome face. He has to be able to say no. He has to. And she sees something in his eyes she can't interpret.

"We can make love," he whispers. "If that's what you want, tonight. You don't do anything by half-measures, do you."

She shakes her head, a small smile on her face. "Thank you," she whispers.

He strokes her cheek. "Slow," he murmurs. "With a lot of foreplay."

She nods. "Yes, please."

It's done. It's out of her hands, and he's said yes. She feels curiously light, but she still doesn't know what's about to happen. Oh, she's very familiar with the basics, but with every partner it's different.

He guides his hand down, sliding it beneath the open edge of her shirt. She flinches slightly when his fingertips come into contact with her bare skin. "Do you want anything else?" he asks softly, keeping his gaze on hers as he strokes the small of her back. "I brought some toys with me, if you're into that. They're brand new." Then he tilts his head slightly. "Or maybe you have some toys yourself."

She takes a shallow breath. "Not—tonight," she murmurs. "But thanks for the offer."

He smiles. Then he unfastens her bra one-handed, and she arches. "Relax," he murmurs.

She chuckles nervously. "Pretty sure that's impossible," she says. "Um, let me... get ready for bed. But let's talk for a while longer, okay? In here?"

He nods. His smoldering gaze remains on her as she heads for her bedroom.

What does he think it means, to make love? She considers as she goes through the contents of her lingerie drawer. A few of the gowns Frank particularly loved, she's put away; it made her too sad to see them. She pulls out a few different nighties before settling on one she hasn't yet worn. It's a sheer babydoll in deep blue, trimmed in eggshell-white lace, with a pair of matching panties. Although she can clearly see her peaked nipples through the fabric when she glances at her reflection, the outfit seems more sweet than overtly slutty. She tousles her hair and gives herself a little pout, which turns into a quick, spontaneous grin.

She will let herself believe, for tonight, wholeheartedly. Tomorrow may be another story, but for tonight, she will believe that he cares about her, that what's about to happen really won't be meaningless for either of them.

While she will look sexier without it, it's still a little too chilly to do without a robe. She walks out of her bedroom in slippers too, and Ned's still sitting on the couch, his arm draped along the back, still fully dressed. His gaze is locked to her as soon as she walks around the edge of the couch.

"Let me see," he says, and she obligingly opens the robe, even lets it drop to her elbows and does a little twirl for him. "Mmm. Very nice."

"I haven't worn it before," she says. She can't show him any printout of blood test results, no tangible reminder of her other partners, although he knows far more about her sexual history than she does about his. "I'm glad you like it."

"Gorgeous," he confirms, and beckons her to come over to him. "You look very sexy. I ate another slice of cheesecake while you were gone. Would you like some more?"

She shakes her head. She's too nervous to even think about food. "Do you want any more wine?"

He shakes his head. "I don't want to be drunk for this," he says softly.

The pleasant buzz from the wine has faded. She can still feel it, but she isn't drunk. She sits down beside him, but he casually slides his arm around her and then seats her on his lap again, where she was.

She smiles, gazing deeply into his eyes as she drapes her arms over his shoulders. "We're going to talk."

"Mmm-hmm." He leans toward her and kisses her, his fingertips gliding up her thighs so he can cup her sides in his large warm hands. "Your skin feels so good," he murmurs when he breaks the kiss.

She smiles. "Mind if I...?" She places her hands near the collar of his shirt, but doesn't start unbuttoning it until he nods. His chest is bare underneath, and incredibly muscular. The flesh is gloriously warm when the backs of her fingers glance against it, smooth and taut. His body is made for his clients to ogle and desire. It feels cheap to join them.

"You can look," he tells her, almost lazily. "And touch if you want."

"You're so handsome," she sighs. "And if things had been different... I don't think you would have even given me a second glance. You're so far out of my league."

He raises his eyebrows. "And you're a gorgeous successful woman with a fascinating career," he points out. "Don't you think guys find that a little intimidating?"

"I've been told that any man who feels intimidated by a strong woman doesn't deserve her."

He tilts his head. "I'd say that some guys just need an opening," he replies. "Some way to connect, to not feel like they're totally just putting themselves out there for rejection. The way we met, I knew you were interested in something like this, and as soon as I looked into your face, I knew you were interested in me. But I can't imagine that you would have looked twice at me if you'd been walking through campus."

She shakes her head. "You, sleeves rolled up, jeans, ruffled hair, backpack... oh, I can definitely imagine that hitting me. And a part of me can't help thinking that..."

"That what?"

Her gaze drops to Ned's full, kissable lips. "That it doesn't matter how we met," she murmurs. "That it would always have been this way."

Then he's leaning toward her and she's bending toward him, and she shivers when her chest brushes his even through the thin mesh of her nightgown. He brings his hand up and laces his fingers through her hair, his tongue teasing against hers. She toys with the short, silky hair at the nape of his neck, and for a moment she's overwhelmed by his sheer physical presence, her perception of his muscular body and the strength coiled in him.

"So what does making love mean to you? How is it different from sex?"

Nancy closes her eyes for a second, trying to catch her breath. He seems entirely unruffled. It's so unfair. "Sex is... when one of us is into it but the other one isn't. When it's just... going through the motions, I guess. Making love... it's slow and..." She shrugs gently. "It means touching and... both being there. Feeling it. I don't know..." She sighs in frustration.

"So it's the same acts, but the performance is different?"

"I guess. In some ways, yes. Performance?"

Ned opens his mouth, and then he chuckles softly. "I'm not talking about what I do—not like that. But sexuality is a performance."

He says it matter-of-factly. Nancy raises an eyebrow. "Maybe it is for you, but—"

"But it isn't for you?" He raises his own eyebrow. "Why are you wearing this nightgown? What you think of as sexy, as 'normal,' is what you've seen, what you've been taught. When you see a man and a woman together in a movie, you accept what they're doing is probably normal."

Nancy stops and considers. "I guess," she says. "And from what my previous partners preferred..."

"Which they had been taught too."

"So how do I... there's no way I can undo that."

"It is difficult," he agrees. "But it can be very fulfilling to figure out what you want instead of just what you've been told you should want. Many straight women don't consider a sexual encounter satisfying without orgasm and penetration. But sexuality isn't just defined by those two acts. From your definition, I think that you aren't satisfied by sexuality divorced from intimacy. You want to connect with your partner in a way beyond merely physical."

"Yes. Otherwise it's—meaningless."

"Is sharing intimacy more important?"

She considers. His palms are at her hips again. "I think so," she admits. "I want both those things with you. I want the physical and the—emotional."

His lips curve up slightly. "I have a lot of practice at both," he murmurs.

She opens her mouth, but closes it again without saying what she's thinking. She doesn't want the performance. She wants what they share tonight to be genuine. For her, it will be. She wants to ask him if it will be true for him too.

But that's unfair of her. What guarantee does she have that any other man she dated was honest with her? It's not like she demanded the complete truth all the time, or that anyone expected it from her. But she's always believed that her past boyfriends were truthful until proven otherwise.

He strokes her sides. "Tonight," he says, gazing into her eyes. "For the next few hours, I don't want you to think about what what you're supposed to want. Tell me or show me what you want me to do. If I don't feel comfortable with it, I promise I'll tell you. But it will make me happy to do that, okay? I mean it."

The join of her thighs is tingling. "I've never thought of it that way," she tells him. "I mean, I've fantasized about—this—"

His eyebrows rise slightly. "Oh?"

She blushes a little. "Sorry..."

"No, don't be sorry. I'm definitely interested."

"Even though my fantasies are informed by forces outside my control?"

He grins. "Like you said, it's hard to change the script in your head so easily."

"Yeah..." She studies his face. "And when I did that, I wanted it to be something that would turn you on. I wanted just telling you about it to turn you on. I wanted you to ask to watch..."

"And then?" he prompts her, when she trails off.

"And then to take the toy out of my hand and—make sure that I knew it was you when you..."

"Made love to you?" A small smile is playing with the corners of his mouth.

"Fucked me within an inch of my life," she says, ducking her head. "That you'd be so overcome by lust that you'd just have to be inside me."

"That doesn't sound like what you asked for," he points out.

She shakes her head, then runs her fingers through her hair as she brings her chin back up. "It's just something idle in my head," she says. "And then I see you in front of me, and... and I don't want to tell you what to do. I want it to be real." As soon as she says the word, she wants to take it back.

"Genuine."

She nods. "So what you were just talking about, is that what you've been learning in grad school?"

He laughs. "Yeah, sorry. I've done a lot of work with case studies, and then my advisor said I needed to pick a set of perspective courses, and I took a couple on sexuality."

"Every time we talk, I'm more sure that I'm just an experiment. Like what you're writing your thesis about."

He cups her cheek. "You aren't," he murmurs.

She searches his eyes again. "So what else are you learning about? Other than that human sexuality is just a performance."

"Well, it makes sense. All people do in social situations is a social performance. We do what we've been taught is 'normal.' Two people on their first night together haven't developed their own script, just what they've experienced with other people. And that's part of counseling. Unpacking everything that a person carries around, everything that impacts their relationships. If you were a case study, I'd be very interested in your relationship with your father."

"Why?" She's immediately defensive.

"Not for any creepy incest reasons, just because he was practically your sole parental influence. When you evaluate potential partners, do you compare them to him? Do you try to find someone who isn't like him?"

She considers, then looks into his face again. "And what do you do? Are you looking for someone like your mother?"

His face shutters slightly. "I'm not the important one here."

"But you are. You're a mystery, Ned. I know so little about you. And I'm fascinated by mysteries."

He smiles slightly. "Then why would I ever do anything to change that," he replies, leaning toward her again.

She knows that he's trying to derail the conversation, but his tongue is in her mouth and his hands are sliding into her panties and then he's pulling her forward so the join of her open thighs is against his jeans. He's aroused. A blush rises in her cheeks, but she runs her fingers through his hair anyway, her breasts brushing against his hard, warm chest again. She's overwhelmed by the wave of desire that crashes over her.

"Nice try," she murmurs when he breaks the kiss. Then he's nuzzling against her neck and she's shivering. "Mmm..."

"A lot of foreplay," he murmurs against her skin. "What do you like for foreplay?"

"This is a good start," she admits. "Put your hands all over me... be gentle to start."

"Other guys haven't been gentle with you."

"Some of them," she admits. "Some of them were."

"Gentle to start. Then rough?" He strokes her sides, brushing soft kisses against her neck.

"I... I don't know," she murmurs. "Can I let you know?"

He chuckles. She shivers at the sensation against her skin. "Of course," he says. "I'm following your lead, so just tell me what you want. I've been demanding with you—do you want me to ask permission before I do things?"

She takes a breath and shakes her head. "I'll just stop you if I need to," she murmurs.

"Do you trust me?"

"I did until you said that."

He laughs, then releases her so he can take his shirt off. "Can I take you to bed?"

She nods. "Please," she whispers.

He picks up his bag, and then picks her up. His arms are so muscular. He smells like soap, and faintly of a musky aftershave. It's not overwhelming. It's nice.

Once he crosses the threshold into her bedroom, though, she's suddenly aware that the fantasies are about to end. She will have him tonight, to remember and relive. And maybe the nights they spend while at the wedding.

There's a line he won't let her cross. He won't let her see into him. He can dig his fingers through her, sift her ideas and dreams, but to her he is a brick wall.

This is all we can have.

As soon as he gently places her on the bed, she stretches to turn on the bedside lamp. She's cleaned up; there's no pile of dirty laundry in the corner, no trail of clutter over her dresser. She's checked the expiration dates on the condoms in her bedside table, even though she's positive he brought some with him.

He puts the bag down and, gazing at her face the whole time, starts to strip out of his clothes. He doesn't make an overt performance of it, but she can't deny that her gaze is riveted to him as he unfastens his jeans and pushes them down. He's wearing a pair of black briefs when he comes to bed, and every inch of him looks strong and muscular and gorgeous.

She doesn't think it's ever hurt him, to hold himself back, to keep himself hidden. But for tonight she'll believe that this hurts him. The glimpses she catches every now and then make her think it might be true, with her. If things were different, maybe he wouldn't answer every question about himself with another meant to distract her.

He moves onto the bed beside her.

He's a stranger. But he isn't. She doesn't know enough about him, but she's not sure if she ever could. She's desperately attracted to him, but there's no basis there for a real relationship—and he doesn't want there to be.

She doesn't know what's wrong with her, why she can't get that out of her head. She does care about him. She cares about him so much that he's in bed with her. She could never have gone to bed with him the night they first met, and—

Remember what this is for. So that when he comes with her to the wedding, they will be able to convince Frank and Joe and the other people who know her that this is real. So that when his hand brushes hers and they exchange a knowing smile, it won't just be a bluff.

So why does it feel like so much more than that?

Because this isn't a cover. This isn't practice. It's not.

He rests his palm against her stomach and looks into her eyes. "Just a little more fine print," he murmurs apologetically. "This will be protected. That means oral sex has to be protected too. I've only done cunnilingus once protected, and the client was very disappointed by the experience. I can try it with you if you want, I have what we would need, but..."

She shakes her head slowly. "So basically through cling wrap? Nah."

"Okay."

"If the whole point is to avoid exchange of bodily fluid... we've kissed a lot."

"Let's just say that I'm trusting that you're clean."

"So you don't kiss just anyone?"

He shakes his head, moving close to her. "Definitely not," he murmurs, and kisses her again.

He's a man. He's young and strong and handsome, and her attraction to him is staggering. The rest of it doesn't matter.

She shudders as she imagines it being real, as she opens her legs slightly, as she runs her fingers through his hair. She imagines him touching her with love, and she wants so badly to believe it.

His hand steals up to lightly cup her breast, and she blushes as his thumb gently brushes against her nipple. He's teasing her, but it's delicious. She's responding like a neophyte. She's responding like he's her first lover.

He breaks the kiss and smiles at her. "You look very sexy tonight, but I want to feel your skin," he murmurs. "Here..."

She sits up with him, glancing down and then back up as he takes her gown off. She can't help it; she wants to see how he reacts to her. She wants to see if there's any sign of displeasure on his face.

But she sees none. He looks at her bare breasts for the first time, then slowly reaches for her. "So beautiful," he murmurs. "You're the most gorgeous woman I've ever seen."

"And you're the most handsome man I've ever seen," she tells him, and smiles. "I can't believe how nervous I feel right now," she admits softly.

"I know what you mean."

"How?" she says, before she can stop herself. "You can't possibly be nervous right now."

"Why wouldn't I be?" He touches her shoulder. "I want this to be good, and you won't tell me what you want..."

She looks into his eyes, and then moves onto his lap. He's still aroused, she finds, when her hips touch his. "It's our first night together," she murmurs, still looking at him. "We're learning about each other. And I don't know what I want with you. I think I want everything. Everything we can have. Please."

He strokes her sides, taking a long breath. "Nancy," he whispers.

She leans forward and kisses him then, pressing her breasts against his warm, bare chest, wrapping her arms around him. He returns the kiss immediately, and the more she touches him, the more she wants, the more she needs. He strokes her back, the nape of her neck, combing his fingers through her hair. He nuzzles against her neck again, and her heart starts beating faster.

He guides her down and strokes his palms and fingertips over her, brushing soft, light kisses against her sensitive skin, until she's panting. She wants to touch him, but what he's doing to her, with her, feels so good that she can't think about anything else. She settles on moaning softly, stroking her fingers through his hair as he nuzzles against her breast, as his lips brush her hard nipple. She's so aroused that the lightest stimulation makes her flinch.

He slides a knee between her thighs, and her heart starts beating harder. He parts her legs wide and moves so his body rests between her open thighs, and she closes her eyes as he keeps trailing kisses over her bare chest. Slowly his light caresses become more firm, even though he keeps them gentle. He teases her with soft brushes against her most sensitive places, over her nipples, the join of her thighs. He kisses her and occasionally licks her, occasionally draws her skin between his lips and sucks gently. Sometimes she feels the slow glance of his teeth, but he never bites her.

When he kisses her mouth again, his hips are very nearly pressed directly against hers. She wraps her arms around him, her head spinning, the slick hollow between her legs tingling faintly with need. "How was that?" he murmurs when he pulls back, and gives her a glowing smile.

She's panting softly. "Incredible," she murmurs. "You're so good at this."

"Good," he murmurs, and nuzzles against her neck as he slides a hand down her side and just beneath the band of her panties. "You're beautiful, Nan, and your skin feels like silk... I want to be inside you so much."

"I want you inside me," she whispers, flushing deeply. She can feel his fingertips grazing the edge of the trimmed curls between her thighs. "Oh, yes," she moans when he traces it, when he touches her closer to her clit. "Mmmmm..."

"You like that."

She nods. "I want to touch you too," she says suddenly.

Ned chuckles. "Why?"

"Because if I don't do it now, I think that soon I'll just be a quivering pile of goo." She sighs in faint disappointment when he obliges her and slides his hand out of her panties. "What do you like?"

He shrugs. "My underwear needs to stay on for now," he tells her. "But whatever else you feel like, you can do."

"So no going down on you?"

He gives her a smile, but she sees a falter in it, almost a momentary trembling. "If you feel like doing that, I can go ahead and get a condom out," he says, and his voice is almost normal.

"Mmm. Let me think about it," she says.

He rolls onto his back and she reaches for him, tentatively at first. Under the deliberate stroke of her palm, his chest is warm and firmly muscular. She explores him as she grows more comfortable, her fingers brushing over his tight nipples. She strokes his arms, feeling hard muscle there too, and glances into his face. His lashes are low, but she can see his eyes glittering beneath.

"You're perfect," she murmurs, without intending to even give voice to it, and glances back at his eyes again. "You look so gorgeous. I can't believe you're really here."

He smiles. "And you're incredible," he murmurs. "Inside and out."

She sits up and strokes her palms down his sides. His torso narrows down to his hips; everything about his body is absolutely perfect, sculpted and muscular and powerful. Nancy is fit, but she's very aware that her body has its own imperfections. Her curves aren't voluptuous. Her breasts are proportional to her slender body, so they aren't large. Her belly isn't a flat, subtly muscular plane surrounding her belly button; she's jealous of those Photoshopped models, their skin scrubbed of cellulite, all lumps and marks erased.

But he cups his hand over her hip, stroking his thumb over the skin just above the band of her dark-blue panties. He gazes at her with nothing short of adoration in his dark eyes. It's addictive, seductive. No wonder he's in such demand.

They would never have met if she hadn't paid him to attend the wedding with her.

But I did, and here he is. She can't feel sadness over it. He's here and she can't see anything beyond him and tonight.

She leans down and kisses his neck, his collarbone, his muscular chest, her palms continually stroking his warm skin. Her nipples brush against his chest and she shivers slightly. Does anyone else do this for him or with him? How long has it been since he's been in a relationship with someone who cares for him? Or do all his clients feel this desperate desire to turn his obligation into genuine need?

She strokes his thighs, and warmth steals into her cheeks as she gently strokes her fingertips over his briefs and the hardness there. Of course there are ways to fake arousal, pills that could cause this response in him, but she wants to believe it's genuine. That the sight of her has made him ready to have sex with her.

This is what he does.

But not with her. Tonight is real. This is real. No matter what, she will hold onto that.

She strokes his length a few times, a tightness coming to her throat. He's making a soft noise, almost a hum, and his fingertips slide beneath the band of her panties, just barely, so he can stroke her there. Taking it as a hint, she does the same to him.

"Mmm," he says. "Nan..."

She smiles. "Feel good?"

"Of course," he murmurs. "Being able to watch a beautiful woman lavish her attention on me, soft skin and clever fingertips... are you sure you've had enough foreplay?"

Her smile becomes a grin. "Maybe a little more," she murmurs.

He strips off her panties, leaving his own underwear on, and lays her down. He teases that strip of curls between her legs, stroking the hairless flesh on either side, and she closes her eyes, her lips parted, her stomach clenching with each stroke. When he nuzzles against her breast, she moans quietly, but then he draws her nipple into his mouth and suckles, and she pants with anticipation, her fingers clenching into a fist. His own fingers are teasing, gentle, and then she draws her knees up and parts her legs wide, and he chuckles against her.

"You really do like this," he murmurs, as he trails kisses to her other breast. "Are you getting wet?"

"Mmmm. Yes," she sighs.

"I have lube. Different types of condoms. Do you have a preference, or are you allergic to anything?"

As strange as it is, to hear it so straightforward, there's something reassuring about it. "I've only ever used latex condoms," she admits, "and those are fine, unless you have something else in mind. I've never had any reaction to lube. I'm on birth control, too..."

"Good." She moans as he suckles against her other nipple, and her fingers find his hair and comb through it. His other hand is still stroking and caressing her between her thighs, although he hasn't yet rubbed against her clit or made any move to penetrate her. After all, this is foreplay...

Then she gasps when his thumb barely brushes against the slick button of her clit.

"Too much?"

"More," she begs him. "Please, again..."

With his teeth, his tongue, his lips, his fingertips, he teases and tantalizes her until she's whimpering and crying out, until her legs are spread even wider and her hips are rising and falling with his caresses. He traces the slick lips at her entrance without penetrating her; he rubs and caresses her clit until she's whining with need and then stops briefly, leaving her panting, wanton. He keeps nuzzling and suckling against her breasts, and the stimulation makes her lightheaded.

Then he moves back to look into her eyes, and she whimpers as she raises her lashes and gazes up at him too. "Is this what you want, love?" he whispers.

Her heart skips a beat. "Yes," she moans. "Can you—can we... I'm ready for you, oh please..."

She relaxes, still sprawled and ready for him, watching as he goes to his duffel bag. He pulls out a handful of foil packets and a bottle of lube, putting them on the bedside table. Her heart is beating so hard, and when she gazes at him, at his handsome body and beautiful face, she feels only need and desire.

"I prefer to use spermicide along with the condom. Is that okay?"

"I've never... yes," she tells him.

He raises his eyebrows. "It might be a little... I use an applicator for it, and we have to wait a few minutes for it to be effective. But you seem to be pretty wet right now, so I don't think the applicator will be uncomfortable for you."

"Mmm. Let's try it."

He pulls out a box and breaks the seal in front of her. "Let me know if you feel anything unpleasant, okay? If you haven't used this before, you might be allergic or sensitive to it."

She shrugs. "I've never been allergic to anything before," she tells him. "I think I'll probably be fine."

Once he loads the applicator and works it just inside her opening, he leans down. "Just relax," he murmurs, then kisses her mouth deeply. The sensation of being penetrated, even by something so slender, knowing that he's controlling it... it's like he's using a toy with her, and she reacts accordingly, cupping her bare breasts and fondling her nipples as he works the applicator up inside her. He even wiggles it around some, and she moans against his kiss.

Then she feels a brief tingling deep inside her, and he pulls back. "Feel it?" he says, and he's panting slightly.

She nods, still stroking her nipples. "Tingling," she murmurs.

"Okay?"

She nods again, and he slowly withdraws the applicator. She's blushing when she says, "Can you do it again?"

He grins. "Tell me about the toys you use," he says, settling down beside her, watching her face as he slides the applicator inside her again. "Are they small and thin like this?"

She shakes her head. "Standard, I'd think," she says. "There's one in the table beside the bed. Do you want to use it on me?"

He leans down and gives her lips another hard kiss, pushing the applicator in up to the hilt and then fondling her clit, leaving her rocking her hips. "I'd rather watch you with it, but this isn't about me," he says. "Condom?"

"Same drawer. Yeah, makes it easier to clean up..."

The applicator makes a quietly wet sucking sound when he finally pulls it all the way out. She can feel her pulse in her jaw, her temple, underneath her breastbone as Ned finds her vibrator and sheathes it in a condom. She's cupping her breasts and rubbing her thumbs against her nipples as he fits the tip just inside her.

"How long do we need to wait?"

"Just a few more minutes." He begins to work the toy inside her. "Focus on it, for me. Do you like the way this feels? Is it actually good for you?"

She's panting, but she does as he suggests and concentrates on how it feels to be penetrated. "Yes," she moans. "Because it's you... put it—"

Before she can even finish the thought, he's slid the length of the toy inside her and turned on the vibration. The clit stimulator buzzes and jitters against her and she draws a breath, blushing as she tips her head back, as she pushes against her heels slightly to angle her hips. "Mmmmm—oh yes," she moans. "Oh yes... are you this big?"

He smiles. "Long or thick?"

"Both?"

"If you want, beautiful, you'll find out in about sixty more seconds. Unless I make you come with this..."

"Yes, yes—touch me—"

He uses one hand to keep working the toy in and out of her, and she cries out when he suckles against her breast again, toying with her other nipple with his other hand. She tilts her head back, her hand buried in his hair again, and reaches down, taking the fabric of his underwear in her fist. "Ungh—oh fuck yes! Yes so good, oh yes!"

He nips at her breast again, his teeth gently glancing against her skin. "More? Harder?"

"The—the—" He senses what she's trying to say, and her eyes roll back when the vibrating attachment presses against her clit. "Fuck!"

"Is that what you like? Do you like the feel of it inside you, or the vibration against your clit—"

"Yes!" Her muscles are straining, her hips writhing. "Oh yes yes mmmmmmm—"

"You're so beautiful," he tells her, and sucks hard, briefly, against her other nipple. "Do you want me inside you? I want to be inside you..."

She forces herself to slow down, to focus on something other than how incredible what he's doing to her feels. And she feels suddenly shy as she realizes how she must look to him. Completely exposed, thrusting and grinding her hips, fondling herself. "Yes," she whispers. "Slow..."

She relaxes once he's pulled the toy out of her, and she gazes up at him with wide eyes. She can still feel the faint tingling, and wonders if he's so big that he will touch that tingling place.

She watches him take his underwear off and put on the condom, and heat rises in her face. She's never been with a man this well-endowed.

She'll be paying him to go to the wedding with her. To fuck her every night, if the next few minutes go the way she's imagining.

But that isn't how this feels. She slumps slightly when he slicks lube over the condom; she'll need it, even as wet as she is. He's a man and they're attracted to each other, they want each other, and this is natural, this is right. She believes it. She knows it.

He moves onto the bed and opens her legs, and she can't take her eyes off him. His hips move between her spread thighs and she feels, suddenly, so afraid. Maybe this is right, but she's never felt this way before. It's never been this way for her before. She knows so little about his life; she knows so much about his heart, though.

He crouches over her, devastatingly handsome, purely masculine. "So both feel good," he murmurs. "I'll take it slow with you, okay? Tell me if you want to slow down or stop. It's not going to hurt my feelings or make me upset. You're in control, beautiful."

She clears her throat and nods. "I'm scared," she whispers.

"What are you afraid of?"

"I don't know."

He slowly lowers himself to her, and that fear deepens, rising in her throat, tensing in her hips. "When you're ready," he tells her, "just let me know, but until then..."

And he kisses her, strokes her, fondles her, this time while he's pressed against her, and she can feel his erection against her, but he doesn't penetrate her. He kisses her over and over, and she wraps her arms around him, and then slowly wraps her legs around him too.

He breaks the kiss to nuzzle against her ear, her jaw, her neck. "Do you want to be on top?"

"No," she whispers. "Oh—oh..."

He's caressing her between her thighs, and she shivers when he touches her clit again. She turns her head, seeking his lips, and they kiss deeply. She relaxes into the rhythm of his strokes, into the pulsing of arousal inside her. She can feel the heat radiating from his body, the sheer bulk of him, and she's afraid... but she wants him.

"I'm ready," she whispers, and she feels a choking, crippling moment of doubt. She hopes she is.

"Okay," he murmurs, and she's too afraid to speak as he moves over her again. Her legs are still wrapped around his waist, but she feels just as nervous as she was her first time. She gazes up at him wide-eyed.

"It's all right," he tells her. "Can I do anything to help you relax?"

In answer she tugs him back down to her, kissing him as soon as his lips are near hers, and he chuckles softly. But he keeps kissing her, and goes back to stroking her too. When his thumb rubs against her clit and his fingertips tease her entrance, she gasps, grasping his shoulder.

"Mmm?"

"Now," she whispers.

He moves up again, and this time she keeps her hand on his shoulder, stroking his warm skin. "I've never been with anyone as big as you," she admits softly.

He gives her a small smile. "I'll take it slow," he reassures her. "But if it's painful you have to tell me, all right? Like I said, there are so many other things we can do..."

"Has that happened before?"

"Once," he says, and she tenses for a second. "But I've learned a lot since then. Starting with lube..."

He reaches for it, slicking some more over the condom before he moves back to her. Then he gazes into her eyes and gives her a smile.

"Are you sure?"

She nods, stroking his forearm, gazing up into his sweet dark eyes.

"Thank you," he says, and her eyes fill with tears. "Thank you for tonight, for... for sharing yourself with me. You're an incredible woman."

"How... Ned," she whispers. "You... you've been so good..."

He moves down and kisses her cheek, then brushes a kiss against her lips. "Not nearly as good as you deserve," he whispers. "Now, just try to relax..."

She can't help it. She closes her eyes when he positions himself and begins to work inside her. He is undeniably larger than her previous partners, and he fills her, stretches her gently. She moans, running her fingers through his hair, shivering as he kisses her neck, her shoulders. When he fondles her clit again, she releases a breathless cry.

"Okay?"

"Yes," she whispers. "More..."

Slowly, still stroking her and nuzzling against her, he slides fully inside her, and she arches, clinging to him. She's never felt so completely joined to anyone as she does right now. He fills her almost to the point of soreness. It's like having sex for the first time again.

It won't be like this with anyone else, she realizes. It will never be like this with anyone else.

"Are you all right?"

"Mmm..." She slowly opens her eyes. "Yes."

"Do you want me to..."

"Yes."

He smiles at her. "You feel so good," he whispers. "Almost like you were made for me."

Her heart skips a beat. "Yes," she whispers. "It's never felt this way before."

"For me either," he tells her, just before he kisses her again.

She asked him to make love to her. He makes love to her until she's sobbing with pleasure, until she's twined around him and her hips are thrusting with his, until she's glowing with exertion and shuddering with need. He caresses her and strokes her, and with every brush of his skin she feels even more sensitized, even more aroused. His kisses make her weak.

She's slept with men she loved, with men she cared deeply for, with men she felt attracted to. It's absolutely never been like this before. Her last coherent thought, before she's lost to the incredible, almost painful joy of her orgasm, is that this is how it was always supposed to be. She just never knew until now.

She releases a loud sobbing cry, building into a scream that she muffles against his skin. She can feel nothing beyond the achingly perfect fit of his cock inside her, his fingers and lips as they glance over her skin. She's delirious with it, and his groan at the first clench of her sex around him makes her tremble with pleasure.

"Yes," he whispers, against her damp temple. "God, so good. Oh God..."

She moans with his every thrust. He's so deep inside her, but she feels so good. "Baby, come," she begs him, panting. "Please, you're so good, oh my God..."

She cries out when he moves deep inside her again, when she feels his hips jolt as he reaches his own orgasm. He's so close to her that for a second that anxiety comes back, but she clings to him as he relaxes on top of her. Surely he must be able to feel her heart pounding under his.

For a long moment they stay locked that way. She can feel his breath against her skin, and she's holding him—it makes her feel strangely protective.

This is impossible. Everything about it is impossible. But for tonight, it's perfect.

He releases a long sigh and shifts onto his side, pulling out of her, and she winces at the sensation. She was almost painfully aware of him the entire time he was inside her, but now she misses it. He reaches down and pulls the sheet up to cover her before he walks to the bathroom, and she hears him flush the condom before he returns.

She's still aware of him, inside her. She wonders if she'll still be a little sore in the morning, like a newly deflowered virgin.

He finds his underwear and puts them back on, then slides beneath the sheet and toward her. She moves to nestle against him, her head on his shoulder, and she's still completely naked.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like I've just had sex," she says. "Incredible, hot sex."

"Damn." He strokes her back. "That's not what you asked for."

"It felt like that too. Like making love. It was... it's never been like this for me."

"Really?"

"Yeah." She trails her fingertips against his bare chest. "You were so good."

He kisses her forehead. "You were amazing," he murmurs. "And in the morning, after pancakes..."

"Again?"

He chuckles. "Again," he murmurs. "Now get some rest, because you're going to need it."

"Like you don't. You did all the work," she murmurs, closing her eyes as she relaxes against him. "Thank you," she whispers.

"Shhh. Sleep," he whispers. "Sleep, beautiful. I've got you."

For that week, after she has taken Ned to her bed, Nancy feels like she's about to come out of her skin. Having sex with him was supposed to sate this need, but all it's done is make her need him more.

Some part of her knew that, before. But now, she can't stop thinking about him.

They've exchanged messages, the kind of comments any couple would make after their first night together: compliments, sweet asides, wistful comments about the next time they can see each other. She knows he can't see her during this week, because she's already asked.

He's incredible. He is, by far, the best lover she's ever had. He's ruined her for anyone else. And the undeniable flush of being in love has turned the bittersweet heartache of Frank's leaving her into pure irresistible need to see her new lover again.

She is in love with him. She doesn't care what either of them call it: lust, puppy love, infatuation. What she feels for Ned is overwhelming and desperate, even more so because she knows he'll never tell her if he feels the same way.

She woke just to gaze down into his handsome face the morning after, but he woke soon after her, and as soon as she looked into his eyes, she couldn't hide her glowing smile. He held her until they left the bed; after their breakfast of pancakes and orange juice, he took her back to bed and loved her sweetly, thoroughly, and even the wait after he slid the spermicide applicator up inside her and left that tingling inside her again was sweet, because it meant he would be inside her again. It meant he would be loving her again.

Nancy is no teenager anymore. She knows men don't have to feel love to have sex, that it can be pure animal attraction. She knows some women feel the same way about it. But she wants so desperately to believe that their compatibility in bed and the desire she sees in his eyes aren't just a performance.

She's fallen so, so hard for him. While they're at the wedding together, no one will think she's faking this.

Frank is a good detective, though. If he's jealous enough, if he decides to check into Ned's past... how long would it take him to find out the truth? Nancy doesn't want to think that he would go that far; she's spent the time after their breakup convincing herself that if Frank ever felt anything for her, that feeling died a long time ago. But the thought of him pitying her makes her heart hurt.

So I'll be seeing you at the wedding? ;)

Nancy's eyes widen as she checks the sender of the message. Bess. Now Bess will be there too. Granted, her best friend will likely be distracted by seeing Joe again. When Nancy, Bess, and George had taken trips and investigated cases with Frank and Joe, Bess and Joe had really seemed to hit it off. For a while, Bess's jokes that eventually she might be Nancy's sister-in-law hadn't seemed too far from reality.

Now neither of them will be marrying one of the Hardys. That feels like a long time ago. She's glad, now, that she won't be seeing Bess and Joe together at the wedding, standing at the altar, exchanging vows. Nancy will be involved in every detail of Bess's wedding, and in George's too, should George ever marry. They're her best friends, and even if that breaks her heart, she'll be there for them. Just as they have always been there for her.

You will, Nancy confirms, replying to Bess. She pauses before she adds the next sentence. And you might be meeting my new boyfriend, too.

It takes five minutes, but as soon as Bess has seen the message, Nancy's phone begins to ring. She can't help grinning as she picks it up. "Hello?"

"Girl, tell me everything!" Bess cries happily. "It's official now? This is so exciting!"

Her friends have seen the photos, the ones meant to convince Frank if he goes looking. She never actually intended to deceive anyone else. Nancy can't bear to tell Bess the truth, not yet; she imagines telling her when she goes home for Thanksgiving, over drinks, and feels both an incredible sadness and an unwavering conviction that there will be a reckoning. This dream she's living in will eventually end. And of all the people in her life, Nancy is pretty sure that Bess will understand. She knows how lonely Nancy has been, these past few years.

That feeling, that the clock is beginning to run out, grows even stronger on Thursday night. She and Ned have tentatively set up a Saturday-morning brunch date, but there's nothing on the agenda because both of them know what's going to happen. Now that she's been given a taste, she can't resist her need for him.

On Thursday night Nancy's on a stakeout, in one of the nicer parts of Chicago. The parking deck gives her a good vantage point on the apartment building, and she has a good feeling about tonight. The client is out of town, and he suspects that his wife has a lover, a close coworker. The cheating wife probably won't be foolish enough to go on a public date with her lover, but a goodnight kiss would provide some sure evidence.

It's easy to let her mind wander on stakeouts, and Nancy has to stay sharp. She keeps her thumb on the seek button, flipping through the radio stations, leaving herself barely enough time to recognize a song before she tries the next station.

She'll wear a dress on Saturday. Nothing too fussy or formal, but something that will signal her willingness and present little barrier to him. She'll pick up something easy for lunch, too, and they can order out if he doesn't like it. Enormous sandwiches and pasta salad, no olives. Sour, crispy dill pickles. Potato chips and a box of pretty cupcakes.

She catches herself going unfocused, and reaches for the bottle of soda in the cupholder. She can't afford to let the flush of new love interfere with her work. Besides, she reminds herself savagely, to him it's all for show. To him it isn't real. He looks at her and sees dollar signs. Her addiction to him means more money, in the long run.

But the arguments hold no passion; she can't bear for them to. He's in her head, now. He's everywhere she looks; he's all that she's ever wanted, both an endless mystery and a kind, gorgeous man who can make her believe that, to him, the sun rises and sets in her eyes.

She wants to believe that he's acting no more than she herself is. That the man she's invited into her bed, who has worked his way into her heart, is worthy of his place there. While they're together, it's true.

Nancy adjusts her binoculars, scanning the street in front of the building, up to the lit windows. She sees young professionals bent over stoves and cell phones, in the middle of arguments or tender reunions. She sees toddlers and teenagers, shopping bags and briefcases. So much that people leave unguarded, for anyone else to see. On some faces, she sees the sure signs of love, and it makes her heart melt.

What is Ned doing right now? Studying for a test, having dinner with friends? All she knows is that he can't see her, and she wants to believe that he would if he could.

She gives her head a shake, taking another sip of soda, hoping that the caffeine will make her more alert. She has another stop to make after this, and then home. This week is turning into one of the weeks she used to have, when all her meals are take-out or drive-thru, grabbed between stops, and she wakes each morning bleary-eyed, rough from the lack of sleep. Everything is blurred; everything is variations on the same sordid theme. Less than two days and she should be able to see Ned again. Less than two days.

That thought sends a jolt of adrenaline and endorphins straight through her.

When she sees a black duffel bag slung over an arm, on a figure below her in the street, her heart rises, then sinks. An overnight bag. But this isn't her quarry. She'll get her tonight, but—

But she's still thinking about Ned. The guy carrying the bag has dark hair, and she finds herself noting a resemblance to him. He disappears into the building.

Then her heart stops.

No. It can't be him. It just can't.

Knowing it is one thing. She knows who he is, at least with her, and what he does. Imagining it—oh, she can't do it for long; it drives her crazy. The stark, cold words are different from the image, but even that isn't the same thing as seeing.

Nancy's heart is pounding hard as she scans the windows, peering into hallways. She just needs to see this guy's face, confirm it isn't Ned, so she can relax. She can text Ned, but she can sense that she could easily become too clingy, too demanding, that way. Like one of the clients he despises for their roaring need. She won't be like that. She won't let herself become that way.

Then she spots him again, in an interior hallway. She's almost holding her breath as he knocks on a door. His handsome face lights up in a welcoming grin as he steps inside, that duffel bag still over his shoulder. The bag with toys and condoms and spermicide, the same one he brought to her apartment. The door closes behind him.

Ned.

A tear streaks down her cheek before she even realizes her sight is blurred with them.

"No," she whispers, dropping the binoculars into her lap, her entire body aching.

He's with someone else. Right now, he's with someone else. Another client. The duffel bag. A regular? Someone who knows Ned's body as she does now, who thinks about him with hunger and desire, who has bought the privilege to be the center of his universe for a few hours?

"No," she cries out, and she's horrified to find that she's sobbing.

I'm sorry that upsets you.

But he won't change. He can't. This is his job.

What is she doing to him, in that apartment? Is he enjoying it? What if he isn't? Either alternative is too terrible to contemplate.

She releases a frustrated cry, reaching for the door handle. She can see it: finding a way into the building, finding the floor, the apartment. Banging on the door until someone answers, some slut in thin lingerie. Punching her in the face. Telling Ned to come with her, seeing relief and love on his handsome face, as he grabs his duffel and walks away. Saving him.

It has always been a nightmare. I only enjoyed it with you.

Nancy sniffles and reaches for the wad of takeout napkins in the passenger seat, smearing one across her ruined makeup, wiping away tears and snot. As appealing as she finds the idea, she also knows it's juvenile—and ridiculous. She's just shocked by how hurt she is.

It's different to have the idea in her head. Now it's crossed over to reality, and she feels like her foolish heart is broken.

That smile she saw on his face looked genuine. The smiles he has given her look genuine. This is all a role. He trained to be an actor and this is all a role.

Her face crumples, and for a few minutes, all she can do is cry, helplessly. She told him one night that he would hurt her—but he wouldn't, because she would be hurting herself. Her prediction is so terribly true tonight. He's never lied about who he is or what he does. She's just somehow convinced herself that he has.

If she's hurt herself, then she will just make sure she can't be hurt again. Somehow.

It's just sex, incredible sex, and a date to a wedding. He's not her boyfriend.

How can he love me and be with someone else right now?

He can't, she tells herself coldly. He doesn't, and he can't. He's never lied about that. He cares about her, and she cares about him. Otherwise, she truly believes, that connection between them wouldn't be nearly so strong or so genuine. But the circumstances make it impossible for them to have anything more.

She's being foolish. It's good for her to know, to see it with her own eyes. To understand in a way that he's never been able to convince her.

This is all we can have.

What is between them ends as soon as he crosses the threshold and walks out into the world, into someone else's arms.

For all of Friday, she's miserable. She feels just as heartbroken as she would if she caught a boyfriend she loved dearly cheating on her with someone else. It frightens her, how much she wants to scream at him, how she wants him to beg her forgiveness, when she has no right to ask for it. He has never said he would be exclusive. She's just the one who has no other choice.

She can't help it. She imagines calling Mick, inviting him to her bed, finding a way to hurt Ned with that knowledge. She imagines telling Ned that the deal is off, that she's found someone else—and when she imagines him indifferent, wishing her well, telling her that he's glad she's finally ready to move on from the broken heart Frank gave her, that cuts more deeply than anything else.

But what galls her, what makes tears rise in her eyes, is the slender, barest hope that he does love her. Oh, it would be so easy to walk away, to convince herself that the heartbreak is nowhere near worth it, if she could just make herself believe once and for all that nothing between them is real. But she thinks of him holding her, kissing her, stroking her and joining to her, and to her, that is love. He has given her back everything she thought she'd never feel again, a hundredfold.

How can he treat her like nothing? How can he betray her?

It's not real. It's not. It's not real.

She's just told Bess she'll be bringing her new boyfriend. There are photos of the two of them on social media. Mel has met him. Nancy has bought in. He's the only one who is still professional enough to treat their relationship exactly as it is. He's just too good at selling the fantasy.

She walked into this with her eyes wide open. She has only herself to blame for the pain she's in.

On Friday, she tries to be brusque with him, but he doesn't seem to notice or care. Their plans are set, and all he needs to do is knock on her door and turn on the charm, just as he did with that slut, she can't stop herself from mentally spitting. Just as he will do after he's seen her.

Suddenly she's ashamed. Maybe Ned wanted to go on dates with her because he can't do that with other clients; if all his other "dates" have just turned into sex, maybe he wants someone he can laugh with and talk to. And she's turning into one of those women, who just wants his clothes off as soon as he walks in.

It doesn't matter! It doesn't!

But suddenly it does, more than she can possibly understand, and she's consumed by it. She needs to be different. And she can find a way to make him love her. If she can just show him that what's between them is true, real...

She sinks back to her bed, sleepless on that Friday night, tears rolling down her cheeks. A part of her has dimly realized that he's not good for her. Not if he's making her feel this crazy, this divorced from herself and the way she usually feels. One of his smiles can bring her to dizzying joy; not hearing from him for a few hours makes her crazy with jealousy, imagining what that might mean. She needs to walk away from this to keep herself sane.

She glances at her phone and knows she won't. She can't. Because she's praying with every fiber of her being that something will change. That maybe it wasn't him on Thursday night. Surely black duffel bags are common. Surely other handsome dark-haired men were visiting lovers that night. It was from a distance. She was mistaken.

No. Keep this and hold it tight. Remember who he is and what he does, and why this will never be anything more than a diversion. Break your heart so he can't.

It's a cover. Don't ever let yourself forget that again.

--

When Nancy opens the door to Ned's smile on Saturday morning, his black duffel bag slung over one shoulder, any doubt she had vanishes. Of course, thanks to some cruel twist of fate, he is the man she saw Thursday night. The universe aligned to give her that glimpse of him. To remind her of her place in his world.

She gives him an answering smile, stepping back to allow him inside. She's changed her outfit three times, and is currently wearing a pair of gray leggings and a pretty lace and jersey tulip tunic, in a soft indigo fabric. A heart pendant hangs from a long chain around her neck. Diamond studs sparkle from her earlobes.

"I thought we could have a picnic today," she tells him, her eyes wide and sincere. "If that sounds okay with you. More evidence."

He searches her eyes, and though she wants to glance away, she forces herself to hold his gaze. He nods. "Sounds nice," he says. He's dressed for it, whether he intended to be or not, in dark jeans and a blue and white plaid button-down that makes him look like he just stepped off the pages of a catalog. "What were you thinking about eating?"

She gestures at the already-filled hamper on the table. "I think I bought enough for even your appetite," she says, and smiles.

Damn it. As much as she needs to guard her heart against him, it's easy to forget why. Like it or not, she and Ned have built a relationship, a friendship, of mutual respect and interest in each other. It won't survive—she knows it can't—but that rapport is harder to break than she expects or wants it to be.

He lets the duffel bag's strap slide to his elbow, then his palm, gently lowering it to the floor. "I'll pay you back for half," he tells her, and runs his fingers through his hair.

She shrugs, crossing to the table and picking up the hamper. He immediately takes it away from her, hoisting the not insignificant weight of it easily. "It was my idea, and it's no big deal. If you carry it for me, I'll consider us even."

He chuckles softly. "All right. Lead the way, Nan."

Scores of other New Yorkers have had the same idea, it seems. Nancy carries a large lightweight blanket in her arms as they scout out potential picnic sites in the park. They settle on a level place at the edge of a tree's shadow, not too far away from a few other picnicking families. She carries drinks in her backpack: a small bottle of wine and two plastic cups, a couple of imported beers in sweating bottles, a large plastic bottle of water.

As soon as Ned sits down on the blanket and she's on her knees beside him, before he's even opened the hamper, he reaches for her hand. "Whatever I did to upset you, I'm sorry," he says softly. "Tell me about it and I'll try not to do it again."

Her throat aches with sudden tears, but she forces them down and gives him a small smile. She has no intention of telling him the truth, of seeing the pity in his eyes as he realizes that she's in too deep. Part of her reasoning behind this picnic is to belie it. "You didn't," she says lightly, and squeezes his hand before releasing it. "You've been wonderful. What would you like to drink?"

They sort through the contents of the hamper, each drinking water; he stacks his plate high, as she knew he would, sampling at least a little of everything, eyeing the cupcakes with evident delight. She suggests a selfie before they start, and he obliges her; when she glances at it after to give her approval before he posts it, the sight of it makes her heart hurt. They look like they are a couple, a genuine couple. No one would have any cause to doubt it.

No one will have any cause to doubt it.

They eat in silence for a few minutes, until Ned surfaces for air. "How was your week?"

She shrugs. "The usual," she says, although her heart beats harder at what she's not saying. "Stakeouts, following cheating spouses, a guy who was faking an insurance claim. Closed three cases. The boss is happy." She takes another bite of pasta salad, and swallows before asking, "What about you?"

He shrugs too. "School and work," he says, and his tone is light, as though his job only involves selling merchandise or answering tech support calls. "The usual. I've been looking forward to this for the past few days, though."

She raises her eyebrow, considering another bite of her sandwich. "Oh?"

Ned drops his fork onto his plate. "All right. What's going on?"

She shakes her head, chewing another bite of her sandwich. "I just wasn't sure why you'd be looking forward to this. I mean, the food isn't bad—I'm glad the weather worked out, too."

"I haven't been on a picnic in a long time. It's nice. The food is good. But you're acting different."

She shrugs. "I guess I've just realized what we are to each other," she tells him, gazing directly into his eyes to keep herself from wavering. "Last time was a proof of concept. Nothing more."

He searches her eyes, his own gaze intense. "Did you not enjoy it?"

"Of course I did." She keeps her expression innocent. "You're good at what you do. I'm definitely impressed. I just let myself lose track of what our arrangement really is, for a little while. But I'm better now."

His eyebrows rise for a second or two. "Better," he repeats softly.

She nods, and forks up another bite of pasta salad. She opens her mouth and closes it again. She doesn't trust herself to say anything else.

I saw you. You're with other people. What's between us means nothing.

Then he nods his head once, firmly, and her heart sinks. "So you said one of your best friends will be at the wedding. Will I be meeting her?"

Nancy nods. "She's very eager to meet you. I—I told her you would probably be coming."

He takes a long swig of his water, and something in his movements, some almost jerky quality, tells her that he's angry. She's both hurt and thrilled by that. If she can hurt him, then he does care. "As your date?"

"As my boyfriend."

"Mmm."

They eat in silence for a while. She longs to break it, to say something soft, to win one of his beautiful smiles, but she's reluctant to try. It is better this way, and she knows that. She's already in too deep with him, and limiting it, reversing it at least a little, will help her guard her heart later.

"How long will you be staying? Today?"

He shrugs. "That's entirely up to you," he says, his voice almost expressionless.

He should be trying to seduce me. Or— she considers. Now that I've told people he'll be there, maybe he thinks there's no way I won't take him to the wedding and pay him for it. I've had my proof of concept. Maybe that truly was it.

But he brought the bag. He expected us to have sex during this date.

Maybe he doesn't anymore.

"When do you have to go?"

He swallows another sip of water. "Four o'clock."

"Do you want to take a shower before you go?" She keeps her tone bland.

He pins her with a long, measuring stare. "Is that what you're upset about?"

She shakes her head and glances down, and her throat is thick. It's both hard to speak and impossible not to. "I saw you," she says, and she hates that she's pouring it out like this, but she can't seem to stop herself. "On Thursday night. I was on a stakeout and I saw you walk into the building with your bag."

"To see another client." His voice is soft, but his gaze is locked to her. He isn't touching his half-finished plate.

She tries to swallow against that lump of tears, and draws a shivering breath. "I—shit. I knew that you—did that. But it felt different to see it."

He shakes his head and reaches for her hand again. She wants to slap it away; she wants him to never stop touching her. "I apologize," he says softly. "You should never have seen that. I'm sorry it hurt you."

Her face crumples, and she has to work hard to keep herself from sobbing. "I have no right to be mad," she breathes, because she hurts too much to truly voice it.

"No one can tell you how to feel," he tells her, giving her hand a soft squeeze. "Least of all me. If it hurt you, don't bury it. Don't pretend it didn't happen."

"You said you care about me." She can feel herself wanting to get loud, and that pain she's been trying so hard to force down is trembling in her chest again. "I believed you."

That anger and tension she saw in his eyes is gone now. She sees only sympathy, and that makes her hurt even more. "I do care about you," he says quietly. "It's a job—"

"Just like it's a job with me?" She reaches up and wipes her tears away. Her stomach is churning, and her appetite is gone. "As soon as you walk away, you just close this off and it doesn't touch you?"

He makes a growling, frustrated noise, still holding her hand. "I don't do this with other clients," he says, and he sounds like he's having to force the words out. "What's between us... no one else has this with me. Of course I think about you when we're apart. I think we genuinely care about each other."

Her lips are trembling a little as she stares at him. She's sickened by how much she wants to believe him. "I can't do this," she whispers, and tugs her hand away from his.

He moves closer to her. "Can't do what?"

She shakes her head. "I told you that I'd—that this would hurt me," she whispers. "And it is. I'm going crazy. I cried on Thursday night; I cried myself to sleep last night. And this is a job you have. What's between us isn't real." She gazes at him through swimming eyes.

Ned's mouth opens, closes, opens again before he speaks. "Do you want to call this off?"

She twists her hands in her lap. The pain is singing in her head, pulsing there. "No," she says finally, and even she is surprised by her answer. "We've put all this work into it, and you've earned the money. We'll go. But—if we're around each other, I don't think I can hold it back." She gives him a sad smile. "I'm falling for you. As though that hasn't been obvious. And what happened between us last time—my mind understands, but my heart doesn't. To me, it—meant a lot more than it meant to you."

He reaches out and grasps her shoulder, searching her eyes for a long moment. She can't help it; tears well up again, flowing freely down her cheeks. She can feel them soaking through her shirt. "I'm not that mercenary," he tells her. "If going to the wedding with you will hurt you this much, then we should call this off. I will, if you won't. I thought—you were equipped to handle it."

She shakes her head, reaching for a napkin to blot her wet cheeks. "I won't go without you," she says. "It will already be mortifying. And it's not worth it, for you. You put in a lot of work to build this fake relationship and all our evidence. We'll go together. Don't call it off."

"A paycheck isn't worth this," he tells her, his voice low but firm. "I hate seeing you cry."

She sniffles, forcing the shivering mass of tears in her chest back down. "Then I won't," she says, and her voice is almost even. "You said you wanted to watch me with the vibrator? We can do that this afternoon, if you want. Before you go. We can do that while we're at the wedding. Because that's all this is, right? Just me, alone, in a dark room, fooling myself. Pathetic."

Ned's mouth becomes a thin, angry line, and for a long time he doesn't speak. Nancy looks away from him, putting lids back on containers, slowly loading them back into the hamper. Her own meal is still half-finished and he isn't touching his.

Then he reaches for her hand. She wants to resist for a second, but finds she can't. He takes it in both of his, gently stroking her palm with strong, warm fingertips.

"When we first met," he says softly, "I wanted to keep my distance from you. You're still hurt by what happened to you, and I understand that. And this has been fun. I think you enjoyed our dates. I won't deny that I wanted to seduce you, either. You're a gorgeous, incredibly attractive woman. I wanted to have sex with you.

"If I'd known it was going to hurt you this way—I would never have suggested that we take that step. I would have ached for you, I would have thought about you all the time, but I would have kept things—a lot more professional between us."

She searches his eyes. "I thought we were becoming friends," she whispers. "Now I don't know anymore."

"We are friends." He slowly begins to massage her palm, her wrist, keeping her trapped between his strong hands. The balls of his thumbs trace muscle and bone, leaving her tingling. "We are friends who are incredibly fucking compatible in bed. First and foremost, at the wedding, I'll be your friend. We can flirt madly with each other, we can chase each other to our hotel room—and then I can just hold you until you fall asleep. I'm there to support you. Not to make you feel like shit."

She nods slowly, tentatively. It sounds good. Whether they will stick to it is another matter entirely.

"I'm pretty sure I don't have to tell you this, but there's nothing wrong with you masturbating. Giving yourself sexual release is healthy, and it's a good way to know what you would prefer with a partner, should you find one who is confident enough to ask. I masturbate all the time." He shrugs.

She raises her eyebrows. "I hardly think you'd need to," she croaks out, then clears her throat. Despite herself, she's feeling just a little better. His talking to her this way makes her feel like their relationship is real.

"I have a high sex drive. Part of the reason this works out for me." He takes her other hand and begins massaging it. "We're giving each other release, and we're incredibly compatible. Off the charts, practically. It will be better, the next time. If you want a next time." His thumbs stroke against her wrist. "But what I told you when we first met is true. Sex is off the books, between us. Consensual protected sex between two adults. Despite what you may think of me, this kind of attraction doesn't happen with all my clients. It's just you, in fact."

She flushes. He's hit too close to home, too close to that private fantasy she can't share with him. "You say that to all the pretty girls," she says, trying to keep her voice light.

He shrugs. "I can't blame you for thinking that," he says. "But I'm sorry that you saw me the way you did Thursday night. If I'd known, I—well, I don't know what I would have done, but I would have tried to prevent it."

She shakes her head. "I was letting my imagination get away from me," she says. "As much as it hurts, it's good that I didn't let it go too much farther. Thanks for blessing my relationship with my vibrator, by the way."

He gives her a small smirk. "If the thought of my watching turns you on, then I'm happy to explore that with you," he says, his voice quiet, but it seems to rumble through her.

She shivers, and he's still caressing and stroking her wrist, and their gazes are locked together for a long moment. Then she clears her throat. "Well. If you don't finish your plate, no dessert for you," she says.

He gives her one last caress, lifts her hand to his lips, and kisses it before releasing her. "I'm sorry if I make you uncomfortable," he tells her, as he picks up his plate again. "I'm truly not trying to. But it's been hard for me to stop thinking about you, this past week."

Even when you're with other people? She won't ask that; it's none of her business. But she does wonder. "For me too," she admits softly, reaching for her own plate. "It's never been like that for me. You're incredible in bed. I wasn't just saying that for the cover."

He smiles. They eat in silence for a few minutes; around them, some of the other couples have drifted away, heading for lazy activities in the park. They're mostly alone.

"I think the worst part," she says, considering a seedless grape, "is that I can see how this is going to end. We could have a crazy amount of sex while we're at the wedding, and when you walk out the door, that's it. This great guy I've been able to get to know over the past few months will be gone."

He swallows a bite of pasta salad. "Well, the flippant answer is that you could always hire me again," he points out. "But I've told you—what's between us isn't a lie or me pretending. I... I will want to keep in touch with you. If you're comfortable with that." He picks up his sandwich. "Although it violates about half the rules I was taught."

"Interacting with clients after the transaction is complete?" she asks softly.

"Our relationship is supposed to be complete fabrication." He takes another bite of his sandwich. "That feeling you have is right, and would be right for almost anyone else. It's not supposed to get this far between us... maybe because it's too stressful for you. Crazy, no-strings-attached sex is one thing, but..."

"But we're far beyond that," she fills in, when he trails off.

"Yeah. And that makes this complicated. It shouldn't be."

She crunches on a potato chip. "I want to be sorry," she says. "And maybe I will be later. But for now... I don't regret it. I don't regret having sex with you. Even though I'm almost positive you've ruined me for any other man."

He grins. Then the grin fades. "You'll find someone else," he tells her. "And you'll realize that it is the way it was always meant to be, and it will be incredible. And you'll forget about this."

A hollow space seems to open between her ribs. She gives him a slight acknowledging nod, afraid to say what she's actually thinking. Because she has found the man who has made her realize what making love is supposed to be, and it's more than she's ever imagined. But that man is Ned.

The trip back to her apartment is quiet, but not uncomfortably so; she's wondering, almost visibly, what will happen once they walk through that door together. What does she want to happen?

She wants to have sex with him again, regardless of the danger to her foolish heart. Even pretending to consider any other alternative is laughable. They still have a few hours before he has to leave.

They walk in, and Ned carries the hamper to the kitchen table for her. "All right. I meant what I said; your safety—your mental health is more important than a paycheck. Do you want me to come to the wedding with you, or do you want to call all this off? It's your decision."

She takes a deep breath. "I still want you to come to the wedding with me. As long as you're still okay with it."

He nods, once. "Okay. I'll bring everything I normally would. On the way there we can talk about whether you want anything specific, okay?"

She nods, feeling speechless. A blush is creeping up her neck.

"Like anything you'd want me to do, to try to make him jealous." Ned begins unpacking the hamper. "If he's even on your radar anymore."

She shakes her head slowly. "With you there, he won't be," she admits. "I..."

I want to have sex with you.

But she can't say it. It feels cheap, somehow.

So she helps Ned unload the hamper and puts the cold stuff away in the fridge. When he closes it, she rests her hand against his.

She's never asked him what kind of foreplay he prefers, although she can't remember asking any of her partners about that either. It's easier to ask Ned those kinds of questions, though. He seems completely unashamed and unselfconscious about it. Or he's good at appearing that way.

When he turns to look at her, she stands on her tiptoes and slides her arms up around his shoulders, urging him down to her. He doesn't need much encouragement; he leans down and his lips part before he kisses her, and the feel of his tongue in her mouth makes her giddy, makes her nipples suddenly ache with arousal.

"What do you want?" she whispers, when they part. She's gazing up into his gorgeous eyes. "Do you really want to watch me with the vibrator?"

He smiles, and when his lips brush hers again, she whimpers softly. "If that's what you want," he whispers against her ear. "Do you want a hunk of silicone inside you, or my big, hard dick?"

She giggles. "And it is big," she murmurs, very sincere.

"Mmm-hmm. And you were comfortable last time?"

She nods. "Because you know how to use it," she purrs. "And the lube was good too. Okay... let's try that again."

He picks her up, and she giggles again. "I feel so good," she whispers, cupping his cheeks. "Do you really want this? Tell me the truth. I don't want you to do this if you don't..."

He adjusts the way he's holding her, and she blushes slightly as she feels him, hard and aroused between her open thighs. "I want this," he says, his voice almost a low growl. "How do you want it, beautiful? Do you want to ride me so I can look at your gorgeous body while we fuck?"

She nods slowly. "If that's what you want," she says.

In her bedroom, she sits at the edge of her bed, still fully clothed, and watches him. He's brought the duffel bag with him, and he strips down to his underwear again before coming toward her. Even though she knows what's coming this time, her stomach flips anyway. Maybe because she knows what's coming this time.

He puts a bottle of lube, a handful of condoms, and the still-sealed box of spermicide on her bedside table. Then he sinks to his knees on the floor at her feet, gazing up at her, his dark eyes sweet and sincere.

"This is about you," he tells her. "What's your fantasy? If you want me to watch you masturbate, I'll do that."

She takes a deep breath and nods slowly. Her heart is pounding. Between her thighs already feels tender. "Give me a minute... can I let you know when I'm ready?"

He nods. "I could tell you wanted this," he says, and gives her a little smile as he rises to his feet. "It's sexy, beautiful. Don't feel ashamed of it."

She swallows hard and makes a little shoo-ing motion at him, gesturing for him to leave the room, and he does. By then, her heart is pounding so hard that her hands are trembling faintly.

When she calls him back in, she's sprawled naked on the sheets, one hand cupping her breast and stroking her nipple, the other guiding her vibrator in and out of her slick, tender sex, pressing the jittering attachment against her clit with each thrust. She's making a desperate whining moan, and her nipples tighten even more when he walks in and sees her. She's watching him closely, and his gaze becomes hooded with desire, and that sends a tingling down her spine.

"Yes," he growls. "Oh God yes. Keep going. Please don't let me stop you."

She opens her legs a little wider, trying to imagine what might turn him on even more. She brings the hand fondling her breasts up to her lips and licks her fingertips, then rubs her saliva over the sensitive tips before plucking at them, then pinching them. Her hips are writhing, and she lets out a high breathy moan as she keeps fucking herself with the toy.

He's standing just beside her, so close she can almost feel the heat radiating from his skin. "Mmmm. So good. That's so sexy and hot. I love it."

The praise sends a frisson of pleasure up her spine, beyond the stimulation from the toy and her own hands. "Show me how much," she gasps out.

"You mean like this?" He pushes his underwear down and steps out of them. His erection is throbbing, massive, and he's beyond ready to fuck her. Then he grins. "You know that what I'm about to do to you will feel a hundred times more incredible."

She chuckles. "If only—you had—a vibrating attachment," she teases him, gasping with her thrusts.

He laughs, and the sound makes her heart hurt with joy and love. Then he moves onto the bed, between her legs, and pushes her knees apart. Her inner flesh is beginning to pulse with her climax. "You're doing a great job," he tells her. "But you could do this anytime, couldn't you? Tonight, while you're thinking about me. But in the meantime..." He bends over her, reaching for the spermicide box. "Let me give you something to imagine while you're working that vibrator up in you."

She slowly pulls out the vibrator, gazing up at his face as he loads the applicator. Tiny shivers are trembling over her skin, in anticipation, in desire and need. "I think I'll need a bigger one if I'm gonna pretend it's you."

"Definitely," he replies, without even looking at her vibrator, and she can't help laughing. "All right, are you ready?"

She nods, still idly stroking one breast as she uses her other hand to part the lips of her sex and expose herself to him. He finds her opening easily and begins to work the applicator inside, and she moans, plucking at her nipple. She uses the index finger of her other hand to fondle the slick button of her clit, until she's begun to moan loudly.

He picks up her hand, and as he dispenses the spermicide deep inside her, he eyes her glistening fingertip like he wants to suck it into his mouth. Then he places it against her own lips, and she obediently tastes the slick tang of her own arousal.

Ned shivers. "You are so fucking sexy," he tells her. "Holy God. On top or bottom?"

She arches slightly, tipping her head back and gasping softly, as she feels that tingling deep inside her again. "Like this," she moans, and parts her legs even more widely. He begins to slide the applicator out of her sex and she thrusts her hips a few times, disappointed by how little it fills her, how little it resembles her vibrator or his cock.

He's smiling when he finally moves it fully out of her, then reaches for a condom and the lube. "Stay right there," he tells her, and goes back to his duffel bag.

She opens her legs fully, as wide as they can go, and shudders hard when she begins to stroke her own clit again. She feels wild and intoxicated, and she has no idea how long this will last. She wants it to be forever.

He holds up something when he returns to her. "Used one of these before?"

She nods and grins, her heart beating fast again. "Mmm. Yes, please," she breathes, stroking her breast again.

He makes her come with just the vibration of the bullet, encased in a silicone sleeve, against her clit. She's already so close that it takes little teasing to send her crashing over the edge, and when she does, she begins to scream in pleasure. Her hips are up off the bed, bucking, seeking even more of the incredible stimulation.

Her mouth is dry and she's panting, her skin gleaming from the exertion, as he takes the vibrator away and she begins to come down. Slowly she relaxes to the bed, flinching and quivering from the aftershocks, peering at him through her lashes in case he decides to fuck her again immediately. The prospect is both incredibly arousing and a little alarming. She's so oversensitized that she can't imagine how it will feel.

"Shh. Shh." He's put the bullet on her bedside table, and he lays down beside her, his naked body close to hers. She trembles when he drapes an arm over her, but he doesn't caress or fondle her; instead, he kisses her cheek, her earlobe, the soft skin just beneath it. He brushes his lips lightly over hers and she takes a breath before turning her head toward him and parting her lips. He kisses her deeply then, his tongue sliding into her mouth, his thumb brushing against her side.

She wraps her arm around him, and that anxiety, that trembling, begins deep inside her. She's naked with him and her hunger for him is terrifying. She strokes her palm against his muscular back, remembering what he said to her. He will just hold her, if that's all she wants. Is that all he wants? Is he tired of all this?

He's said it's different with her than with anyone else. The person he will be seeing tonight, the person he saw Thursday night—if it's not like this, she feels such deep pity and sadness for him. She can't imagine sharing this intimacy with someone she doesn't feel anything toward. As hard as she tries, she can't imagine letting a cover identity go this far.

She can lie to herself, but this isn't a cover. Not for either of them. This is real, and the enormity of it shakes the foundations of her world.

He kisses her until the aftershocks are over, and when he pulls back, she gazes up into his dark eyes and feels completely exposed. She's glowing with sated desire, lain bare to him. The vulnerability makes her so nervous.

"Hey," he whispers, and brushes his lips over hers again. He nuzzles against her cheek, her earlobe. "What's wrong?"

She shakes her head, unable to explain, unable to find the words. Tears prick in her already-damp eyes.

He pulls back, and she sees concern in his eyes. "Nancy?"

"Ned," she whispers, and cups his cheek. "It's real. It's real for me." She gives him a small, quivering smile.

He nods, and his expression is troubled. "Do you want to stop?"

She shakes her head. "Not unless you do."

When she reaches for him again, he kisses her easily, and his chest is warm against hers. She holds onto him, and when she thinks she's ready, she shifts her hips and pushes him onto his back, straddling his hips, perched over his bare erection.

"Mmm," he growls in warning. "Nan—"

"I know." She doesn't press herself against him; she's certain that it's against the rules, and she can't bear the idea of his rejecting her if she tries something. She finds one of his condoms and tears open the foil wrapper, then rolls it onto his erection. It's easier to focus on the preparation, squirting lube into the cup of her palm and then slicking it over the condom, than on what's about to happen. She's completely naked, her breasts bare and her hair tumbled down her back, and he's called her gorgeous, has said he wants to watch, but she still feels self-conscious.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs, and she glances up into his eyes. He's resting his palms on her hips, and his gaze is warm with desire. "You are. Incredibly beautiful and sexy, and smart and thoughtful. I..."

She smiles at him when he trails off. "And you are unbelievably hot," she murmurs. "I can't get enough of you, of your smile, of talking to you... of the way you make me feel." Her smile wobbles slightly. "You make me think I'm going to come out of my skin."

He shakes his head. "Like fire and gasoline," he whispers.

"Yeah." She leans down and presses a gentle kiss against his lips. "Like fire and gasoline."

Mounting him makes her shiver, but she sighs as he caresses her, fondling her bare breasts, teasing her pebbled nipples. She closes her eyes, releasing a low groan as she slowly fits him just inside her opening. She knew he was big, but feeling him like this, at this angle—she shivers, gasping as she takes him in slow, shallow thrusts. When his full length is finally sheathed between her legs, she pauses, taking a few deep breaths.

Then she opens her eyes, and he's gazing up at her, his hands sliding down to her hips. "You feel so good," he murmurs. "You all right?"

She nods. "You've definitely ruined me for anyone else."

He gives her a small smile, but doesn't agree. "Sure you're comfortable?"

She blows out her breath and tosses her head so her hair falls over her shoulders. "You are massive," she moans. "I practically felt like you deflowered me last time. There's just no comparison."

He grins. "Just what every guy likes to hear," he murmurs, his voice low and rumbling straight down her spine. "So..."

As soon as his thumb brushes against her clit, she shudders hard, rising. "Mmmmmm... oh, oh God."

"Yeah." His eyes are glowing as he watches her. "That's right, beautiful. Take it as slow or as fast as you want."

She starts slow, and as he teases her clit with strokes and flicks of his fingers, she begins to pant and moan, her hips moving faster. Ned reaches up and begins to rub and gently squeeze her nipples with his other hand as he keeps stroking her clit. The stimulation makes her gasp, and she reaches behind her, supporting her weight as she rides him faster. The feel of him, so thick and big inside her, is better with each stroke against her slick, tender inner flesh. She's incredibly aroused, and when he's deep inside her, at the apex of each thrust, she lets her head fall back and sobs with pleasure.

"So sexy," he tells her. "I love watching you, gorgeous. Watching you get off on riding me. Mmmm."

She's flushed, panting for breath. "God," she cries out. "Oh my God..."

Her movements are becoming jerky and erratic as she starts to lose control, as she trembles. "You okay? Getting tired?"

She nods, letting out a relieved sigh. "Feels so good," she moans. "Mmmm..."

"Here." She squeals when he grasps her hips, then moves to bend his knees at the edge of the mattress. She puts her feet on the floor and shifts her weight forward, tipping her head back and crying out as she fucks him with rapid thrusts, her breasts bouncing.

"Oh, oh! Oh yessss..."

"So fucking good," Ned growls. When he swipes against her clit with a harder stroke, she sobs loudly, her inner flesh clenching around him.

"Fuck," Ned snarls, and his hips buck against hers. She's caught off guard when he reverses their positions, bringing her knees up, spreading her legs fully as he slides his impressive length between her thighs. She arches, tipping her head back, gasping loudly for breath as he begins to fuck her with rapid thrusts, made all the harder because his feet are on the floor. She sobs desperately, then begins to release breathless screams, clawing at the sheets, her inner flesh pulsing against his cock as she climaxes.

"Come," she cries out. "Come inside me..."

He's panting, and his broad, muscular chest is glowing from exertion. She gazes up at him, realizing again that she's completely vulnerable to him—but there's no way she can imagine pushing him away, or denying either of them this incredible pleasure and joy. When he brushes against her clit again, she tenses around him and screams, arching her spine.

His hips jolt against hers and he tenses as he reaches orgasm, and she lets out a long groan. He lowers himself to her, resting against her, and with the last of her strength she wraps her arms around him and holds him, her fingers against his hair.

She feels him breathe against her neck, and she shivers in pleasure, closing her eyes. "Oh my God," he whispers. "Oh God..."

"Mmm." She strokes his hair, completely spent, barely able to breathe. It's practically all she can do. "Ned," she whispers.

He nuzzles against her. She can feel the brush of his soft lips against her skin. "Fuck," he whispers, so softly she almost doesn't hear it.

"Mmm?"

"Shhh." He kisses the side of her neck. "Hush, sweetheart."

The fondness, the intimacy, in his voice make her shiver in pleasure. With a soft sigh she glances at her alarm clock. They still have a few hours.

"Can you hold me?" she whispers.

He releases her long enough to go dispose of the condom and clean up, and returns to her bed in his underwear. Together they move under the covers, and she rests her head against his shoulder, their arms around each other.

"Was—did I do something wrong?"

"No. You were great. Sorry that I—took over."

"I'm not sorry." She kisses his collarbone. "Not about that. It was great."

He rubs his palm against her back. She relaxes against him, breathing evenly, and thanks to the intensity of her orgasms, she's completely spent. She can't believe how wonderful it feels just to be in his arms, the sweet intimacy of it. She wants to think that he doesn't do this with his other clients.

She wants to think that, to him, she's more than just a client.

She falls asleep nestled against him, and her last thought makes her smile. She's slept in Ned's arms more often than she's had sex with him, and she's glad.

She wakes to a mild headache, moaning softly. The bed is moving. Ned's not holding her anymore; he's sitting up, glancing at the clock. He has to leave soon.

She rubs at the sleep she can feel at the corner of her eye, pushing herself up a little. "No," she whispers. "Come here. Please."

He turns back toward her, cupping her cheek, and gives her a soft smile. "Wish I could, beautiful," he whispers, and leans down to kiss the tip of her nose, then gently just against her lips. "I have to go."

"Are you going to take a shower?" She's proud of how even she keeps her voice. She can't imagine how angry she would be if he showed up at her place, smelling of sex with another woman. Even so, she wishes that her smell will linger on his skin, marking him as hers.

He nods slowly once. "If you're okay with it," he murmurs. "Want to join me?"

It's faint consolation, but she nods and pushes the covers down.

He washes briskly, thoroughly, using a bar of soap he brought with him, and she frowns as she rinses the join of her thighs, as she lathers her hands with her almond-scented soap and strokes them down her skin. She doesn't want to lose this—but her sheets still smell like them, and when he's gone, she wonders if that will make her happy or sad.

"Can we see each other again? Before the wedding?"

He thinks for a moment, then nods slowly. "I think so. Another Saturday morning date, if you're okay with that."

She nods. "I think you mentioned going to the museum, once? We could do that."

He raises his eyebrows. "We won't have much time," he murmurs. "Especially if we'll be here..."

She shrugs. "As long as you promise we can make out a little, just doing the museum next time is fine with me." She searches his eyes. "I love sleeping with you, but I love having fun with you too. And I... I don't want to..." She sighs, trying to find the words. "I don't want this to just be sex. I feel like that's all you do, and I—I hate the idea of you not having a friend."

He cups her cheeks in his palms, gently stroking her skin with his thumbs. "You're one in a million," he whispers, finally. "We... were never supposed to be friends."

"Well, fuck that," she says, shaking her head. "It's time for you to realize that things with me are never going to be normal. Or expected."

He smiles, and her heart skips a beat when she sees that his eyes are gleaming faintly. "Yeah," he whispers, and leans down to brush his lips against hers.

She reaches up and wraps her arms around him, parting her lips to deepen the kiss, and when he pulls back a long moment later, she's panting softly. "Stay with me," she whispers. "Stay tonight. Please."

He gives her a sad smile, and her heart sinks. "I can't," he whispers. "Please don't."

She nods, but keeps holding him. She knew, but she had to try. "Then just know that I would have held you all night," she whispers. "That I will, while we're gone."

"Good." He kisses her one last time. "I'll see you soon, beautiful."

She's afraid to speak; she knows her voice will shake. She holds his hand as they walk to the door together. She savors the tenderness, the awareness of her body since they slept together. Even with so intense a release, she's already ready to go again.

I love you.

He's walking away so he can go sleep with someone else. She has to be the most blind woman in the world. And her stupid heart, as she watches him walk away, feels like it's breaking all over again.

Ned releases a sound that's somewhere between a snort and a chuckle. "Really?"

Nancy nods, her expression serene. "Really."

He shakes his head, but once she pops the trunk, he slides his bags inside. Neither is the black duffel bag, and she's not sure why that makes her happy. Maybe because the black duffel is a sign that he's with a client, and her heart wants to believe they're more than that.

Four days. She hangs her dress up in the back so it won't wrinkle, and loads her small carry-on and her toiletries bag into the trunk. Her purse is already in the front, and Ned's adjusted the seat to accommodate his tall frame.

"I take it back," he says, after she's cranked the car and lowered her sunglasses again. "I think I get it."

She raises an eyebrow in his direction, before glancing back as she reverses out of the spot.

"At first I thought, sensible four-door. But we're not expecting to take anyone else with us. An SUV? Too much space for the two of us. A hybrid? Well, that just wouldn't have the speed for a chase, and that's what you're built for."

She chuckles. "My dad bought me this car," she says. "The current model when I was seventeen, anyway. I fell in love with it. That Mustang and I got into more scrapes and crazy situations than I can even remember now, and Dad joked that he replaced every single piece of it at least twice. When I was going through the inventory... what can I say, it just spoke to me."

"It suits you."

She directs a quick smile his way, negotiating out of the rental car agency's parking lot.

It's begun. As soon as he met her out front, it began. He's her boyfriend now.

For the next four days, anyway. She's not sure she'll survive it.

Nancy and Ned visited the museum together for their last date, and she loved it. They strolled through the exhibits holding hands, making comments to each other, and the genuine fondness and delight she saw in Ned's eyes sent a pleased shiver down her spine. She was delighted to hold his hand, too, to be in such prolonged contact with him. As they took the subway back, she told him how she wanted him to behave with her while they were in Bayport for the wedding, while they were around Frank.

Just pretend it's real. Treat me like I really am your girlfriend. She wasn't able to say it; she wasn't able to hurt him that way. Because it's artificial, all of it, and to force him to fake a genuine emotion just seemed so incredibly insensitive.

He walked her back to her place from the subway, and as soon as they crossed the threshold into her apartment—she didn't know who had instigated it, as hard as she tried to remember. She remembered being wrapped around him, kissing him fiercely, feeling desperate. He walked her over to her couch, and by the time they reached it, she was naked to the waist. He kissed her the entire time they waited for the spermicide to become effective, and then they had sex on her couch, holding each other, sharing demanding kisses. Her orgasm left her trembling, spent and boneless in his arms, naked and bare to him. She buried her face in his neck and breathed him in, the hint of pine under the almost antiseptic soap, the sharp muskiness of his sweat.

She's in love with him. Every second of contact, every laugh they share, every time she feels him so deep inside her, she knows it again. She can't tell him; if she never gives him a chance to reject her, then he can't.

All the foolish moves she's making to protect her heart will fail, and she knows that, but she still can't stop herself.

"How's your week been?" He's been busy finishing up schoolwork that he won't have time to do while he's with her. The messenger bag he uses for his coursework is in the floorboard behind his seat. It's not like she won't be checking her own email during this trip, and besides, his schoolwork is something genuine about him. She's touched that he shares that part of his life with her, even in such an abbreviated way.

She shrugs. "Tuesday was pretty good," she says, finding her way toward the interstate. God, the number of times she's driven this... and oh, how she dreaded this. Now she's glad she was invited to the wedding. She's glad to be with Ned, that she has the excuse to spend so much time with him. Four entire days together.

And she's taking too long to respond to him. She chuckles softly. "I finally found the guy I was looking for," she clarifies. "Long enough to turn him in, and that was the trick. How was your week?"

Now that she's fully invested, now that he's playing the role, she's happy there's no risk he'll be discussing seeing other clients, no mention of blood tests, of anyone else. She wants him to be honest with her, but more than anything else, she wants that honesty to include his not being with anyone else. As hypocritical as that is. They would never have met, if he didn't do... that.

"Had to turn in a massive paper Monday. I was sorry that I couldn't see you Saturday... but I've been looking forward to this for a while." His gaze is resting on her, and when she steals a glance in his direction, she sees that he's not smiling—but he looks relaxed, calm, pleased to be with her. That means more to her than a fake, forced smile would.

"I missed you." And she texted him to tell him so. Just the single text, just in case. The thought of him returning to his phone and finding twelve stacked texts from her feels desperate.

"I missed you too, baby."

Her heart rises with her next breath. The casual familiarity would irritate her from someone she didn't know as well.

"So, tonight. We check in, get settled, go to the cookout?"

She nods, flipping her high ponytail back over one shoulder. New York is hot, and for their trip she's dressed in a crochet-trim sleeveless top and a denim skirt. Ned's in a charcoal t-shirt and khaki cargo shorts, and despite his casual outfit and demeanor, he still looks unspeakably gorgeous. It's something about his hair, the sculpted stubble on his cheeks, the calm of his beautiful dark eyes. "It's at Chet's house—he's one of their best friends, and the bride's brother. He's a pretty cool guy. It'll be casual, so we can go in what we're wearing."

Ned smiles. "Sounds like my kind of party. If it's nice tonight maybe we can put the top down."

Nancy nods, grinning. It's been so long since she's had this kind of freedom, being able to drive herself for pleasure, not for a case, and the Mustang hums with power. Once they're out of the city and all the terrible traffic, it will be hard not to just open her up and see how fast they can go. "I haven't been out enough to build up a base tan. I'd probably burn in ten minutes, in this."

"We can't have that." He trails his fingers along her forearm, and she shivers. "You seem to be excited about our trip."

He ends it with the faintest inflection, making it barely a question. "I'm happy to be able to spend time with you," she says, and hopes that her glance over at him lets him see she's being sincere. "And I really was dreading this, for a long time. Having you here... well, I'm just really glad you were able to come with me."

He gently, briefly, folds his fingers around her hand, then releases it. "I'm glad you asked me," he says softly.

Her skin feels incredibly sensitized, and she can't help imagining what might happen as soon as they're in their rented room. "So," she says, clearing her throat, "did you bring the road trip mix?"

"Oh! Yeah. Let me just..."

He has good taste in music, she discovers. He's selected music from when they were in school, and more recent music, all happy and upbeat songs they can sing along to. He likes to perform while he's singing, over the top, chest-pounding, hoarse or trembling with feigned sentimentality. Then another song comes on and he's quietly earnest. She catches herself grinning at him and with him, singing along, realizing how much she misses this. She used to take road trips with Bess and George all the time.

She's trying not to think about introducing Ned to her father, to Bess and George, since both cousins will be attending. The whole point was to show Ned off to Frank, to appear happy, as someone to be envied instead of pitied. She wanted a buffer, someone who would keep her from humiliating herself by pouring her heart out to Frank—and from responding to his advances, should he make any. She never intended to deceive other people. Frank just doesn't count.

She's both sorry and glad when she pulls up in front of the hotel. It's a modern structure, recent construction, surrounded by lush well-manicured landscaping and plenty of restaurants. For a while she considered staying at a quaint, charming bed and breakfast that would have meant sharing a too-narrow bed with her date, a pleasantly nosy landlady, walks along the beach, but many of the other wedding guests are staying at this hotel. It's close to everything, and at this place they'll share a king-sized bed.

The lobby is lush, decorated in veined sand-colored marble with burnished copper trim. Nancy's seen many hotels, motels, rental properties, and everything between; this place feels so new that she's almost afraid to touch anything. The carpet isn't worn from the tracks of infinite guests. The scents of old grease and astringent cleaner and dried sweat don't taint the common areas.

She almost hesitates before saying her true name to the receptionist. Though many people have seen her with Ned in public, on dates, on social media, it's different to check into a hotel with him. It's different to stay in a hotel when she's not on a case. "Drew," she says, and flashes a grin. "Nancy Drew. I'm here for the Hardy wedding."

The receptionist, whose name badge reads Gwyn, taps a few keys on the keyboard. Then her face lights up. "Yes! Here we are. You'll be in 301, right next to the stairs, as requested. Here are your keys... and your gift basket."

Nancy raises her eyebrows as Gwyn lugs a large cellophane-wrapped basket to the desk, long-lashed brown eyes barely able to see over the top. "Nice," Ned murmurs.

"Yeah. Laura really outdid herself," Nancy murmurs back, keeping a polite smile on her face for the receptionist.

"Laura is Joe's mom. Iola's the bride." He murmurs it softly, and Nancy can't help grinning. He wanted to know as much as Nancy could tell him about the people he would be meeting. He's drilling himself, making sure he has the story down. When her mind veers somewhere that makes her ebullient mood falter, she comforts herself with the idea that he's just falling back on his drama background. He just wants to make a good impression on the people he will be meeting soon.

The room is clean, well-appointed but impersonal, decorated in slate and cream. An impressionist print of three ships at sea is displayed on one wall. The drapes are parted and sunlight streams in through sheer panels.

Ned leaves his bags beside the dresser and stands at the foot of the bed. "Nice room," he comments.

She turns to gaze into his dark eyes, and sees something there she hasn't often seen, not even the day they went skydiving. All the other times she and Ned have been together, it's been at her place. Now they're in a hotel and she sees something almost like anxiety in his eyes. Maybe neither of them are really sure how to treat this, how far they can let the charade go before falling under its spell. She wants that to be true for him, but she knows it's not. It's safer to keep telling herself that this—that for these four days, this pocket of time, the rules are gone. On the way back, she'll put the mask back on. She'll become who she has been again. She has to believe that.

She closes the short distance between them and slides her arms up over his shoulders, a faint smile teasing her lips. "It is a nice room," she agrees. "And this view is much nicer."

He smiles too, then leans down and brushes the tip of his nose against hers before pressing his lips against her cheek. "Very much so," he agrees.

She closes her eyes, shivering at the feel of his breath, at how close he is to her. "You can say no," she whispers. "You can always say no. I just... I need you to hold me. But I've never wanted to hurt you."

His lips brush her earlobe, and when he slides his arms around her waist, she almost releases a soft moan. "I'm your boyfriend, remember," he whispers, and when his fingertips trace against the small of her back, she wants to melt; she wants to drown. "I'd love to hold you, beautiful. And to give you everything else you want."

The gift basket. They need to unpack, freshen up, get ready... but her fingertips stroke the back of his neck and then his lips are on hers, and then his tongue is in her mouth and—

He gathers her into his arms and moves onto the bed, and she shivers when his large bare palm slides up her thigh, pushing up her skirt. He kisses her over and over, claiming, passionate, and she clings to him, her fingers grasping at the back of his shirt, pulling it tight against his muscular chest. His fingers slide under the tiny lace panties she's wearing, under the elastic to stroke her hip. When his hips press against hers, she shudders at the visible sign of his arousal.

"Mmm?" The sound hums against her skin.

"Yes," she whispers, almost moaning. "Oh God..."

As soon as he draws her panties an inch down her thighs, his palm is cupping her just-exposed skin, and she snakes an arm behind her to unfasten her bra one-handed. It's been too long. Now that he's touching her like this, she can feel every second since the last time they had sex, and she's burning for it.

As soon as her panties are off, he leaves her sprawled on the bed, and she immediately strips off the rest of her clothes. He comes back to her with the spermicide and the applicator, and as he loads it she bends her knees and parts her legs wide, ready for him.

She can't help wondering what else he's brought with him, other than the condoms and the lube he leaves on the side table. She doesn't care if this is all; she just wants him, twined around her, loving her.

And he does. They kiss, holding each other as the medication takes effect, and she strokes his side, his shoulder blades, the line of his spine. No matter how many times they've touched each other, she can't imagine ever having enough of this, ever knowing all of him completely. She's counting it off in her head and she knows when it's ready, when they can finally safely have sex, but she's looking into his eyes and the expression there is so sweet and tender.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, brushing a loose strand of hair from her damp cheek. "I can't get enough of you."

She can't help glowing with pleasure. "I can't get enough of you," she whispers, and turns her face to kiss his palm. "You drive me crazy... and I'll take all I can get with you. I mean it."

He's kissing her again when she's stroking his hip, and then her palm brushes his bare cock. He doesn't seem to miss a beat, doesn't pull away and warn her, so she wraps her hand around him, shivering as she measures his length and girth again. God, she's wet for him—and grateful for it. Feeling him inside her, oh God, it makes her feel helpless, defenseless, in a way she's never felt with anyone else.

Their kisses become nipping, claiming, punctuated by soft pants and moans. She explores him, stroking him with her palm, caressing him with her fingertips, and he groans quietly, deep in his throat. There's no way he's faking his arousal, his attraction to her. She can't truly believe he ever has faked it.

She fondles his sensitive balls, and splits her focus between the way his skin feels under her fingertips and the way she feels when his lips brush her own skin. He groans again and she feels him smack his palm on the nightstand, then the tearing of a foil wrapper. She releases him so he can roll the condom on, and when the air kicks on she shivers, pushing herself backward so she can maneuver under the heavy comforter.

"Oh, you're not going anywhere," Ned growls, and she giggles when she sees the smile on his face. "Need something to warm you up?"

She nods. "Something big and hard and hot," she suggests.

He joins her under the covers. "I think I have just the thing," he murmurs, gazing deep into her eyes. "As long as you have somewhere sweet and wet to put it."

"Mmm. I just might," she murmurs, opening her legs again.

He settles against her, his hips between her open thighs, and she moans when he fondles and plucks at her nipples, when she feels his erection pressed low against her belly. When his lips brush against her skin, when he nuzzles against her neck, when he reaches down to cup her hips and draw her tighter against him, she feels the warmth of her arousal as it pools between her thighs, leaving her deliciously ready for him. He moves and teases and nuzzles, and she's lightheaded, whimpering, gasping. She's reduced to sensation and response, to anticipation and need.

She can't help herself. When he slicks lube over the condom and finally begins to slide inside her, she's lost track of everything else. Her back arches, her shoulders pressing against the mattress, and she gazes up into his sweet dark eyes. She moans when she feels his full length inside her, the weight of his body against hers. His skin is so warm under her fingertips, and she can feel the firm lines of his muscles.

"Okay?"

She nods. The pleasant hum of her arousal is renewed when he slides his hand between them, and she cries out as he strokes her clit; the trace of lube on his thumb feels incredible. Her inner flesh clenches tight around his erection.

"Mmm. God, you're so fucking sexy," he says, his voice low and rough. She cries out again when he thrusts his entire length inside her, then begins to slowly withdraw. When he plunges home again, still caressing her clit, she sobs.

"That's right. I love to see that look on your face. So beautiful, and you feel so fucking good." He kisses her just below her earlobe, and she trembles at the feel of his breath on her skin, at the way he fills her, his strokes against her clit, and then the feel of him rolling a hard nipple between his fingers. She's sobbing something incoherent as she draws her knees up even higher, her fingers drawing into a loose fist.

"You feel good," she gasps, forcing herself to open her eyes, to look up at him. "Oh, oh shit..."

"Yeah. I know you love it." She sobs again, her hips bucking as he keeps fondling her, stimulating her, until she can't seem to catch her breath. On his next thrust she intentionally clenches her inner muscles again, and she's rewarded by his low groan.

"It's okay," he whispers against her ear. "Let me have you, all of you. Just feel. Feel this..."

She whimpers loudly when he flicks her clit with the side of his thumb, and her inner flesh clenches immediately. "Oh God, oh fuck," she babbles. "Ohhhh... oh my God I wish..."

"What do you want, sweetheart?"

"I wish you could—go down on me..."

He gives her a long, hard kiss, still moving inside her. "I can..."

She already knows what he's going to say, and she shakes her head, trying to focus. "Not that way."

"Then I'll try to make you feel that good."

After that—oh God, it's like the sheer earth-shaking wonder of her first orgasm. She should be ashamed of how she reacts to him, unabashedly wanton and needing and wet and shuddering. When something feels good, she tells him in sobs and cries and wordless pleading. He rolls her over and she rides him hard, her breasts bouncing, her skin damp with sweat. She throws her head back and sobs and cries in pleasure, her inner flesh throbbing as he strokes her clit and pinches her nipple in time.

She doesn't care if anyone hears them. In fact, when for a second she imagines Frank overhearing this, realizing how inadequate he is in comparison, she releases a loud cry. "Oh God so good!"

"That's right." He senses it, somehow, when she's so painfully close, when it's too intense. He rolls her over again, his body pressing against hers, working inside her. She tips her head back, panting for breath, releasing a loud sobbing cry as she finally pitches over the edge and reaches the height of her orgasm.

He lets out a harsh gasp, arching over her as he jolts between her thighs, and even though she can barely move she wraps her arms around him, holding him, her heart thundering, the slick warm flesh between her thighs tender and still gently clenching against him. He sighs so softly, and she feels his fingers close against her flesh, cupping her shoulder. He's clinging to her too. His breath is warm against her skin.

"Mmmm. God," she whispers, still trembling faintly with the aftershocks. "Oh my God."

"Mmmm." He kisses her temple. His lips linger there.

It's the time after, when he's as close to her as he possibly can be, that she can't imagine a greater happiness. Oh, she knows that the hormones released during her orgasm make her feel this way, that at some level it's all purely chemistry. But she feels his lips and his breath on her skin, feels him panting and spent from his own release, and her heart becomes almost painfully full.

She whimpers softly in protest when he begins to move, to pull away from her. "I'll be right back," he promises, and nuzzles against her cheek, presses a kiss there. "Shh."

She can hardly move when he leaves the bed, despite the slick trace on her thighs, despite her glowing skin, the mess they've undoubtedly made of her hair. Then she swallows against her dry throat and combs her fingers through her reddish-gold hair. She will have to take a shower before the cookout, but she still doesn't want to look like a wreck when he joins her in bed again.

He returns and hands her a cloth so she can clean herself up, and then he pulls her into his arms. She closes her eyes and makes a soft happy sound, her arm draped over his muscular chest and her bent leg draped across his thighs.

He kisses her forehead. "The cookout starts at six?"

"Mmm-hmm. Shower first," she murmurs.

He chuckles. "Mmm. I noticed this place has a fitness center, so if I go there in the morning...?"

"As long as you don't go too early, I can go with you," she replies. "If you're okay with that."

"Sure."

Then she gasps and pulls back to look into his face. His dark, long-lashed eyes are drowsy, sated. "Unless you want to—I don't know, get away from this for a few hours. Get some time alone."

He reaches up and strokes her hair, cupping her cheek as he searches her gaze. "There's no one like you in the whole world," he whispers, and her heart rises at the affection in his voice. She can't trust herself to call it anything else. "I'd love for you to come with me. We'll just be sweating a few feet away from each other instead of right on top of each other." He smiles.

She leans down and presses a soft kiss against his lips. "Although either sounds good," she admits. "I just—I want to be around you all the time, but I know you need your space."

He rests his hand on the back of her head, then draws her back down again, kissing her slowly and thoroughly. "I'm here for whatever you need," he whispers against her lips.

After they've relaxed in each other's arms, drowsing and nestled against each other, the alarm she's set goes off and she reluctantly begins to push herself up. After the shower, after her hair is dry, Nancy puts on a sleeveless dress that just skims her knees, navy with a retro floral pattern, and pairs it with flat gladiator sandals and simple bangles at her wrist. The only times she dresses up like this anymore seem to be for her dates with Ned, and she specifically picked out this dress to bring because he hasn't seen it yet.

He smiles when he sees it, and that makes her heart warm again. "Oh, you look so beautiful," he tells her, reaching out to stroke his hand against the fabric at her hip, almost possessively. It's perfect for what they're trying to do, to project, but her heart's in her throat. "I love the way you look in blue."

She flashes him a grin. "And you look incredible," she tells him. "But you always do."

"I always want to look good for you, sweetheart."

She's a little nervous; she can't deny that. Tonight will be a test, and the night of the rehearsal dinner will be a test. On Saturday, all eyes will be on the happy couple, witnessing their joy and commitment to each other. But before that, she will be introducing Ned to Frank and Joe, to her father, to her two best friends. Even under normal circumstances, that would be daunting.

The farm has been completely decked out for the cookout, and although her arrival is five minutes before the invitation time, several cars are already lined up with more behind them. Oversized white bulbs are strung in the backyard, reflecting in Mason jars. A burlap banner hangs over the entrance, congratulating Joe and Iola, wishing them all the happiness in the world. A menu has been listed in calligraphy on a large chalkboard, and she's almost expecting gingham tablecloths and hay bales, but those aren't in evidence. Clusters of picnic tables are spread with burlap, and casual bouquets of wildflowers stand in ribbon-wrapped Mason jars on the center of each. It's casual and lovely.

Ned gives her hand a gentle squeeze as they approach the backyard. He's wearing a pair of khakis and purple polo shirt. On another man it might look garish, or even like he's trying too hard. But something about it, on Ned, looks devastatingly handsome. He moves with such effortless grace, oblivious to everything but her and how she feels. It's so incredibly addictive, to be treated this way. "You look beautiful," he tells her, his voice firm. "And I can pull you back behind that barn and kiss you until you feel better."

His expression is entirely serious, but she hears the hint of humor in his voice and releases a brief, genuine laugh.

"Mmm. Much better." He tilts toward her and brushes his lips against her temple. "You're fine. And if you aren't fine, tell me and we'll head back to the hotel."

She nods. "Later," she promises. "Definitely."

Joe is standing in an impromptu receiving line, his fiancée beside him. So he'll be the first. Nancy's heart is pounding as she and Ned approach, and Joe slaps the guest he's already greeted on the back before turning to Nancy.

"Nancy! I was so glad you decided to come." Joe's grin is charming, infectious.

"Well, I had to see this," she teases him. "Half the church will be beautiful women in mourning, who will be dying with jealousy. Good to see you again, Iola."

Iola wraps Nancy in a warm hug, brushing a stray strand of dark hair behind one ear as she pulls back. Her sparkling green eyes travel between Nancy and her date. "I'm so glad you were able to make it. And who is this?"

"Ned," Joe fills in, and Nancy's eyes widen in surprise. "Or his identical twin."

Ned nods, reaching for Joe's hand to shake it. "A pleasure to meet both of you. So this place belongs to your parents, Iola? It's beautiful."

Iola grins. "Thanks. Joe and I were just talking about it—I think they've thrown us a shower every few months since we were engaged. I'm really excited about tonight, though. Mom really outdid herself with the decorations."

"She did a great job," Ned agrees.

Joe exchanges a glance with Nancy. "Yeah, I do a little Facebook stalking," he answers her expression. "Had to see if the new guy measured up. Is he calm in a crisis?"

Nancy blushes a little. She has no doubt that Frank's already here, and talking about the relationship they used to have sets up a strange, faint vibration in her chest. "He's incredible," she replies. As soon as Ned shook hands with the couple, he had reached for her hand again, and their fingers are interlaced.

"You'll be at the rehearsal dinner, right?"

Nancy and Ned nod. Joe's gaze travels to the next arriving guests, and Iola flashes them both a beautiful grin. "Well, it was very nice to meet you... Ned. If you ever want to commiserate about dating a detective, let me know."

"I'll keep that in mind. Thank you." Ned flashes her a charming grin in return, but it's brief, and then they're moving away. He releases Nancy's hand so he can drape his arm over her shoulders. The contact calms her a little.

"One down," she murmurs. "Four to go."

"And I'd say things are going great so far."

She and Ned exchange a pair of happy smiles before Chet approaches them, and Nancy makes the introductions.

The cookout is for close family friends, plus those in the wider circle; that's how Nancy was invited, thanks to her long-standing relationship with the Hardy family. It definitely can't be called an intimate gathering, though. Mr. Morton is manning an enormous grill, serving hot dogs, hamburgers, marinated chicken and corn on the cob and portobello mushroom caps. A massive buffet table is spread with every possible accompaniment, from pasta salad and potato salad to crispy, perfectly salty kettle chips and slow-simmered baked beans. Ned's eyes light up when he sees the tray of brownies, the tall many-layered chocolate cake, and Nancy makes a mental note.

They've loaded up their plates and are heading for the picnic tables, moving carefully through the growing crowd. The band has finished tuning and setting up, and launches into an acoustic cover of a popular song; several guests clap, and some start dancing, beers or red plastic cups of punch in outstretched hands. They're surrounded by laughter and grins and happy people, and it's more than contagious.

"If it isn't Nancy Drew."

It's the moment she's been dreading, the moment that has figured in both her dreams and nightmares. Ned glances back, and she can see only the faintest shift in his expression. He looks pleased, calm, happy, on the surface. No sign of anger or alarm.

"Nancy and I were about to find a seat," Ned says, his tone warm and friendly. Of course. He has no idea to suspect anything—even though she knows he does.

"Here. Please, come sit with us. It'll be nice to catch up."

Frank still seems to be talking to only her, but Nancy still hasn't looked at him. Of course he's noticed. She just can't seem to make herself turn in his direction. Ned's gaze finds hers, and she reads the question in his eyes. He will make an excuse or flat-out refuse, if she gives him a signal. She's not even sure that Frank has acknowledged his presence at all.

"Thank you," she says, and clears her throat, then forces a smile. She doesn't want to sound weak, timid, unsure. "It will be nice to catch up."

Ned gives her a small smile. No matter what, she reminds herself as she and Ned follow Frank, she'll be going back to the hotel with Ned tonight. He will hold her, maybe make love with her again. Just the thought of it, thankfully, distracts her from the quiet panic in her belly.

Chet is sitting at the table, along with a very pretty girl. She has blonde hair and dark eyes, and when her gaze falls on Frank, her expression softens into something unmistakable. 

Nancy feels strange for a second, like she's in free fall, but she realizes it with a sudden start. For a long time, Nancy mourned their broken relationship. She mourned the part of herself she lost when he left her. She believed the only way she could ever be whole again was to be with him again. But all that's left of that conviction is a shadow, and it dissipates as she focuses on it.

She is whole. Ned has filled that emptiness inside her, and more. He's made her complete in a way she never knew she was incomplete. There's nothing left to need, to fear, with him by her side.

"So this is Ned."

Nancy nods, looking up into Frank's eyes for the first time, steeling herself for the sudden stab of pain. When she feels it, it's only an echo.

She releases a long relieved breath, then smiles. "Ned, this is Frank Hardy, Joe's brother. You've already met Chet. And this is...?"

"Callie," Frank fills in, draping his arm over Callie's shoulders in a possessive gesture. Whenever Ned touches her that way, Nancy feels only the comfort of it, the sweetness of the connection. With Frank, she realizes dispassionately, it looks like he's trying too hard. "Callie, this is Nancy Drew."

Callie sends a wing of honey-blonde hair flipping behind her shoulder before nodding at Nancy, giving her what must be meant for a pleased smile. "Nice to meet you," Callie says. "Frank's told me a lot about you."

Nancy smoothes a paper napkin over her lap, then picks up her plastic fork. "Are you a detective too?"

Callie shakes her head. "I'm actually going to school," she replies. "And—Ned? That's an interesting name."

"Thanks," he replies. "And I'm a student too, actually."

Callie smiles. "I'm so glad we're out on break," she says. "Being maid of honor has been crazy. It'll be a relief once the ceremony and everything are over, and Frank and I can really enjoy the summer."

Nancy chuckles. "Good luck," she tells Callie. "Maybe you'll be able to see him for a few days."

"Hey," Frank begins to protest.

"Good point," Callie replies at the same time. "At first I thought that if I kept him around Bayport, he wouldn't be able to get in trouble. But my man is all about getting in trouble."

My man. The words should sting. Out of sight between them, Ned reaches for her hand and laces his fingers between hers again.

Her appetite fails her for a little while, but returns during their conversation. Nancy doesn't want to like Callie, but she does. Callie is a little younger than Nancy, but when she honestly evaluates her, she doesn't find her significantly prettier or wittier than Nancy herself is. She's definitely upbeat, though, and while it sounds like she has helped Frank on some of his cases, she's not a detective. She's also not afraid to show affection toward Frank. She playfully pushes his shoulder, offers her cheek to him for a kiss, snuggles against him when Frank embraces her.

Nancy wasn't like that with Frank, and she can't help wondering if that has something to do with this. Did he want someone who would be affectionate toward him like Callie is, and that was part of what didn't work with Nancy? Does Ned want someone like that?

Because, oh God, all she cares about is what Ned thinks. She couldn't care less what Frank thinks. She's been so worried for so long that Frank will somehow see through this charade, so worried that the fear still lingers, even though it's virtually impossible now. In so many ways, the plan to have Ned pose as her date is foolproof, because the relationship they've worked so hard to fake is far more real than she ever expected.

She doesn't care about Frank anymore.

That sensation, like part of her is different, is gone, comes back again, tightening in her throat as she continues making conversation with the couple. It's easy, familiar, relaxed, to talk to Frank and Chet. That grasping, consuming obsession with Frank has faded to shared memory and affection. She does genuinely like him, past all the pain, past the way things ended.

And a part of her can't help feeling sorry for him. He will never be as good as Ned.

For years, for fucking years—her chest aches with it—she believed that only Frank would make her whole again. She believed that with him, she could recover that piece of herself, that he would make this, her life, right again, good again. He's the boyfriend, the boy she's known practically since birth, son of her father's friend. The guy she's supposed to be with, that she always has.

But the thought no longer hurts her; it no longer holds any weight. She feels—adrift, almost, watching what she knew slowly shrink behind her, to where it can no longer touch her. Frank's boyishly handsome and he's a decent detective and he has a good sense of humor. She used to know him well.

It's almost staggering, how she's misjudged herself and how much he meant to her, how little he means to her now. She had been so terrified that he would steal her equilibrium; that were he to try, the knob would turn easily in his palm and he would be back in, under her skin, stealing his way toward her heart.

It's Ned. She lets herself fully acknowledge that. The hand holding hers, the fingers laced between hers, impact her with more force than Frank's laughter. The occasional weight of Ned's gaze flares along her sensitive nerves, trailing fire, leaving a quivering anticipation. Frank's presence, the voice that used to send a shiver down her spine, the way his gaze flicks to her sometimes when he's not talking to his girlfriend—those things used to mean something. Now she barely notices, or she doesn't notice at all.

It's as though she stabbed herself in the soft pad of a finger with a thin sharp needle, and to stop the pain, she lopped her entire finger off. It's still so close that she's in shock; the pain hasn't kicked in yet.

Ned healed her and Ned will leave her and she doesn't know who she will be without him. She doesn't know if the loss of Frank will hurt her again, worse than it did before. But she's more afraid that if she loses Ned, the pain of that loss alone will utterly dwarf her years of mourning, of self-doubt and second-guessing.

For the tenth time, she puts it away, puts it out of her mind. Worrying about the future won't change it, and every moment as it passes is lost, and she has now. He's here, and her happiness leaves little room for fear.

When Ned takes a quick second trip down the buffet line, he brings Nancy a brownie and a cookie, and she can't help being touched by his thoughtfulness. Callie's mentioned that the girls are going on a bachelorette outing in the city the night before the rehearsal dinner, and Nancy's invited; Frank makes the same offer to Ned, to accompany them as they take Joe on one last tour of debauchery before he's a happily married man. Callie's friend Vanessa is organizing a trip to the beach before the groups depart for clubs, strip joints, and bars, and since Bayport is only a few miles from the ocean, to Nancy that sounds a lot more reasonable. She has no interest whatsoever in trekking back to the city just to see Iola's mortification or delight on watching a man strip for her, or giving her a lap dance. She's even more upset by the thought of Ned going on a bachelor party, drinking and watching women strip and dance, imagining their flirting with him.

Thirty minutes after they're finished with their meals, Nancy's finishing off a mildly spiked lemonade when Ned gives her hand a little squeeze. Callie and Frank are chatting with a recently-arrived couple, and Chet's returned to the buffet again. Nancy's a little relieved to have a break from the conversation. It's been a long day.

"Want to dance?"

She searches his eyes for a long moment before she gives him a little nod. It's good for their cover, but that thought doesn't give her pause. She's excited by it, even a little nervous. She wants him to be impressed with and pleased by her dancing.

The area claimed for dancing is carpeted with soft, lush grass, and as soon as they reach it Ned pulls her into his arms and she slides her own up over his shoulders. The song is slow, perfect for just swaying together. The warm glow of the lights around them, the laughter and happy hum of conversation—it all blurs together for her, but all she can see, all she knows is the man holding her.

Neither of them speaks for a long moment. Their gazes meet and hold, and she's spellbound. Being so close to him feeds an almost unfathomable hunger. It will be hard to let him go again.

"So. Are you doing all right?"

She nods, considering how to answer. "I thought it would hurt, but it didn't," she tells him softly. "Not really. For a long time I was so bitter and angry, and I wanted him back more than I wanted anything else. And now... it's all gone." She shakes her head, releasing a soft, dry chuckle. "Being so hurt felt like it was a part of me. It's weird to not have it there anymore."

"I'm glad it's gone." His palms are gently stroking her lower back. It's intimate, but not improper; still, his caress in such proximity to her hips makes her tremble slightly. "You're a strong, incredible, beautiful woman. I want you to be whole."

"I am." With you, she almost adds, but she's afraid of seeing pity on his face, in his eyes. "Or at least I'm getting closer. When I saw that invitation in the mail, I never thought—I just imagined this would be so much worse."

He gives her a smile. "You looked pretty upset there for a minute or two. Maybe we should work out some signal you can give me, for when you need a kiss behind the barn. Or something."

She laughs, then gives her head a little shake. "Sounds to me like you'll be kissing me behind the barn before the night is over."

"What can I say? It's romantic out here, just like they wanted. And I think a kiss or two might help you relax."

"Your kisses tend to do the opposite."

"Only the ones we've had so far." He gives her a little wink. "Want to see what I can do?"

"Mmm. After one more dance," she tells him, her lips curving up a little.

His palms stroke her back, his fingertips finding the line of her spine, and she aches to feel his bare skin against hers again. She rests her cheek against his shoulder and they sway together, her eyes closed. In the perfect happiness of the moment, she feels tears prick in her eyes.

Love me. Please, please love me.

She knows it's not so simple, that it never will be. One day it's very possible that she will be ashamed she was ever so vulnerable to him. But in this moment she can feel nothing else, and she loves him so much that she trembles with it.

His lips graze her temple. "Cold?"

She swallows everything she can never say to him. "Only if you're offering to warm me up," she tells him flippantly in reply.

He moves to cup her cheek, to tilt her face so he can gaze into her eyes, and she blinks hard a few times, trying to disguise her unshed tears. She gives him a smile she hopes doesn't tremble, but she feels so, so terribly exposed when he's looking into her eyes.

"Hey," he whispers, and his thumb gently strokes her cheek. His gaze searches hers. "It's all right. Shh."

Then he leans down and they aren't behind the barn; they aren't hidden anywhere. His lips brush hers and she closes her eyes, drawing her fingers through his hair. The kiss isn't deep, isn't intense; it just feels comforting and sweet. Neither of them want to make a spectacle in front of everyone, so though they stay wrapped tight in each other's arms, she rests her cheek against his shoulder again and savors the flush that has spread all the way down to her toes.

Iola's father calls for a toast at the end of the song, and Ned heads to the punch bowl to serve them both fresh glasses. Many of the other guests are looking expectantly toward the head table, but Nancy only has eyes for Ned when he's away from her.

"Having a good time?"

Nancy turns to see Iola standing at her elbow, and she smiles at the bride-to-be. "It's been wonderful," she says. "How are you?"

"I'm good. If I weren't about to get married—oh, to hell with it. You are such a lucky girl. Ned is incredibly hot."

Nancy's smile becomes a grin. "Thanks. He really is." He's so much more than that, and every date they've shared has shown her that. He's so much more than she ever expected.

"And two of my cousins are talking about everything they'd like to do to him. I told 'em to knock it off, but you might want to keep an eye on him."

Iola's eyes are sparkling, and Nancy shakes her head with a smile. "He's a big boy," she says.

"Tell me all about it," Iola murmurs archly, and Nancy laughs briefly as Ned approaches them, a cup of punch in each hand.

"When two beautiful women are talking..." Ned raises his eyebrows as he glances between the two of them. "Here, sweetheart."

"Thanks." Nancy glows when he kisses her cheek. "Thanks for letting me know, Iola."

"Will you be coming along tomorrow night?"

Nancy pauses, then shakes her head. "I appreciate the invitation, but..."

"But you and Ned want to spend some time alone," Iola fills in, and pats Ned on the arm. "You treat her right, okay? Or I'll tell Frank to kick your ass."

Ned's eyebrows rise slightly. "Seems fair," he replies, and Nancy can hear the humor in his voice. "Same to him."

Iola's eyebrows rise slightly in appreciation. "I like him," she stage-whispers to Nancy.

Nancy chuckles. "Me too," she replies. "Now get up there for the toast!"

Ned wraps his arm around her waist as they turn forward, toward Iola as she maneuvers through the crowd.. "I recognized that look," he murmurs.

"Oh?"

Mr. Morton begins his toast, and so they have to be quiet. "All of you here—thank you for coming. And thank you for being here in Bayport for the wedding. Iola has become such a beautiful young woman, and Joe promises me that he will treat her like the princess she is. And my little princess..."

Nancy doesn't mean to, but she starts to tune him out. She knows Iola, of course, and she really likes her, but she's heard wedding toasts before. And Ned's beside her. The wonder of that is hard for anything else around her to overcome. When she looks over at him, he smiles at her.

In another life, under other circumstances, maybe the wedding would have given him ideas of his own. But she can't let herself think about that. She'll just lose it entirely. If she hasn't already.

"To Joe and Iola!" he finishes, holding his glass up.

Everyone around them holds a cup aloft, joining in on the cheer. Iola beams at the crowd, and Nancy sees a new calm in her face. She's so close to the finish line. That weekend, she'll become Mrs. Joe Hardy. She will promise her life to the man she loves, and she will never have to worry about experiencing what Nancy has over the past few years, the anxiety, the loneliness, the sense of emptiness.

Once they've drunk their toast, Nancy reaches for Ned's hand. The music has begun again, an upbeat tune meant for vigorous dancing. She gives his hand a slight tug, and he follows her easily. When they reach the shadow of the barn, Ned chuckles.

"Mmm?"

"Mmm," she replies, reaching up to slide her arms over his shoulders. He draws her into his own arms, against his warmth, and gently brushes the tip of his nose against hers. This is where she wants to be, undeniably. And she knows that the peace and joy she feels with him, she will be looking for the rest of her life, now that she knows it's possible.

She won't let the memory of tonight become bitter. She promises herself that.

"I'm glad we'll be dancing again soon." His breath is warm against her skin.

She smiles. "Me too," she whispers, just before he kisses her again.

Nancy wakes naked, knees bent and tucked up, on her side. The curtains are barely parted, and pale light reflects against the walls. She can feel that Ned was recently in bed with her; she remembers feeling him aroused under cotton briefs, his lips against her shoulder, his arm draped over her. Why isn't he with her now? She moans softly. Her sex still feels a little tender from their lovemaking.

He comes over beside her, kneeling so he can look into her eyes. He reaches for her and gently touches her shoulder. "I was about to go work out. You can stay here, if you want."

"Mmm." She shakes her head, blinking hard. She doesn't want him to stop touching her. She doesn't want to wait here alone for him to return. "I'll go with you. Just give me five minutes."

Ten minutes later, she's in a tight tank top and a pair of spandex exercise leggings, her hair up in a high ponytail. Despite her birdbath, she still thinks she smells like the sweat that dried on her skin the night before. She remembers their meeting in Central Park, how she imagined taking him into her apartment after; she's eager to shower with him again. She's more than eager to feel him buried deep inside her, his name gasped on her trembling lips.

The exercise room in the hotel is larger than she expected, boasting five machines and a weight bench, space for sparring or yoga, a television tuned to the morning news in the corner. A florid, stout man is already on one of the stationary bikes, but otherwise, they have the room to themselves. She bolted down a cup of coffee, and after this, she and Ned have nothing planned, really. It's the only day they will have mostly to themselves during the entire trip. And every time her gaze meets Ned's, the flesh between her thighs feels tender. She already knows she will spend the day uncomfortably wet for him.

It's more intense than when she's had a new lover and taken a weekend to be with him. Maybe because those were all beginnings, and this... she can't let herself think about what this is. It would hurt too much.

Ned strides over to the weight bench first, doing stretches for a few minutes, and as she programs the elliptical machine, she can't help staring at him. He's undeniably beautiful. His tank top reveals broad, muscular shoulders and sculpted, powerful arms. His chest is just as broad and muscular. His waist is trim, his thighs and legs contoured. Despite his diet, he carries no flabby skin, no love handles. She's run her palms over smooth, hard skin, gripping him as he drives into her—

She manages to blush to the roots of her hair, like some innocent schoolgirl, and when Ned turns suddenly and sees her staring, he gives her a knowing grin.

Yep. All day long.

Watching him lift weights does nothing to cool her off. She can't imagine that anything will. She pours her energy and frustration into the workout, ignoring the book she's been reading on her tablet. Another guy came in and volunteered to spot Ned, probably to claim the weight bench as soon as he finishes, and Nancy's able to watch without fear of needing to rush to him if something goes wrong. Gleaming sweat outlines his muscles, beads on his temples. His generous lips part as he grunts at the strain. At least Nancy can blame her own exertion for her flushed cheeks and gasped breaths.

There's nothing sensual about working out—but there's everything sensual about watching him, imagining him, remembering him...

Another woman walks in, dyed-blonde hair in a high ponytail that swishes like a pendulum with each step, white earbuds already in her ears. Nancy can't help it. She watches the other woman's gaze zero in on Ned and the guy spotting him. He's no Ned, but he's definitely got a great body. His brown hair has stylish highlights, and he's wearing an orange tank and tight black shorts.

Without quite knowing why, still keeping most of her attention on Ned, she keeps an eye on the other man too. Something about his body language—he and Ned know each other.

An electric charge races up Nancy's spine, and she controls her expression before she can give anything away. Another man who knows Ned. Does the other guy know him as an escort, or him as he actually is? Did he find out Ned would be here, and that's why he came, or did they just run into each other? She has a hunch he's an escort too, and wonders if she will see him at the rehearsal dinner or the wedding. Maybe he's here with another guest. Maybe someone else felt just as embarrassed and self-conscious as Nancy did, at the prospect of coming alone to the celebration of a couple's love for each other.

Ned takes a moment once the weighted bar is resting in its cradle again, his broad chest heaving as he catches his breath. His spotter offers him a hand to help him sit up, and Ned accepts it with a smile. Yeah, they know each other. Maybe they aren't aware they're being watched, or he doesn't care if anyone else realizes it.

The other man says something, and Nancy doesn't consciously read their lips, it's just habit, long-entrenched after infinite stakeouts and casual recon. It takes her a second to parse what the other guy says, what Ned shakes his head to in response.

Fire Island.

Nancy's steps falter for a second on the elliptical, and she grips the bars hard to keep from stumbling.

It's not that she hasn't—

It's not the same awful shock of seeing him knocking on another apartment door, walking in to see another client, although even the edge of that memory makes her feel sick and almost panicked. But she reads their body language, the way they clasp hands and nod before parting. She's seeing something she shouldn't have, something she has no right to witness, and this isn't allowed to upset her.

It doesn't. It just— it just doesn't work with what she feels is true about him.

She gives her head a little shake, then gasps when Ned walks up to her. They grin at each other, and the warmth in Ned's eyes is genuine.

"You enjoy that?"

She nods without analyzing it. "I should work out with you more often."

He wiggles his eyebrows. "We'll just have to schedule another 'workout' for this afternoon. Okay if I get on the machines for a while?"

She nods, her heart light when he touches her hand, then moves away.

She can see Ned in the mirrored wall of the exercise room, but she's still curious about the man in the orange tank top. Even before she read his lips, she had sensed he likely wasn't straight, and nothing happened to change her mind. He's not as bulky and muscular as Ned, but he still manages to impress her with all his reps. Ned spots him until he moves to free weights; then Ned programs a treadmill and works up to a run that makes Nancy's inner thighs ache in sympathy. After this, she will be ravenous. Her stomach is already growling a little.

A pair of women walks in, chattering brightly to each other. Nancy's invisible to them, but they notice Ned immediately. At their waves, he gives them a polite smile, nothing more. He's not holding back with his workout, at all. No wonder he could practically throw her around the room if he wanted. Maybe he has to make sure he can do that, if one of his clients wants that.

Nancy glances around the room, but the man in the orange tank has left. When the elliptical chirps, noting that she's reached the end of the program, she steps off and shakes herself a little, then walks slowly over to the free weights. She doesn't want Ned to cut his workout short for her, although now she's imagining racing him along the beach, resting and talking before heading back.

He needs time to himself, though. In all the time she's known him, she's never known him to spend this much uninterrupted time with a client. She would happily spend every single second of this trip with him, but...

But she loves him. She loves sleeping with him, but that's only the smallest part of this. She loves his sense of humor, his smile, his confidence. She loves the glimpses of who he really is, the small clues she's seen. She loves and fears how hard it is for the two of them to stay apart. He's said that he will want to see her even after the wedding, but if he doesn't, if he vanishes, if all this is just a part of the fantasy...

She gives her head a hard shake, putting the hand weights back on the rack, and brushes fine wisps of hair from her cheeks, clinging to her flushed skin, wet with her sweat. She glances up in time to see Ned stepping off the treadmill, chest heaving as he strips his tank off. The gush of arousal just that sight alone provokes in her is almost embarrassing. God. Every female gaze in the room is locked to him. She feels the absurd impulse to tangibly claim him.

For this weekend, he is her boyfriend.

Her cheeks are still warm, but she picks up one of the towels and brings it over to him, standing on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. He takes the towel with a smile, although she sees something almost guarded in his eyes.

"Just proud to be with the hottest guy in the room."

"I'm the only guy in the room," he points out, as quietly as she spoke, although he gives her a grin that puts a cute dimple in his cheek. Who is she kidding? She loves all of him. She's not fooling anyone, not even herself anymore.

"Hottest guy in the hotel, then."

"Mmm." He briskly towels off his gleaming arms and torso. "A few stretches, and then we can go?"

She nods, following him over to the weight area, where he will have space. She can feel the other women's gazes boring a hole in the back of her head. They see him as a trophy to be won, and Nancy's afraid of what she saw in his eyes. She touches his forearm, and he turns to her again.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I really am proud of you."

He gives her a smile, and this one seems more genuine. "You're my girlfriend," he says, and she curses herself for the way her heart skips a beat, warm with happiness. "I'm glad you're proud of me, too."

Though she's hungry, she forgets that entirely when they walk into their room. Neither of them wants to eat breakfast like this, gleaming with sweat. In a way she's more self-conscious around him than she's ever been, even more than she was during their first time, even more than when he watched her masturbate. She's acutely aware of how messy she must look. She's the opposite of sexy, like this.

But she strips off her tight workout clothes and stands in the bathroom waiting for the water to come up to temperature, her damp, sweaty hair combed out, looking down at her toenails. She needs to paint them again before the ceremony; she will be wearing sandals.

He taps on the door before he comes in, and he's completely naked. Her gaze immediately falls to his waist, and she has to drag it back up to his handsome face, the color high in her cheeks again. When she sees him gazing at her bare breasts, her hands twitch. She's not going to cover herself; it would be ridiculous.

He takes a step toward her. "Can I join you?" he murmurs, and his voice is low and gravelly. It sends a shudder up her spine. She nods, gazing at him through her lashes. 

She rushes to clean herself; she doesn't want him to be disgusted by the state of her body, although he has to know how sweaty she was, although their lovemaking has left her glowing with exertion before. They lather themselves with soap, wash their hair, occasionally brushing against each other. Then she's rinsing the conditioner out of her hair, facing him, and she feels absurdly disappointed that he hasn't tried anything.

His gaze is on her breasts again. Her nipples are already tight, in awareness, in anticipation. She gives her hair another pass under the shower head, then steps toward him. He's already finished, but he hasn't left the shower.

She's clean, her fingertips wrinkled from the water, and she wants him so much.

Her first orgasm is against the wall of the shower, her hips bucking as she rides his fingers, the ball of his thumb swirling and stroking over her clit, his mouth hot against hers. They're both naked and she's rubbing the heel of her hand against his cock, imagining the girth and length of him inside her, and his every stroke prompts another breathless sob.

Her second orgasm, they're on the bed, and she's out of her mind. Her knees are on a towel, and the texture is rough against her nipples, and he's pounding into her from behind, fondling her clit, his lips against her shoulder, where it joins her neck. She practically rode the spermicide applicator like she was in heat, wanton, gasping, fondling her breasts. She can still feel it tingling gently inside her. He's so big, so fucking big. "Like this? Like this, beautiful?"

She moans loudly, and it becomes a ragged sob. He must be doing it on purpose; his strokes against her clit make her shudder, make her hips jolt, and then he makes his stroke softer, and then—

and then his cock, oh—

Her eyes roll back and she thrusts her hips in time with his, the tip of his thumb working against her clit, and he, "Oh fuck, oh fuck," she's whimpering, snarling, pleading, sobbing his name, it, oh holy fuck—

She doesn't know what he's found, how he's doing this, but no one has ever fucked her this way, not like this, she's been on her hands and knees but it's been nice, not—

He's fucking claiming her, mastering her, in total control of her, and she fucking loves it. He hits that place again and she keens, sobbing, her every nerve sensitized. And then—

"Yes," he whispers, almost in a hiss, rubbing her clit harder, and she almost chokes as she cries out. "That's right, that's right baby—"

She bears down and shrieks, her cheeks warming, her body trembling.

"Fuck yes," Ned snarls, as her inner flesh constricts around his latex-sheathed cock, and her sex is so, so fucking wet, and she's flushed red as she rubs her sensitive nipples against the towel and shudders at the incredible sensation. The sound of Ned pounding into her was audible, wet, even before; she's never felt this way and she's so fucking slick and he's gripping her hip, controlling her, driving deep inside her. He comes with a sharp cry and she savors it, her lashes fluttering, gasping for breath. He fills her to the point of pain, to the point of overwhelming joy. It's perfect.

She's still sobbing quietly, gasping, her throat dry when he releases her and she slumps, boneless, to the towel beneath her. Her hair is damp and it doesn't matter; she's slick with sweat and lube and her own arousal, and she'll need another shower before she can be in public again.

She's never in her entire life come like that. She felt wanton and powerless, and elemental. Embarrassingly so. That sensation of needing to bear down, no one has ever made her feel before. Only him.

He's stripped off the condom and he comes back to her, pulling her onto her side, her back against his chest. His bare cock snug against her ass. They're both naked, and it feels both decadent and dangerous.

She can't help wondering how he tastes, how it would be to peer at him through her lashes as she sucks him off. She can't help wondering how his talented tongue would feel against her clit.

"What—" she gasps, still trying to catch her breath. "What just happened..."

He splays his fingers over her abdomen, his pinky brushing her navel, and she feels her inner flesh clench so hard that her legs actually draw up slightly. She's still trembling from the intensity of her orgasm. Hot, hard muscle against her back, powerful thighs tucked behind hers. She was so aroused that she can feel the towel is damp with it, against her outer thigh. She both wants to see his eyes, and doesn't.

"G-spot orgasm." His other hand roams over her, up to her breasts, and he fondles her with tantalizing strokes, drawing circles over her breasts, coming so close to her nipples, then gently tugging them. The stimulation sends a direct line of sizzling arousal straight to her already-firm clit. "When you're relaxed and I hit you at the right angle, I can make you ejaculate."

She closes her eyes, blushing.

"Mmm. Don't tense. It felt good, didn't it?"

"Yeah." She brings her knee up immediately when the hand on her belly slides down to cup the join of her thighs, where her tender lips are still slick with arousal. He kisses the place where her neck meets her shoulder, caging her against him, stroking her clit and the tender lips of her sex until she's moaning loudly, rocking her hips.

"I love feeling you so wet against me." When he growls the word love, she gasps, and he plunges two fingers up inside her. He holds them motionless, and she begins to rock, sobbing when his thumb swipes against her clit. "You are so unbelievably sexy, Nan."

She turns her head and they kiss, long and deep, her hips still moving in gentle languorous strokes as she fucks his fingers. Another slow, earth-shaking orgasm is quivering to life deep in her core. "And you're fucking incredible," she pants, cupping her hand over his, stroking his knuckles. "In every possible way. Did it feel good to you?"

"Yeah."

She trembles, but doesn't stop herself from speaking the next words. "Imagine it," she whispers, as he plucks at the tender buds of her nipples, making her gasp. "Imagine it bareback, imagine feeling me..."

He growls in warning.

"Is it good?" She tips her head back, exposing the column of her throat, when he begins to thrust his fingers in time with the rock of her hips. "Ohhhh..."

"You know it is." His cock is firm and hot against the small of her back.

She doesn't push him again, but then he has her bent over the bed, her feet on the floor and her nipples rubbing against the towel again, thrusting so deep and fast that his balls slap against her, and she's frantically rubbing her clit, sobbing his name. She doesn't ejaculate again, but she does come, in waves of such intense pleasure that she screams. She manages to stroke her clit a few more times after, crying out each time, her hips bucking.

After another deep, possessive thrust, he groans as he spends himself in the condom, and without the support of his penetration she would slump to suddenly weak knees on the carpet. Ned lifts her and rolls her onto her back, and her legs fall open, and she's so completely spent that she can hardly even breathe.

Her stomach growls, and once she's recovered enough to think straight, she tells him that she just needs another quick rinse in the shower before they grab some breakfast. Ten minutes later, they're naked together, seated at the bottom of the tub. Her legs are spread wide and he's stroking the lips of her sex, and she's quivering as a firm jet of water stimulates her clit. He's raining kisses on her shoulders, and when her hips jolt, he plunges two fingers inside her and she cries out.

Fuck the wedding. They'll order room service and just keep fucking each other senseless. Before the trip is over she'll know the taste of his cum. Before the trip is over she'll give him everything he's ever wanted, everything.

She's still quivering, whimpering, when he takes the soap and lathers it between his palms and gently washes her, the mound of her sex and the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, then rinses her off without turning it into another sexual encounter. She's loose limbed and sated, and he shuts off the water and just holds her for a long moment, and though the air is cool on her wet skin, she just feels—safe.

"You have to stop me," he whispers, and she senses that he was going to say more, but instead he just shifts a little under her. "Tell me to stop."

"No," she whispers, her hair wet, her thighs trembling. "I will never tell you to stop."

Then his stomach growls loudly, and she can't help smiling. She turns to him and gives him a long kiss, then pushes herself up.

"This is just a break."

He nods, joining her. "To be continued."

By the time they dress and make it downstairs, breakfast has already been cleared, so they head to a nearby pancake place and eat a leisurely brunch. She feels like everyone knows what they were just doing, somehow, but she knows that's impossible. Nancy is invisible. Ned draws interested, envious gazes.

He ignores all of them, focusing only on her. His dark brown eyes stay locked, gazing at her own. Their fingers brush, their hands touch, and she can't help it. She doesn't want this to end. She never wants it to end. She wants the grin that steals over his face when he's talking about something he enjoys, and the way it draws a sweet warmth in her.

They walk along the beach together, hands joined. She leaves her shoes in the car and digs her toes into the sand, and to anyone else they look like they belong, like this is natural, like it's real. They find a less occupied section of the shore, away from the vacationing families and shrieking, posturing teenagers. They settle down on the sand and Ned interlaces his fingers with hers, and that's the most intimate touch they share, staring out at the water, glittering under a blinding sky, that perpetual hush of the waves like breathing.

"Have you ever been out here before?"

She doesn't realize until after she's said it, and a faint blush rises in her cheeks, but Ned doesn't seem self-conscious. "I've been to the coast, but not here," he says, and takes a deep breath.

"You wanted to retire near water."

"Yeah." He smiles, then glances over at her, his eyes warm. "Where would you retire to?"

She considers for a long moment, then shrugs. "I've been to a lot of beautiful places," she says. "Here and abroad. I can't say that I imagine being in a specific place—but I also can't say that I ever plan on retiring, not really. Even before I was a PI, I was solving mysteries."

"And you'll do that, until you can't anymore."

"Yeah." She smiles. "Ned, do you enjoy—having sex with me?"

"Oh, my God. You have far more faith in my acting ability than you should. Yes, I do. Unequivocally. I love everything about having sex with you." He's moved back to sprawl on the sand, and he pulls her down too, their hands still joined. "Was it too intense?"

"Not at all. I mean, it was—it's never been like that for me." They aren't whispering; she knows better than anyone that a whisper draws more attention than just a conversational tone. "I like when you take over. Like you were today."

"Mmm. Good. I thought you might. I'm glad I wasn't wrong." He lifts her hand and brushes a kiss against her knuckles, gazing over at her. For a long moment, she's spellbound.

Then he clears his throat. "So what's the plan for tonight?"

"No plan. There's no way in hell that I'm going to whatever bachelorette stuff they have planned. I thought—we could have dinner together?"

"I'd love to."

She strokes her thumb against her skin. "Um... you said. That you had considered seducing me."

"Before, yeah."

"Can you... seduce me tonight?"

He chuckles softly, and she wants to hide her face. "Let's talk about what that means."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Some people think seduction means convincing a person, usually a woman, to do something she wouldn't. Usually sex. And that clearly isn't what we're talking about here, because you don't need convincing."

"We can pretend," she points out, putting a soft lilt of inflection on it.

"Eh. No."

"So what does it mean to you?"

"It means, when two people are clearly attracted to each other, removing the obstacles that prevent them from acting on it. Within reason. There's a line between persuasion and rape. I'm not talking about getting you drunk or drugged, or taking advantage of you when you're weak or emotional."

"Negating every advantage most guys would take."

"They're not advantages when they're unfair," he points out. "If I'd had to get you drunk to go to bed with me?" He shakes his head.

She smiles. "Go on."

"There's no... no game, in trying to seduce you. I know how to make you wet. I know you're willing. There are no obstacles to remove. Other than your clothes."

"Hmm." He's right. She can try to tease him by pretending she doesn't want to go to bed, but it would turn into a battle of sheer willpower, and denying herself isn't an option. She wants more of him, not less. "So how would you have done it? If I hadn't wanted to date you when we met?"

He considers, reaching over to stroke her cheek. "I would have persuaded you to meet me again," he says. "Maybe to finally negotiate our contract over a cup of coffee or a glass of wine—a glass or two wouldn't make either of us drunk or reckless. I would have told you how completely beautiful and fascinating I find you. I would have walked you back to your place, kissed you... stroked my hand down your side and stepped back."

"Always leave me wanting more."

"The best seduction happens in the other person's head." His fingertips drift down the line of her jaw. His dark-eyed gaze locks to hers again. The salty breeze off the sea drifts over her exposed skin, and she can't look away. "When you masturbated and thought about me. When I felt you up on your couch and left you aching for more."

She blushes a little. "So you did," she whispers.

"You wanted it," he murmurs. "We both did. I let you know I was more than willing. I left you imagining how incredible it might be. The first time is always tricky..."

"But you touched me like you were inside my head," she tells him. "Like we'd had sex a hundred times. It was incredible."

"Good." His lips quirk up slightly. "Every woman's different. I asked you questions... paid attention to how you responded. Took myself out of it."

She searches his face. "Do you still do that? I feel like—today. I was seeing more of you."

He doesn't respond, not directly. "That's good."

She touches his cheek. "If we make love tonight," she says softly, "I want to be facing you. Looking into your eyes the whole time."

"I'm sorry—"

She shakes her head. "No. I loved what happened earlier. I mean it. But there's just something about seeing your face and your gorgeous eyes while you're inside me."

A slow, incredibly sexy grin comes over his face. "Same to you," he murmurs. "I love watching you come. Are you wet right now?"

"Yeah." There seems to be no point in denying it; he can't act on it, not in public, not like this. They aren't even wearing swimsuits, so they can't just run into the water. "You know that I'll never tell you no, don't you? I've never felt this way, and it's... addictive. I want to be around you all the time. Even if it's just like this, talking to you. And..."

He waits for her to finish, but her voice falters. It feels like some kind of emotional blackmail, to speak to him this way and know that his honesty is almost immaterial. He's here to keep her happy, aroused, half-drunk with need for him.

She clears her throat. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I hate being this way. I hate being needy."

He touches her cheek again. "Because it's hurt you before."

"Yeah." She sniffles.

"Am I hurting you?"

She shakes her head. "Or, I guess, only in the way that looking at something incredibly beautiful might. Have you ever felt that? The way it just reaches in and twists your heart a little..."

"Yeah." His dark eyes search hers, and neither of them speak.

It's only once the sunlight on her skin is beginning to feel almost painful that she can break their gaze. "Sunscreen next time," she murmurs, slowly sitting up.

He nods. He looks none the worse for wear, but she thinks his skin is always naturally this dark. He doesn't look like a pale, wet-eyed cubicle dweller, or a meticulously coiffed and groomed player. He looks like himself, effortless and beautiful.

She holds his hand all the way back to the car, and sniffles once, brushing a stray tear away. Remember this, she tells herself. Even after the pain, remember this. Sometimes it is possible to be happy.

--

"Oh."

As though by some unspoken agreement, they spent the afternoon together pointedly not having sex: visiting the large, beautiful pool and playing in the water, lounging on the chairs in the shade. When he told her that he needed to work on an assignment, she let him go. He needs time to be alone, without her. Even though she never wants to be without him, she knows that giving in to her ferocious need will only push him away, make her like everyone else, all his other clients. It's one of the only small measures of control that she seems to have.

She asked the receptionist for a few suggestions for dinner, and they headed to a place she hasn't heard of before. She's wearing a short, sleeveless dress with pintucks, bracelets, and gold sandals; it's not too dressy or too casual. Ned, of course, looks effortless and immaculate, and beside him she feels invisible. To anyone else, beside him, she is invisible.

He's a perfect diversion. In so many ways.

"Oh?"

She didn't recognize the name, because it's changed hands. The awnings outside are a different color. The brick front is the same, though.

Ned gives her hand a little squeeze. "We can go somewhere else," he says.

For not the first time, she glances up at him and wonders how he does it. "Yeah. If you don't mind."

The restaurant is near a string of other eateries, some chain restaurants, some exclusive bistros, some ultra-trendy patisseries. They stroll toward the others, the golden light of the sunset reflected in plate glass, groups of laughing chattering friends joining already-crowded waiting areas.

"I hope you're not too hungry."

He chuckles. "I'm okay. Want to talk about it?"

They start drifting toward the water, where she knows of a good seafood restaurant she visited with Bess and George a few times. "That was one of his favorite places. And I just... don't want anything to ruin tonight."

"You didn't recognize the name?"

"It's changed hands since then. But it looks the same." She sighs. "Let's make some new memories."

"Exactly. That sounds perfect."

She takes a deep breath. Maybe the wedding isn't the total agonizing nightmare she has imagined. Maybe it's a way to let her see that they've both moved on, a way to say goodbye to Bayport and all it's meant to her. All it did mean to her.

"How's the schoolwork going?"

"Want to make sure I carried all the ones and showed my work?" He cracks a grin, gently bumping his shoulder against hers. "It's going. I'll need to work on it some more tomorrow, though. Is that possible?"

"Yeah. Iola texted me to invite me to a bridal lunch. I don't really want to go, but..." She shrugs. "I want you to come to the rehearsal dinner with me, though. If you can."

"Of course." His thumb strokes along the side of her hand. "I'd love to."

She chuckles. "You don't have to do that."

He takes a breath. "I know it's easier for you to assume that I'm lying all the time," he murmurs, his tone even, almost conversational. "I understand that. This was never meant to hurt you. But sometimes you can trust your instincts about me. I do everything I can to avoid lying to you. When we're together, having sex with you..."

"Is that when I'm seeing the man underneath?" Her heart's hurting, but she can't stop gazing up at his face. "Or is it... you told me that it's a performance for all of us."

"It is. But at the end, at its heart, I think for some people it's the same. For you. Being connected to someone else. The logistics of it are beside the point."

Maybe. But that doesn't explain why it feels different with him than it ever has before, not if it's just a question of logistics, of physics and chemistry.

After a brief wait, they're seated at a window so they can look out on the sunset. The server asks about drinks, and she raises a quick eyebrow at Ned, who just gives her a little smile in return. She orders a Madras and Ned orders a beer, and after some consideration she just settles on the regular, a plate of broiled fish and shrimp she knows she won't finish. But Ned's appetite seems bottomless, in almost all ways.

Once the server is gone and the restaurant is a low hum of conversation she's dismissed, Ned reaches for her hand, and everything in her feels—focused, alert. She gazes into his dark eyes and her heart beats harder.

"You look beautiful in this light," he tells her, and she drinks him in, breathes him in, unable to do anything else. His thumb strokes her hand again. "You look beautiful in any light, but this brings it out—turns your hair this soft burnished gold. Your eyes look like the sea, sweet and dark and fathomless. And all that luscious skin, supple and warm."

She gives him a small smile, hoping that if her lips are trembling it's only faintly.

"You know it's true," he murmurs. "You have to know it's true. You're this gorgeous, ethereal woman, full of life and warmth, and you're incredible. I told you a long time ago that you were intimidating, and it's true. No one could possibly touch you unless you wanted it. And I'm humbled that you have, that you do, let me."

She looks down at their joined hands. "Do you really think I could have told you no?"

"And do you really think I could, either? Do you think this happens every day? Not to me." When she looks up into his eyes again, they're smoldering, alight with intensity. "It's you. You rare, beautiful woman. And no, not every man will be willing or able to keep up with you, and that's not a bad thing. You aren't ordinary. But when you let your heart open, it's—there are no words for how incredible it is."

She's still holding his hand when their drinks arrive, and once the server has left them alone again, she reaches up and brushes the backs of her fingers over the line of his jaw. "No man can handle all of me," she whispers. "No man ever has."

"Then none of them were the right one. Not yet." He searches her eyes.

The air between them is charged. She's horrified when tears ache in her throat and gather above her lower lashes. "You're sweet," she whispers.

"I'm not," he murmurs. "I'm honored to be with you, tonight, this weekend. That you trust me enough to help you do this. And you are so, so strong."

She reaches for her drink and downs a long sip, wincing slightly at the burn of the vodka as it hits the back of her throat. "You're the rare one," she says. "Beside you, no one sees me—they only see you, just like I only see you. You let me lose myself. You let me... see myself as someone else for a few minutes. Someone who can be confident..."

He nods. "You can be," he murmurs. "You're the only person who can give yourself permission not to be. Anyone who can't see how incredible you are is blind or a fool."

She can see no sign whatsoever that he is teasing her or flattering her, or just trying to butter her up for later. "Removing the obstacles," she whispers.

He smiles. "Imagine how incredible it will be," he tells her. "To be with someone who loves you for absolutely everything you are, no holding back, no hiding. You'll find that. I know you will."

She sucks in a swift breath. Surely he has to know that's what she wishes they could have. She imagines one of those ridiculous bargains—that if they're both alone in a year or two, they find each other again. And then what...

Let's take all we can have.

Dinner is wonderful, and once it arrives they talk about other things—but she still catches that tender expression in his eyes. He talks about the last book he read, and she talks about the first case she took once she was licensed.

Imagine how it could be. Imagine it...

A part of her doesn't have to. He's here before her, and maybe a long time from now she will remember only the way he makes her feel—but she's not sure about that. She feels like her heart is in her eyes, like if she just knew the right words, she could tell him...

She has two drinks with dinner, and he has two beers, so they're both feeling good but not drunk as they walk along the moonlit shore after. Maybe neither of them can say it right now, but maybe after the wedding, when what he can and can't say isn't determined by the arrangement between them. When she won't still be afraid that he's lying to spare her feelings.

His fingers are interlaced with hers. "If you were really my boyfriend, what would we be doing right now?"

He smiles. "Something about this strikes you as inauthentic?"

She shrugs. "Just curious. We wouldn't have had that talk at dinner, for instance."

"Oh. I just thought it was important to tell you that..." He considers. "Well. We'd probably be doing this, walking along the beach. Dreading heading back, to work and seeing the end of our vacation. I'd be wondering what you're wearing under that dress, since I haven't found out yet."

"So you have a one-track mind no matter what, huh."

"It's strange. The more time I spend with you, the more I want you." He says it so matter-of-factly. "Although I guess that's not strange at all. And I guess I'd have to admit that, much as I hate to say it, I'm grateful to your ex."

She raises an eyebrow.

"He let you go. He let you be free so you could be here, tonight. And you can choose to take all the good and let the rest go."

Just like she may need to do once they return. "Is that what you do?" she says.

She doesn't expect an answer. He's very good at sidestepping, and she often can't find it in her to press. "Yes," he replies. "I try to do that in everything. I've heard that sometimes we don't love people, we love the way they make us feel. I love the way I feel with you. I'm hoping... that you do too."

"I do."

"And if I only take the good from this... I won't be leaving much behind."

Their gazes meet and hold, until her heart is in her throat. "I won't either," she whispers. "Please... take me to bed."

All the way back to the hotel, she can feel that impatience, that energy, sizzling just under her skin, but it's different. This morning, it was just sheer need, physical animalistic desire. Tonight feels deliberate.

Once the door is closed behind them and they're alone, he picks her up, holding her against him, against his broad, muscular chest, the warmth and hardness beneath his clothes. He nuzzles against her, kisses the corner of her cheek, and her lashes drift down.

Don't let me go.

His tongue slips between her lips and she flushes, dropping her purse and putting her arms around him, her fingers sliding through his thick, dark hair. When he lowers her to the bed, she reminds herself that it will still be a little while; they haven't yet used the spermicide.

He turns on the bedside lamp, and when she sits up and draws her dress over her head, he growls quietly in appreciation. "So damn sexy," he murmurs. "Mmmm. You're so beautiful."

She reaches for him and unbuttons his shirt, and he slides it off. Her fingertips drift down the line of his neck, his collarbone; she feels him swallow. She touches his warm, muscular chest, glancing her thumb over his nipples. "You're so handsome," she murmurs, and then she glances up into his eyes. They're glowing with arousal and need. "Lie down."

She strokes and caresses him, lavishing him with kisses, and when he moves restlessly she laces her fingers between his and pins his hand, knowing better than he does that he can easily break her hold. It's a game. All this is a game. He's just showing her how it could have been.

She unfastens his pants and slides her hand inside, stroking him through the warm cotton of his briefs. He groans softly, gazing up at her. "Just give me a second," he murmurs. "Let me get the spermicide..."

She shakes her head. "Not yet. Just relax. Just let yourself feel it."

He doesn't protest again, as she strips him naked, still in her underwear, as she caresses and fondles him. She leans over and kisses him, stroking his massive erection, rubbing the heel of her hand against his shaft, her tongue sliding against his. Then he's grasping her upper arm and she stares into his eyes, both of them panting as she strokes him more swiftly, his pre-cum slick against her palm.

"Nan..."

She reaches behind her and flicks the closure of her bra open, shrugging it down to bare her breasts. Her hand is still moving in rough strokes against him. "Come for me," she pants.

He groans, moving restlessly. She slides one arm out of the strap, leaving her practically naked to the waist. "Come," she murmurs again.

Ned gasps, spending himself in her palm. His dark eyes are wide, the color high in his cheeks. As he slowly begins to relax, she cups her palm, looking down at his semen. It's the first time they've done this without a condom, and she can imagine how exposed and vulnerable he must feel. She's probably violated some rule.

She reaches for the tissues on the bedside table and grabs one, scrubbing her palm. Then she raises her hand to her lips and licks her still-wet fingertip, and Ned's gazing straight at her.

"I promised myself I'd know what your cum tasted like this weekend."

He moans. "Come here," he growls, reaching for her, grasping her at the waist and pulling her down to the mattress. She laughs, but when he begins to slide her panties down, she lets him.

"Want me to get you ready?"

She keeps her hips almost still as he works the applicator up inside her, dispensing the spermicide. He doesn't seem angry. She hopes he's not angry. "I'm sorry," she murmurs, gazing up at his face. "I shouldn't have done that, should I..."

He slides the applicator out. "You shouldn't have," he says, and then looks at her face. "And I could have stopped you. I didn't. It was incredibly sexy."

She gives him a small smile. "I just wanted to make you feel good."

"You did." He settles down beside her, still naked. "We need to use condoms, to keep both of us safe. Just don't make a habit of it."

"I won't do it again. I promise."

While they wait for the medication to become effective, he caresses and fondles her too, nuzzling against her neck, kissing her chest, suckling gently against each nipple in turn. He caresses her inner thighs, her hips, and then one of his knees is between her legs and he's leaning over her, and his kiss makes her tremble with need. She clings to him, his chest warm against her sensitive nipples, and oh God, this morning, everything they did—she doesn't understand how this can reach into her, leave her feeling so exposed and overwhelmed.

It's him, his eyes, his beautiful face. This morning was so intense and incredible, but just being able to gaze up at him makes her incredibly aroused. Seeing the desire in his eyes, seeing that tenderness she wants to believe could be more.

He puts on the condom and slicks it with lube, and her knees are up, her legs parted to accept him. She gasps as he brushes against her entrance, then cries out when he rubs his thumb against her clit.

"Shh. Relax."

"Just feel it," she whispers, and gazes into his eyes, her heart speeding. "I want this. I want it so much. Please..."

And then he's inside her, one with her, so deep and perfect. His tongue is sliding against hers and her fingers are in his hair and she's powerless.

She wants to believe him, that she is beautiful, desirable, worthy of love. Worthy of something more than this.

Then he pulls back for his first long thrust, and oh, oh God, there is nothing more than this.

"Here are the keys." Nancy puts the key to the rented car on the dresser, beside the television. "I'll be back soon."

Ned's turned from his laptop to respond to her, and when she takes a breath he stands up, then comes over to her. "You look great," he tells her again, and takes her hand. "And I can come with you. I can just be nearby, if you want."

The invitation to the bridal luncheon didn't include Ned, and she doesn't want to look so desperately needy that she has to have him waiting in the next room for emotional support if something happens to bruise her feelings. She gives him a smile, squeezing his hand. "I'll take you up on it after, if you're at a stopping point," she says, nodding toward his still-open laptop. "But I appreciate it."

Her makeup is light, but immaculate. He takes care not to smudge it as he tips his head down and brushes a kiss over her lips. "We're leaving at six tonight?"

She nods. They won't be at the wedding rehearsal, since neither is an attendant, but they're invited to the rehearsal dinner, which has turned into a huge event. Her father, Bess, and George are planning to be there, and they will undoubtedly be curious about the new man in Nancy's life.

Not that it will matter much. Once the weekend is over, all this will evaporate like a popped bubble.

He kisses her earlobe. "I can't wait to hold you in my arms again."

She doesn't want to go. She wants to savor every second she can with him. To hell with the wedding. She had opened her eyes this morning, naked again, exhausted and so terribly in love with him that it hurt. The man who had spoken to Ned the day before hadn't been at the gym, but the other female guests had obviously ogled Nancy's hired boyfriend.

They'd had sex twice, once in the shower while cleaning up after the gym, then again in their bed. It had left her shuddering, clinging to him, words she could never say to him pulsing in her head like a second heartbeat. He had held her too. He hadn't pulled back from her nuzzling, her kisses, her pleased sighs.

"I can't wait either," she murmurs, looking into his eyes, and their gazes lock. She can't remember ever feeling this way before, and she doesn't care. Maybe he can never speak it, just as she can't.

But the pain is touching her even now, the pain she knows she will feel once this is over. She can see it so clearly. Number no longer in service. No record of him with the agency he works through. He will take the infinite anonymity of New York and fold it around him, and she will never see him again.

And for this brief time, before her anger and bitterness has turned it sour, this will be the sweetest love she will ever know. She feels so terribly vulnerable, so open to him, and it's too late. From the moment they met, she was lost.

She jerks when her cell phone chirps with a new message, and their eye contact mercifully breaks as she glances down at the screen. She would drown in his sweet, dark eyes.

We're in the lobby! Coming?

"I'll let you know when I'm on the way back," she says, and before she can think about it, she stands on her tiptoes and gives him a hard kiss. "Thank you. For being here."

He rubs his palm against her spine and smiles. "You'll be fine," he murmurs.

In the elevator, Nancy smooths the skirt of her sundress. It's ivory, with a simple, colorful floral pattern. She's relieved to see, when she reaches the lobby, that the other two girls in the group are wearing similarly casual dresses with crochet detailing and loose silhouettes. Their purses are large, bearing luxury brand logos, and their sunglasses are fashionable. During the trip to the restaurant, she's able to sit back and listen to their conversation.

Nancy does her best to focus on where she is and the people around her, instead of thinking about Ned. She greets Iola with a genuine smile and a hug. "You must be excited."

Iola nods with a grin. "I can't believe it's actually tomorrow! Thanks for coming; we missed you yesterday." She winks. "Holed up in your hotel room with that hot boyfriend of yours?"

Nancy blushes, but nods. "How'd you guess?" she asks weakly.

Iola laughs in delight. "Good. And he'll be coming tonight?" Then she laughs again, at the apparently unintended double entendre, and Nancy's blush deepens.

"He'll be at the dinner tonight. He's actually finishing up some schoolwork right now." Then she catches her breath, suddenly aware that she's revealed something about him that isn't hers to tell. She's pretty sure he mentioned it during the cookout.

Although, she reflects, his biggest secret is still hers, and one that would mortify them both to reveal.

Nancy's arrival is forgotten with the next wave of guests, and she walks out onto the patio behind the restaurant, where their party is to be seated. Dainty doily-and-teacup centerpieces are arranged just-so on the long buffet table, each one filled with small peonies and tea roses. Everything looks very perfect and feminine. The name cards are filled out with careful calligraphy, and when Nancy looks closely, she can tell it was handwritten. Iola's seat is clearly marked by an elaborate creation in tulle and silk roses.

Callie Shaw is written in that meticulous script on the placecard beside Iola's seat.

Nancy's heart beats hard once, and then she smiles. Maybe it's that her relationship with Ned has eclipsed the horror she was hoping to avoid, but she's finding that beyond that momentary jolt... it's not that she particularly wants Frank to be happy or miserable. She wants him far, far away from her, unable to hurt her anymore, but... he seems so much smaller now.

Nancy finds her placecard between the names of two people she's fairly sure she's never met; it's a long buffet table, and she isn't seated near Frank's new girlfriend, so things could definitely be worse. And despite the decor, this isn't some dainty bridal tea. The menu is croissants filled with house-made chicken salad; wedge salads draped with creamy dressing, balsamic vinaigrette, tomato slivers and bacon bits; potato salad and pasta salad and miniature strawberry scones. Over their meal Nancy hears laughter and joking and sweetness, and though she isn't quite a part of it, her spirits rise a bit in response. She sips a raspberry champagne cocktail and listens to Iola count off each on her fingers: something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue.

Marriage... is incompatible with her life, and she knows that. But there's some long-entrenched part of her, written into her over and over, the assumption that this is what she wants, what she has to want. This is what it is, to be marrying a Hardy: all the ritual, the details, the ceremony. She sees it and sees how Iola glows with happiness, and a part of her can't help wondering how long it will last. Maybe Joe has found his one; maybe his head won't be turned by any other women, and maybe when he puts his head down at the end of a case, Iola will be the one there to celebrate with him and hold him. And maybe in two years there will be muttered, disingenuous voicemails, excuses for long lonely nights, begrudging forgiveness...

Nancy shakes her head, taking another sip of her cocktail. She knew when she received the invitation to this event that she wasn't ready. She's sure now that she isn't. But she has what she wanted. The other guests have seen her with Ned, and they've bought the cover story. She's not pitiful, pining, devastated by the loss.

When she walks back into the hotel room she and Ned share, her head feels light. That intangible clock, marking each moment they have left, is ticking ever more loudly. The joy, the lightness, the anticipation she saw during the bridal luncheon—it just isn't for her.

Ned's just rising from his desk chair, his fingertips pushing down the lid of his laptop. His grin makes her knees weak. "Good time?"

She wags her hand in a "so-so" gesture. The keys she left on the dresser haven't moved. The air is still and cool around them.

She comes toward him and Ned pulls her into his arms, reading her mood and soothing her with a hand stroking up and down her back. She makes a soft noise and guides him to the bed, and they lie down together, still holding each other.

"That bad?" he murmurs.

She shakes her head, squirming up so she can brush a very soft kiss against his lips, her fingers combing through his hair. The nape of his neck is warm. Her palm rests against his shoulder blades, the heel of her hand just against his spine.

They hold each other, slowly tangling together. The way he touches her is sweet and gently possessive, the brush of his thumb against the shell of her ear, the stroke of his palm up and down her outer thigh. When his hand slides beneath the hem of her dress and rests against her ass, over the cotton of her panties, she sighs and closes her eyes.

He's home. He's her home, and she's about to lose him.

She wants to cry, but she doesn't want to see the pity in his eyes.

--

The butterflies are back, and worse than ever.

Bess has texted Nancy four times in the last half-hour, incredibly excited to be meeting Nancy's boyfriend. George will be there too. Worse than both of her best friends being there is that her father will be, too.

It's not that she didn't know they were planning on attending; it's just that she fantasized they would somehow be unavoidably delayed, and unable to come to the wedding, and the lie would remain vague and untested. The conversation about her breakup with Ned would be awkward, but easy to explain: she works too much, they were too different, they parted, vaguely, as friends...

But that didn't materialize. All three of them have reported their arrivals, and Nancy finds herself wishing for a blessedly painless, quick death before she sees them.

Nancy's wearing a dark-coral dress with a sweetheart neckline and thin straps, fitted to her waist and then flaring out into a skirt that hits just under her knees. The scalloped cutouts decorate horizontal panels. When she first tried it on, she thought it was pretty, casual and easy to wear, comfortable. Now it feels like it's not enough, not beautiful enough for her to wear and look like she could possibly belong on Ned's arm. She tries on three different pair of earrings, then settles on simple diamond studs. She puts on a bracelet of large, chunky links, a heart charm dangling from it, tucks her hair behind her ears and tells herself to stop overthinking it, then fusses with her hair again.

She's not hungry. She can't imagine ever being hungry again.

Ned's on the bed wearing slacks from a gray summerweight suit, a textured blue silk tie, white shirt. He looks so incredible that she just stands there at the foot for a moment, before she realizes uncomfortably that she's just ogling him. She's blushing when she looks into his eyes, and he's wearing a knowing grin.

"You look beautiful," he says, pushing himself up. "Will there be dancing tonight?"

She gives him a slow, bashful smile. "I don't think so, not until tomorrow," she replies. "Unless you want to find a club around here."

He picks up his suit jacket. "I vote yes, if you're willing after," he says. His hand grips her arm just below the elbow, and then he trails his fingertips down her inner forearm. She shivers.

He knows she's anxious; she hasn't tried to hide it. And he's giving her something else to focus on, instead of what's about to happen.

She laces her fingers between his and gives his hand a gentle squeeze. "You're an amazing guy," she murmurs. "Thanks for being here with me."

He leans down and presses a kiss where her neck meets her shoulder, and his lips trace against her neck as he breathes her in. "You're welcome," he murmurs.

The rehearsal dinner is late, after the wedding party has been to the church and practiced a few times. Nancy has attended her share, and she's glad she can skip that particular preparation. The bridal luncheon was casual; the rehearsal dinner is at a steakhouse, and the decor is impressive. Warm exposed stone, polished mahogany and the golden glow of intimate lighting. The din of conversation, silverware against plates, waitstaff maneuvering around tables, clattering from the kitchen—it makes thinking almost difficult. Nancy tells the hostess that she's with the Hardy group, and is assured it will just be a few minutes before they're seated.

"Nancy! Oh my God!"

Nancy's heart beats hard once before she turns and sees Bess, one of her two best friends in the whole world, wearing a hot-pink shift dress with dramatic butterfly sleeves. The sleeves flutter as she flings her arms out, and Nancy hugs her back happily. Bess wears strappy gold sandals and some long, trendy gold necklaces, and she looks stylish and gorgeous.

"You look so good, honey."

"And you!" Bess kisses her on the cheek. "You are glowing, sweetheart."

"Oh..." Nancy turns and beckons Ned closer. "Bess, this is Ned; Ned, Bess is one of my best friends from when we were kids..."

Bess looks him over, not disguising her frank interest. "Mmm. Girl, I don't mean to be crass, but you definitely traded up," she murmurs to Nancy, but it's loudly enough for Ned to hear. "And this is Hunter!"

Nancy shakes hands with the tall man Bess has introduced as her date. He has long blond hair, ear-length, sun-streaked. A small earring dangles from one lobe, and his skin is deeply tanned. He reminds Nancy of nothing so much as a California surfer, and his charming grin flashes even white teeth and produces a dimple in one tanned cheek.

Hunter is shaking hands with Ned when Bess rolls her eyes in an exaggerated gesture. "Holy shit! We're on for lunch tomorrow, right? We can let the boys bond while we get buzzed and compare notes, because oh my God."

Nancy chuckles, carefully not thinking about her anxiety. "I take it you approve?"

Bess fans herself, rolling her eyes. "Of course! I mean, as long as he isn't dumb as a post or something, and you wouldn't be with him if he was. Oh, sweetie, I am so happy for you!"

Nancy surrenders to another exuberant hug. Then Ned's fingertips are brushing against her side as she moves back, to his side. His embrace is light and casual, but she loves the hint of possessiveness.

A few more guests arrive, ones she vaguely recognizes from the cookout the night of their arrival. Then George strides up, without a date, wearing a bateau-neck black dress, small silver hoop earrings, flat black sandals. Nancy is well aware of how George hates wearing anything remotely feminine; she looks fantastic, though. The knee-length skirt shows off her toned, muscular legs.

"It's been forever," George sighs, reaching out to give Nancy a hug. "I guess it makes sense that the Hardys would bring us all back together. And this must be the guy I've been hearing so much speculation about."

Nancy's stomach flips over. "George, this is Ned; Ned, this is my best friend George."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Ned says, offering his hand.

George raises a skeptical eyebrow as she shakes his hand, then just nods. She won't be so easily won over as Bess, but that doesn't surprise Nancy at all. George has been burned by so many past relationships, and it's hard for her to trust.

"Hey, do you want to go out after this?" Nancy asks, looking at her two best friends. "Ned wanted to find a place we could go dancing."

Bess exchanges a glance with Hunter, and both of them nod eagerly. She wonders if it will turn into one of the nights she remembers from their early twenties: outrageous moves on the dance floor, lip-synching along to the music, buzzed on ridiculously fruity drinks—and, just maybe, an interlude huddled together in the ladies' restroom, wiping away mascara-stained tears, comforting each other over past heartaches. George nods too, and Bess and Nancy giggle in glee.

Nancy squeezes Ned's hand, glancing back at him, and he smiles. "As long as I get to hold you, I'm not complaining," he murmurs.

Then Nancy's father approaches, and Nancy feels it when he's still outside her earshot, like some reminder of the bond they had when she was young and they were both bereaved by Mrs. Drew's death. He's talking to Fenton Hardy, and the two of them are laughing. Oh, maybe her father looks a little older now, a little more distinguished, but he's still handsome and confident. Fenton claps him on the back a few times, and in the parking lot she sees a few other members of the bridal party, Iola and a few bridesmaids, wearing gorgeous flowing chiffon gowns that flutter beautifully in the breeze. They look so picturesque, and there Callie is among them. Where Nancy might have been, once upon a time.

This used to be her life, or what she imagined her life would be. With every reminder, she feels it recede more and more. Her identity doesn't need to be this anymore.

It's hard to remember, now, why it was so important that she come here and prove to these people that she was past that devastating breakup. Maybe only the step she took of hiring Ned to be here with her has really taken her past it. Maybe if they'd never met, if she'd stayed in New York, this weekend would be crying over pints of ice cream and old photos, begging for another assignment, drowning in her loss.

And then she sees Joe's familiar grin as he looks over at Iola, and realizes: it's nostalgia, and maybe they aren't a part of who she is anymore, but they're a part of who she was. With Joe settling down with a wife, with Frank obviously in love with Callie... slowly all three of them are leaving it behind, the recklessness of being seventeen and brash enough to take on the world, sure that nothing will ever hurt them for long.

She's never really imagined herself transitioning to adulthood, but here she is, somehow.

"There you are, sweetheart."

"Hi, Dad." She wraps him in a warm welcoming hug, and he holds her tight. She closes her eyes and feels safe and warm and loved, down to her bones. She feels an echo of this with Ned, and that is terrifying all by itself.

"Dad, this is Ned."

It's the biggest test their fake relationship will have, and she holds her breath as the two men size each other up, shaking hands. Ned's more relaxed about it, because he can afford to be, and Nancy hopes her father doesn't read that as arrogance or overconfidence. She's so anxious that she can't even focus on what they're actually saying.

Not that it matters, she realizes. If her father tells her he has reservations about Ned, that will be all the more justification for their breakup. If Ned actually impresses her very discriminating father, who has been friends with Fenton for so long and heartily approved her relationship with Frank... Nancy doesn't want to think about that.

She's introducing her father to an escort she hired.

At that, though she tries, she can't stop the flush that rises up her neck and into her cheeks. Iola chooses just that moment to come in, as the hostess is escorting the rambunctious group to the room reserved for their party, and directs a knowing grin at Ned. "Nice to see you again," she tells him. "Time to party!"

"Not quite yet," Joe laughs from behind her, their hands interlaced. "Hey Nan."

Nancy smiles back at him and lets herself be swept up into the group following the hostess. Ned's hand finds hers and she grips it for dear life.

The dinner isn't the disaster she once let herself imagine. The attention is on the happy couple, so close to their wedding day: Iola gushes over her attendants, a little teary-eyed, handing out gifts. The men joke that this is Joe's last night of freedom, and he should enjoy it. They reminisce about cases, and though Nancy is very aware that Frank's there, that Callie's there, she doesn't have to make a conscious effort to not look at them. She laughs when Joe talks about the time he dressed as a Carmen Miranda impersonator to fake out a suspect, during the case where the three of them had practically derailed the Rose Parade, and realizes that for her, the bitterness is beginning to fade. The three of them did have good times. And maybe it should have remained the three of them.

She's eternally grateful that her father isn't seated beside Ned, or where the two of them can easily talk, although George is. Ned asks George a few casual questions, and then the two of them are discussing sports, and Nancy can't help smiling. Ned's good. He'll win her over.

And for what?

She refuses to think about that.

Afterward, she's not sure if a few of them independently came up with the same idea, but a large group of the wedding guests and attendants ends up at the same club Nancy and Ned choose. Nancy's so relieved that things went well that she can barely stand it, and unrestrained dancing at the club feels like just the thing to work off all her nervous energy.

Ned leaves his suit jacket and his tie in the car, unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt. Nancy laughs as they walk toward the club, hands joined. "You weren't joking about being excited about this, were you," she teases him.

He squeezes her hand gently. "I love dancing with a beautiful woman," he says. "So of course I'm excited. We're at the beach, we have a big comfortable bed waiting for us after this..."

She blushes again, glad her father is nowhere around. Her father will likely talk to her about Ned, feel her out about how serious their relationship is, especially if she's brought him as her guest to a wedding. And that problem is not for tonight.

The club is smoky and dim, as any good club is; half is devoted to a well-stocked bar, small tables, people sobering up or drinking to build confidence. The other half is strobe light, a silent DJ with a laptop, throbbing speakers.

"So much for that 'last night of freedom' crap," George says sourly. "Want something from the bar? I'll buy the first round."

Nancy orders a double shot of vodka, turning to the floor to see Iola and Joe already out on it. Joe's jacket and tie are off, just like Ned; he looks relaxed and happy and so, so much in love with Iola, who has eyes for no one else.

It takes another drink before Nancy feels like hitting the floor, and in the meantime, George shares a polite dance with Hunter and Bess shares a very flirtatious dance with Ned. Nancy would be worried, if Bess were anyone else, but they've been best friends for a long time. Bess doesn't mean anything by it.

And Nancy can't help watching, mindful of who Ned is, what he does, that one terrible night that left her crying herself to sleep. She wants to see if Ned forgets himself—or, more importantly, if the way he acts with Bess is just the way that he acts with Nancy. If what's between them truly is just a masterful act by an incredible actor.

Though Ned is more than polite, he's flirtatious and more than willing to twirl Bess and indulge her dramatic whims, it never crosses that line. Ned never draws Bess to him, grinding against her in a parody of lovemaking, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, leaning in to brush his lips against her cheekbone or her earlobe. Even if he were tempted, he'd be a fool to give in; Bess would denounce his behavior, call him a worthless bastard player and tell Nancy to leave his cheating ass in the dust.

And that would be easier than this.

But he's here to be her visual aid, to prove to the Hardys and their other mutual friends that she's fine, she's past it, and she's traded up in every possible way.

Nancy's just put her empty glass down on the tabletop when she's suddenly aware of a presence, someone beside her. She turns, and—

"Hey." Frank smiles at her. Of course he's here. Of course he is. "Want to dance?"

No. She gives him a brief smile. "Uh—did Callie not make it?"

"She's out there with Joe. No doubt giving him some advice about Iola. They've been friends since they were babies." He offers his hand.

It would be grossly impolite to refuse. She still wants to. She swallows a sigh and accepts his offered hand.

The nights she spent crying over him, wishing she could somehow win him back—feels like it happened to a different person, and she supposes that it did. She lets Frank guide her out onto the strobe-lit dance floor, but releases his hand almost immediately. She feels another gaze on her and looks over to see Ned, who raises his eyebrows in a silent question.

She flashes him a smile. I'm okay.

He gives her a slight nod, but his brow is still a little furrowed. He cares about me, she thinks, and her heart is suddenly too large for her chest. It's one thing to hear him say it, but he knows what's at stake here, and he cares.

The next song is so loud that Nancy, thankfully, can't make conversation; she doesn't want to. She dances, feeling very aware of every movement she makes and any signal she might be sending him. Before, the girl dancing with him tonight would have flirted shyly, reminded him of what they had, what they could have again. Before...

Then he takes her elbow and guides her away from the pounding music, where they can hear each other better. He grips her hand and dances close to her, looking down into her eyes, and the echo of the woman who loved him so deeply, so totally, breathes in Nancy again.

"Tell me the truth," he murmurs, searching her eyes. "Are you happy? With him?"

He cares about me too.

After months of telling herself that he's never looked back, that he never loved her, that he can only hurt her... tears rise in her eyes. You destroyed me when you left me. I had nothing. And I was so afraid that you would see through me, that you'd pity me, that I hired a man to come here with me and pretend I was all right. I'm not all right. Every day I carve my own heart out with Ned just so I can't possibly give it back to you.

"I am," she murmurs, and it's true. She is. It's a fantasy, and the dream will be over soon, but for now, she's happy. It's when she thinks of their return to New York that she wants to die.

Frank nods, still gazing into her eyes. "Good. You tell me if he hurts you, all right?"

Nancy almost laughs at how completely ludicrous that comment is. If he wants to hurt someone who hurts her, he has no further to look than his own mirror. And Frank taking on Ned... the idea of Ned beating the shit out of Frank, punishing him for how badly Frank hurt her, does send a pleasant tingle down her spine.

He's being so earnest.

He actually doesn't know. There's no irony in his comment, no awareness at all.

"I will," she promises, hiding her incredulous smile, her simmering anger.

And then he smiles, and something inside her breaks.

"But he won't hurt me," she says, over the pulse throbbing in her head, the anger that threatens to stiffen her jaw. "Because he cares about me. And if you did, if you had, I wouldn't be with him. I'm sorry that everything I did for you wasn't enough, but you know what he told me the other night? That he's glad you broke up with me. That he's glad that we met. And—"

And soon he'll be gone.

She chokes out a sob and jerks away from Frank, practically running for the bathroom, some place he can't follow her. A cluster of girls is monopolizing all the floor space in front of the cracked mirror, and another girl is slumped on the floor under the paper towel dispenser, sobbing brokenly.

Nancy jerks a towel out of the dispenser and gently blots under her eyes, hoping that her mascara isn't too fucked up. Her throat is aching with a lump of tears, and she's working as hard as she possibly can to keep from crying.

After this, she'll be alone again, and maybe that's all she's ever deserved. Maybe that's what Frank realized about her.

She feels a palm on her back and looks over to see George there, concern and sympathy on her face. "Did that asshole say something to upset you?"

It's too complicated to explain, and in all honesty she can't, so she just nods. "He's just an idiot," Nancy mumbles. "Saying that he'll go after Ned if Ned hurts me, when he..."

George nods and wraps Nancy in a firm hug. "He is an idiot," she confirms. "If he comes near you again I'll deck him. Or, I mean, we could get out of here. Go back to my hotel room...?"

Nancy smiles and sniffles, wiping under her eyes again. "Thanks. I'm not gonna run, though. I haven't even been able to dance with Ned yet."

Bess bursts in then, practically slamming the bathroom door against the wall with a hard shove. "You okay? Ned just told me he'll take that douchebag out back if you want."

Tears spring to Nancy's eyes. "Shit," she whispers, glancing down. Oh God, this feels a hundred times worse than any other breakup. She's struggling to keep just focusing on today, but it's so hard.

"Is that a yes?" Bess's arms are folded. Maybe Bess's main skill in a fight is to call for backup, but she's been friends with Nancy for so long. They've had each other's backs so many times. Maybe Bess can't do much damage, but she would try.

Nancy shakes her head. "Just... head him off if he tries to get near me again, okay?" she asks, glancing between Bess and George. Both of them nod.

Ned's at the table Nancy recently vacated, but he stands as soon as he sees her, striding briskly toward her. "You all right?"

Their concern and need for reassurance should be irritating. Ned's concern warms her. "I'm all right. I just want to dance with you and forget about all this shit."

He smiles and leans down, his lips brushing her ear, and she brings her hand up and grasps his shoulder to keep from just slumping to the ground. "Your wish is my command," he murmurs.

And they dance, until her feet ache, until she's exhausted. They dance close, indecently close, and she knows he's trying to turn her on—and she doesn't care. He doesn't seem to care at all about anyone else around them, either, mugging for her benefit, grasping her by the hips and lifting her up a few times in a daring move that leaves her skirts swirling and the people around them quietly commenting. His fingers seem to find every inch of skin her dress reveals. The warmth of him against her breast, her hips, the delicious glance of his lips against her neck...

Slowly she relaxes. Slowly the pain fades, the terrible specter of her heartache, her grief over the girl she was. The music is alternately bright and dark, sweet and happy followed by intense and full of longing and promise.

The song fades into another that neither of them likes, and Ned guides her back to their small table, his arm around her waist. "Mmm," he says, when she limps. "You all right?"

She shrugs. "My feet feel like they're on fire," she admits.

"We can head back to the hotel. If you want."

His lips brush the side of her neck in silent promise, and she shudders. "Yes," she breathes. "Yes, please."

The joy he evokes in her overwhelms everything. She should be ashamed, but she can't be. Maybe tonight just will never end.

Bess catches up to Nancy on the way out. "Lunch tomorrow," she reminds her, gazing directly into Nancy's eyes. The slight curve of her lips tells Nancy exactly what the main topic of conversation is certain to be. "Feeling better?"

"Much." Nancy gives Bess a hug. "Thank you, you and George both. I love you."

"Love you, sweetheart. You take good care of her," Bess directs the last at Ned.

Ned nods, a small smile on his face. "I will."

He doesn't tackle her to the bed as soon as they walk in. She goes to the bathroom and takes off her makeup, half sweated off, mostly ruined. Under it, she looks tired, and that puffiness from her repressed tears is still there. She strips off her dress, takes a washcloth and soap and water to freshen up, and wraps herself in a towel.

Ned's waiting for her on the way out. He reaches for her and kisses her, long and thorough, his hand in her hair, and she very nearly drops the towel. "I'll be right back," he murmurs, then closes the bathroom door behind him, and she slumps against the wall, panting quietly until she can think clearly again. He stores the spermicide and applicator in the bedside table, and she pulls it out, along with a few condoms and the lube. That kiss means he wants to have sex.

She needs to have sex with him. She needs the joy of it, the feeling of being part of him.

She discards the towel and sits at the foot of the bed, then catches a glimpse of her reflection and straightens her spine. He calls her breasts beautiful and perfect, and lavishes them with kisses; the dark-rose tips are already hard in anticipation.

She will be alone, just as she was before.

Her lower lip trembles and she sniffles quietly. She does not need this right now. She doesn't. He cares about her and that's all she needs, all she should need. Maybe neither of them will never say the words. Does that make them less true?

Yes. She knows that. Her anger at Frank earlier was based partially on her relationship with Ned. He's shown her how it is, to have someone truly care about her. Frank never did. She knows Frank never did, not this way.

It hurts to think that she wasn't enough, or that his feelings for her just weren't enough.

Her feelings for Ned are enough, even if he never returns them.

She can tell her eyes are shining, but the tears haven't fallen down her cheeks, and she counts that as a victory. Ned comes out of the bathroom naked, and she looks up at him, aching for his tenderness.

"Are you all right? I don't want to do this if..." He sits down beside her and cups her cheek in his hand. "What did he say?"

She sniffles again. "He said to tell him if you hurt me. Like everything between us never happened. Him and I." She sniffles again. "Like he gives a fuck. If he didn't want me hurt... that was on him." She shakes her head. "I was okay but then I was so mad, and then I just felt like I'd overreacted..."

He strokes her cheek with his thumb. "He was still walking. I don't think you overreacted."

She smiles. "You were pretty incredible out there, too. Bess said you offered to kick his ass..."

Ned snickered. "Believe me, I would have. But the more I learn about you, the more sure I am that you're strong enough to handle your own battles and your own life. I saw how protective your friends were, though, and... I feel that way too, honestly. I'd have happily punched him in the face if I thought that would make you feel better..." He strokes her hair. "But he's behind you. He doesn't deserve a second of your time, an inch of the space inside your head. And I guess you got what you wanted, anyway."

"Mmm?" Nancy tilts her head.

"That he's jealous," Ned says softly. "That he saw the glow you have, the glow he never gave you, and he wanted a piece of it."

"The glow you gave me," she whispers, and her heart is beating so fast.

He leans forward, touching his forehead to hers. "It's you," he whispers. "You're radiant. You, Nancy. And I see it, and I want it too."

After that, after he guides her down to the bed and worships her with kisses, his hands always caressing and stroking and loving her, that lump in her throat shrinks. She draws him to her, kissing him deeply, flushing with pleasure as he slides one long finger in the hollow of her sex, his thumb circling her firm clit. He brings her to orgasm that way and she clings to him, kissing him fiercely, crying out against his lips. He moves one knee between her thighs and lets her grind against him, and she needs something, anything—

"Come," she whimpers, her throat dry from her cries, her womb pulsing with her climax. His knee is wet from her grinding against him. "Please come inside me..."

In the time between, while they wait for the spermicide to take effect, he lets her put her hand on him, idly stroking his thick, hard cock, and she clenches in anticipation. She wants to lick him, to feel him groaning with pleasure under her just as he did when she jerked him off. She wants everything he's ever told her they can't have—just as he told her he shouldn't allow this.

"I'll come inside you," he murmurs, rolling onto his side, stroking her hip. "You feel so good."

He gives her soft, nipping kisses, as she takes him in her fist, stroking the heel of her hand against his cock. When she imagines him parting her legs wide and sliding inside her without the barrier of the condom between them, she flushes, her heart beating harder.

He's exactly right, when he says that using protection is to help keep both of them safe. The thought of unprotected sex shouldn't be arousing. But it is.

And then he's on top of her, her legs are spread and she feels his hardness against her, and she shudders. "Oh God," she groans, clinging to him. He grinds against her and groans himself, giving her a lingering kiss before he takes a deep breath and pushes back. She cries out at the loss, her hand gripping his upper arm, wanting to pull him back down to her, to angle him to her and encourage him inside her.

He puts on the condom and she slumps a little, a part of her relaxing. What's wrong with her? She's never this reckless. The spermicide and the birth control she uses are enough...

But she's fully aware that some infections aren't apparent immediately. She can't believe that he has an STI, but if anyone does, he's at far more risk than she is.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, when he lowers himself to her again. "That was inexcusable."

She shakes her head, curious as he moves them onto their sides, shifting the angle of her hips and then easing inside her. "I wanted it too," she whispers. "Oh my God..."

She loves this. He's found a way to do this, an angle of penetration, that feels so deep and satisfying. and she can move so her nipples graze against his chest. She can even move with him and kiss him, and when they move together to stimulate her clit, she laughs in delight and then intense pleasure. Every time she thinks Ned has given her the most intense orgasm he ever could, he makes love to her in a way that leaves her trembling and completely spent.

"So good," he whispers. "I just wanted you so much, so warm and slippery and just so fucking good... is it good for you, baby?"

She's panting, clutching him, and their rhythm together is just so fucking perfect that she's lost. She can't lose this. She just can't. "Fuck," she sobs. "I can't, I can't..."

I can't lose you.

"Nan?"

She clears her throat. "Don't stop," she begs him. "Don't ever stop."

Their lips meet in a rough kiss and he keeps fucking her, and she draws her knee up another inch and begins to jerk with the first wave of her second orgasm. He keeps going until she has to bury her face against his shoulder to stifle her screams, and the stimulation against her clit and her nipples, the pure satisfaction of his cock inside her... her eyes roll back and she almost blacks out, as he grabs her ass and his angle shifts slightly.

She's slowly coming back to herself, her body limp and still quivering with aftershocks, as she feels Ned's hips jerk. "There," he pants against her ear. "Your wish is my command, beautiful."

Her lips curl up as he holds her to him. His seed is inside her. Their skin is damp where it touches, and both of them are panting for breath. He nuzzles against her and she feels so, so fucking safe and content and loved.

This has to be enough.

Please, please let it be enough.

She tightens her grip on him, and feels herself drifting toward sated sleep.

Twelve o'clock.

Nancy's waiting in the lobby of her hotel. Bess and George will be meeting her here so they can leave for lunch, and that's going to be stressful enough, but a pain in her chest has suddenly worsened.

It's twelve o'clock on the wedding day, which means that Ned will only be boyfriend—

posing as, she corrects herself angrily. Posing as.

—for one more day. The time after is terrifying. No matter what, whether he means it when he says he'll keep in contact or not, things will be different between them after tonight.

She doesn't want to, but she's become terribly addicted to their relationship, the way it's been during this trip. The sex is more than incredible. She has to smile, though, when she thinks about it. He promised the boyfriend experience, but she's never been with another man who would have been like this with her. With an established boyfriend, they might have had sex a few times during the trip, not a few times per day. Ned's incredibly selfless and considerate, distracting her when she needs it, staying silent by her side when she needs it.

He really is fulfilling a fantasy.

She imagines doing the same for him, accompanying him to an ex-girlfriend's wedding, taking everything she is and distilling it so she can help him. Taking him inside her, reassuring him that he is loved, that he's going to get through this.

And that is where the fantasy breaks down. He is loved. But all Ned can promise her is that she will eventually find love... just not with him.

If only she could find a way to be what he needs. Then maybe he wouldn't leave.

Nancy's horrified to feel tears pricking in her eyes, and she tips her chin up, taking shallow breaths. Bess and George already know her too well, and she can't bear to talk about all this with them. They'll understand, but how could they stop themselves from judging what she's done? He's an escort, a prostitute. It's the height of naïveté to mistake their intense sexual connection for anything more.

"Nan! Hey, girl!"

It's time. Nancy schools her expression, takes a deep breath, and the smile she's wearing when she greets Bess and George is genuine. "Hey," she says, reaching out for them. She's wearing a flower-sprigged sundress casual enough for their lunch, but it feels sweet and flirty. When Nancy was zipping it up, she couldn't help imagining coming back to the room and Ned taking her into his arms, pulling that zipper down, leaving the fabric pooled on the floor as he took her to bed again.

They settle on an Italian bistro that looks out over the water, and as soon as the waitress has taken their drink orders, Bess folds her arms and pins Nancy with a look. Her lips are curved up, but her blue eyes are avid. "All right, girl. Tell me everything about him."

Nancy shrugs and glances down, her lips curving up. "He's incredible," she says.

George raises her eyebrows. "As in..." She makes a vague gesture that makes Nancy blush. "Hey, just because I don't indulge all that often doesn't mean I don't like to hear the stories."

Nancy laughs. "Yeah, he's... I don't think there's a word for how he is in bed. It's like every other guy I've ever dated was just practicing, just... and Ned is, like, master's level."

"So how many times you have you two..." Bess wiggled her eyebrows.

"Uh, if we're just talking this trip..." She starts counting on her fingers, and both Bess and George start to guffaw.

"Are you fucking serious?" George demands. "I mean, tell me there's at least a little exaggeration here."

Nancy shakes her head. "He, uh, has a high sex drive."

"Clearly," Bess drawls, dumping a few sugar substitute packets into her lemon-water as the waitress delivers it. "All right. And size-wise? Are you gonna make me so jealous I choke?"

Nancy nods, giving the waitress a grateful smile as she waits for her to leave earshot. "So he's so big that after our first time I felt like I'd lost my virginity again."

George drops her silverware to the table with a clatter. "I gotta be honest, that sounds painful."

Nancy shrugs. "He took it easy the first time. And I swear, he's ruined me for anyone else. I mean..." She drops her voice, leaning forward, and her best friends do too. "I didn't even know I could actually have a g-spot orgasm. I thought it was one of those mythical things out of a ladies' magazine."

Bess makes an outraged sound. "Tell me he has a brother or a cousin who might have inherited this rich, sexy genetic bounty. And I will be on it."

Nancy laughs, realizing that she can't even answer Bess's question. Ned's family situation isn't part of their backstory. "I'll pass that along."

"What about poor Hunter?" George asks, snickering.

Bess waves her hand in a dismissive gesture. "Oh, he's fun to hang out with, but it's not going anywhere. Neither of us wants it to. And he is definitely not built to re-deflower a girl."

George reaches for the bread basket and takes a slice of warm, pillowy goodness surrounded by a flaky crust. "Okay, so he fucks like a Greek god," she says to Nancy, after rolling her eyes at Bess. "What about the rest of it? I mean, you two do spend your dates in sunlight occasionally, right? What's he like?"

Nancy takes a deep breath, considering what she can say and what she shouldn't. "He's... I want to say that he's perfect, but we haven't been dating that long. I think we're still kind of in that stage where we just want to impress each other, you know?"

George nods. "He looks athletic."

"He works out. We've actually been going to the hotel gym to work out in the mornings. God."

"Please text me first. And, like, set fire to all his shirts so he'll be topless at the time." Bess moans in anticipation.

Nancy chuckles. "He's thoughtful and sweet and considerate, and smart. He has a great sense of humor, even about himself. Just... I have to be honest, when we first met, I thought he was totally out of my league. He's just drop-dead gorgeous, you know?"

While they wait for their entrees, Bess swoons over everything Nancy says about Ned, while George is more cautious. Their discussion turns to everything else, all the macro events they need to catch up on after so long apart: hairstyles and diets, career decisions and housing, their parents, movies they loved and books they thought were overrated. Between one breath and another, Nancy relaxes. She's on solid ground again, and though she and Ned were very careful about their lies and their constructed past, it's still difficult to lie to her two best friends.

Then Bess orders an iced coffee and props her chin on her hand. "Okay. So... what are your feelings about Ned? Like, is he just really fun to hang out with, like Hunter, or... can you see it being more?"

And suddenly the ground is gone from beneath her feet again, and her stomach plummets to join it. "I haven't really thought about it," she pretends to admit.

"Have you been seeing anyone else?" George asks.

Nancy shakes her head. "No. Like, for so long that Mel started getting worried about me."

Bess shrugs. "Being exclusive seems kind of serious?"

Nancy flushes. "Uh... well..."

Bess straightens, her eyes widening, then narrowing. "Nancy. Is he married or something?"

"No, no! Nothing like that. But he's... I... I know he's seeing other people." The truth of that thickens her throat and leaves her eyes pricking.

"Oh my God! I'm gonna kill him," Bess vows.

"No," Nancy says, reaching up and trying to keep herself from ruining her mascara. "It's not like that. He never lied to me about it, not even by omission or anything. We're dating; we're not exclusive. At least, he's not."

George's serious gaze is steady on Nancy when she glances her way. "But you have strong feelings for him," she says, and her tone is quietly sympathetic. Nancy is painfully aware of how often George has found herself in that situation, too, falling hard for someone unable to return her feelings, thanks to immaturity or commitment issues or just generally being assholes.

Nancy sniffles. "Yeah," she says. Denying it would take energy she doesn't seem to have.

Bess reaches over and pats her hand. "Then it'll work out," she says confidently. "I have faith. You two look incredible together. He'll fall in love with you and it'll work out."

To cheer her up, Bess suggests some retail therapy. George tags along just because she wants to keep catching up with Nancy. Other than a couple of asides, George and Bess avoid talking about Ned, and Nancy's grateful. She's afraid of what will happen if she sees Ned while she's feeling this way.

It's a trap of her own making, and she's stuck inside it. She can't be angry at him, because this is what they agreed. She walked into this knowing what would happen.

But she didn't. She thought they would just have fun together, make Frank jealous, show him and the other wedding guests that she was fine. And she isn't.

She keys into their room, having given herself an hour to get ready, and finds Ned seated on the bed, gazing intently at his laptop. He glances up at her and closes his computer, then smiles. "Good lunch?"

"Yes. Very much." She feels self-conscious; she feels like she was too honest with Bess and George, and that makes her feel vulnerable. She hopes her two best friends won't be scrutinizing Ned tonight, or make any comment about how he really needs to commit to her if he's serious about her. Although he's been professional about everything, and she supposes that's just another part of playing her boyfriend: dealing with overprotective friends. "Okay, I need to take a shower and get ready..."

Ned inclines his head in acknowledgement. "Want me to join you?"

She smiles. "Not this time. Thanks, though. I won't be long."

While she's in the shower, that panic returns. It will be easier if she doesn't have sex with him again. Everything will be easier. She tells herself that.

But that would make this morning the last time.

She lets herself cry for a minute, but only a minute. She doesn't want him to see the signs of it in her face, but she feels just as hurt as she did the night she saw him meeting another client and cried herself to sleep.

How strange, that quiet, calm part of her thinks. The wedding is supposed to be the hard part. Now the wedding feels like no ordeal at all.

She wears a slate-gray one-shoulder column dress that seems to float around her, and achieves a perfect shape on her eyeliner on the first try, which never happens. Ned's already dressed when she emerges from the bathroom, her hair dressed in loose waves, diamonds sparkling from her earlobes. Ned's wearing a three-piece suit that makes Nancy think of doing incredibly wicked things to him. He looks breathtakingly gorgeous, down to his mirror-shined shoes.

"You look amazing," he says, coming toward her, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze. "So gorgeous. How soon did you want to leave?"

If they weren't both so obviously prepared to leave, she would think he's suggesting a quickie. "Uh... I think if we leave in the next ten minutes, we'll be fine," she says, after a glance at her phone. "What's up?"

"I was debating a drink. You know, just a little something to take the edge off. But we'll be at the reception soon."

She raises an eyebrow. "Surely you aren't nervous."

He shrugs. "It's a big night," he points out. "Are you feeling nervous?"

She looks at their still-joined hands. "No," she says. "It's weird. I thought this would be the big thing I would need to get through. But it's just a wedding. It's gonna be okay."

He smiles, then leans down and brushes a gentle kiss against her cheek. "Yeah, it is," he says.

The ceremony is beautiful. Iola is absolutely gorgeous in a dress that looks like it was designed just for her, and she's so happy that she glows. Joe looks nervous but proud in his suit. Frank is standing in the line of groomsmen, and Nancy sees his new girlfriend with the bridesmaids.

She imagines it without bitterness, just a quiet emptiness. If they were still dating, she would be a bridesmaid, holding a small bouquet, wondering if Joe would soon be her brother-in-law. She feels no longing or loss, though. Callie seems genuinely happy, and Frank does too, when he glances over at her.

Nancy doesn't wish them ill. She doesn't wish them anything. He's someone she used to know, and now, that's all.

Ned's holding her hand as Joe and Iola say their vows to each other, and her heart is hurting again. She doesn't trust herself to look over at Ned. She's afraid he'll see the pain in her eyes, that he'll understand—or worse, that he won't.

It's too close. Time is passing so fast, and she wants to protect her heart, but she needs just a little more. Just a little more before she has to say goodbye.

The reception is lavishly decorated, with fresh flowers everywhere, miniature centerpieces in small silver teacups, hand-lettered place markers. The buffet is stocked with towers of fruit and finger foods, bacon-wrapped scallops, prosciutto-wrapped asparagus, garlic knots, potatoes au gratin, miniature crocks of French onion soup, grilled portobello mushroom caps, tomato and mozzarella salad.  The champagne is flowing and Nancy takes a flute immediately. The fizziness slides down her throat and into her belly, leaving a welcome warmth.

"So, what do you think? Maybe they should've opted for a chocolate fountain?"

Nancy glances over at Ned and can't help laughing. "Yeah, that definitely would've been classy," she quips. "Just what this place was missing. Who needs a roast-beef carving station?"

"Only people who don't know how to party."

She reaches for his hand and gives it a squeeze. "It's just hard," she murmurs. "Knowing that all this will be over tomorrow."

He gazes into her eyes, until her heart is beating so hard and so loud that he must hear it. "We'll be back in the city," he agrees. "But that won't be the end of everything."

She gives him a tentative smile, but she can't say anything. As much as she wants to believe him, she's not holding her breath. Anything could happen, no matter what his intentions are.

They go through the buffet line, and of course everything tastes delicious. Ned goes back through for a second plate, and they watch Joe and Iola taste the first bite of their beautiful white wedding cake.

She's just waiting for the dancing. She wants to feel his arms around her again. It's the last night of their trip, and she wants this memory to be sweet.

The DJ announces "Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Hardy's first dance as a married couple," and invites them out onto the floor. Bess and George and Hunter are at Nancy's table, and Bess and Hunter keep whispering to each other, heads ducked together. Nancy's hand is joined to Ned's under the height of the table. Nancy's father is seated near Fenton Hardy, and they're exchanging knowing smiles with each other.

Nancy's father has never pressured her to get married and start having grandchildren, and for that, she's grateful. He's always said that when it's time, if it ever is, she'll know. And she knows that he hoped that time would come with Frank, but seeing Frank with Callie, how much they clearly are smitten with each other... she hopes her father doesn't hold onto that hope anymore.

And Joe clearly loves Iola. They look so incredibly happy out there on the dance floor, wrapped in each other's arms.

Then the next song starts, and the dance floor is open to anyone willing. The beat is energetic, and several of the guests around Joe and Iola's age start laughing. Ned grins and glances over at Nancy.

"Coming?"

Ned's eyes are dancing. Nancy can't help grinning. "Yes."

She knows he's a good dancer, but their first few dances are the kind that don't involve what she craves. They don't grind on each other or make a spectacle of themselves out on the dance floor; none of the guests do. They and the other guests are jumping and laughing and throwing their hands in the air, shouting the words along with the music. They're just so excited.

Then the DJ puts on something familiar, slow and romantic, and they move toward each other, their gazes locked. He slides his arms around her and she puts hers up over his shoulders.

"This is what I've been waiting for all day," he murmurs, gazing into her eyes. "Perfect."

She smiles. "I know," she murmurs. "Me too. Were you working on assignments today, while I was gone?"

He nods. "Thanks for... letting me do that. Seriously. I would have been slammed tomorrow night."

She shrugs a little and smiles again. "You deserve a little time off. You've been amazing."

It's his turn to demur. "You make it easy," he says, and Nancy's heart is suddenly aching just a little more. "Do you want me to let other people cut in, if they ask?"

She shakes her head. She knows that she should be fine with it, but this is their last dance. "I don't want to be in anyone else's arms tonight."

He smiles and brushes a kiss against her cheek. "Then you won't be," he comments, drawing her closer.

She does dance with Bess and George a few times, during the energetic synchronized dances that they learned in high school, but she spends the rest of the night with Ned, in his arms, gazing into his dark eyes, feeling like a part of her is falling endlessly.

If you're desperate, you'll push him away. Whatever you do...

She is desperate, though. She doesn't know the words; maybe the words don't exist.

She wants Ned to be a part of her life. Even if he's just her friend...

But that won't work either, and she knows it. The thought of him with anyone else makes her insanely jealous, makes her feel inadequate, like she's being used—when she's the one using him. She wishes they were equal. She wishes they had met some other way.

That she was his only.

She takes a bathroom break, and Bess joins her. "You weren't kidding about him being the full package," she says. "Nan, there's no way he doesn't know how you feel about him. It's been written on your face for most of the night. He'll come around; he looks at you the same way, you know."

Nancy gives her a small smile. "I don't know," she admits. "I... I'm just afraid of what will happen tomorrow, when the trip is over."

"What do you mean? Like that he'll want to break things off or something?"

Nancy nods. She's been careful about not drinking too much; inebriation and being around her two best friends would likely result in her spilling everything. Still, it's hard to lie to either of them. "You know how it is, when you're second-guessing everything? Have I been too clingy, too demanding, not around him enough? I just... I'm afraid that if he knew how I felt, he'd... he'd run away."

Bess sets her jaw. "Well, all you can do is put yourself out there, right? And if he does something that shitty, then he doesn't deserve you, and you'll find a really awesome guy who does."

It's too close to what Ned's been telling her for comfort, and she doesn't want to think that way. She just gives Bess a small smile instead of answering.

Nancy's put herself out there as much as she dares. She doesn't want to face the rejection, and she's totally sure that it would be rejection. But the faintest hope that he feels something like she does is enough to torment her.

She returns to the main reception floor to find Ned seated at their table, talking to Hunter. George is dancing with Joe, and laughing. Ned stands when he sees Nancy, and smiles at her.

Being around him is... like its own drug, really. She melts, knowing that she can't do anything at all to upset him if she can help it. She just wants to be close to him, feeling his arms around her, gazing into his gorgeous eyes. Everything else just fades away.

Ned's hand has just touched hers when she hears someone saying her name. She's briefly horrified to find that it's her father, that she didn't immediately recognize his voice—but to be fair, it's been a while since they've been together, and of late she generally hears his voice over a phone line. She glances between the two of them, but she can read her father's expression, knows what he's about to say.

"Could I have a dance? Once the tempo's something reasonable, of course."

Nancy chuckles, then glances up into Ned's face. "I'll be right back," she says, blushing a little. She doesn't know why, but she doesn't want her father to see her around Ned. She's afraid he'll believe the lie—or worse, that he'll see through it, that he'll see how much she cares about Ned. Nancy can't convince herself that any of this isn't temporary. She can't imagine how much it would hurt if her father talks about Ned after this, asks if they're still together, if she's still seeing him.

Nancy first danced with her father a lifetime ago. He taught her how, when she was little, her feet perched on his, both of them laughing. Now Nancy dances with him formally, as she learned when she was a teenager: her left hand on his shoulder, right hand clasping his hand, and they're smiling.

"Beautiful ceremony," he comments.

Nancy nods. "It was. They look very happy together."

Her father nods. "And how are you doing, sweetheart, really? It's been a while since we've had a chance to actually talk."

She shrugs. "I'm all right," she says. "I was dreading this, actually. Seeing... everyone again. But it's been nice to have some time away, for a little while. It'll be hard to go back tomorrow." In more ways than one, really.

Her father nods. "And it's nice to catch up with Fenton. To see the boys again."

Nancy doesn't comment on that. It hasn't been nice for her to see Frank again; the most pleasant part of this trip, as far as he's concerned, has been finding out that her feelings for him have faded significantly.

Her father searches her eyes. "Will you be coming back home soon? Thanksgiving is so far away."

She smiles. "Yeah. I will. Maybe for a long vacation." Once it's over with Ned, she's thinking that a change of scenery might be nice. New York, Bayport... back in Illinois, at least all the heartbreak-memories she has are the first ones, the mild ones. Breaking things off with the mild, inoffensive Don Cameron after she realized they weren't well-matched; having fun with Daryl Gray, and their romance fizzling to the occasional fond phone call before fading completely. Bess once joked that Nancy was the one who left a trail of broken hearts in her wake, not the other way around. Until Frank, that was true.

And now there's Ned. Nancy came to New York to be close to Frank, to start a life full of adventure and romance. She can't deny that she's found it, just not with him.

Her father's smile is genuine, unguarded. "Great. That would be great, Nan. I'd love that."

After their dance, the song shifts to something more upbeat and contemporary, and her father returns her to Ned. "Take care of my little girl," her father tells him.

Nancy shakes her head, predictably embarrassed and just as powerless to stop it. "I'm not a little girl," she mutters.

"You'll always be my little girl." He kisses her cheek. "I love you. And I'll see you soon?"

She nods, meaning it. It will be nice to see him and Hannah and Bess and George again. Once upon a time she would have called it running away, licking her wounds. Now, she finds, she doesn't care. In New York she tries so hard to be strong, self-sufficient. Back home, she can take some time for herself, at least for a while. Recharge and start a new life somewhere else, maybe in L.A.

And then she looks into Ned's eyes and knows, deep into her bones, that she will always carry this with her: the knowledge that she can feel this way, this deep, consuming love. He's changed her. And she will never feel so alive...

Ned sweeps her out onto the dance floor, their arms wrapped around each other. "You look pensive, beautiful," he murmurs. "Did you want to stay here through the end, through the send-off? The sparklers and all of it?"

Nancy nods. "I think so," she says. "If that's all right with you."

He nods. "As long as I'm with you, it's definitely fine with me."

She gazes into his eyes. "I hope today hasn't been a total drag for you."

He smiles. "Of course not. Your friends are hilarious. Bess asked if she could maybe have a lock of my hair... no reason."

Nancy chuckles and shakes her head. "Probably to clone you."

"Just what I've always wanted." Ned grins. "And George seems incredibly protective."

"She's like that. She's had my back so many times."

When Nancy's fingertips brush against the nape of Ned's neck, he closes his eyes briefly, and they're glowing when they open again. "I thought you wanted to stay until the end," he comments lazily.

"I do."

"Hmm. Well, I don't want to ravish you with your father four feet away, but..." He deliberately rubs his palm over the small of her back, keeping it just above her ass. "Surely there's some place we could find to be alone."

"After. Anticipation is sweet."

He shakes his head. "The having is what's sweet, especially with you."

Nancy feels herself glow in response, and she doesn't fight it. "Very much," she whispers.

It's not that the wedding makes her imagine things she shouldn't, because she's very carefully not letting herself, knowing how much that might hurt. But he's having fun and so is she, this last night together, this last time. They dance and laugh together, and she can feel that her feet are aching but it doesn't matter. They will never have tonight again, and she will not let herself waste a second of it.

Joe and Iola are laughing, ducking, posing for photos during the send-off. Nancy and Ned hold hands, waving sparklers as they join the other guests. The yellow-white flare is like a crack in the perfect darkness, so bright it burns when she looks at it. It's not birdseed or bubbles, not the shower of newlywed rice, but it's still lovely. The limousine is waiting, the costumed chauffeur holding the door for the grinning couple and the photographer, and then...

Ned slides his arm around Nancy's waist and kisses her neck. After all the chaos and laughter, they are alone in the group of chattering, still-bubbling guests.

Nancy closes her eyes. "Hey," she murmurs. "Want to go for a drive?"

"I'd love to."

She says goodbye to Bess and George, and to her father; all three of them are flying back in the morning, and Nancy won't be seeing them again until she returns to Illinois. The party is winding down, and it's all Nancy can do to keep her heels on. Her feet feel like they're on fire.

Maybe Ned's expecting them to go straight back to the hotel; he doesn't say anything, though, when she asks him to help her put the top down and they drive out to the beach. So close to midnight, the sand is moonlit and perfect, and deserted as far as she can see. She parks the rented Mustang and leaves her heels in the car, and Ned takes her hand as they walk along the beach. The sand is cool and wet against the soles of her aching feet.

"How are you doing?"

Nancy half-smiles down at her bare feet. The waves are lapping against her toes. "Dad asked me pretty much the same thing," she comments. "I'm feeling pretty good. Maybe it's just the champagne talking." She glances up at him. "How are you? Really?"

"I'm walking with a beautiful woman down a moonlit beach." He gives her a crooked smile when she makes a face at him. His suit jacket is in the car, along with his tie, and the first few buttons of his shirt are open too. He looks effortlessly gorgeous. "I'm good. It's been a great trip."

"Good." Nancy looks down at her feet again. Her heart is pounding so hard, and she needs to just forget about this, take him back to the hotel and take her clothes off and have sex with him. She doesn't want to waste this time; she doesn't want to do anything that could possibly strain what they have.

We don't have anything. But they do. No matter how often or how hard she tries to deny it, they do.

"Um..." She slows her steps, until they've stopped and are still holding hands. "I..." The words stick in her throat, and she growls softly. "I care about you a lot. All of you and all that you've been to me. The guy I dated before this trip and the guy who came with me to this wedding. I don't think I can tell you how much this has meant to me. And you can say that it's... it's all the contract, or whatever, but that's not true. You're incredible, and I need you to know that."

He gazes into her eyes, and slowly the self-deprecating humor she can see in his expression, the way he's about to joke this away, fades. The tension between them begins to rise, undeniable, irresistible, and he trails his fingers up from her hand to her elbow, sending a spark of electricity against her skin. When his gaze travels from her eyes to her lips, then back again, her heart rises into her throat.

"You're amazing," he murmurs.

And then his lips are on hers and his arms are around her and hers are around him, and he kisses her until her knees are weak and she's clinging to him. She can feel that he's walking with her, and then they're near a dune and she stumbles slightly, and he gathers her into his arms and lowers her to the sand.

Here? Her heart's beating so hard, and she's so incredibly turned on. She can feel the pulse of arousal between her thighs, and his hand is under her skirt, pushing it up.

"I—" His thumb is hooked in the band of her panties. "I have condoms, but no spermicide. We can wait—"

She shakes her head and he grins, and she grins back at him, delighted that he just can't wait to be with her again, that they're on a moonlit beach together and... and he cares about her. He's told her so before and she knows it's true.

He unzips her dress but leaves it on, unfastens her strapless bra and pushes it up above her breasts, and she releases a breathless cry as the stiff garment drags against her tender peaked nipples. Then his thumb begins to brush back and forth over one, and she bends her knees, opening her legs to him.

She's fooled around on a beach before. She's never had sex on a beach before.

He pulls her panties off and tucks them into his pocket to keep them from getting sandy, and then he settles his body over hers, his touch between her legs firm and familiar, possessive, stroking the lips of her sex, her clit. Arousal has made her tender and sensitive, and she releases soft mewling cries, writhing under the exquisite torture of his fingers, his lips against her neck, his other hand against her breast. She arches, tilting her head back, crying out in desperation, needing him inside her, scrambling for him. She fumbles at his fly, her hips bucking.

"Shh. Come," he murmurs against her skin, and she does with a loud cry, her orgasm crashing over her in waves. He keeps fondling her clit, keeps plucking at her nipples, driving it so high that she's shrieking and babbling in pleasure, and she finally sinks into a low moan, her body trembling from the aftershocks. He stops stroking her, just cups his hand over the join of her thighs and his other against her breast, and she gasps for breath, her clit still throbbing, her inner flesh clenching and releasing as her body tries to draw his seed into her womb.

She reaches for him, and a deep, sweet satisfaction relaxes her as she takes him into her hand and begins to stroke him, gazing into his dark eyes. He stretches out beside her and she moves toward him, her lips seeking and finding his, still stroking his hard, gorgeous cock. They kiss desperately and he slides her dress aside, baring her breast and fondling it, and she moves even closer to him, her heart pounding as she considers wrapping her legs around him, drawing him inside her.

She is his. He belongs inside her, filling her.

And then he's groaning against their kiss and his hips jolt and he comes in the cup of her palm, and she feels that same satisfaction sweep over him.

They collapse together, his cock still in her fist and one of his hands still cupped between her thighs. He nuzzles against the side of her neck and she forces herself to open her eyes. The stars are so bright overhead and his body is warm against hers.

She's not sure how much time has passed. She's measuring time in heartbeats, and her orgasm has faded to a happy glow in her belly. And then Ned's opening her dress even more, suckling against her nipple as he fondles her other breast, and she lazily begins to stroke his stiffening cock again.

"Come inside me," she whispers, and she feels her inner flesh clench at the thought as she gazes up at the stars. "I need you. I need you so much. Make love to me."

The hand between her legs, gently squeezing and releasing, begins to stroke; he glances his fingertip low and groans at the arousal she's sure is pooling there in glorious anticipation. He moves onto his knees and her heart skips a beat. Being caged under him awakens something in her, something primal and disturbingly submissive.

Her hand drops away when Ned begins to roll the condom on, and then he's pinning her under him, kissing her deeply, and her nipples brush against his shirt. She gasps when he strokes two fingers up and down the slick lips of her sex, and then she wraps her legs around his waist, eager for him.

"Make love?" he murmurs, and she shudders. "Don't we always?"

And then he begins to move against her, slowly, because they have no lube besides her arousal, and oh God, she's so wet inside, so ready for him. He kisses her deeply, his hands are all over her, and his hips begin to thrust, mimicking what he will do inside her. She feels his hips against her inner thighs and the warmth that radiates from his skin and her womb aches for him. Her fingers tremble slightly as she snakes her hands between them and unbuttons his shirt, opening it so she can feel his skin against her more, everywhere.

So good. Oh, oh God, it's so good.

His pants are open too, and she runs her palms down his back, under his waistband, against his bare ass. Ned growls against their kiss and oh, then...

He moves inside her and she tenses, then relaxes, accepting him, squirming and gasping at the feel of his thick erection parting her inner flesh. "Yes, yes," she sobs, tightening her legs around him. "Oh God..."

"Is it okay?"

"Yes," she sobs. "More, deeper..."

She tips her head back, gasping as he works his full length inside her, filling her to the point of glorious pain. Every place his body touches hers is alight, and when he begins to stroke and fondle her clit, she writhes against his cock, thrusting her hips, encouraging him to fuck her.

And oh, he does. His touch drives her wild, and she arches her hips, moaning, sobbing. He takes his first few thrusts slow, letting her stretch around him to accommodate the massive size of his cock, with only her own arousal to help. She's helpless, moving against and with him, and oh God, it's perfect.

And then he's kissing her again and fondling her and claiming her, loving her, loving her. She feels it, even if neither of them will never, can ever say it. She opens her eyes and a shuddering bolt of arousal slides down her spine when her gaze locks to his.

He rides her steadily to another orgasm, one that leaves her straining against him, screaming breathlessly, all of her centered on the feel of him between her legs and his fingers against her clit and his chest against her nipples. She clutches him to her, her eyes rolling back.

"Come," she begs him in a desperate cry. "Oh God come..."

"You first." His voice is deep, his breath warm against her ear.

She almost blacks out, shrieking when he firmly pinches her clit, her hips pistoning under his, moving just as fast as his own body is. "Fuck!" she screams, and she can't breathe, she can't—

The relief is profound when the pleasure spikes, trembling in her hips, warm in her belly. She moans, moving fretfully against him as he keeps fondling her clit, until her legs are boneless and she's just a warm puddle of goo that still can't stop clenching against and releasing his perfect cock.

"Yes." His voice is dark, warm honey against her ear as his thrusts become short, slow, incredibly sensual. "Yes, sweetheart. You feel so fucking good."

She's spent when he reaches his own orgasm and relaxes against her, their bodies tangled together. She's mostly exposed to the night air even though he's barely undressed; she's panting, boneless, still weakly clenching against him.

Ned makes a soft noise. "Fuck," he murmurs. "I can't believe we just fucked on a public beach. Shit."

She tightens her grip on him as much as she can, which is laughably weak. "Something to cross off the bucket list?" she jokes weakly, but she doesn't wait for an answer. "I'm not sorry," she whispers. "Are you?"

"No." He moves back to look into her eyes. "No, not at all. And you were so hot."

She smiles. "Speak for yourself."

--

When she wakes, her stomach is a ball of fear.

All she's wearing is a pair of panties, and they're back in their bed at the hotel. On their return Ned pulled her to the shower and they rinsed and soaped away the sand and the evidence of their lovemaking, only to have sex all over again.

Is this the end? Can it be? How could it be anything else?

She turns in his arms and wraps herself around him, holding him tight, so afraid she can't think. So they'll go back to the city today; so... This can't be the end of the world. But it feels that way.

He makes a soft sound and brushes his lips against her cheek. "Hey," he whispers, and his arms slide around her too.

Once they leave this room, it's over. She knows it is.

"We, um... we need another shower. Don't we?"

"Whatever you say," he whispers, slowly stroking her back.

But they don't make love, at least not that way. In the shower she reaches for him again and he holds her, the water pounding down on them both. He's aroused but he doesn't act on it, and her nipples are tight, but it's from the chill in the air. When she releases him it's reluctantly, and she drops her gaze, praying he won't see the tears in her eyes.

They talk about everything else during the trip home. Sometimes they just fall silent and listen to the mix he made for their trip. She focuses on the little details: whether they need gas, what the next exit will be. All too soon, though, they're back at the rental place.

Ned glances at his watch. "Twelve-oh-one," he comments, with a wry twist to his lips.

She smiles, though her heart is aching. "I don't suppose you'd like to get some lunch?"

He reaches for her hand and gives it a little squeeze. "I wish I could. I really do. Rain check?"

Her eyes prick again, and she looks away. "Yeah," she whispers.

He touches her chin and tilts it back toward him. "I meant what I said," he tells her quietly. "This isn't the end. We'll still see each other, if you want that. Okay?"

She nods, sniffling, knowing that he's lying and knowing just as certainly that he believes what he's saying. But there's something in him that's afraid of the pull between them, and Nancy knows that he'll be reluctant to see her again.

Just as she should be. She was never supposed to fall in love, not like this.

He gives her a long, sweet kiss. "I have a lot of schoolwork coming up," he says, and her heart somehow sinks even further. "I'll contact you, okay?"

She nods, a tear spilling down her cheek. Her smile wouldn't fool anyone. "Okay," she whispers.

He searches her eyes again, then gives her one last kiss. "Okay," he whispers.

And then he's striding away from her, toward the taxi stand, and though she can't look away from him, he doesn't look back.

Three weeks. More accurately, two weeks and three days. It feels like three years.

It would hurt if there were nothing, but when she messages him, she receives replies... it just takes a while. She knows he's seeng his other clients, because she tortures herself with it. It's all that keeps her from doing something incredibly stupid. Bess especially keeps asking for updates, asking if they've been on a hot date lately, if they have any getaway plans. She wants to share Nancy's happiness, but she doesn't know the truth. Nancy knows it all too well.

Come see me. Come be with me. I need you...

Four days of his attention, sharing his bed, experiencing such pleasure in his arms. She's more than addicted to him, and the thought that she may never see him again drives her crazy. All that keeps her from losing her mind is forcing herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't lying. In their messages, he says he'll let her know when he's available again, but when she asks, he isn't.

It would be less painful if he just broke things off cleanly, completely. But anything hurts right now.

For the four days after her return, she masturbates frantically, coming multiple times a night on her own fingers and on her vibrator, during her morning showers. She thinks of him with his hands or his mouth on her and shudders with her climax. It's intoxicating, and it just leaves her needing more. Needing him. After she realizes it will be a while, she forces herself to do it only once, maybe twice a night if she has to, and once she even goes so far as to take an incredibly explicit photo of herself completely naked, vibrator between her legs, nipples peaked, flushed and sobbing at the height of a blinding orgasm. Her clit is throbbing as she very nearly sends it to him, imagining him seeing it and having to jerk himself off because he finds it so hot.

Common sense reasserts itself before she sends it, but only just. She deletes it permanently. If Ned sees it, that's one thing, but if anyone else does... no. It's mortifying. If she wants him to see this, well, it will just have to be in person, again.

But she needs him here for that.

Throwing herself into her work has always been enough in the past; it isn't now. It doesn't matter if she takes every dreaded stakeout, every cheating-spouse case, all the shitty assignments. She follows targets into buildings and is terrified, sick at the thought of seeing Ned there with someone else, and sick with anticipation that she might see him and maybe hold him for a second. When she's in her car, she has to stop herself from thinking about him because she ends up incredibly aroused. Once, she's thirty seconds away from unzipping her jeans and sliding her own hand into her panties, into the slick tender heat of her needy sex, and riding her fingers to orgasm.

She's behaving like a fifteen-year-old. She's behaving like someone she hardly recognizes. Masturbating lets her relive their time together, to imagine him in even more positions, to imagine him with love in his eyes. In some strange way, it lets her feel close to him. He made her feel sexy, insatiable, in a way she never had before.

But she's alone. And after, she feels even more alone.

Mel arranges a date for Nancy, after Nancy gives her the excuse that Ned has a lot of schoolwork to do and hasn't been able to see her. The guy is cute, but he isn't Ned; no one is. Knowing that Ned is likely sleeping with someone else, Nancy very nearly invites the guy back to her place... and remembers what she already knows. There's no way this guy measures up to Ned, in any possible way.

And he's not who she wants. He's nowhere near the man she wants.

So she messages Ned to ask if he's free at any point over the weekend, and when she doesn't hear back from him in a day, she digs the card out and calls in. She's blushing hard before her call is even answered, and at least twice she very nearly hangs up.

"Yes, I'd like to set up a date with a specific escort," Nancy tells the receptionist who answers.

"Which one?"

Nancy finds and reels off his identification number; it's only three digits, but it makes this feel more like a business transaction and less like the desperate hail-mary it is. She only hopes that he doesn't hate her for doing this. But she needs him, and this is the only way she knows to guarantee they will see each other.

For a split second, she thinks: what if he really is swamped with schoolwork? Maybe he's told the service he's unavailable...

"Can I have your name?"

Nancy is choked up for a second. She's doing it again; she's about to pay for something she wants so desperately to be real. What's wrong with her? He wants her to let this go, and she really should.

"Uh—Nancy. Drew."

The receptionist's voice was neutral; after Nancy identifies herself, the voice becomes much warmer. "Ah, Ms. Drew. Yes. We have an appointment penciled in for you for Friday night. Is that acceptable?"

An appointment? But she hasn't made one. "Y-Yes," she stammers out. How? she very nearly asks. Ned definitely hasn't said anything about this. Did he receive her message and set something up, then forget to contact her to confirm?

The crisp voice reviews the policies, which Nancy already knows; she winces when they discuss the price. It's not nearly what she paid to have unlimited four-day access to him, but she's still kind of reeling from that. It's not that she didn't have savings, but she just wasn't expecting to spend them on this.

She's addicted to him. And she needs to get out before this goes too far... but she's sure it's too late, far too late. Especially when she hangs up and immediately goes to her bedroom, stripping naked on the way, and pulls out her vibrator.

She wants to take her time and bring herself to an intense orgasm, but she comes too quickly, and it's not as mind-blowing as she wants. Then again, it won't be. It's not Ned's dick inside her. She moans as she reaches between her legs and switches off the vibrator, panting a little, flushed.

But a quiet buzzing still continues. Her phone is ringing on her bedside table.

Her blush deepens as she picks it up and looks at the screen. Ned's calling her. Calling her.

She swipes to answer, still a little breathless. "Hello?"

"Miss Drew," Ned murmurs, and a shudder trills down her spine. She cups a breast, her nipple still peaked and tender. "So I'll be seeing you Friday night. What did you have in mind?"

"Um..." She's stammering. The vibrator is still inside her. She feels incredibly... sexy and dirty. "Uh, would it give you a hint if I told you I just came thinking about you?"

The fraction of a second before he laughs in delight, her heart stops. "Fingers or a toy, you dirty girl?"

"A toy. It's... still inside me."

"Turn it back on." His voice is a low, sexy growl. "Is it the one I used with you? With that clit stimulator?"

"Yeah," she groans, reaching down. It's impossible to disobey him; she wants it too much. She flips it on to its lowest setting and moans as she slowly shifts against it.

"Mmm. Fuck yes, you sexy girl. Mind if I jack off while I listen to you come?"

Her clit twitches, and she gasps as she feels a slick pearl of arousal glide against her inner flesh, leaving her tender and even more sensitive. "Please do," she begs him. "Oh my God. I'm naked on my bed. Pinching my nipple. Thinking of your mouth on my breast."

"Put your phone on speaker so you can use both hands, baby." She hears a zipper and gasps, her cheeks glowing hot. "I'm gonna get out some lube and stroke my cock while I think about you riding me."

Her hand is trembling as she presses the appropriate button on her phone to put it on speaker. "Ohhhh," she moans, parting her legs wide, reaching down to take up the vibration another notch. She cups both breasts and begins pinching her nipples.

"Tell me, baby. Let me imagine it."

"I almost..." she gasps again. "Almost sent you a photo of this..."

"Today?"

"A few days ago."

"Mmm. I love it. I'm so hot and hard, imagining you. Are your legs wide open?"

"Yes," she gasps.

"Clit throbbing?"

"Yes," she gasps again, writhing. "I'm touching my breasts, pinching my nipples..."

"Mmm-hmm. That's right, sweetheart. I know a little pain makes you even wetter. I bet you feel so hot and tight. Have you been riding your fingers in the past few weeks, or just using toys?"

"Both," she moans.

Ned groans in appreciation. "With your thumb against your hot, slick clit? Fuck yes, baby." She can hear the wet sound of his fist slicking lube against his cock.

"Yes," she admits, blushing again.

"How many times? How many times have you touched yourself thinking about me since we got back?"

"Oh my God," she gasps out, her back arching. This is so much better, so much more intense. His sexy, gravelly voice is like a warm caressing hand against her skin, teasing her, driving her even closer to release. "I don't even know—like six times the first day?"

"Mmmm," he moans. "That's so fucking sexy. Every day?"

"I tried to—slow down," she gasps. She reaches down and presses the setting button on the vibrator, and it begins to buzz even louder as it stimulates her tender flesh and teases her swollen clit. "Oh my God! I tried to—just twice a day—"

"Mmm-hmm. How many times today?"

"This is three," she admits, reaching down again to hold the vibrator in place as she begins to thrust her hips. "Fuck me, Ned..."

"Are you fucking the vibrator right now, dirty girl?"

"Yes," she whines.

"That's good. I'm jacking off, imagining you sprawled and rocking your hips and fucking your toy. Now imagine me coming into your bedroom, taking that toy out of your hand, kneeling between your perfect thighs and sucking your clit into my mouth, fucking you hard with that toy while I go down on you."

Nancy cries out, trembling. She pushes herself up on her heels and frantically thrusts her hips, slamming the toy in and out of her sex, using her other hand to stimulate her clit when the toy isn't touching it. Her orgasm is roaring through her, and she sobs at the pleasure.

Ned's panting. "I wish I could see you," he growls. "I think about you too, Nan. I wake up hard every morning and when I remember you begging me to come inside you, I come thinking about your incredibly hot body and the way you sob and gasp my name. Thirty-two times, at least, I've fantasized about fucking you again."

She cries out again, flipping onto her knees, and begins to rapidly ride the toy. "I'm riding it," she tells him breathlessly. "Imagining fucking you. Flicking my clit. Imagine me riding you while you come."

"Yes," he agrees, breathing faster.

And somehow they come at the same time, and it's more intense, more incredible, than any of the other times she's masturbated since their trip. It's not as good as having sex with him, but it makes her orgasm mind-blowing. She collapses to the mattress, moaning as the vibrator keeps buzzing in her sex and against her clit.

"Mmm," Ned groans. "Fuck."

She chuckles. "That is the idea," she comments, then reaches down and turns off the vibrator. She doesn't slide it out of her yet, though. "Was that good for you, handsome?"

"Good, yeah. Not as good as being inside you."

She smiles. "You're sweet," she murmurs.

"So, other than sex... what are we doing Friday?"

"Mmm. You offered me a rain check on lunch. We can do dinner," she suggests, then winces as she pulls out the toy. She reaches for her phone and takes it off speaker, then brings it to her ear. "I just wanted to see you, and I wasn't sure what to do."

"I'm sorry. I really have been busy. But I've missed you. All of you. I loved our weekend together."

She's bubbling with a warm happy glow. "I did too," she murmurs. "I'll see you Friday. Six?"

"Six. Your place. Dinner in or out?"

"Mmm. Out. I won't have time to fix anything, and I don't want to waste time."

Ned chuckles. "Then I could pick up a pizza on the way, but I'm not going to turn down a chance to show you off. You still naked, beautiful?"

"Mmm-hmm." She rests her other hand on her bare belly. "And if we don't stop talking, soon I'll be playing with myself and panting into your ear again."

Ned groans. "Can I take a rain check on that?"

--

She rushes home as soon as she can on Friday, and strips as soon as she's inside, dumping her clothes into the hamper. Ned will be arriving soon, and she wants to look fantastic.

The dress she's selected for their date, well... looks like lingerie. Spaghetti-strap, knee-length, but it's made of nude mesh fabric overlaid with a sexy curly pattern in black. The last few inches of her skirt don't even have the mesh. Some wicked voice in her head suggests that she not even wear panties with it, but she decides to keep them on until she and Ned are back here, even if her panties are merely an incredibly skimpy black satin thong.

She's had neither the occasion nor the courage to wear the dress in public. When she bought it, she imagined wearing it for a honeypot or some other kind of seduction scheme. She wasn't expecting to use it quite this way, but she also can't wait to see Ned's face when he sees her in it.

She's managed to tidy up most of the apartment in five- and ten-minute breaks during the week, and she's just loading clothes into the washer when she hears a knock at the door.

Five-fifty-nine. He's nothing if not punctual.

He's wearing one of his perfect tailored suits with a pale-gray tie when she opens the door. He has a small bouquet of roses in his hand, and a plastic bag in the other. His dark eyes widen, and his mouth drops open slightly as he looks her over.

"Oh my God," he murmurs, and takes a step forward. "You really didn't want to go to dinner tonight, did you."

Her lips curve up. "Hi."

"Hi," he replies, handing her the roses and putting the bag down on the small table beside the door. She's giggling, breathing in the sweet fragrance of the roses, when he picks her up.

"Vase?"

"Over the sink."

He picks her up so she can find a vase, and his hand is rubbing against her hip, up under her dress, as she fills it with water and drops the flowers in. Then the heel of his hand rubs against her virtually bare ass, and he groans, pressing her against the counter. His fingers slide under the thong and he cups her breast with his other hand, soft lips nuzzling against her neck. Nancy moans loudly, her hips jerking when his fingertips trace the slit of her sex to her wet, swollen opening. "Oh God, yes," she gasps.

"Sex, then dinner?"

She nods vigorously, reaching for the zipper of her dress. He pushes her strapless bra down and begins fondling her bare breast, and she's still facing away from him, feeling his erection pressing against her ass. She whimpers when he hikes her dress up in the back, and then his fingers are plunging between her thighs as he rapidly strokes her clit.

She cries out in need. "Give me your cock," she begs him. "Come with me."

"I will," he promises. "So many times, tonight. I love you begging for it." He keeps thrusting his fingers in and out of her.

"Ned!" She writhes against him, tipping her head back, gasping. She pushes down the other cup of her bra and begins roughly fondling her breast, pinching her nipple. He guides her other hand to her other breast, and she fondles them both as he boosts her, practically bending her over the counter. He's still fucking her with his fingers, and she bucks as she begins to come, her desperate panting becoming sobs of pleasure.

"That's right. Think of how good it will be to ride me later. So much deeper than this." Her inner flesh ripples against his fingers as she responds to his voice, and he chuckles, low and dark. "Mmmm. Think about me sucking on those pretty pink nipples you're playing with right now. You like it a little rough, don't you?"

"Yes," she moans, a scream building in her chest.

"I know you do. I'm gonna have you squirting again tonight, so wet and tender that you black out." He sucks against her neck and she releases that scream, her hips bucking.

He keeps caressing her, playing with her clit as she peaks and hiccups her sobs. Then he's just cupping her, holding her, nuzzling against her. Her breathing is ragged and she's boneless, quivering a little with aftershocks.

"Oh my God," she moans. "Oh my God. I..."

He picks her up and carries her over to her couch, sitting down with her in his arms. Her breasts are still exposed, and her thong is wet from arousal. She cuddles against him, panting.

"I missed you," she whispers. She can't look into his face; she's afraid of what she'll see there.

"I missed you too, beautiful," he murmurs. "Do we have reservations?"

She shakes her head.

He relaxes, then lowers his head. He rains kisses over her neck and exposed upper chest, and she begins to run her fingers through his hair. She wants him to suckle against her nipples; she wants him to go down on her. But she knows the rules.

And then her stomach growls, and both of them laugh.

"I think maybe you did have a reservation," he jokes. "Sorry I jumped you as soon as I walked in. You just look so fucking sexy tonight."

She blushes in pleasure, and this time she does meet his eyes. "So do you," she murmurs.

She slowly puts her outfit back together, and changes her underwear to a clean thong, this one black lace. They take a cab to an Asian fusion restaurant, a new one that just opened, and the food is incredible. Nancy's entirely focused on Ned, and he has her cracking up for most of their meal, telling her stories about school mishaps. All the frustration and fear and anxiety she has felt about him and about what he means to her has vanished. She's just full of the warmth of her love for him, the sweet anticipation of knowing that he's hers, at least for a few hours.

"How long can you stay?"

He gives her a small smile. "Until noon tomorrow."

It's more than she hoped. She can't help grinning.

She also takes a selfie with him, explaining that Bess has been bugging her, asking about their dates. He pulls her to him for a kiss just before the flash goes off, and she takes another picture when they're both laughing afterward, gazing into each other's eyes.

She feels the edge of it, but she doesn't let the thought become words in her mind.

(this will hurt later)

On the way back he suggests they stop for ice cream, and she takes him up on it—just because she knows they'll have plenty of time after. She's filled with warmth at being with him in public, the casual way his fingertips drift against her hand and then lace through her own fingers, the way he doesn't stop touching her.

Every now and then, especially here in the city, she imagines Ned seeing someone who knows him as part of that other life, the life that brought them together, and she's both curious and nervous. Presumably only fellow escorts and his previous clients would know that he's an escort, so how can anyone judge her for being with him? It's like being caught in a strip club; anyone who sees her in that situation is in it him- or herself.

At first, she was acutely aware of the strange dynamic of their relationship, the way she judged herself for even needing his help. Now, she's just hopelessly in love, and there's just no denying it. For however long she can have him, for every second she can be in his presence, she's helpless with it.

While they're waiting for their orders, Ned slides his arm around her waist and she leans against him. He seems so comfortable with her, and it makes her incredibly happy.

They take their ice cream orders to go, and Nancy's pretty sure that's the only thing keeping them off each other during the cab ride back to her place. They share ice cream and once he leans over, licking a drip of ice cream from her lower lip and then kissing her deeply, and her nipples harden under her bra. She imagines him bending her roughly over the arm of her couch, slamming into her in one long, claiming thrust, and almost moans at the wave of arousal that washes over her.

And yet, after she unlocks her apartment door and steps aside to let him in, she feels somehow oddly shy. She's hired him, and he's hers... but she can't help wanting him to make love to her because he wants it, without her direction.

"Where do you keep your towels?"

She raises her eyebrows. "Uh, let me grab one. Did you... want to take a quick shower, or something?"

He shakes his head and begins to slide his suit jacket off. The desire glowing in his eyes is making her knees weak. "Just bring one. An old one is fine."

Hmm. She takes the time to remove her makeup, since she doesn't want to smear any on his clothes... and when she swipes her lipstick off, she imagines nuzzling against the crotch of his suit pants, making him pant with need. She doesn't know why she wants so, so badly to put her mouth on his cock. Maybe because she wants him to return the favor.

She returns with the towel draped over one arm, her shoes off. The plastic bag he brought in is on the coffee table now, and that quiet nervousness, that self-consciousness, creeps up again. And then he looks at her, his lips curving up.

"You have looked so incredibly gorgeous and sexy tonight," he tells her. "And there's only one way you look sexier... C'mere, Nan."

Her hips are swinging a little as she obeys. "I look sexier?"

He nods, holding her gaze as he unzips her dress and slowly pushes the straps off her shoulders so that the insubstantial fabric pools at her feet. She raises her chin slightly as he takes off her bra; her nipples are already hard, and she hungers for his touch.

He takes the towel from her and walks over to the couch, spreading it over one of the cushions. "So you played with yourself and thought about me," he murmurs, his voice low and seductive. "Slid your fingers up into your wet pussy and rubbed your clit and came sobbing my name."

A warm gush of arousal glides against her inner flesh, as he doubtless intended, and she nods. "So many times," she murmurs, walking toward him. "Or I rode my vibrator and wished it was anywhere as amazing as your cock."

"Mmm." He gestures for her to sit down on the towel.

She shakes her head, gazing directly into his eyes. "You're wearing too many clothes."

His smile widens into a grin. "You know, I think you're right," he murmurs.

Her heart is beating so hard when they sit down together on the couch. He's down to just his briefs, but he's clearly hard, and when he draws her onto his lap, she shivers at the feel of his chest against her bare, sensitive nipples. She wraps her arms around him and he holds her tight, one of her arms around his neck so she can bury her hand in his hair, and they kiss almost desperately, like they're making up for the time spent apart. The flimsy thong is all she's still wearing, and she rocks her hips to rub the join of her thighs against his erection, and oh, oh God, the anticipation is incredible.

She whines in disappointment and frustration when he picks her up so she's standing on her knees, still straddling his hips, but then he suckles hard against one of her breasts and she releases a purring, pleased sigh. She holds the back of his head, toying with her other nipple, her hips gently rocking.

"Mmm. I can smell how wet you are," he growls against her breast, and she whimpers at the vibration of it. "Here."

He switches off, nipping at her with his teeth, sucking hard, teasing and stimulating her breast and nipple until she's reaching down, sliding the side of her thong down an inch. "Ned," she whines. "Baby, touch me..."

"That's not really what you want." He kisses her between her breasts, then an inch lower, taking his time. "I know what you want, gorgeous. But are you ready?"

He fondles her breasts, kissing her belly, and then he's grasping her hips and swinging her onto the cushion, so that the small of her back is supported by the arm and her legs are sprawled over the rest of the couch. She shifts her weight, panting, moaning happily when he strips her thong down her legs. "Yes, yes, fuck me," she begs him. "Give me that big, hard cock..."

"I will, baby. Every inch." His eyes glow in pleasure as she parts her legs wide, draping one over the back of the couch, leaving her entirely exposed and vulnerable. "Look at that wet, sweet pussy. Your shy little clit. Looks good enough to eat."

Her heart jolts suddenly in her chest. Ned moves down and grasps her knees, draping her legs over his shoulders. She releases a long, happy moan, sliding her fingers through his hair. Maybe he'll just be teasing her, but even that sounds incredible.

And he does, nuzzling against her inner thighs, kissing and licking them. He trails kisses along her lower belly, and when he takes her ass in his hands and strokes her hips, she begins panting.

"Ned, are you..."

He plants a kiss just at the top of her trimmed pubic hair, and she whimpers. "I know you want this," he murmurs, his voice a low growl.

She gasps. "Yes," she begs him. "But... protection?"

He shakes his head. His dark eyes are glowing. "Tell me to stop and I will," he whispers.

She shakes her head, slowly, deliberately. "Don't stop," she breathes.

What he does to her clit... oh, oh holy fuck. She's screaming silently, desperately pinching her own saliva-slicked nipples, thrusting against his wicked mouth, quivering with each swipe of his tongue. He's not even penetrating her, not with his fingers or his tongue or his cock, and she still comes so hard that she blacks out for a moment, sobbing when his teeth glance against her arousal-swelled clit.

"Oh my God," she cries, her hips and shoulders and her entire body trembling with aftershocks. Ned rests his head against her hip and just the weight of his breath makes her shudder.

"Good?"

"Good," she moans. "So good, so fucking good. I still want your cock, but that was incredible."

He chuckles, then shifts onto his knees, his body still between her open legs. "Here," he murmurs.

Her lashes flutter down and her mouth falls open, her head tipping back, as she feels him begin to rub the length of his bare, rock-hard erection against the arousal-slick inner lips of her sex. "Mmmmm, yes," she groans. "Oh yes. Just like this, baby. Fuck me, fuck me hard..."

He groans, leaning down. "You have no idea how much I want that," he growls against her ear. "To feel you ripple and suck at me from the inside while you come. I'd give it to you if I could." He keeps grinding against her, and she wraps her legs around him, trapping him against her. "Oh my God, Nan, you feel so good."

"Come," she begs him. "Come while you're rubbing against me. Let me feel it..."

He kisses her hard, and her heart is beating so fast as she returns it, wrapping her arms around him. The head of his cock is rubbing against her still incredibly sensitive clit, and she rocks against him, encouraging him, feeling him thrust even faster.

And then he comes with a cry, and she feels the hot spurt of his semen against her belly. She moans, moving with him as he slowly grinds against her a few more times, then relaxes, panting hard.

"Fuck," he mutters.

She smiles. "That was so hot," she murmurs. "Thank you for giving me that."

He snickers quietly. "You're too kind," he murmurs. "And you feel too fucking good. It's addictive."

He pulls back to look into her eyes, and the vulnerability she sees there leaves her speechless. They're naked and pressed against each other; they can't be closer.

After a few heartbeats, he glances away, then moves away. He picks up the tail of the towel and wipes her belly with it, and she purrs quietly when he picks her up and cuddles her against him.

"So, do you like anal?"

Nancy can't help it; she laughs immediately, too surprised to answer. "Uh, I kind of think it'd be physically impossible..."

He laughs. "It's not," he assures her. "But with you it would very likely involve training..."

"Training?"

"Using a set of graduated dildoes to stretch you out," he explains, and she blushes. "Not the kind of thing one does in a night. No, I mean like... play, not my dick in your ass. I don't want you to end up in the emergency room needing stitches."

"Heh." Nancy considers. "Uh, I have tried anal once... but like you said, it wasn't with someone as... considerable as you. I think playing would be fun."

"Have you used toys for that before?"

She shakes her head. "Like... a dildo or something?"

He nods, his gaze locked to hers. He's completely unselfconscious about all this. "Dildo or an ass plug, things like that. I was just curious... I have something I want to try with you..."

She glances at the coffee table. "You didn't bring your bag," she says quietly.

He shakes his head. "Just condoms and lube. You have toys. Do you watch yourself masturbate?"

She blushes. "I have a couple of times," she admits.

He grins. "You shouldn't be embarrassed about it," he says. "I know how sexy it is to see you in the throes of orgasm. So... I want you to ride me while I play with your ass and clit. I want you to play with your breasts and watch yourself."

"If it involves your cock being inside me... then hell yes."

After a few more minutes of relaxing and recovering in each other's arms, they move to the bed. She's already come tonight, but at the thought of him being inside her, reaching climax along with her, remembering him pushing her against the counter and fingering her to quivering orgasm... she can't believe how wet she is.

He brings the towel and spreads it out on the bed, and she feels that strange, unwelcome self-consciousness again. Then he smiles and steps toward her, sliding his arms around her. He's still entirely naked and so is she.

She relaxes in his arms as he traces kisses against her neck. The brush of her hard, sensitive nipples against his chest makes her shiver, along with the proximity of that bare, gorgeous cock to her naked body. She slides her arms around him too, trailing her fingertips down his spine.

"Mmm," she moans. "What's... the towel for?"

"You'll see." She can hear the smile in his voice. "Mmm..."

The feel of his tongue against her skin makes her shudder. Then he's guiding her to her side of the bed, still caressing her, his mouth doing the most incredible things to her wherever it touches her. The backs of her thighs hit the mattress and he reaches down, taking her ass in both hands and giving it a little squeeze.

She's powerless to him. All she can do is react, shiver and moan and rub herself against him. She feels wanton and inexperienced, as though she slept with no one before him.

But it's never been more perfect than it is with him, and it never will be.

"Done reverse cowgirl before?" he murmurs against her skin, and she shivers, her back arching to offer herself to him as he covers her breast with his palm.

"Mmm. Mmm-hmm."

"So you can face the mirror. So you can watch." His voice is dark, deep. "So you can watch my cock disappear inside you while you ride me."

Without even realizing what she's doing, she cups his cheek and draws him to his full height, then stands on her tiptoes to kiss him hard. Her thighs quiver as he fondles her sensitive nipples. "Yes," she whispers, when he breaks their kiss. She can still faintly taste herself on his tongue, and that is incredibly arousing. She dreamed of him going down on her for so long, and this feels like a wonderful dream. "Let me ride you."

They settle in bed together, but he's on top of her, and her knees are bent, cradling his hips. She buries her fingers in his hair, kissing him over and over, arousal building in her with every stroke and brush of his body against hers. He nuzzles his way down her neck and then lavishes his attention on her breasts, suckling her nipples, until her legs are parted wide and she's rocking her hips, seeking him. The slick warmth of her arousal is pooling between her thighs again, making her ready for him, ready to take his thick length in the tender press of her sex.

His teeth close around her nipple in a gentle bite and she moans, bucking her hips. "Do you have a bullet vibe, like what I used with you?"

"Mmm. Mmm-hmm."

"Get it." He reaches for the bag he brought with him and pulls out three condoms.

She raises her eyebrow, but rolls over to obey him, still trembling a little with pent-up tension. "Mmm," he murmurs, rubbing his palm over her ass while she's on her stomach, and she shivers at the unspoken promise. "So my playing with your ass sounds like fun, huh."

"Maybe because everything we do together has been amazing," she replies.

"Good," he says. "How many bullet vibes do you have?"

"Uh, just the one."

"Okay. That's fine."

She rolls back and faces him. "Lie down," she orders him.

Ned raises his own eyebrows, but obeys her. "Turn the light on, if you're ready," he says. "I want you to be able to see what we're doing."

She nods, moving onto her knees and reaching for the bedside lamp. "Are you going to be wearing a condom?"

He nods. "What we did... I shouldn't have done it. It's for both of us, baby. And to make it easier to clean up after."

She smiles at that. "Reverse cowgirl, huh," she says softly. "I hate that I won't be able to see your face."

"Trust me, you won't care about that in a few minutes. When you did anal before—you said you 'tried it once.' Did you not like it?"

She shrugs. "He liked it a lot. I was just relieved when it was over."

"Tell me there was a lot of lube involved."

She shrugs again, and Ned's mouth becomes a straight line. "Then he didn't do it right," he tells her. "You know you can always tell me if something we're doing doesn't feel right, don't you?"

She nods, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear, then swings her knee over his thighs. She's still facing him. "I will in a minute," she says, before he can say anything. "I will. I just..."

And she moves her hips so her slick, bare sex is pressed against his renewed erection, leaning down to drag her sensitive nipples over his chest as she kisses him. Ned moans, reaching down to cup and massage her ass, and she jerks, a bolt of arousal jolting straight to her clit when he slides his finger between her open thighs and traces her perineum.

"Fuck," she growls. "Ned..."

"Mmm-hmm. I know you like it," he murmurs.

He's driving her crazy, but she finds the strength to only rub against him a few more times before she pushes herself up. "Babe, if you don't put on a condom I'm gonna fuck you bareback," she tells him.

"As much as I want that," he sighs, then reaches for a condom. "Okay. We need lube, or I can use..." He strokes a wicked finger up her inner thighs, toward her wet, tender sex.

"Mmm. Yes," she begs him.

He fits the bullet vibe inside a condom, pulls it tight, and works it gently into her sex, his gaze locked to hers the whole time. She moans, and after taking a breath, reaches up and starts to play with her breasts, rolling and pinching her nipples. Her hips slowly begin to rock, and Ned's lips part as he watches her.

"Yeah," she moans. "If I'm watching myself do this, you can't be."

He grins. "Oh ye of little faith," he teases her as he gently pulls the vibe out. "You are so damn sexy. You ready, beautiful?"

She nods, taking a breath before she swings off him to get herself into position.

And somehow he waits, until she's taken him in her hand and lowered herself onto his gorgeous cock, taking him in slow, gentle thrusts until he's sheathed fully inside her. She bows her head, focusing on how he feels from this angle, then cups her breasts and brings her head up to see her reflection in the mirror over her dresser.

She looks so unabashedly sensual, sexual. She's glowing, a little flushed, and completely naked.

And then she sees Ned's hand drift teasingly over her abs, and she can't look away as his fingers dance unerringly to her clit. She releases a loud, delighted moan as he begins to fondle her.

"Yeah. I know you love that." He starts to caress her ass, too, and she trembles as she begins to push herself up so she can ride him. And he's right: there's something very arousing about seeing his gorgeous, rigid cock appearing between her legs as she rises, slick with her arousal, flushed with his need for her. She rises and sinks twice in slow, gentle thrusts, still pinching and caressing her nipples.

And then he takes the bullet vibe and turns it on, and she moans as he begins to stroke it over the cleft of her ass. When she feels it move close to her tight asshole, she bucks, and Ned pinches her clit.

"Oh! Oh God, Ned!"

"Mmm," he moans.

He teases her a few minutes more, as she rides him in faster and faster thrusts, his thumb working against her clit as the buzzing vibe brushes against her ass. Then he begins to work the vibe into her tight asshole and she cries out, sinking down so that he's fully sheathed in her sex, both shocked and delighted by how it feels to be stimulated this way. She rapidly pinches her nipples, trembling as he runs the tip of his thumb against her clit, as the vibe fills her tight asshole.

Then he sits up, moving so he can watch. "Fuck me, beautiful," he begs her.

She obeys him immediately. No matter how she moves, the stimulation in her asshole doesn't stop, and he doesn't stop fondling her clit. She licks her thumbs and fingertips and slicks her saliva over her nipples as she keeps pinching them, imagining Ned suckling there again, and rides him hard. "Oh my God, oh my God," she sobs, as her inner flesh begins to ripple against his rigid shaft.

"You like it, baby?"

His eyes are so dark and intent, locked to her as she watches them fuck. "Oh my God, yes," she cries. "Feels so good! Ohhhh..."

"Good. Baby, you're so sexy. Let me feel you come. Faster."

She bounces up and down on top of him, sobbing, and when he pinches her clit again she throws back her head and releases a high, soundless scream, her sex clenching and relaxing around him as she reaches orgasm.

He doesn't stop fondling her, and she whines, riding him with shallow, erratic thrusts, another wave of slick warmth gushing against his still-hard cock as he pinches her clit a third time. "Ned," she gasps, deeply flushed, her hands stroking up and down her torso, her nails raking over her sensitive nipples, leaving red marks against her pale skin.

"Look at you," he says, his voice a low growl. "So fucking sexy."

Her hips jolt again as she studies her reflection. Her breasts are flushed, her nipples a deep rose. She knows she needs to move off him, but she can't seem to make herself do it; something is trembling in her womb.

It's him. She's insatiable when she's with him. She's, somehow, feeling another orgasm rise in her.

She reaches down and Ned willingly moves his hand away as she begins to rapidly play with her clit. "Oh God," she moans, and he reaches up to caress her breasts and tweak her nipples.

"Babe," he growls.

And then he wraps his arm around her waist, and he's flipping her over, onto her knees, his cock still inside her and her ass in the air. "Oh yes, yes," she sobs, lowering her shoulders to the bed, feeling the rough texture of the towel against her nipples. The vibe is still stimulating her tight asshole, her fingers are rapidly rubbing her clit, and Ned—

She screams against her comforter when Ned slams into her. It doesn't matter how many times she comes; she's greedy for another orgasm, any other contact with him, anything else at all, and this is beyond her wildest dreams. The new angle means he's—

G-spot.

She screams, trembling, when the tip of his cock brushes against her g-spot, her hand falling limply to the bed. As though he senses it, Ned slides his hand between her thighs and begins to fondle her clit again, and that stimulation on top of everything else, the feel of the bullet buzzing in her asshole as his cock fills her slick, sensitive pussy...

Her eyes roll back when he rubs his fingertips against the slick folds of her flesh, the incredibly sensitive lower parts of her clitoris, his thumb still working against the nub. His cock brushes against her g-spot again.

She sobs desperately, her back arching as her sex bears down against his impossibly hard, long cock, and she feels a squirting gush of fluid as she ejaculates. Her cry is wordless, desperate, when he pulls back for another thrust and she clamps down against him when he's fully inside her again, trembling as she ejaculates again.

"Fuck," Ned moans. "Pinch your nipples, baby."

She whimpers before obeying, and she writhes under him, sobbing. The sound of him slamming into her is so wet, and she's gasping for breath, powerless.

Ned lets out his own shout and she feels his cock jolt inside her, and she's still sobbing, loosely cupping her breasts. He slowly pulls out of her and she collapses to the towel, her legs spread wide, moaning as she trembles with aftershocks. Her back arches when he pulls the bullet out of her ass, and she turns her head, panting for breath. She can feel her muscles twitching, and she lets out a long, desperate moan.

She barely registers it when he leaves the bed; he returns and his fingertips brush gently against her back, and she draws up, a sizzling jolt of arousal burning up her spine, clenching her inner flesh. "Oh God," she whispers, rolling onto her back, her limp legs falling open.

"You all right?"

"Mmm." She clears her throat. "Y-yeah."

He moves to his side of the bed and draws her to him, and she slowly calms down, even though she's slumped against his side, one of her breasts pressed against his chest, her knee draped across his thighs and her wet sex against his hip. Any shift drags her clit against his skin and makes her tremble.

"It's okay," he whispers. "Shh. Shh, baby. Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm just..." She kisses his shoulder. "Remember when you said I'd have to tell you to stop?"

"Yeah."

"I'm getting to that place again. Like we were during the wedding trip. I don't ever want you to stop."

He kisses the crown of her head. "Well," he murmurs. "We have tonight. And we can keep having phone sex. That was very hot."

Her heart is pounding. He must know she means more than that... but she's paying for tonight. Maybe he just doesn't want to bring that up. He's happy and willing to come to her, but only as long as she's paying for his... services. For his skill, his incredible technique, his fantastic cock.

"Okay," she murmurs. "It was great."

His hand drifts in a soothing caress up and down her back. Then she begins to feel it, an electric crackle between them, the reawakening of their attraction.

And she just drifts with it, her heart pounding when he rolls her onto her back, when he parts her legs wide. She looks up at him, completely defenseless as he puts on another condom, and wraps herself around him, closing her eyes as he slides easily inside her.

The phone sex was incredibly hot. This is so much more.

"Oh, oh," she gasps, clinging to him, her hips rising and falling in counterpoint to his thrusts. He's taking it slow and easy, and she sobs, unable to speak what's heavy on her heart. But when they're like this, when it's sweet and slow and she can see his face, she's afraid that it must be showing on her own.

She loves him, helplessly, hopelessly. She could never deny him, and she will never want to be without him. It's as simple as that.

He moves inside her until she's arched, jerking against him, a pair of tears falling to the pillow under her head. With every bit of her, every atom, every cell, she wills him to feel the same way she does. She wants him to love her, too.

And then they come together, and she sobs because it's perfect, it's always so perfect, and she very nearly says it, those words she can never, ever speak to him.

What would it hurt to tell him?

I'll never see him again, after. Never. The rejection will hurt; the loss of this will hurt.

She relaxes in his arms after, both of them still naked. His skin is so warm against hers. It's enough, she tells herself, for the hundredth time. This is enough. It's all right.

But, slowly, it no longer is enough. She wants what she has no right to want, to ask for, to need.

He's holding her, though. She's afraid to look at him, afraid to be this defenseless, but he's holding her and she feels that tightness in her begin to soften. He's... there's some part of him that so exactly, so perfectly fits her, and it's nothing so crude as sex. Maybe they'll just never talk about it.

That thought opens a wide, vast emptiness in her, though, and she drifts away, her head on his shoulder and her palm rising and falling with his every breath.

--

They eat breakfast at the table, instead of in bed; she's in a loose t-shirt and he's in his boxers, but they're otherwise nearly naked, and they can't stop smiling or grinning at each other. He really is great at pancakes, and it's been a while since she's taken her time this way. And she's just as in love with him as she was during their trip to the wedding, if not more.

They return to bed and she takes the lead, finding a condom and rolling it onto his bare cock before she straddles his hips. She rubs herself against him, kisses him, strokes her palms over his gorgeous, muscular body. He's gazing up at her, his lashes low, his hands stroking all over her too. His familiarity with her body, his assurance, makes her shiver.

And once she's grinding against him, desperate and aching and so incredibly wet, she reaches down and fits him just inside her, holding his gaze as she slowly, carefully mounts him, watching him react to the pleasure on her face. He loves this as much as she does, and hearing his pleased groan sends a shudder down her spine. He doesn't pretend that this doesn't touch him; he's just as much in this moment as she is.

"You look so sexy," he tells her. "So damn gorgeous. You like riding me?"

She nods eagerly. "You feel so good," she moans. "Oh my God, baby. If I could wake up like this every day..."

He laughs. "If I could wake up like this every day," he replies. "You look like you need some attention, though..."

He rubs his thumb against her clit and she trembles, riding him more rapidly, gasping until she tosses her head back and begins to sob desperately at the incredible pleasure of his cock in the gushing wet press of her sex and his fondling against her clit. She begins to ripple and clench against him and he groans, and his hips start to thrust against hers.

They come together again, crying out together, riding it out until both of them are spent. She collapses against him, panting.

Ned rubs his palm against her back, panting too. "I was gonna see if you wanted to use the bullet again..."

She clenches against him at his words, and he chuckles.

"That feels like a yes."

"Mmm. I would've liked that. I loved what we just did, though." She plants a very light kiss against his chest. "I..."

"Hmm?" His voice is soft and he's still gently stroking her, and she pulls back to look into his eyes. For a second, a fraction of a second, she glimpses something there... but then it's gone, and she's left wondering if it was ever there at all. Maybe it's only natural that he should feel some tenderness toward a woman he just had sex with, a woman whose body is still joined to his.

But the thought of him being like this with anyone else makes her incredibly angry, then equally sad. For this brief span of time, he's hers. After this, she can't...

She can't love him.

The thought brings an instant swell of hot tears to her eyes, and she looks away before he can see them well up, but somehow he knows anyway. He pushes himself up to sitting, bringing her with him, and holds her, and she rests her head against his shoulder. She takes quick, shivering breaths, trying to force it back down, trying not to humiliate herself, but then something in her chest catches and she's crying.

At least she's not sobbing. At least he's not shushing her or telling her that it's going to be all right. They're adults, and the only lies are the ones she's told herself.

She gasps once, and leans over to pull a tissue out of the box at her bedside. When she finally finds the nerve to glance into his face, knowing her own is wet and likely flushed and less than pretty, she sees only sympathy there. Not pity. Pity would have broken her heart.

"Is there anything I can do?"

She very nearly breaks down again, but manages to only blink another pair of tears down her cheeks. She shakes her head and gives him a very small smile. "Thanks," she whispers. "I wish you could."

He leans forward and kisses her, very gently, his fingertips tracing her cheek and the line of her neck and shoulder in the softest caress. "I wish I could too," he whispers.

After a few minutes, she clears her throat and reaches for another tissue. "The weather's supposed to be great today," she says. "Maybe we could go to the park, grab lunch up there, before you have to go?"

"That sounds great. Shower first?"

"Definitely."

She picks out a pretty light-aqua bra and panty set, since maybe she and Ned will finish lunch early and find themselves back here before he has to go. He's unselfconsciously naked in her bathroom, as he always seems to be, and they move into the shower stall together, once the water's warm enough. He takes his time washing himself off, using the bar of soap she keeps for visitors, and once she's washed her hair and used her body scrub, she can't get one particular image out of her head.

Maybe he'll stop her, but she doesn't think he will.

She puts her hand on his hip, and when he turns to her, his eyebrows raised a little, she holds his gaze and sinks slowly to her knees.

He opens his mouth, and she waits a few seconds for him to voice the protest she knows must be coming, but he doesn't. She takes him in her hand and runs her fist along his length, once, twice, then drops her gaze to his cock. She's never seen it from quite this perspective before, but she's very aware of his size. She's never deepthroated anyone, and she doesn't plan to start today. Her gag reflex means it will always end badly.

So she kisses the tip of his cock, then licks it, flicking her gaze back up to his. He leans back slightly, so his shoulders are against the wall of her shower, and she sees his fist close at his side. He still doesn't say anything, though.

She's wanted this for so long. She realizes why with a shiver, as he turns off the water. Based on what he's said, this is something he doesn't do, doesn't allow with other clients. With mere clients. And she's painfully desperate to be more than just another client to him.

She takes him in her mouth, as much as she can, using one hand to stroke the rest of his cock while the other traces a teasing, meandering line against his inner thighs, up toward his balls. He makes a quiet sound deep in his throat but doesn't say anything, and when she flicks her gaze back up, her tongue swirling around his cock, he's looking down at her and what she's doing to him. And that sends an electric tingling straight to her firm nipples and tender clit.

The whole time, she's waiting for him to pull back, to come to his senses, to protest, but he doesn't. He lets her lick his cock, twirl her tongue around it, suck on it as she pumps the base in her fist and gently fondles his balls. He arches his back a little, and from the corner of her eye she can see him splay his fingers and then clench his fist again.

Her heart beats hard as she moves her hand from his balls to take his hand in hers and guide it to rest on her head. He groans then, and she's expecting him to force her, to guide her, but he doesn't. "Baby," he whispers, as she pulls nearly all the way back and pumps him a few times, sucking on the tip of his cock, then drawing more of him into her mouth. "Mmm, baby..."

She finds a rhythm he seems to like, and he's not forcing her, but his fingers feel like they're massaging her scalp and he keeps moaning. She's never brought a guy to orgasm with a blow job, and she can feel that he's getting close, when his hips are gently thrusting in time with her movements. She gives his cock one last long, hard suck as she pulls back, and she gives the tip a kiss and releases him with a pop, glancing up at him.

"You..." He takes his hand from her head and begins to rapidly stroke his cock, pumping it just a few times before he's coming with a relieved cry.

She's tasted his precum, but she leans forward again and draws the tip of his softening cock into her mouth, licking a drop of cum from the head. He groans, leaning back so that his shoulders strike the wall again, and then he's sliding down and they're both seated at the bottom of her shower stall.

"Fuck," he mutters. "Oh sweet fuck."

"Was it good?" She's not above fishing for compliments. One guy told her she was average, and Frank told her she was good, but she doesn't care now what they think, only what Ned does.

He shakes his head, giving her a look. "Was it good," he mutters. "Give me five minutes and I'll have you on your bed, eating you out until you're screaming. Yes, by God, it was good."

She grins, slowly. "Good."

He draws her to him, and they're both slippery and clumsy in the shower, but they're both grinning. He gives her a long kiss, and she finds herself rubbing against him, straddling his waist.

"So did it make you wet to be in here with me naked, or to suck me off?"

"Both."

He grins in approval, giving her ass a squeeze. "You know, babe, you can masturbate while you give head. I think I would've passed out if you'd been riding your fingers and playing with your clit while you sucked my cock."

She groans, pushing herself up so she can gently bite his earlobe. "Next time," she whispers into his ear, and feels his cock twitch against her slick inner flesh.

--

Nancy is checking her bank account the following Friday when she sees it. She recognizes the company name as the one Ned works for, but the amount is just ten percent of what she was supposed to be charged.

She debates it, but she calls, just in case something went wrong. Once she finally explains to the operator what the problem is, the woman replies smoothly with, "Oh, yes. Company policy is that when your escort cancels, we retain a ten percent deposit and handling fee, but you aren't charged for the rest. When you first made the appointment, the operator should have discussed that with you."

"Oh. Yes. I... okay, I understand. Thanks."

Ned canceled their appointment. But he didn't, because she can very clearly remember all that happened that night...

So either it's a mistake on their end, or—or for that night... he was with her because he wanted to be, not because he would be paid for it.

The hope she's been trying so hard to crush for the past week blooms once again.

Nancy's studying a small, plain cardboard box as she unlocks her apartment. It's addressed to her with a plain typed label, and the return address is completely unfamiliar. She raises it to her ear and gives it a shake, listening for anything suspicious; though she can hear the contents shift some, she doesn't hear ticking or scratching. She can remember all too well, earlier in her career, opening boxes to find various nasty surprises inside.

Just in case, as soon as her apartment door is closed and bolted, she slits open the tape and folds back the flaps. A rectangle of plain white cardstock is perched on top of a nest of plain brown paper, crumpled to make packing material. She flips it over, though her eyebrows rise when she sees what's beneath.

Step 1. Call me for Step 2. -N

Her lips curve up as she plucks the sex toy out of the paper nest. She's never seen or used anything like it, though she's definitely intrigued by the possibilities.

While she makes dinner, while she eats it in front of the evening news, the arousal that began simmering in her as soon as she saw the toy and realized who it was from grows until it's a roar. She puts down her empty bowl and unbuttons her short-sleeved top, shrugs it off, takes off her bra and leaves it draped over the arm of the couch. She cups her bare breasts, her lashes fluttering as she rubs her thumbs over her already-pebbled nipples, and heads toward the kitchen, where she left the box. The bottle of wine she bought over the weekend catches her attention, and she pours herself a glass, taking that, her phone, and the box with her as she walks to her bedroom.

Ned answers on the second ring. "Hello, beautiful," he answers, his voice a dark, seductive growl that sends a shudder down her spine. She has him on speaker so she can keep fondling her breasts, and the half-glass of wine she's had so far is pleasantly warming.

"So what's step two, handsome?"

He chuckles. "Have you already used it?"

"No. I'm a good girl. And I actually haven't seen anything like it before."

"All right. Do you mind if I direct you?"

"Like you don't usually?" she laughs. "What do I do?"

"Get naked, if you aren't already. And I will too." He pauses. "Sorry. Too demanding?"

"Not at all." She strips her pants and panties off, and perches at the edge of her bed. "I think you're the first guy I've ever been with that I'd let cuff me to the headboard."

Ned moans appreciatively. "I can't deny that the thought turns me on. So you've never played sub before?"

"Submissive? No." She cups her breasts again, toying with her nipples, pinching them and rolling them between her fingers and thumbs. "Full disclosure, I'm playing with my breasts right now. And I'm naked. —I think it's that you know what you're doing, and I trust you. I think it'd be damn hot to be completely at your mercy, powerless to do anything while you fuck me to an incredible orgasm."

"You wound me," Ned replies. "One?"

She laughs in delight. "To start, anyway."

"That's better. All right, I can tell you're already on speaker, so get the toy and put it near you, but you won't be using it yet. Lie on your back and keep playing with your breasts, until you can feel that you're definitely wet. Your hands can't go lower than your belly button."

"Mmm. Very demanding. Can I lick my fingers?"

"Yes. Definitely."

She licks her fingertips and slicks her saliva over her nipples, then begins to roughly fondle her breasts, bending her knees and bringing them up. "Can I open my legs?"

"Yes, definitely. As long as you don't touch yourself there."

She chuckles. "And what are you doing? I want to picture you too."

"I'm naked and on my bed, and I'm already hard as hell. I have the lube out and when I jack off, I'm gonna imagine being inside your tight wet pussy, watching you ride me again. So fucking sexy."

She grins. The sound of his voice alone is helping make her wet. "Good. Because I plan on closing my eyes and imagining you're here with me. Mmmmm," she moans, moving her heels restlessly so she can gently thrust her hips. Just the feel of her slick inner lips against her clit is arousing, but she's sure she was wet from the second she saw the toy.

"Wet, baby?"

"Mmm. Mmm-hmm." She squeezes her breasts, and her roughly teased nipples are tingling. Pinching them sends a jolt down to her clit. "As wet as I can be, like this. Time for the toy?"

"Yep. Roll onto your side, facing the phone so I can hear you. Now pick it up and hold it right behind your thighs."

"Behind?" She raises her eyebrows. "I thought..."

"It's all right, sweetheart. If I'd wanted you to do some ass play, I would have had you prep for that."

She relaxes slightly, and picks up the toy. "So it looks like it has two sides..."

"Yeah. The top, the part that goes against your clit, is smaller. It's curved so that it can fit just inside the lips of your sex, against the rest of your clit. The larger end is flexible, and you can curve it so it can fit just inside the opening of your vagina, if you want that."

She smiles at all the detail he's providing. The top has bristle-esque protrusions, and the bottom is shaped kind of like a bullet, but covered in nubs. "Hmm," she murmurs.

"So open your legs while you're holding it behind you. The base, the part you can use as a handle, lock it so it's closer to the bottom of the toy than the top. Does that make sense?"

"Mmm-hmm." She follows his instructions, still feeling bemused, and opens her legs. "All right. Now what?"

"You can hold the handle part between your thighs, but first, seat the toy against your pussy, the way you want it. Make sure the top's pressed directly against your clit, because it all vibrates, and I'm sure you want that."

"Mmm. Definitely." She parts her sex and moans softly as she seats the toy against her clit. The bristly part already feels good. She fits the rest between the lips of her sex, then closes her legs so it's securely inside her. "Ooooh, I like that it's hands-free. I hate having to put so much work into masturbating."

He laughs. "You've heard of fucking machines, right?"

Her cheeks warm as she laughs, too, arching her hips a little and shivering at the sensation. "Yeah, investing thousands of dollars in letting a dildo stuck on a jackhammer get me off just sounded like a bit much, y'know?"

"Plus, I've heard it can be a bitch to get the angle right."

"Uh-huh," she drawls. "I mean, unless you were calling yourself a fucking machine, because you've never had a problem with angle. I'm assuming this toy has an on switch?"

"Mmm-hmm. It's on the base. Slow, medium, fast, alternating."

"Are you sure they didn't hire you to sell these things?"

"Let's just say that I was pretty sure you'd like it. Find the speed you like... I'm sure I'll hear it. And you moaning."

She's almost resolved to stay absolutely quiet, just to spite him, but as soon as she turns the toy's controls to medium, she moans loudly. "Ohhhhh," she sighs, her hips rocking gently, and she gasps as the protrusions rub against her clit and the toy vibrates against her slick, sensitive sex.

"Play with your nipples again," Ned says, and she can hear him squeezing lube out of a bottle.

She gasps loudly as she pinches both her nipples, then sobs in pleasure just as loudly. "Oh fuck," she cries out. "So fucking good..."

"Mmm-hmm. Hearing you get off is getting me off, baby. You like it?"

"Oh God yes," she cries. No matter how she squirms her hips, the toy is still rapidly stimulating her clit and her slick lips, and she feels her inner flesh begin to ripple in anticipation of her orgasm. It's so fast that she's shocked, her skin flushing, her fingers and thumbs stroking her tender nipples. "Oh my God! Oh my God I wish you were here..."

"I know you look sexy as fuck right now, baby. You're so hot when you come. What would you want me to do if I were there? Other than jack off at the sight of you."

She closes her eyes, her hips writhing as she pants harshly, then sobs in helpless pleasure. "I'd want you—behind me—oh fuck! Opening my—legs—"

"Mmm-hmm? Then what?" he asks, his own breath catching. He's touching himself. He's aroused at the sound of her masturbating.

"Sliding that—incredible cock—inside me!" The last words come out as a shriek as her hips begin to jerk, as she comes with a sobbing cry. "Oh my God! Ohmygod ohmygod—"

"Say my name," he orders her, panting as he jerks off. "Say my name while you're coming."

"Ned," she sobs. "Ohmygod Ned please!"

"Please what, baby?"

"Come inside me," she sobs, her voice rising into a loud cry. The only time she's felt orgasms this intense is when he's with her. "I want you so much!"

"I want you too, baby. Oh! Nancy," he cries out, and she knows he's come. He pants for a moment before speaking again. "When it starts to hurt, turn it off, okay?"

"Okay," she moans, giving her nipples one last stroke, shaking hard as she reaches behind her and manages to find the control. The quick boost to a higher vibration before it clicks off makes her suck in a breath so sharply it's almost a scream, and then she pants, still shaking, unable to move once she's slowly curled up into the fetal position. The feel of the motionless nubs against her clit is still making her shudder with aftershocks, but she knows pulling it out of her will feel even more intense.

Ned sighs, sounding both pleased and sated. "Let me know when you're ready for step three."

She chuckles weakly, her eyes still closed. Her hips are still jerking. "You mean some time next week?"

"Or about ten minutes from now, knowing you," he returns, his voice that deep growl again. "Your pussy is so hot and wet right now. Imagine working a dildo up inside you."

Despite how completely spent she is, she feels her inner flesh clench in answer. "Just imagine it?"

"Before you do it. After all, you were begging me to fuck you just now."

She moans. "None of my dildos are anywhere near as big as you," she protests. "Well, my vibrator or my dildo. And I don't want them. I want your cock." She turns the last into another breathy moan, clenching again. "That big, hard cock."

"Then I guess I'll just have to make that happen sometime very soon, beautiful."

--

They talk every two or three days, after she's home from work, when she's always thought he would be on dates with other clients. She masturbates every morning, practically, sleeping naked, often using the new toy Ned gave her to get herself off at least once a night. They talk about their days when they're both spent from listening to each other masturbate, and she follows his directions without question, giving herself more incredible orgasms to the sound of his voice than she ever does alone.

She wants to see him again so badly that her entire body seems to ache with it, but after he canceled their last scheduled escort-service meeting... she's just not sure what to do. She wants to call again and find out that he's quit his job as an escort, but if he has... she's afraid, maybe irrationally, that she will never see him again. That maybe this is his way of distancing himself from her, having phone sex to make her happy while they never truly touch, not ever again.

A thread of that fear winds through her when she receives his next gift, even though she grins, and she calls him as soon as she has the box open. Her call clicks over to voicemail, but he's calling her back a moment later. "Hey beautiful."

"Is this what I think it is?" she asks.

"You said you wanted my cock."

"So this is the next-best thing," she muses, picking it up. "You actually made a mold of your dick?"

"Mmm-hmm. Just for you, sweetheart. So tonight while you're fucking yourself, at least it'll feel a little more realistic."

She chuckles. "Okay, your surrogate dick is actually pretty intimidating. Almost as intimidating as the real thing."

"Thank you," he says, sounding very pleased, and she laughs again.

She comes very close to taking a photo of herself that night, as she works the massive dildo inside her, closing her eyes and trying to pretend the silicone is really his warm flesh, that she can feel his breath as he pants in pleasure, that she can feel his skin as they moan and gasp while touching themselves. She wants to send him the picture, to make him crave her the way she craves him, to tell him that this pretense isn't enough. Her orgasm is intense, incredible, but she's left trembling with need.

"So? How was it?"

She's gasping, curled up in the fetal position, and a tear slips down her cheek. "It was good," she pants, then closes her eyes tight, gasping again before she can force the words out. "But not as good as you."

"Nan," he whispers.

"I want you," she cries out. "I'm not pretending or—just saying it to get you off. I want you. As good as this feels, and I do love it, it's not enough."

He takes a slow, deep breath. "I have a lot going on right now," he murmurs, and she presses her hand against her mouth, stifling her sob. "It's not just an excuse. I swear, sweetheart. And I know that if I come to you again, it'll be like last time." He sighs, and his next words are so soft she has to strain to hear them. "And it'll be even more impossible to let you go."

She blinks a pair of large tears down her cheeks, staring at her phone, wishing she could see him right now. As vulnerable and exposed as they have been to each other, in person, they've never done a video call; she couldn't bear someone possibly spying on their intimacy that way. "Is it someone else?" she whispers.

"It's not," he says. "It's not. I'm sorry I've disappointed you. I... I'll talk to you later, all right?"

Her heart beats once, hard. At least he's not saying that they have to stop even this. Not yet, anyway. "Ned, I—you don't disappoint me, I... please. Please don't go."

He makes a soft sound that, in her desperate state, sounds almost distressed. "I have to," he says softly. "Good night, Nancy."

"Good night," she whispers, her lips trembling, and hears him breathe in once more before the call becomes silence.

--

She hasn't heard from Ned in days.

She's afraid to contact him again. After sending a few messages she agonized over, hoping they were casual and low-pressure, she's decided to leave him alone until he replies, if he ever does. He hasn't replied yet, and though she feels desperate, she doesn't want him to sense that.

He said he would talk to her. She's held onto that, but her spirits have sunk incredibly low with every hour that passes. After spending weeks in the grips of powerful arousal, after starting and ending each day generally masturbating alone, her libido has dwindled rapidly.

She doesn't want anyone else. She doesn't want anything else. And whenever she tries to force it, she just ends up feeling more depressed. To avoid seeing her empty apartment and remembering him there, she's been staying late at work, researching and documenting cases, doing everything she can to stave off the memories for just a moment or two longer while failing completely. As soon as she closes her eyes and tries to sleep, he's all she can think about.

If she could only talk to him one more time, see him... she knows that wouldn't be enough, but she wants it more than anything.

And if this goes on for much longer... she came to New York to start a new life with the man she loved, and now he's moved on. She has friends here, a life here, but she misses her family and her friends too. She knows her father would love her to at least visit, but he'd love even more to see her back home for a while. Maybe a year back in Chicago would be good for her. She could clear her head and figure out what to do next.

She just misses Ned so much that nothing else seems to matter right now. If he would just tell her that she's crossed the line, that he doesn't return her feelings, at least she could begin the slow process of trying to pick herself back up again. But everything in her wants so, so much to believe that he does feel something for her. That when he said he was just busy, he wasn't lying, wasn't fucking a girlfriend he loved or other clients.

And if he told you he was willing to be in a relationship?

She's tortured herself with that idea a few times lately, generally when she's already feeling incredibly depressed. It's not her place to judge what he does for his work, and she knows how indignant and defensive she's been when other boyfriends have insisted that her detective work is too dangerous and she should just leave it to experts and law enforcement. But she's also tried hard to separate it in her head, and she can't. As long as he's working as an escort, she will eat her heart out with jealousy. She remembers all too well the bitter grief and betrayal she felt when she saw him with someone else. To her, no, it's not a job.

Maybe he knows that, and maybe that's why he's kept his distance from her, to save her from herself. For as long as she doesn't know, she can lie to herself and pretend he's not seeing other people.

Just like she's lying to herself when she tells herself there's even the slightest chance she'll ever hear from him again.

She's just forking up another bite of fried rice, though she hasn't tasted her meal at all, when her cell phone vibrates in her pocket. Her heart pounds at the sudden, irrational belief that it's Ned at last, that he's finally contacting her. She tells herself angrily that she's being an idiot, but that hope refuses to disappear entirely.

When she sees his name on the screen, the joy she feels sweeps over her in a wave so intense she's momentarily nauseated.

Are you home/free?

Adrenaline has her fingertips shaking, and she fumbles the phone, chuckling nervously at her giddiness. She can hardly believe this is real. I can be in 45 min if that's ok?

Yes. See you there?

OK.

Just like that, her mood is turned completely around. He's coming over! It feels like years since she's seen him, since she's had more contact with him than his voice over a phone line. She's fantasized so many times about feeling his hands on her, feeling him filling her again, the warmth of his flesh, the gentle tease of his lips. She's fantasized and been filled with so much despair and doubt that she's felt no pleasure in it lately.

Forty-seven minutes later, her heart speeding, Nancy's walking down the hallway to her apartment and sees him there, waiting. He's wearing a black t-shirt, form-fitting without being vulgar, and a pair of jeans that hugs him. He looks casual and effortless and incredibly gorgeous. He arches to launch himself off the wall from where he's leaning, his hands empty, his dark-eyed gaze locked to her.

Her heart skips a beat. She's thought about this so much, tortured herself by imagining this so many times.

He takes a few steps toward her, and once she's close enough he sweeps her up into his arms and his lips find hers. She's so relieved, and she almost drops the bag in her hand, and he's pressing her against the wall and somehow her legs are parted and she blushes deeply at the feel of him against her. She's exhilarated by it.

But something's bothering her, and she sees a flash of it again when he pulls back, both of them quietly panting. She sees something in his eyes that makes her heart sink. It looks like pain. Is he here to break things off, this relationship that likely exists only in her own head, in person?

But he's shown none of the signs she would recognize. No we need to talk, no keeping his distance from her. "Sorry," he murmurs, lowering her to her feet again. "And I'm really sorry for not replying to your messages. I wasn't trying to blow you off."

"It's all right," she says, smiling up at him. And in that moment, it is all right. All the pain and despair she's been through is wiped away, because he's standing here now and she's alight with love. "Have you had dinner? I was eating some takeout when I got your message, but I couldn't finish."

"I'm not hungry. Thanks."

She unlocks her apartment door and gestures him inside, flipping on the lights. Now that she's here, she can't help wishing he'd been a few minutes late, so she could tidy up the kitchen and living room. He doesn't seem to have eyes for anything other than her, though. As soon as they're both inside, he has his arm around her waist and he's nuzzling against her, his lips finding her earlobe. She shivers, her lashes fluttering down.

She wants to give in, but she's also curious about what brought him here and put that look on his face. If he wanted a night of anonymous sex to get his mind off something, he could walk into any club in the city and find a willing partner in a few minutes. But he's with her. And that gives her a warm, happy glow. She wants him to talk to her.

But his lips trace lower, against her neck, and she moans softly when he turns her toward him. "I missed you," he whispers.

"I missed you too," she whispers, her lashes fluttering down. Her body is definitely responding to his touch, and though she can't bring herself to pull away, she does find her voice again. "Let me just... put this down. Can I get you something to drink?"

He keeps his arm around her, but moves back to look into her face. "A glass of water would be great."

She smiles, reaching up with her free hand to stroke the side of his face. "I'm so glad you're here," she murmurs. He leans down again to capture her lips with his and she returns his kiss eagerly, her fingers combing through his hair. She realizes he's backing her up and she laughs when her back bumps against the kitchen island.

He smiles against their kiss and brushes his lips against the point of her jaw. "Okay. I'll go sit down. Sorry."

Her heart is still pounding as she puts away her leftover Chinese takeout, then draws them both glasses of water. "Um, let me just go get comfortable," she says, putting the glasses down on coasters on the coffee table. "You can turn on the TV. Find a movie or something we can ignore."

He nods, his smoldering gaze on her, and she half-expects him to follow her into her bedroom and close the door behind him. She scrubs off her makeup and hastily brushes her teeth, irrationally afraid that when she walks out of her bedroom he'll be gone, then debates on what to wear. She can't bring herself to wear an outfit that would signal unwillingness, so she settles on an opaque satin slip. It's blue and doesn't have any trim, any lace or ribbon. It looks good on her, though.

She walks out in bare feet, and Ned makes a quiet sound that's almost a growl. "You were right about ignoring the movie," he tells her.

She smiles and takes her usual seat on the couch, reaching for the blanket she keeps draped over the back. The apartment is cool against the summer heat, cool enough that she's a little chilly. "Here," she says, patting the blanket spread over her lap. "Just lie down and relax. We can talk if you feel like it."

He gives her a look she can't read, but he does reposition himself, kicking his shoes off and lowering his head to her lap. Then he's gazing up at her, and she slides her fingers into his hair and begins to gently massage his scalp.

His lashes flutter down. "You want me to go to sleep, huh," he murmurs.

"You can." She rests her other hand against his chest. "It's all right, just relax."

He closes his eyes, but she can tell he isn't sleeping. She can't quite bring herself to fully relax, either. Unobserved, she studies his handsome face. All the sadness and depression she's felt for the past few days has melted away, leaving only a lingering shadow of evaporated fear. It threads through the sweetness of her love for him, remembering how afraid she was that she would never have this again. After the bitterness, this feels so simple and sweet.

He's so beautiful, so incredible, and she thinks again that it's worth it. Maybe this will end well before she's ready, but she is grateful for being able to feel it at all. Maybe she will regret ever having met him later, but for now, she could never look away, could never willingly walk away from this.

His hand slides up and rests over hers, trapping it against his body. A tingling slides up her spine when he opens his eyes again. "I've relaxed," he says. "I've thought of something that might be more effective."

"Oh?"

"It requires using some energy first."

"That seems reasonable." She's gazing down into his face, and she's not even bothering to disguise how she's feeling. Maybe she never really has.

He reaches up to grasp her shoulder and draw her down, and their lips meet in a kiss that makes her so aroused she almost squirms. He's not even touching her anywhere else, but the sheer sensuality, the way his tongue moves against hers... and she wants to be in contact with more of him, to press her body against his, to press her tingling breasts against his chest and feel him hard between her thighs. She's aware again, with a tingling flush of heat over her cheeks and upper chest, how many times she's touched herself while thinking about this, sometimes with Ned listening and enjoying it.

And it's hard to remember why she should stop herself. It's hard to remember why she didn't just jump him as soon as he walked in, especially after that earth-shattering kiss at her front door. Even before she really knew much about him, this, this immediate connection between them, was undeniable.

"What did you have in mind?" she somehow manages to say when they break the kiss. She's panting softly.

In answer he sits up and yanks his shirt over his head in one swift movement, and she doesn't mean to release the quiet, needy moan, but it comes out anyway. He turns back to her and she finds herself pinned under him, her knees up and cradling his hips, his kiss deep and desperate. She draws her nails down his back, gasping when his hips move once, firmly, between her legs.

"Yes?"

"Yes," she confirms, her voice almost a sob. "Oh God, yes..."

There's something about her toys, especially the ones he's given her, but there's something so much more immediate, arousing, incredible about this. He tugs her panties down just far enough and then begins to rub his thumb against her swollen clit, and she writhes, arching, seeking contact with him again. She's so wet that the silky fabric of her panties is cool against her sensitive skin.

"I've missed you," he pants, when he breaks their kiss again. His breath is warm against her cheek. "Oh, oh God..."

She cries out, her hips thrusting gently against the movements of his thumb. "Yes," she whines. "I missed you too, oh God yes..."

It only takes a moment before she's past the point of return, when her inner flesh is rippling, seeking release. She clings to him and he moves so she buries her face against his shoulder, stifling her screams as she comes just from him rubbing against her clit. He swipes his thumb against her a few more times and she jerks, quietly sobbing, before he slides his hand from between them and holds her in his arms.

"I—" She can barely speak. "Oh my God."

He chuckles very quietly. "Good?"

"Fuck. Yes." She feels almost lightheaded as she runs her fingers through his hair. "Can you do something for me?"

"So demanding," he murmurs, teasing her. "An incredible orgasm apparently wasn't enough."

She shakes her head, then moves to gaze directly into his eyes. "Put your fingers inside me," she whispers. "I'm so wet. Then stroke yourself with it while you imagine being inside me."

He groans, and his hips jerk slightly. "You like that, don't you."

She nods, reaching down and tugging her slip up, wiggling so she can pull it off. "You can watch me touch myself too, if that would help," she murmurs. She's moved around so much that her panties aren't covering anything; they're shoved halfway down her thighs.

He sits up, gazing at her. "Baby, I love watching you pleasure yourself," he says, his voice low and intense. "I love hearing it, when I can't be here with you. But can we... when I rubbed against you, and—"

She nods eagerly. "Yes. Yes, please. I'll go get a towel?"

He nods at her questioning look, and she hurries to find one, acutely aware both of her nakedness and how aroused she is. Oh, oh God, she's already so slick between her legs, and she shivers when she remembers that other time. It was incredible to be so close to him.

She still wants it. Even knowing that it's a risk, she wants him inside her, no barriers between them. She has no idea why she finds it so attractive or so arousing, and she's certainly never pursued that risk with any other partner, but it's undeniable.

And why aren't we in bed? she asks herself, and her lips are parted to pose the question when she walks back into the main room with the towel in her arms and sees him naked, completely naked, and just as undeniably handsome and perfectly, massively male as he's always been. Some corner of her hindbrain is shivering, telling her to flee from the promise of that thick, impressive erection. Another corner is telling her to just lie down, open her legs, and surrender to him.

She walks over to the couch and spreads the towel over a cushion, her nipples pebbled to firm, sensitive tips, a gentle pulse of arousal throbbing in her clit and her sex. She sits down and then leans back to sprawl over the cushions, opening her legs, every movement slow and deliberate, her gaze on him. She reaches down and parts the lips of her sex for him, and sees the way his gaze flicks down to watch the way she moves, to study the slick, glistening flesh she reveals. "Come here," she whispers, her voice low and husky.

He moves onto the couch, and his eyes are glowing. "Are you sure you want this?"

She nods. "So much," she whispers. "Please."

He settles over her, and she keeps her legs open but brings her arms up to embrace him and stroke his muscular back and shoulders as he nuzzles and kisses his way down her neck to her breasts. Her nipples are so hard they almost ache, and when he draws one into his mouth and begins to suckle, rubbing the other with his thumb, she moans loudly and drags her nails against his skin. He chuckles softly against her.

"I'm already wet," she gasps. "You want me wetter?"

"Always." He gently bites her nipple and her hips jerk. "Always, beautiful. I love the way you look when you're aroused, when you want me."

She smiles, but her heart is pounding. "I always want you."

He worships her with his lips, his tongue, his caresses; she can find no other word for it. He leaves her breasts tender and sensitive, and he's deliberate and assured as he finds every place that makes her moan and shiver. It feels like lovemaking, and with every touch, every kiss, she's more and more aroused. It should be impossible.

By the time he moves back, she's still moaning quietly, her legs spread wide in silent invitation, pleading him to do something to soothe the pulsing need of her sex. He gazes down at her, the fading marks of the love-bites he's left on her body, and smiles when he sees her hand quivering against her abdomen. She needs a release from this, even if she has to provide it herself.

He picks up her hand and kisses each fingertip, then sucks her thumb into his mouth and moves over her. She groans loudly, her hips surging when he settles against her, the length of his hard, hot cock nestled between the lips of her sex. "Oh my God," she murmurs, drawing him down to her for a long, intense kiss. "Ned, please."

"Please what?" He's smiling; she can hear it in his voice, as he deliberately moves his hips in a slow rock against hers. "Please what, baby? You have to say it."

"Oh, yes..." She arches her hips and gasps when his next stroke rubs his cock against her clit. "There, there! Faster!"

"And why would I make it faster?" He leans down, kissing her earlobe and then sucking it into his mouth. "As though I want you to come when I can't feel it."

"Says the man who's had phone sex with me how many times in the last month?" she gasps out.

He chuckles. "All the more reason."

She reaches down, grasping his ass, encouraging him to move faster. He kisses her again, obliging, stimulating her clit until she's trembling. "Yes, please," she begs him, her voice shaking. "Come inside me..."

He nuzzles against her earlobe again, still grinding against her. "Do you mean that?"

She nods, her heart beating so hard. "I want a piece of you that you don't give to anyone else," she whispers, realizing as she speaks it that it's true, but her voice is rising into a desperate cry. "Ned..."

He moves to look into her eyes, and she's silently sobbing in pleasure as she gazes back at him. "Are you on birth control?"

She nods. "IUD," she answers, her voice still broken by gasps. So he's really considering it. Her inner flesh pulses as she sees his expression.

"Are you sure, baby..."

"Yes. Please..." She's trembling with need for it now, and nothing else will do.

He takes a deep breath and reaches down, guiding the tip of his bare cock against her slick, hot flesh, just barely between the lips of her sex. A look of such rapture crosses his face that she can't help smiling, despite the urgency of her need for him.

"Yes," she whispers. "I know you want this. Come inside me."

He moans loudly as he slides an inch inside her, and she reaches down, idly toying with her clit, though she's so incredibly turned on by watching his reaction to her that she hardly needs the additional stimulation. She's so very wet between her legs that lube would be entirely pointless.

"Oh my God," he pants, hanging his head. His lashes flutter down. "Fuck."

"Yes," she whispers. She knows that apparently it's different for men, but it doesn't feel different for her, not really. He feels just as thick and hot and hard as always. "More, baby..."

He brings his head back up and looks into her eyes. "Have you done this before?" he asks, still panting a little.

She shakes her head.

"So this is new for you too?"

A slow grin crosses her face as she reaches up with her free hand and toys with his hair. "Yeah. How does it feel?"

He shakes his head and swallows. "I..."

She sees such need on his face, such vulnerability, and it brings tears to her eyes. "Come on," she murmurs. "More..."

"You have all of me," he whispers.

She draws a breath, a tear sliding down her cheek, but then he's sliding deep inside her, leaning down to pin her body beneath his. He reaches between them and pushes her hand aside, and she cries out, arching her spine as he begins to rapidly stroke her clit. "That's right," he growls. "Let me feel what I'm doing to you..."

She feels her inner flesh pulse and throb against his bare cock before he pulls back and begins to thrust, and he groans in pleasure. "Oh my God," he mutters. "Holy fuck."

It doesn't feel very different to her, but she's incredibly turned on by how he's responding. When she clenches her inner muscles around him, he gasps and presses his thumb a little harder against her clit, and she tips her head back and cries out again. "Ned," she sobs.

He groans in pleasure. "Nancy," he whispers.

And then her gaze meets his and she moves, her hips meeting his with each thrust, and she's never seen such rapture on his face. The way he moves... oh, he's making love with her, there are no other words for it, for this.

It's perfect. They were made for this, made to be together this way, and there's no way he can't be feeling it right now. She can feel it down to her bones, down to her soul, and it quivers on her trembling lips. She gazes up at him, grasping his back, moving with his every thrust. Her hips jolt as her orgasm begins, and she cries out his name again.

They come together and she's tensed, her mouth open wide in a silent scream, her hips jolting with his thrusts. He moves completely inside her and he groans, his cock seeming to swell against her tender flesh as he reaches his climax, and she sobs as her own orgasm contracts her womb, drawing his seed deeper inside her.

He groans again as he lowers himself to her, and she wraps herself around him, her body still quivering with the aftershocks. Their skin is damp and they're both panting. She feels like she can't move, like she's entirely spent, and she could fall asleep just like this.

Ned moves and his lips brush her temple. "Okay?"

She chuckles, her eyes closed. "I think I've died," she murmurs. "Maybe I'll be alive by morning."

"Good." He moans softly. "Sorry, didn't mean to crush you."

He moves, and though she doesn't want to let him go, soon she's on her side facing him and she can cuddle against him again. Her thighs are aching a little, and slick from their joining. She sighs and closes her eyes.

"Can I... the blanket?"

"Yeah," she murmurs, and sighs happily when he pulls the blanket over them both. They can't sleep on the couch together, especially not like this, but she can't move yet.

She loves him. She wants more nights like this one. She wants to find the courage to tell him how she feels, but she wants desperately to believe that what they have is beyond words.

But she doesn't know if she's seeing genuine affection in his eyes because she wants it to be there so badly.

After they rouse, slowly, she's suddenly famished. She rewarms and finishes off the rest of her take-out meal, feeding Ned a few bites, and then they're in her bathroom and she's offering him a spare unused toothbrush. It feels so painfully domestic that when their gazes meet in the mirror, her heart almost breaks for a second.

If she can somehow figure it out... but she doesn't know how to say it. How does she tell him that she wants this with him, without scaring him or driving him away? She'll take anything he will give her, but she can't bear to be without him so long again.

She wears panties to bed, and nothing else; Ned slides into her bed naked, and takes her easily into his arms. She feels that need again, to say something, but she doesn't know the right words. She's terrified the truth is too much, that this man who has known her so intimately would reject her if he knew her feelings for him.

Isn't it worth it? To tell him even if he leaves?

No. She would do anything to keep him here, where he belongs, for as long as she can.

"Thank you," she whispers.

He kisses the crown of her head. "For what?" he murmurs.

"For being here tonight," she whispers, her throat thick. "I did miss you, so much. Not just the sex, but just being together."

"I missed that too," he whispers. "I wish I hadn't had to stay away so long."

"Just don't do it again," she whispers, and despite how her heart has been pounding, even though she wants to memorize him and this all over again, she's suddenly so exhausted she can't keep her eyes open.

--

For a few seconds, she's not sure why she's awake. Her alarm hasn't gone off, her phone isn't making any noise, and the sun is nowhere near up.

Then she realizes. Ned's trying to move gently away from her, and he's aroused.

"Mmm," she moans softly, shifting so she can roll onto her back. "Ned?"

"I'll be right back. Shh."

"Stay," she whispers. She reaches down and slips her panties off.

Ned stops, and she can barely hear his quiet breathing. "You're not awake," he murmurs.

"Yes I am," she whispers. "Please."

"Well," he says, and she can hear a small smile in his voice this time. "Just to make sure..."

He moves under the covers, and when he gently parts her legs, she lets them fall fully open. Even though she's cleaned up from earlier, she feels a little self-conscious.

And that self-consciousness entirely fades once he begins to caress and nuzzle against her inner thighs, occasionally tracing his tongue over the sensitive skin and making her tremble. When his tongue rasps against her clit, Nancy cries out, reaching up to cup her breasts and idly stroke her nipples.

He makes her come that way, just by licking and sucking against and fondling her clit. She sobs, bucking, writhing under him; at some point her hand steals down from her breast to his head and she threads her fingers through his hair, using her other hand to keep fondling her nipples. She cries out his name as she reaches orgasm, tipping her head back, and the world has narrowed to just the two of them and her bed and oh, oh God, the feel of his tongue between her legs.

She's panting, her eyes still sewn shut in the bliss of it, her legs still sprawled open, as Ned kisses his way back up her body. She moans, her hand still in his hair, when he reaches her breasts and brushes his lips in a soft kiss against each nipple. She shudders when he kisses her neck and her earlobe.

"Condoms beside the bed?" he whispers.

She can't even speak for a second. "Yeah, but," she loops her arm around him. "You don't have to."

"Wear a condom, or—"

"Wear a condom," she clarifies. "Or use lube. I'm so damn wet right now."

He chuckles. "And awake," he murmurs.

"And awake." She slides her other arm around him, then brings her knees up to cradle his hips. "Come inside me."

He kisses her other earlobe, slowly lowering himself to her. He hums in pleasure as he rubs his cock against her slick, tender inner flesh, and she's still incredibly sensitive; her palms stroke against his muscular back, his shoulder blades, the line of his spine as she trembles. She clings to him, gasping, when the shift in his angle rubs his cock against her clit.

"Beautiful," he whispers against her ear. "Are you sure, sweetheart?"

"Yes," she gasps. Her IUD is more effective than a properly-used condom, and he's already come inside her once.

Then he moves inside her, groaning in pleasure, and she feels it.

It's only happened once, that she can remember. Maybe it's because she's so sensitive. But her inner flesh, the warm, slick passage between her thighs, tightens, effectively closing. She just feels it like a tight fist.

The head of his cock brushes against it, and he retreats slightly. "Are you all right?"

She nods, her eyes wide as she looks up at him. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I just... I don't know..."

In the dimness, she can just make out his smile. "Performance anxiety? Do you want to stop?"

She shakes her head. "I don't know what to do," she admits, miserable.

He leans down, returning to the same position he was in before, and touches his lips to her ear. "Shhh," he whispers. "Shhhh. It's all right. Just relax, beautiful. Every part of you is beautiful, sweetheart. Just relax. It won't hurt. I'll never hurt you."

Tears sting in her eyes, and she takes a deep breath, willing herself to calm down and loosen that fist inside her. She's never wanted to have sex with him more than she does right now, and she's been waiting so long to feel his arms around her, his body pressed to hers.

I love him. I want this with him.

She moans, nuzzling and kissing his jaw and neck, her fingers buried in his hair. The warmth radiating from him, the warmth between them, is incredible. And he was just inside her.

She lets her legs fall open again, her lashes drifting down and a tear sliding down her cheek as he keeps whispering in her ear, soothing her, reassuring her. His palms slide down her sides, down to her hips, and she shudders, taking a deep breath and trying to relax herself again.

"I think," she whispers, and strokes her palm down his side too, to grasp his hip.

This time, he takes it slow and sweet and she sighs in relief when he meets no resistance. His thrusts are even and smooth, and when she nuzzles against him, brushing soft kisses against his shoulders and neck, he kisses and nuzzles against her too. She slowly brings her knees back up, and when she starts to buck under him, he grasps her hips and rolls over so she's on top.

She keeps her body pressed against his, rubbing her nipples against his chest and her clit against his skin, as she rides him. Her harsh panted breaths turn into moans of pleasure, and she trails kisses over his shoulders, shuddering every time the full length of his incredible cock is sheathed between her thighs.

"Yes, yes," she moans, his palms cupping her hips, his chest rising and falling rapidly under hers. "Oh God, you feel so good."

"So do you." He strokes the curve of her ass, and she feels his hips jolt once, as though urging her to move faster. "So hot and wet and perfect."

She flushes as she moves and sucks his earlobe into her mouth. "I want you on top of me," she moans. "Fill me up again, Ned... I..."

I love you.

She can't speak the words, she's too afraid, but just thinking them while they're like this makes her inner flesh pulse against his cock.

Ned groans in answer, and when he rolls over with her, she wraps her legs around him and angles her hips to make it easier for him. She toys with her breasts, her moans and cries of pleasure joining his as he moves rapidly inside her. When his thumb glances against her clit, she almost screams, her hips jerking up.

"Fuck," Ned growls, and then she's tipping her head back, screaming breathlessly, her eyes rolling back as they come together. For a long moment she can't move, her body still trembling from the intensity of her orgasm, and then Ned is relaxing against her and she moans, her legs falling open.

She doesn't ever want to part from him. She never wants this to end.

She brings her arms up, embracing him, stroking his hair. She can feel his breath against her damp skin, and it makes her shudder.

Slowly, slowly, she falls asleep under him, rousing only slightly when he moves off her. She cuddles against him, her thighs slick, completely spent. His arm slides around her and she knows there will be more nights like this one, lazy mornings, sweet kisses. It's okay if they never define it, as long as they can keep doing this.

He's given her what he's given no one else. That has to mean something.

But when she wakes in the morning, she doesn't want to believe it, but she's alone in her apartment. He left without saying goodbye.

She wants to believe it was an early appointment, some plausible explanation, but the lightness and joy that his presence gave her slowly begins to dim.

--

Three days later the envelope arrives, postmarked the day she woke up to find her bed empty. She recognizes the neat handwriting in the letter from the day they met, and she wants to believe it's good news, but her heart is still pounding as she begins to read.

Nancy,

I hate to do this this way, but I can't find the words when I'm with you.

I've finished my degree, and I'm leaving New York... today, in fact. By the time you read this, I'll be gone. It's always been my plan, to go somewhere else, to make a fresh start.

But I never planned on meeting you.

I mean that. I know you shrug off what I say sometimes, thinking it's just empty flattery, but it never has been. You've never been just another client to me, and I hope you've realized that. You've made me second-guess all of my plans.

I can see it in your eyes, in the way you smile at me, and it's addictive. I know that you have feelings for me. And it was the hardest thing in the world for me to leave your arms this morning.

If I could have, I would never have let you go. Because I feel the same way about you, too.

Nancy gasps, and tears fill her eyes. She has to blink them away to keep reading.

I've felt this kind of attraction to other women, the way I felt at our first meeting, but it's always faded. The more I found out about a woman, the more it dwindled. And then there was you... and that attraction didn't fade, not at all. It grew every time we saw each other, until it became so much more.

If I could see any future for us... but I've never had any illusions about this life I chose. I know that no matter how deep our feelings are for each other... well, I wish we'd met a different way, under different circumstances. Then I wouldn't have had to spend so much energy doing all I could to pretend. I can't count the number of times I had to stop myself from telling you that I loved you.

She gasps again, another pair of fat tears rolling down her cheeks.

Maybe that's why this is so hard. I don't want to tell you goodbye, but I know I have to. Maybe a part of me was hoping I'd find a way to never need to do it.

You deserve better than me. You always have. You'll find a guy who treats you like a princess, who shows you every day how much he loves you, who understands you and keeps you safe. And I can't be around to see it, because I'll be jealous of that man every single day. He'll make you blissfully happy, and as impossible as I know it is, I won't be able to help wishing he was me.

If I can give you nothing else, I hope I can give you this. You're worth it, Nancy. You're worth all of it. Frank wasn't meant for you, and I know that hurt, but I also know that you'll move on. You'll be happy again. Maybe you just needed my help to realize it.

I don't want to do this, but it's for the best. I've disconnected my number, and I'm in the process of deleting all the accounts I've maintained here in New York. You won't be able to contact me, and I won't contact you again. Otherwise, I feel like this pain will keep lingering for both of us.

I've never loved anyone the way I love you, and in another life...

And now I have to say what I've been dreading since the day we met. Stay safe, and know that you will find love again. I know you will.

Goodbye.

Ned

Nancy sinks to her couch, her heart beating so hard that she can feel it pounding.

Ned loves her. He loves her. She wishes that she'd found the nerve to tell him. Maybe he wouldn't have been able to say goodbye after that.

And she will find him, wherever he is, because this is what she does, who she is. He's practically guaranteed it.

He loves me.

She places her hand over her heart, feeling it pound against her fingertips.

"I'll find you," she whispers. "You're right about everything except that, Ned. And then we'll see if you'll be able to let me go."

Ned gives himself a week to move on.

Because he has, in every way he can. It was hard, but he knows he made the right choice, and eventually the pain will fade. It just hasn't, yet.

The day he scrubbed every trace of New York from his life, as much as he could, disabling his accounts, canceling everything, he went through his phone and deleted almost everything too. There's one photo, though, one he tells himself he overlooked while knowing it's a lie. It's a photo of him with Nancy, and she's beaming, and there's a light in her eyes as she looks at him that makes Ned shiver at the memory. Every day, somehow, he finds it displayed on his phone screen... and he can't seem to look away. And the pain's fresh, bright, breathtaking all over again.

She loved him, and he walked away.

I've let her go.

I have to let her go.

He's become incredible at compartmentalizing, and he shoves this behind a door in his mind and locks it, every morning, in every unguarded moment when he feels it again.

She's moved on. It's better this way, in the long run, to move on too.

Because if she knew the truth, I'd never see her again anyway. It's just easier like this.

He can hold onto what they had and it will stay sweet, but he took their relationship as far as it could go. He's at peace with it. If he tells himself enough times, it'll become true.

But every night, when he walks into his apartment, the delectable aroma of whichever of his mother's dishes is simmering in the crock pot hanging in the air, that posturing passes and he deflates some. He has his fresh start, it's dangerous to linger on what can never be, he's done the right thing, he...

He misses her like he's missed very few other people in his life. And fighting it is like fighting against an endless, ever-rising tide.

If she wanted to, she'd find me, and she hasn't.

Once he puts words to it, he spends the next day in a bleak, dark despair. Maybe he's just that good, maybe he was so effective at disguising himself... but she should have found him by now, if she wanted to. She hasn't. That's all the answer he needs.

She's moved on. She never felt the same way he did.

When he catches himself making excuses—maybe she was hurt while on the job, maybe she's too afraid to act on her feelings, maybe she's planning on surprising him with a visit—he's so angry and frustrated with himself that he knows this isn't healthy. From the beginning, it never has been. And he knew that all along.

When he wakes the next day, the words are in his mind, perfect and quiet, as though they've been waiting for him for hours.

I'll just make sure she's okay. That's all.

As a friend.

That seems safe. And it's all he can do to stop himself from reaching for the phone, because of course he remembers her number, of course he remembers all of it. The harder he tries to make himself forget, the more easily he remembers.

So he stops himself, giving himself the time to consider this, to think twice about it and talk himself out of it. He gets ready for work, meeting his own dark-eyed gaze in the mirror, and reminds himself that doing this could jeopardize everything. It's selfish, ill-advised, and will likely end in even more pain.

But by the end of his workday, his blood is fizzing with it, and it's all he can think about, ill-advised or not. When it comes to her, he's never been able to think very rationally. It's the same way he felt when he knew he would see her, after they'd started having sex—

And he can't think about this right now, or he'll definitely do something stupid. More stupid than what he's contemplating, anyway.

His accounts have been deleted, but he knows they will easily reactivate. His fingers are trembling slightly from adrenaline as he follows the steps to log into his account again, the one he used when he wanted to speak to her as himself, outside the fiction of their relationship.

He debates for a few minutes on what kind of message to send. He wants to be friendly, but not presume anything. But nothing sounds right, and in the end he settles on something simple.

Nancy?

His heart is pounding as he presses the button to send the message. He feels just as green and inexperienced as he did the first time he asked a girl out, desperate to do it right, terrified of rejection, unable to comprehend how amazing it would be if she actually said yes.

It won't hurt to be friends. This isn't that serious. It's just...

And there, the delusion falters. He and Nancy can't be friends. He wrote that in his letter. He will burn for her, and to speak to her again, to hear her voice or interact with her again, will only prolong this pain.

He's about to put his phone down and force himself to walk away, to do anything to distract him from watching the screen, when it lights up. Four minutes have passed since he sent the message.

NED! Oh my God! Where are you?

A grin spreads across his face. He wants to tell her, but he knows that would be a mistake. Not quite a thousand miles away, he replies. Are you all right?

Are you joking? Are you where you can call me? Please call me. PLEASE. I miss you so much.

I miss you too. Give me a minute.

Ned takes a deep breath and finds that he's grinning again. She misses him. She wants to hear from him. All his fears, all he couldn't quite make himself verbalize, collapse. He won't let himself hope too much, but he definitely has to calm down before he calls her.

And calling her is a mistake, too. The break was supposed to be clean. He's—

Fuck it. He doesn't care anymore. He crossed this line weeks ago, when she urged him to slide between her legs and come inside her.

"Hello?" Her voice is trembling when she answers the phone.

"Nan?"

"Ned!" She cries out his name and he feels an incredible bolt of arousal; all those times she's cried out his name... oh God, he wants to feel her soft skin under his fingertips so much that he aches with it. All the miles between them were meant to save them both, but he could almost fly to her right now.

"I... are you okay?"

"How—No. No, I'm not all right. I—I love you and I should have told you—were you serious? You're not in the city right now?"

He saw it in her eyes, but he's done all he could to convince himself it was his own imagination. To hear her say the words... his throat is thick. "I'm pretty far away," he says, once he can speak clearly again. "I... I love you too."

"Then why did you leave?" It's a plaintive cry, and in it he hears the same desperation he's felt over the stretch of days since last they saw each other. "No—Never mind. I... we can talk about it. Where are you? I'll come to you."

He smiles, but there's no humor in it. "It's not that easy," he murmurs.

If she knew, she wouldn't just walk away, she'd run.

"Please." She's fighting to keep her composure, too. He can hear the strain in her voice. "Please stop fighting me. We don't have to have sex, but I... I need to see you."

He closes his eyes. She'll run away. "I'm in Chicago," he admits.

She draws a quick breath. "I..."

If I were any closer I'd be in my car on the way to you right now. You do understand that, don't you? It was to save us both.

"I can fly in Friday night. Are you free?"

His eyes pop open. "Are you sure?"

She makes an impatient sound. "Of course. Dad would love to see me, even if you wouldn't."

"Of course I'd love to see you. I..."

"Okay." She sounds incredibly happy. "Okay. I mean, we can have dinner or something like that. I just need to see you. Oh my God, I've missed you so much. I think about you all the time."

An echo of who he was, with her, comes back to him. He almost speaks it. Have you touched yourself? Have you fucked yourself with that cold twin of my cock and fantasized that it was me?

But he knows how his nights have been, and the small boost to his ego wouldn't be worth cheapening this.

"I've thought about you all the time, too. I'm sorry I left the way I did."

"You should be," she says, mock sternly, but he can hear the teasing note in her voice. Then her voice softens. "I wish you'd talked to me."

"I couldn't," he admits. "I'm sorry."

"Well, we can talk about it Friday night, okay? Promise?"

"Yeah." He drags a hand through his hair. "Yeah, we will. Okay. I'll see you then."

"Okay. Um... I'll let you go, but can I use this number, can I message you? Until then?"

His heart feels both incredibly light and strangely heavy. "Yes. That's fine. Until then."

"Okay." She pauses. "Thank you. For calling. I don't know what you're going through, but... I've dreamed of hearing from you. I'm not exaggerating. And then I wake up and realize it's not true and it's all I can do not to cry. I love you. I love you so much. Please don't ever just walk away like that again, not without talking to me."

He smiles, sadly. "I won't," he murmurs. He's not foolish enough to ask her to do the same.

"I love you, Nan."

"And I love you," she says, her voice rising in soft, happy laughter, and he closes his eyes. He'll remember this forever. He'll torture himself with this forever, the sweetness of hearing her say it and mean it before she knows.

--

Ned changes clothes after work, scrutinizing his reflection, his heart pounding. He doesn't know why it's so important; in fact, a stubborn part of him wants to meet her wearing jeans and an old t-shirt. But he owes her more than that, to tell her the truth without clouding anything up.

He settles on a pair of black slacks and a slate-gray button-down, and when he looks at his reflection he's conflicted. It feels like the uniform he once wore, and he doesn't want tonight to feel that way, but he also very vividly remembers the confidence he felt when playing the role. He tells himself to relax and heads out, after giving his apartment one last glance. He's tidied up everything, and he's stocked up... not for tonight, just in case, but... just in case.

In spite of her protests, Ned parks at O'Hare and heads to where the arrivals are streaming toward the baggage claim or out to find transportation. Even carefully timed, he manages to arrive eight minutes early, and he feels every single second of it. He sees roses in a vending machine and considers them for a second before dismissing them as too trite. Worse than that, given everything, he just doesn't want to hurt her, even with so innocent a gesture.

She's wearing a blue wrap dress that emphasizes her slender figure, and her eyes are sparkling when she catches sight of him. She's wearing sensible flats, clearly to stay comfortable during the flight, and she's pulling a small carry-on behind her, but as soon as she can maneuver around the slower-moving travelers in front of her, she's practically running to him. And he's practically running to her, too.

Every bit of the wall he's built around this feels fragile as air.

"Oh my God," she whispers as she launches herself into his arms, and he holds her tight, closing his eyes. "Hey."

"Hey," he replies, giving her another squeeze before releasing her. "Good flight?"

She tilts her head. "It was fine. What's your last name?"

Ned opens his mouth and closes it again. "Uh, Nickerson," he admits. He feels reluctant to tell her anything true about himself, but he can't seem to stop himself.

She gives him a sunny smile. "So where did you settle for dinner?"

"I've heard good things about the Purple Pig, but I haven't had a chance to try it out. Have you been there?"

She opens her mouth as though to protest when he reaches for her bag, then takes his free hand in hers and walks beside him. "Stopped by once, but it was busy and we were hungry, so we ended up somewhere else. And that by itself is probably a ringing endorsement." She smiles. "Sounds great."

He puts her suitcase into his trunk, and once he slides into the driver's seat of his car, they look at each other and smile.

"You cut your hair," he comments.

She touches it self-consciously. "I wanted to look good for tonight," she says. "And yours looks good."

He smiles. He had his hair trimmed before starting his new job, but it's still recent. "I probably shouldn't say this, but... I thought you'd track me down." He avoids her eyes, concentrating on finding his way out of the parking lot.

"I started to," she admits. "I took a few steps and figured out that no one with the name you had given me had recently graduated with the degree you'd told me about. So I knew that one of those facts was a lie. And there were other steps I could take after that, but... I also had to believe that you meant what you said, that your note wasn't a veiled plea for me to disregard your wishes. What I would have done next would have been an invasion of privacy, and... well, not strictly speaking legal."

"Like what?"

He chances a glance over at her, and she's smiling slightly. "Facial recognition software," she says. "I had photos of you, and I could compare them with DMV photos, photos in any database my company could access. I generally only use that level of research when the target's high-value."

"But you didn't."

"Like I said, invasion of privacy. There's reasonable, and then there's... being a stalker. That felt uncomfortably like the latter."

He never considered that someone might take that step, and realizing it makes Ned feel cold. No matter how careful he is or has been, that would undo it all. At least she didn't do it, but if anyone else does...

She touches his hand, and he glances over at her again, trying to force his expression to be something close to normal. "Hey," she murmurs. "It's not the kind of thing anyone can do, but I would have done it if I was desperate. I won't deny that I thought long and hard about it. I wanted to see you again, so much. But not... not that way."

"Thank you."

She squeezes his hand. "And thank you for contacting me," she replies. "I was so afraid I would never hear from you again. And I just didn't understand... after... after all that we'd been to each other. I didn't want to think that it had just all been fantasy on your part."

"It wasn't. I never wanted you to feel that way. I should have been clearer..."

"Oh, your letter was clear. Mostly. But that doesn't mean I don't have questions."

He smiles slightly. "Wish I could say I'm surprised," he comments. "We have a lot to talk about."

The restaurant is bustling, full of happy chatter, and it only takes about ten minutes for a table to open up. Ned's decided to limit himself to one beer, which he finishes as the hostess seats them.

"So, why Chicago?"

He studies her beautiful face for a moment. She didn't track him down when she could have. When he hurts her, how will she respond? Will she turn inward, will she forget about him, or will she—

She knows his name now. Anything else would just take a matter of time.

"My parents live near here," he says. "Mom's so excited to have me back that she sends a week of meals home with me when I visit."

Nancy's eyes light up. "I thought I saw some flicker in your face when I told you that I was from this area," she says.

Ned chuckles. "And here I thought I was actually a decent actor," he comments, then glances down at his menu.

"You are. You just had the bad luck to date a private investigator."

He looks up and gives her a half-smile. "True."

By mutual consent, they stay away from olive-centric dishes, and decide on three just-exotic-enough plates to share. The beer isn't enough to make him feel much, just a little buzz for a few minutes, and she sticks to water. She tells him about a stakeout she went on last week, and he can hear the heightened energy in her voice.

She's nervous, and he understands. It feels like a first date again. In a way, it really is. At the end, he stripped away most of the layers between them, the layers separating escort from client, and that last time she was seeing more of him as he truly was than she ever had before. But maybe she doesn't understand that, and maybe it's still not enough for her.

He never wanted to be in this situation, and though a small part of him regrets it, he's overwhelmingly glad he decided to contact her. He never was truly able to say goodbye to her, not the last night they spent together, and the end will be bitter, but this part... this part is good. Seeing her laugh when he comments on the food, the way her fingertips stray ever closer to him.

Seeing her before he strips the rest of the lies away.

After their dinner—and the restaurant has earned its reputation, as far as Ned's concerned—they head back to his car, and she excuses herself before she calls her father. Apparently he knows she's visiting, and she says she's in the city and might come to his house late—or might decide to stay tonight and see him later. Ned hides his smile, even though his stomach is sinking. After all, she said they didn't have to have sex. He doesn't expect to have sex with her tonight. Or ever again.

He parks, and she looks over at him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Can I get my suitcase? I just want to freshen up some."

"Of course." He insists on taking it in for her, and he looks over at her while they're riding the elevator up. The color is up in her cheeks, and her eyes are still bright. He's always been weak when it comes to her, but he steels himself. Relationships are built on trust, and while it would be easier to just never talk to her about this... well, he can't do this that way. To anyone who meets him after this, that part of his life will just be glossed over, a vague side job he worked while making his way through grad school in New York.

But she's a part of it, and he's never been one for half measures.

"Wow," she murmurs, as he ushers her inside his apartment. The building is nice, newly remodeled; the carpets in the halls haven't suffered from years of foot traffic and spilled drinks. His apartment is freshly remodeled, too, and he's the first occupant since. The large windows give him a great view of Chicago's nightscape, and his kitchen is modest but well-designed. One advantage of the older skeleton is the higher ceilings, which his mother and father rhapsodized over during their first visit. It definitely gives the whole place a more sophisticated feel.

His mother also took it upon himself to decorate, in her delight that her son was moving back home. The furniture is comfortable neutral microsuede, and the living area is tied together with a warm, intricately patterned rug.

And Nancy is really the first person to visit, outside his immediate family. His mother is nearly finished with the guest bathroom, and only then, according to her, can he throw a wonderful housewarming party.

As soon as the door's closed, he turns to Nancy and she's already looking at him, and he doesn't give himself time to question it. He reaches for her and she for him, her arms sliding up around his neck, and he gives her a long, slow kiss, the kind he's been aching to give her since he first saw her at the airport. Ever since he left.

Her lips part under his and his tongue slides into her mouth and a powerful, terrible wave of need sweeps over him. The hair trigger of his libido has never been much of a problem, but it's making what he has to do tonight that much more difficult. When he realizes that he's backing her against the door, that his hand is sliding down to her hip, he forces himself to take a half-step back and release her.

"Sorry," he murmurs. "I'm sorry."

She takes a slow breath. The color has risen in her cheeks again. "I'm not," she says. "Um... I know I said we didn't have to, but... should I get more comfortable?"

He wants to tell her yes so badly that it's a physical ache. He wants to pull her dress off and strip her out of whatever's underneath, to feel her quiver against him, to hear her sob and cry out in pleasure. But he's not going to do that. He has to talk to her, and it will be humiliating for her if she's in lingerie when she storms out of his apartment, or if she has to change back into her clothes first.

"I don't know if that's such a good idea," he says, then meets her eyes. "I'd never tell you to be uncomfortable, but..."

She shrugs. "Okay," she says easily, although he can see a subtle wariness in her eyes. "I'll just take my makeup off, and I'll be right back."

Once she closes the bathroom door, Ned releases a long breath and runs his fingers through his hair. He takes off his socks and shoes, but nothing else; it's his place, and she'll be leaving, and they've never been in this situation before. He's always been able to leave.

She's actually here with him. It's hard to believe that this is real.

Nancy returns, her face scrubbed free of makeup, her flats in one hand and her bra dangling from the other. His gaze automatically goes straight to her chest, and he can see her nipples outlined by the clinging fabric. And that kind of distraction is definitely not what he needs right now, but he's not about to tell her.

"I'm sorry. Can I offer you something to drink?"

"What do you have?"

"Water, Gatorade, orange juice, beer. I think that's it."

"Water's fine. Thank you."

They sit down at either end of the couch, and she nods in thanks when he hands her the glass of iced water. She folds her legs under her. "So are you working somewhere doing counseling here?"

He nods. "I did a lot of shadowing and observed sessions when I was working toward my degree and certification, but I'm still in my probationary period at my new facility. Getting the hang of everything."

"Do you enjoy it?"

"Very much. It's hard work, but yes."

She smiles. "Why were you upset when you came to see me, that last time?"

He swallows. "I was in the process of moving to Chicago," he replies. "Wrapping up all the loose ends in New York and getting everything in place here. I was asked to do a party in Vegas. I'd done a party in Vegas before..."

"'Do' a party?"

"As an escort," he replies, without hesitating or softening it. "But it's more than that. At the parties, any escorts are expected to... basically be party favors, in a way. Drugs are rampant. Guests don't ask so much as demand. The pay is great, but the cost is great. I considered doing it, but in the end I turned it down.

"I was upset because another escort I know—well, more than just him, I knew a few of the guys who were hired for that party—ended up in the hospital. At that point he'd been hurt so badly that they weren't sure if he was going to pull through. I'm not even sure how much time passed between when he collapsed and when someone finally had the presence of mind to call for an ambulance.

"I felt guilty, and relieved, and guilty for feeling relieved. If I'd been there, maybe I would have been able to help him. He did pull through, by the way. He'll be okay, after rehab. But that's what was on my mind. Was it that obvious?"

She shakes her head. "I just saw hints," she says. "The expression on your face. The way... the way you responded to me. Almost like we were even, for once."

He just watches her, unsure of what to say next. He doesn't want to watch her beautiful face shutter, but he's very aware it will happen.

"Why did you leave the way you did?" She tucks that loose strand of hair behind her ear again, then gazes into his face. "Instead of giving us a chance, you ran. If we feel the same way about each other..."

It's time, and Ned can't believe how awful this feels. But it will be better for her, in the long run. "When I started working as an escort, I made a few decisions," he says. "One was that it wouldn't be forever, that it was a means to an end. Another was that once it was over, it would be completely over. I would close that part of my life off entirely and I'd settle down with a woman who had no idea I'd ever been an escort. I'd be overcautious when it came to protection. I'd make sure no part of that life could infect the one I was building for myself."

The faint smile on her face is entirely gone when he closes his mouth. "And I'm part of that life, so you had to cut me off," she murmurs.

He nods. "I wish that we'd met now," he says. "That you'd never have known."

She takes a long breath. "But what if... what are you afraid of? What's so wrong with me knowing?"

"That you don't," he replies quietly. "You don't know everything. And any woman who knew everything wouldn't want me."

She's taking a long sip of water, and she places her glass on the coaster with a quiet thunk. "And what is it that I don't know, that would completely destroy the way I feel about you?"

He resists the urge to run his fingers through his hair again. "I had male clients," he says, and despite everything he knows, even though he's not ashamed of it, he still has to force the words out. "About half were, in fact. The client who wanted to set up a more permanent arrangement with me, exclusive, was an older man. I had sex with them. Gave and received oral and anal sex. Always protected."

Her face is white; then the color begins to creep back. But her gaze on him is steady. "Ah," she murmurs.

He tilts his head slightly. "From some of what you said, early on, I had the impression that you thought my clients were exclusively female. You don't seem very surprised right now, though."

She glances down at her lap. He's so strangely disappointed that she hasn't reacted as he thought she would. "Uh, when we were at the wedding, in the gym together, a guy approached you," she says, and Ned realizes who she means. "He clearly knew you, and I was curious, and I know... I shouldn't have, but I paid close attention to your interaction with him. I've never suspected you were gay, but the guy who was talking to you, I thought he might be. And then... I was reading lips, and I saw him mention Fire Island, and I knew what that meant. You didn't react with—you didn't recoil or get angry, you acted like whatever he was saying was reasonable. And yeah, I'm kind of ashamed to admit it, but before then, you're right. I was naive, and I thought you only had female clients. It made me insanely jealous. And then, the men..." She shrugs. "Um, unless you're an incredible actor I know you enjoy straight sex, so are you... bi? Pan?"

Maybe he should be angry that she eavesdropped that way, but he's grateful that it softened the blow of his admission. "Neither. I'm straight. When I'm in a relationship with a civilian, as a civilian, my partner is always a woman."

She nods, studying his face. "And are you... you're only a therapist right now, not an escort?"

"I quit my job with the agency a few weeks before I left New York. Pretty soon after you booked that last appointment with me, in fact. I'm definitely not going to join another agency here. That's over."

Her blue eyes are searching his face. "And are you seeing anyone, here in Chicago? Have you found this girl you can settle down with, who will never know everything about you?"

The ghost of a smile flirts with his lips. "I'm not seeing anyone."

She releases a long, relieved breath. "Okay. I... this will sound ridiculous, but I realized that I wanted to be in a relationship with you, and that I would be insanely jealous if you were still working as an escort. Which made me feel conflicted and... narrow-minded. It's your life and your decisions. But the thought of you being with someone that way, sharing that intimacy with someone else, drove me crazy."

He shakes his head. "It's not intimacy. Not really."

She makes a quiet, almost frustrated sound. "I don't understand," she says, her eyes pleading. "I... I mean, if you're straight, and your job meant you had to be with men, it just... it seems like... like rape. I mean, unless you... enjoyed it?" She keeps her gaze on his face, even though her cheeks are blazing now.

Ned considers for a moment, how to say it. "I told you I have a high sex drive," he says, and she nods in agreement. "I do find sexual stimulation pleasurable. My first scheduled client was another man, so I approached another escort who agreed to show me what to do. What we did during that meeting was basically have sex. I'd never done that with another man before, and... well, close your eyes when someone's going down on you and it's whoever you imagine. Blow jobs, especially when the other person is experienced, are very pleasurable. I like having my prostate stimulated, just like most straight men do." He pauses. "I can find the sex act pleasurable without necessarily being very attracted to my partner. But it was a job. Having sex with other men, and women, was a job. Sometimes it was better than other times."

She doesn't say anything. She's just watching him. But she's not retreating, and her body language hasn't closed off.

He finally gives in and drags his fingers through his hair. "My first client, as I mentioned, was another man. He arranged for us to meet at a hotel room, which isn't unusual. When I walked in, I saw handcuffs and other devices—whips, cock rings, devices meant to delay orgasm and inflict pain. I'd been told about those things but I'd definitely never tried them, and if a client wants that kind of experience, I'd been told what guidelines to follow. But almost immediately this guy, who had about fifty pounds of muscle on me at the time, started trying to get the cuffs on me. He got one wrist, and these weren't play cuffs, the kind that can be easily removed. I managed to get out of there with a black eye and bruised ribs, and the cuffs still dangling from my wrist."

She opens and closes her mouth once, her eyes shining. "I'm sorry. Did he..."

Ned shakes his head. "He didn't get my clothes off, but my struggling was clearly something he found arousing. And agencies have policies about people like him. A sort of blacklist. I reported him to that."

"To the police?"

Ned shakes his head. "I'm—I was—in a quasi-illegal situation, if I could be so generous, and sex wasn't part of the contract, it's just assumed. I would have risked being arrested myself, and I definitely didn't want to draw attention to myself that way."

She takes another long sip of water, considering. "When you told me that nothing was off the table...?"

"Nothing is. Everything's open to negotiation. But I made it very clear after that point that I was not comfortable with being bound by a client. I have bound clients who requested it. And after that meeting, I also decided that I'd meet with clients at neutral locations first, and decline if they set off any warning bells. Before that first time, I would have... I wouldn't have called myself invincible, but that really was how I thought of myself. After that, I made sure to keep in shape, so I could defend myself. I did all I could to make sure I could stay as safe as possible."

She nods and gives him a wry smile. "You don't have to explain that," she murmurs. "I'm a woman. We try to do that basically all the time."

"Yeah."

"So... I hate that anything like that happened to you. And you were worried that a potential girlfriend would... react badly, to finding this out about you?"

He gazes at her for a moment, unsure of how to say it. "I'm damaged goods," he says quietly. "Any woman with any choice in the matter would choose someone else."

She moves closer to him, for the first time during their conversation. "I knew what you were when I fell in love with you," she says. "I knew what your life was." When he opens his mouth to protest, she holds up a hand. "Yeah, I didn't know the details, and I don't now. I don't know how many clients you had, and knowing... well, it wouldn't help anything. But if that part of your life is finished, then I don't need to know. The only thing that's important to me is this: do you want to be with me? Because if you do..." Her eyes are shining again.

He releases a frustrated growl. "It's not that simple."

"Yeah, it is. It's exactly that simple."

He shakes his head and stands, unable to sit still any longer. "Don't you get that you know?" he says, his voice almost harsh in his frustration. "That when you look at me, you'll see it. That you'll regret—that you would regret choosing me. That we could never be honest about what happened between us."

"That I was your client?" She stands too. "Do you honestly think I'd ever bring it up, after how ashamed I was of—needing an escort? It's just how we met. And yeah, I wish it had been different too, because I wouldn't have doubted it so much, I wouldn't have been so afraid that I was just making it up. I would have told you how much I loved you instead of being so chickenshit about it. But I'm not ashamed of you. I've done things I'm not proud of, things I wouldn't want to tell the people closest to me. Things that would make them see me differently. And that's what you're afraid of, isn't it. That the people who love you, who knew you here—your parents, your friends—will find out?"

He nods slowly, glancing away from her. "I know my parents love me, and I know they would... they wouldn't react well, to finding out what I've been doing in New York all this time."

She closes the distance between them and touches his hands. "And I promise you I won't tell them," she says. "I will never mention it again. And if you ever want to talk about it, I'll listen, and it won't upset me, because it's in the past. It's something that happened—probably?—before I even knew you. As long as you're committed to me, that's all that matters."

He searches her eyes, but he can't speak.

She clears her throat and glances down. "Okay, I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm sorry. I want to be with you so much. The past few weeks have been torture, being away from you. And if this is where you are, then this is where I want to be."

"Nancy—"

She reaches up and gently touches her thumb to his lips, and he gives it a gentle kiss. "And don't spout some noble bullshit about how you can't let me make some rash decision for you. I've been considering this for weeks now, before I knew you were here. I went to New York to be with Frank, and he's with someone else, and I've moved on. My family and my oldest friends are here, just like yours. My father would love to see me more often. Yeah, I'd need to wrap up my current cases, find a position at an agency here, but several investigators have told me they'd love to have me. As much as I hate trading on the cache of my father's name, it has its advantages. I have a reputation here that I had to earn in New York."

She drops her hand and he just gazes at her.

"So what else?" She folds her arms, gazing up at him, resolve in her eyes. "What else do we need to talk through before you let yourself start changing your mind?"

He can't think. Everything he's known and believed for so long... doesn't matter. She knows and it doesn't matter.

"So all those clients... you don't care."

She shakes her head. "As long as they're in the past, I don't," she replies quietly. "And it's, I'm ashamed to admit, kind of an ego boost to know that you're so experienced, and that you'd fall in love with me. I feel very much the opposite of experienced. You seem so confident and... just so thoroughly incredible when we're in bed. Like you know what I need and want before I do. Has that always been... just part of the job?"

He shakes his head. "I mean, yes, I have a lot of experience and I know how to respond to verbal and physical cues. But after we came back from the wedding, and even before... I broke so many of the rules when it came to you. I swear to you, before you and I met, my clients really were just a job to me. I felt completely lost and like I'd failed somehow, when I realized I was falling for you. But I couldn't stop. I couldn't stay away from you, and I didn't want to. That last time, when we had completely unprotected sex?"

"Mmm," she agrees, her eyes glowing as she gazes up at him.

"That broke so many rules. But I wasn't an escort then, and you weren't my client. And there are rules against escorts dating clients, too. It's to protect us as much as it is them."

She steps close to him, until their bodies are almost touching. "Fantasizing about each other," she murmurs, still holding his gaze. "Crying out your name when I come. Feeling your tongue against my clit and that alone almost being enough to bring me to orgasm. I don't give a fuck what you've done; I care about what kind of man you are. And the man I've come to know... what I need to know is what was real. Was that last time real? When you told me that you'd never hurt me and I was beautiful, and then you put your cock inside me and made love to me until I cried?"

He searches her eyes, then nods slowly. "That was the beginning," he whispers.

"I held myself back, so many times, from asking for what I really wanted," she says, and when she takes a breath he can feel her chest brush so slightly against his own chest. "Because it felt like I didn't have a right. I never wanted to make you feel uncomfortable, or obligated to do something you didn't want to do." She reaches up and smooths his hair, her palm brushing against the side of his face in a gentle stroke. "What's your fantasy, Ned?"

"To fuck you bareback from behind until you ejaculate," he murmurs, his gaze locked to hers. "I wasn't lying when I told you I've never had unprotected sex. The first time, the only time before you, I was with a girlfriend, I'd gotten the tip in before we pulled back and realized we needed to use protection. With you... God, it's like fire and gasoline."

She nods, and her voice is tender and understanding. "You said you like having your prostate stimulated. Is that something I can do?"

He nods. "Just a finger is all it takes, and some lube."

"That bullet you used on me?"

"That would work too. But there are other toys meant for that kind of use that are safer."

"Maybe we could go by a shop tomorrow, unless you have some toys here?" She raises her eyebrows.

He smiles slightly and shakes his head. "I have condoms and lube. The rest of it, I threw away when I left."

"Okay." She touches his cheek again. "You asked about anal. Is that something you want to do with me? Or for me to do... with you?" The color washes her cheeks again, but her gaze is steady.

He shakes his head, then reaches for her hand and sits down on the couch again. He's finally starting to believe that maybe, maybe she's not going to walk away. "I've received it plenty, and I'm fine with that never happening again. And my size means it's uncomfortable for most people to receive anal sex from me safely. If you were interested, I would train you. I've trained people before."

Her blush deepens a little, but she doesn't look away. "You said it takes a set of graduated dildos," she remembers.

He nods. "Like I said, I've trained men, but I've also been asked to do therapeutic sessions with people recovering from sexual trauma. One woman—her vagina was particularly tight, and she didn't want to have surgery, but it meant having sex was traumatic for her. Her therapist contracted with me to help with that. We started with a toy that was no bigger in girth than your index finger."

She glances down at her hand, then back up. "God. No wonder it was awful for her."

He nods. "The thing about that kind of therapy—it's safest with someone like me, someone who knows what the boundaries are and will back down, no questions asked. It involves a lot of asking for consent and receiving explicit consent to move forward, and the client's knowledge that I'm not going to become angry or confrontational if that consent isn't given. I show—I showed those clients what intimacy is, what it feels like, until they were comfortable. It can be very hard for a woman who's been through that kind of trauma to relax enough to experience orgasm, although some women go the other way, and become hypersexualized."

Nancy nods, still meeting his gaze. "So you... you ended up having sex with her?"

Ned shakes his head. "Not like that. I trained her to take a dildo that's the size of an average cock, because that's what she wanted. I mimicked thrusting so she would get used to that, and she reached orgasm that way. And that was our last session. I've heard the therapist recommends the client keep using that toy, or a similar toy, just to keep the progress. If that makes sense. But no, it would have taken far longer for me to get her to where she could comfortably have penetrative sex with a man of my size."

She smiles. "So modest," she murmurs. "I'm teasing. You are... formidable."

He chuckles at that description.

"Are you doing something like that here? I know you said you aren't... being an escort anymore, but that's therapeutic?"

He shakes his head. "No. If I treated a client who needed that, I would find someone else I trusted to handle that part. Clients already have a difficult time not attaching emotionally to therapists. Adding physical, pantomimed intimacy would be disastrous."

She hesitates. "Were you ever—pantomiming, with me?"

"No. Mmm." He glances away for a second, considering. "Certain things, I can do on autopilot. I know it's probably hard for you to understand, but it's just a job to me—with other people, anyway. Of course muscle memory kicks in. I know from experience what provokes reactions in most women. I did date while I was an escort, and it's a different environment, but I also knew it wouldn't last with those women... and it was very strange, when I let my mind wander and realized I was doing it. It happened with women I didn't feel a very strong connection to, whose attraction to me seemed far more physical than anything else.

"So, yeah, I take some of what I've learned and use it, but the experience is entirely different. I care about whether I'm getting you off because it gets me off to see you that way. With other clients, it's just... a series of check boxes."

"So you suggested that we could have sex before we were on our trip..."

"Because I wanted to. Because I wanted you in a way I'd never wanted anyone before. And almost from the beginning, I couldn't believe it was happening to me. I actually fucking asked you to date me, and that's something I just don't do, that I never did with any client. Of course sometimes escorts develop a strong attraction to clients, but it's rarer than you might think. And it's something we talk about with such derision. Only a truly pitiful human being would make that kind of mistake."

Nancy shakes her head. "Which you aren't. It was just..."

"Like a lightning bolt," he whispers.

She nods. "Yeah."

When she pushes herself up onto her knees and brushes her lips against his, he can't help thinking it just can't be this easy, but his own muscle memory has kicked in and he wants her. Because she still, against all the odds, wants him. His hand slides up her leg, under the hem of her dress, and he finds her wearing lace panties; he slides his hand under them and cups her bare hip. They're kissing deeply, and she moans against his mouth as she moves closer to him. He shoves the side of her panties down a few inches and she makes a needy sound that has him straining against his pants.

She breaks the kiss and moves to suck his earlobe into her mouth. "Can we go to bed?" she pants. "I want you to fuck me like you said. I want to give you what you want, baby, everything. Please..."

He knows he shouldn't. But he grabs her hips and moves her onto his lap, and she strokes herself happily against his erection a few times before he picks her up. She presses kisses against his neck and if she were drunk—but she's not, she's sober and she wants him, even knowing. And he carries her to his bed, closing the door behind them, even though they're alone.

As soon as he puts her down, she reaches for the hem of her dress, raising her eyebrows slightly, and he smiles. She strips it off and drops it, leaving her in panties and nothing else, her beautiful breasts already hard-tipped. He starts to rapidly unbutton his shirt, holding up a hand before he goes to his bathroom and returns with a towel.

She grins. "I've missed you so much."

"Have you still been touching yourself and thinking about me?"

Her smile falters, and she takes a breath. "Only a few times. It hurt too much... when I thought I might never see you again."

"Yeah. I know what you mean." He unfastens his pants, pushing them down with his underwear. "I'm sorry. I never wanted to hurt you."

"I know." She wriggles out of her panties. "Does it turn you on to watch me masturbate?"

"Of course it does. And it'll be easier for us to do this if you have another orgasm first, but I want to be the person to give it to you."

Her grin returns. "I am one hundred percent okay with that."

They're both naked, but he stops, just gazing at her. "I've never had any doubt that our physical attraction to each other is pretty much off the charts," he says. "But, this... are you sure you want this?"

She nods. "Completely."

"And... when you were talking about... moving here..."

She nods. "I don't mean here as in your apartment or anything, but I do want to date you. For real, this time. I want to learn who you are here. I want to let myself fall in love with you all over again, without doubting everything between us." She pauses, glancing away and then back up into his eyes. "I've had sex with men other than you. Do you hold that against me?"

He shakes his head. "Of course not."

"Just like I don't hold the circumstances you were in when we met, against you." She stands and gazes into his eyes. "I wouldn't. You say it was a job; it was a job. Are you—could we date?"

He nods slowly. "We can date. I just... I thought..."

She reaches up and cups his cheek, still holding his gaze. "I guess the only way I can show you that I'm not going to reject you is time," she says softly. "Give me a chance. The past few months have been very confusing for me. I was falling in love with a guy who was unavailable for me in every way I could possibly imagine, and I felt like I was being a total idiot because everything between us was a lie. And I felt insanely jealous when I thought of you with someone else, because... I can't imagine doing what you did. I don't know if it's because I'm a woman, or because... well, anyway. Just because I can't imagine doing it doesn't mean I'm going to fault you or be disgusted by you. Okay?"

"It was just a job, with them. Not with you. Never with you."

She smiles. "And this is the only time you've ever felt this way..."

"Yeah. I wish we'd met a different way. Because once I realized what was happening to me... God, I felt like a teenager. Part of me still does. My blood fizzes when I know I'm going to see you. I had to stop myself from calling you so many times while I was here getting my life together—because, God, I would have called you and had phone sex with you every night. I was addicted to the sound of your voice, the way you'd say my name. I wanted you so much. I always have."

Her eyes are gleaming. "Me too," she murmurs, then sits down on his bed. "Make love to me, Ned."

When he moves onto the bed with her, she's already reclining onto her back, bending her knees and opening her legs to him. "What is it that you told me, that it involves both people being present and into it?"

"Yeah." He moves over her and she smiles up at him, but her eyes are still bright. "I love you. I've wanted to tell you so many times. And I... I couldn't have had sex with you the way I did, if I hadn't felt that way."

He nods, and when he lowers his hips to hers, he feels the shudder of anticipation and need that travels down her spine. "I love you," he whispers. "And it killed me to think of someone else making you happy."

She reaches up and slides her arms around his shoulders, her thighs cradling his hips. "No one else could have," she whispers. "Not after you."

He brings his mouth down to her ear. "You feel perfect around me," he whispers. "I want you, Nan, I crave you. And I would never have found anyone else who made me feel this way."

She arches her hips, sighing as he slowly, deliberately, rocks his hips against hers. "So wet," he whispers. "Oh God..."

"I love the feel of you inside me," she whispers. "Please..."

He worships her with kisses, nuzzling against her breasts, suckling each nipple to a wet, rosy point until she's panting and rubbing herself against him. He strokes her hips, kisses her belly button, and smiles when she parts her legs wide, moaning softly in pleading need. He licks the crease where her thigh joins her torso, breathing her in, and she quivers, her fingertips tracing against his shoulder blades.

"Do you want this?"

"Yes," she moans immediately, her fingers threading through his hair. "Oh my God, yes."

"You like it, huh." He rasps his tongue once over her clit and she sucks in a sharp breath, her thighs quivering.

"Like it? Holy fuck." He licks her again and she releases a sobbing sound that has his erection throbbing. "You're... incredible, baby..."

"You're beautiful." He licks her again, then traces his fingertips over her, teasing her with gentle strokes as he keeps licking her clit. She responds eagerly, and when he takes a second to glance up, he sees that the hand that's not buried in his hair is toying with one of her breasts. When he sucks her clit into his mouth and begins to suckle, she cries out, releasing his head so she can pinch and fondle both breasts. He can make out some of what she's babbling, but she's breathless and sobbing, and her hips are jolting.

"Come," he whispers, going back to licking the sensitive nub of flesh for a moment. "Come, sweetheart."

"I—" She shrieks, her back arching, when he gently bites her. He follows up with suckling and she releases ever more desperate groans, especially when one of his fingertips ends up gliding between the slick lips of her sex, drawing down to the pool of warm arousal gathering at her entrance.

"Yes, yes," she sobs, and he plunges the full length of one finger inside her. She cries out, her inner flesh rippling around the intrusion, and he turns it over and begins to tap against her g-spot as he keeps stimulating her clit.

"Ned!" She screams as she comes, and he slides another finger inside her, mimicking the thrusting that would bring him to his own orgasm. She's restless under him, seeking the height of her arousal, and he replaces his mouth with his thumb, rapidly flicking her clit as he keeps fucking her with his fingers. She screams again and rocks her hips and then she's perched over the towel he spread over his bedsheet, riding his fingers.

"Inside me," she sobs, begging him. "Oh God please..."

The wave of pure, overwhelming arousal that washes over him has him groaning. He grips her hips and brings her up so she's on all fours, and she glances back at him, face flushed, her blue eyes bright.

"Like this?"

"Yes." He's not sure if he can do it this way, if he can make her come again so quickly, but he's more than willing to try. As always, he feels the strong impulse to put on a condom, but the realization that he'll be able to feel her without it makes his cock bob in response.

He guides himself between her legs, then moves into her in a long, rapid thrust, and both of them groan. "Can I move?" she gasps.

"Please," he replies, and soon he's slamming against her as she rapidly thrusts her own hips. The only sound she's making now is a long groan of pleasure, punctuated by sobs and gasps. He brings his hand between her hips and she's panting in anticipation for a moment before he stops teasing her and presses his thumb hard against her clit.

"Oh my God!" she cries, and he feels the slick rippling of her inner flesh against his cock. "Fuck, yes!"

You like to be hurt a little, don't you.

He flicks his thumb in rapid, rough strokes against her clit, and when she shifts the angle of her hips on their next thrust, as she sheathes him again he feels the spongy texture of her g-spot against the tip of his cock. She sucks in a breath and screams again, and Ned realizes the moans he's hearing are coming from his own throat. There's something incredibly animalistic about this, and he loves all of it.

She starts to sob something incoherent, and when he keeps hitting her g-spot, she buries her face against his pillow and screams loudly into it. Her entire body shudders, and she gasps out something that sounds like it's between a plea and a warning, and then—

"Fuck," Ned snarls as she clamps down against his cock and he feels her orgasm again, in a gush of warm fluid against him. He cries out too, and she quivers when he rubs against her clit again, her inner flesh gripping his cock tightly. She screams when he thrusts again, shuddering violently against him.

Letting himself come inside her, feeling the slick warmth of her directly against his cock, is incredible. It just feels so right. In the wave of euphoria just after, he's panting against her skin, kissing her shoulder blades, gently rubbing slow circles against her clit. She's sobbing brokenly and Ned slides his arms around her, rolling them onto their sides, his cock still between her legs. She trembles and her hair is warm under his lips.

"Shh, shh," he whispers, and when his lips brush against her earlobe she shudders hard again. "Are you okay?"

"Mmm. Sorry." When she shifts, the sensation is enough to make his eyes roll back. "I... I don't know why I can't stop shaking..."

He smiles. "Because it was that good, I hope," he murmurs, then urges her to turn in his arms. She immediately nestles against him, still trembling a little.

"Is that what you wanted?"

"Yeah," he murmurs, stroking her back. "Seriously, are you all right? Did I hurt you?"

"No." She moans softly when he draws one of her legs between his, tangling them together. "It was so good. I wanted to give you what you wanted."

He smiles. "For a start," he murmurs. "I'm glad it was okay."

She chuckles. For a while they just relax against each other, her thighs still wet with arousal and her second orgasm and his semen, their skin damp with sweat.

"Am I enough for you?"

She isn't looking at him, and Ned moves back a little, gently lifting her chin so he can see into her eyes. "Where did that come from?"

She closes her eyes. He can still feel the minute shudders against her skin, but at least she's relaxing. "I feel very inexperienced sometimes when I'm with you," she whispers. "And... during the wedding, I... I felt aroused all the time. I wanted to have sex with you all the time. I'd never felt that way before." She opens her eyes, and he sees the fear and vulnerability there. "But I just don't know..."

He kisses her temple. "If you're enough for me? Is this because... yes, at the time I was seeing you, I generally had appointments with other clients several nights a week. I don't have that now. I haven't been trolling bars every night and bringing strangers home because I'm insatiable."

She smiles slightly. "You're sure?"

"I wasn't like that before and I'm not now. Trust me, my hand has been a poor substitute, but it's worked."

She holds his gaze for a moment. "Have you had... threesomes? I mean, is that something you want?"

"Is it something you want?" he asks, keeping his face from showing any surprise. He hasn't expected that of her, but it's not as though it's impossible.

"I asked first."

He blows out a long breath. "I've been involved in threesomes, yes, but as an escort."

"Like, with two women?" A blush is rising in her cheeks. "I've heard a lot of guys want something like that..."

"Do you really want to hear this?"

She pauses. "I think so."

He smiles, briefly, humorlessly. "A woman hired me once to be in a threesome with her and her best friend. She told me it was a gift she wanted to give her husband for their anniversary, but she wanted to have a trial run. After the first few minutes, I just eased back a little and realized it was an excuse for her to have sex with her best friend. I sat back and let them do that. They wanted me to watch... and I wouldn't doubt that if she actually went through with it, that's what happened when she gave her husband that 'present.'"

She searches his eyes. "Did you like that?"

He shrugs. "I wasn't actually involved, and they were enjoying themselves. I wouldn't have asked for it. And yeah, I've been hired for other threesome configurations too. It was a performance. I've never been in a threesome with someone I was dating. I've never wanted to. So I'll ask again, is that something you want?"

She shakes her head. "I feel like I have to do something, to be something different to keep you... but you've already done so much..."

It's his turn to search her eyes. Then he slides his hand down over her stomach, watching her reaction as he moves his palm to cup her sex and gently penetrates her with two fingers. She's stopped quivering, but at the feel of his fingers against her still-slippery inner flesh, she sucks in a breath, her blush returning as her eyes widen.

"Does the thought of having two cocks inside you make you wet?"

She whimpers, and he feels her inner flesh constrict in reply.

"Mmm."

"What is this, a very personal lie detector?"

"Something like that." He keeps his fingers still. "What I do, what I did, as an escort, wasn't personal. If a married person wanted to hire me, that was his or her decision. And yeah, I know guys—and women—back in New York who would be happy to join us for a paid session. Is that what you want?"

She shakes her head, meeting his gaze. "I don't want to have sex with anyone else. I... I don't know why..."

"Because you're attracted to me and I have my fingers inside you. And what I just talked about is something you've been told is forbidden and dirty and maybe incredibly hot. Of course you're going to react to all that." He leans down and kisses her earlobe, his fingers still inside her, and she shudders at the feel of his breath. "You asked me about anal. Do you want me to train you to take my cock that way?"

She whimpers, reaching up to slide her arms around him. "I... I don't know," she moans.

"If I saw another man's hands on you this way, I'd want to kill him," Ned whispers harshly. "You're mine... oh, I want all of you. And I can fuck you both ways, baby. I can buy a strap-on that will let you ride my cock and the dildo at the same time. It can be as big or as small as you want, and dripping with lube. Mmm," he growls, as she clenches around him again. "You like that idea, huh."

"I don't want anyone else," she whimpers, and presses kisses against his jaw, holding him tight as her hips begin to rock in renewed arousal. "I don't want anyone else in bed with us. I want you to want me as much as I want you..."

He moves and slants his mouth over hers in a long, deep kiss, the taste of her arousal still on his tongue, and she moans as she rolls onto her back, cradling him between her slick thighs. "I already do," he whispers, sliding his fingers out of her and rubbing the slick warmth of her arousal over her clit again as he glides smoothly inside her.

She cries out softly, wrapping her legs around him. "Like this," she moans. "Please, like this."

He nods. "Like this," he murmurs, kissing her again, settling into a slow, steady rhythm as he moves in and out of her. "So sweet and hot and tight..."

She shifts the angle of her hips and cries out silently, arching under him, and he can feel her quiver with each stroke of his fingertips over her still-sensitive clit. "I love you," she gasps.

He smiles, shifting the angle of his own hips and moving even deeper, feeling her constrict around him as she accepts him, over and over again. "And I love you," he whispers.

"I didn't expect to see you again so soon," her father comments, standing as Nancy pulls out the chair across from his. "But I'm delighted. And you look like you have news."

"I do?" Nancy feels heat rise in her cheeks and forces herself to calm down with a chuckle. "I... well, let's at least wait until we've ordered drinks."

Is she glowing? Probably. There's something about waking up in Ned's bed instead of her own, wrapped in his arms. Knowing that he isn't just going to walk away, because she's in his home instead of her own. The easy affection between them... she wanted it for so long, and now it feels like she's wandered into a dream. To know that he's here in Chicago, that he's not an escort anymore, and that he wants to be with her is more than she ever trusted herself to wish. She knows he's still afraid to trust this, but he loves her. And oh, oh God, how she loves him.

"Are you in town on a case?"

Nancy shakes her head, still glancing over the menu. She's pretty much already decided on a salad, especially since she's having dinner with Ned. "Um... I know I mentioned something about a long vacation here, when we saw each other at the wedding."

Her father's eyes light up a little. "Is that what this is?"

"Not quite. But the wedding, and everything... I guess I finally realized that I'd like to come home."

Her father's mouth opens, but just then the waitress arrives to take their lunch order. When they're finally alone again, she can see some slight trepidation on her father's face.

"Come home for a visit?"

She smiles. "No. For good. Or at least for a few years. I do love New York, but there's just not as much there for me anymore as there was."

Her father pauses. "Your date at the wedding..."

"Actually finished his degree and found a job in Chicago."

Her father relaxes a little. "Ahh. Okay."

Nancy shakes her head. "I've already done the whole 'follow a guy just because I'm in love with him' thing. I was seriously considering moving back here before I found out Ned—would be here too."

"And you would have come back even if Ned was still in New York?"

She takes a moment to consider how to say it. "Things were kind of up in the air between us," she admits. "I wasn't sure if it would work out, and the thought of coming home was comforting."

"Things were up in the air?"

She smiles. "I've talked to him about seeing each other, and we both want to keep doing that. I was just afraid that he didn't feel the same way about me that I did about him."

Her father raises his eyebrows. "From the way I saw the two of you at the wedding, I didn't think there could be any doubt about how he felt about you."

She glances down. "It's hard when no one's had the courage to say it yet," she murmurs.

"Then I'm glad you two have," her father says. "And if it gets you back here... Well, that's not true. I want you to be happy, sweetheart. I want you to find a man you can settle down with. And I don't want something to go so wrong that you feel compelled to leave the state again."

Nancy smiles. "This is home," she says. "Besides, after all the guys I dated back in River Heights, no one can poison it for me. It would've already happened."

"Good point." Her father gazes into her eyes. "So what kind of job did Ned accept?"

She was nervous when Ned and her father met; she's nervous again now, even though what was true then isn't true anymore. Ned is no longer an escort, and their relationship isn't based on a payment plan. But she supposes it's some of the same anxiety Ned feels too, over his parents somehow finding out how he financed his education and life in New York. "Therapy. He just finished his master's degree in it."

Her father's eyebrows go up again, and he nods. "I know that can be very challenging. I'm kind of surprised that he didn't opt to stay in New York, so he could charge impressive fees for it."

"He's not in it for that. Plus, his parents live near here too, and he wanted to be near them again."

"So he's in it for the long haul."

Nancy nods slightly and smiles. "I hope so."

--

"Tell Bess and George hi for me."

Nancy laughs. "I will. Oh, it'll be nice to see them more than once or twice a year, if I'm lucky." Ned gestures for her to go into his apartment first, and follows her in, bolting the door behind them.

"Should I get comfortable?"

A smile turns up one corner of his mouth as he lets his gaze travel down and back up. She's wearing a soft jersey dress in teal; honestly, she couldn't be more comfortable. "You can take off your shoes," he allows. "But wait on the rest."

She nods, raising an eyebrow slightly as he heads toward the kitchen. "Want something to drink?" he calls.

"Just water, please." The wine they enjoyed with dinner has left a pleasant warmth in her, but given what they talked about earlier... she wants to be aware of what's going on.

Her sandals are off and her legs tucked up beside her on the couch when he returns. "Want to watch a movie?"

She smiles and nods. "At least for a while."

He places the glass in front of her on the coffee table, on top of a coaster, and picks up the remote. "For a while. Hmm..." He settles back, sliding his arm around her shoulders, and Nancy settles against him. For the rest of her visit, by some unspoken agreement, they've decided to treat it like they would have when he visited her back in New York. Once she's back for good—well, she meant it when she said she wanted to date him again, but it's incredibly easy to just fall back into the same familiar patterns of their relationship. What she wants, though, is the emotional intimacy he had to deny her before.

Not that it feels as important when they're like this. She can remember many, many other boyfriends who were far less transparent with her. And none of them were nearly as attractive or had such explosive chemistry with her.

"So, what we were talking about this morning," he says lightly, when they're both ignoring the movie he's tuned to. "Still interested?"

She nods. Thanks to their previous relationship, Ned is almost frighteningly aware of her sexual fantasies—the ones she's mentioned, anyway. He's paid a ridiculous amount of attention to her, to remembering. This morning, he asked a few more questions just to get a clearer idea of what she wanted.

"We need to talk about some fine print, especially in this situation," he says.

"Like a fun safe word?"

Ned chuckles, but there's no humor in it. "I have no problem with that, but safe words are a game. If anything I do tonight makes you uncomfortable, or hurts, or you want to change what I'm doing, you can just say 'stop' or 'no' and that'll be it. Or just tell me what's making you upset. Have you ever been sexually assaulted?"

Her immediate impulse is to shake her head, but she stops to consider. "Other than groping and lewd comments, no," she says. "Nothing... nothing that I wasn't able to defend myself against, or get away from."

"Well, tonight... you won't be able to get away."

Her inner flesh clenches at his words. "Unless I tell you to stop."

"Right." He strokes her shoulder, the top of her arm. "While we're doing this I'll ask if it feels good, if you feel okay. If you don't reply, or if you say 'no,' we stop."

She looks over at him, acutely aware that they're so close they could easily kiss. "I thought part of domination would be that you were totally in control."

He shrugs his other shoulder, gazing at her too. He focuses on her lips for a few seconds before responding. "I'm not a true dominant," he says. "You could be a true submissive, but for me to interact with you that way is—a performance. What you asked for, what we'll do tonight if you still want to, is more about your response to stimulation. Specific stimulation."

She's sure he can feel the soft trembling that passes over her. "So you don't really want to do this?"

She's keeping her tone light. Still, he leans forward and kisses her, deeply, thoroughly. She's panting when their lips part with an audible pop, and she whimpers in surprise when he pulls her onto his lap.

The feel of his breath against her neck makes her head loll, and she slides an arm over him just to keep her balance, her lashes fluttering down. "What I want," he whispers against her skin, almost growls, "is to make you come, beautiful. Hearing you cry out my name while you orgasm turns me on. Feeling you come turns me on."

"But what do you want?" She wants desperately to take her clothes off and open his pants.

He grins, but his eyes are dark with need for her. "What I just said. What we did last night. What you need. Next time you can tie me to the bed and ride me hard, if you want. But tonight I want to give you what you've only dreamed about."

It's hard for her to focus on anything beyond him, to form coherent words. "I've only wanted it with you," she whispers. "What's wrong with me?"

"Have your previous partners been focused on their own pleasure? Is that why you want so desperately to know what I want? I want you, Nancy. I want the incredible joy of feeling you come around me. It's intoxicating. We'll have time for the rest later." She sees a hint of doubt in his eyes, at that. Some part of him may be convinced that once she's had time to think this through, she will change her mind about wanting to be with him, dealing with the baggage of their past.

She touches his lips. "I want to be different," she whispers. "I want to be the one who doesn't leave, who you don't leave."

He smiles slightly. "Then I guess we'll have to prove it to each other, won't we," he murmurs.

When she moves, preparing to straddle his lap, he shakes his head. "When you're ready for what we talked about, take all your clothes off," he says. "If you'd rather wait, if you'd rather that we didn't go through with that tonight, just let me know."

She takes a breath. "And you're okay with... that."

"I'm okay with either. Either thing you want to do. Like I said, if it gets you off, then I want to do that with you in a safe way."

Her eyes sting a little. "I couldn't have trusted anyone else to do this," she whispers.

He kisses her neck again, and she wants to melt against him. "If you want it, take your clothes off," he whispers against her skin. "Otherwise I'll just take you to bed when you're ready and we don't have to do that. We can sleep."

He's kissing her collarbone when she brings her head up again, trying to focus. "If I... move my flight to Monday, so we can have another night together, would that be okay? Or do you have a lot of work to do?"

"Stay here with me. I'll come back after lunch tomorrow and we can spend the night together." He toys with the neckline of her dress, his fingertips stroking the skin of her shoulder. She can feel that he's aroused, and he releases a sigh when she reaches down and begins to slide her dress up.

When she's naked, Ned smiles but doesn't move to take his own clothes off. Instead he produces a sleep mask.

Nancy looks from the mask to Ned's face. "Hmm?"

"If you're comfortable with it. Just so none of the surprises are spoiled."

"Surprises?" She reaches for the mask but doesn't put it on, just keeps gazing at his face.

"I took a little shopping trip. If you don't want to wear it, you don't have to." He searches her face. "I think you know this, but if at any point you feel uncomfortable with what we're doing, I won't be upset or angry at you for wanting to stop."

She glances down at the mask. "I guess this just kind of fits in with my idea of... you actually being dominant."

"Good." Ned smiles.

Nancy puts the mask on, fighting off a wave of nervousness. Whatever surprises he has planned, she's sure they won't be intentionally unpleasant.

"I'm going to pick you up so you don't stumble on the way there. Okay?"

She nods, brushing her hair back, and giggles when he slides his arms under her and picks her up. The fabric of his shirt is warm against her bare skin. "Mmm. Now I'm very curious," she admits.

"Which is exactly what I wanted," he points out. He pulls open his bedroom door, and after a few more steps, he's gently lowering her to the bed. "All right... put your wrists together and raise your arms over your head."

She feels another frisson down her spine, but this one is more arousal than nervousness. Slowly she obeys his request, unable to ignore how vulnerable it makes her. While her legs are still free, she also can't see what he's doing or where he is... and she was telling the truth when she said she couldn't trust anyone else to do this. Maybe she's never been sexually assaulted when in this situation, but she's definitely been tied up and abused before.

She's waiting for the cold curve of play handcuffs to click around her wrists, but instead she feels a slender strip of firm plastic. A zip-tie. She shivers, her stomach tightening with anxiety... but her clit feels sensitive in anticipation, too. He wasn't joking when he said she wouldn't be able to easily get away. She knows a few tricks to get out of zip-ties, but they aren't as easy as handcuffs. He hasn't had her slide her wrists between the slats of a headboard, either.

How many times has he done this? With how many other...

Clients. She relaxes a little when she remembers that. It's in the past, and she can't deny that what he learned as an escort has given her incredible pleasure.

"All right?" he murmurs, after he's used another tie to secure her bound wrists to something else, probably his headboard. She gives an experimental tug, and finds absolutely no give in the binding around her wrists.

"Yeah," she replies softly.

"Feeling aroused?"

She nods, tensing and relaxing when the backs of his fingers drift teasing-light down her bare sides, then over her breasts. "Not being able to see you is going to drive me crazy," she moans.

"In a good way?"

"Yeah." She smiles. "Now what?"

"Be patient." She feels his breath, and then his lips against her nipple, and moans again quietly as he begins to suckle. He starts off gentle, and she arches her back when he makes it harder, when he uses his teeth. Then he moves to her other breast, fondling and then pinching the first nipple between the pads of his finger and thumb, suckling hard.

"Mmmm," she moans, parting her legs a little. "Oh God, so good..."

He reaches down and takes her knees, drawing her legs wide apart, and she wonders if he's going to tie her in this position—and how exposed, vulnerable, and fucking aroused the thought makes her feel. He rasps the fine edge of his short stubble against her wet, tender nipple, and she gasps, bucking slightly.

"Yes?"

"Yes," she moans. "Oh my God, I would be fucking you so hard right now..."

"Which is why you're tied up," he says, a smile in his voice. She can feel the mattress dip and shift, and she can no longer feel the warmth radiating from his skin or his hands holding her knees apart. "If you can, turn onto your elbows and knees for me."

She follows his direction, feeling a little awkward as she does so, and finds herself settling into the position she would use if they were having sex this way. He's reassured her that he'll ask for consent and that he'll stop if she doesn't like what he's doing, and that's the only reason she's able to believe that he's not about to have anal sex with her. She hopes.

"This is lube, and my fingers," he tells her, stroking his bare hand down the curve of her ass a few times before she feels him gently begin to rim her asshole. She breathes out, fighting the urge to work the mask out of position so she can at least see some of the room. It really is arousing, to be blind and bound, completely at his mercy, and her nipples are still throbbing gently from what he did.

He's relaxing her, preparing her for—something, she's not sure what—when he slides his other hand between her parted thighs and caresses them in teasing-light strokes, coming close but not quite touching her sex. The contrast between the pain and the gentle touch turns her focus inward, and she shifts a little, sliding her knees a bit further apart.

"Doing okay?"

"Mmm-hmm. Just wondering what's about to happen."

"Of course you are. This... is safer than what I used with you last time. Bullet vibes really aren't supposed to be used the way we did."

She raises her eyebrows, feeling the black silk shift against her brow. "Oh?"

She hears something else, then the pop of a cap; he's not touching her anymore, and she shivers minutely in anticipation. Lube, and he's been teasing her asshole. Something safer...

"Let me know if it's uncomfortable," he says, and she shivers again. And then she feels something touching her there, something slick and firm, and—

"Oh," she breathes, tensing and then forcing herself to relax as he slides what must be a toy into her ass. She's never done anything like this, and it really is arousing; the toy is thick, and he slides it in until it's firmly wedged and tight, stretching her slightly. She's silently thankful that it's not nearly as thick or as long as his cock.

"Okay?"

"Yes," she whispers, her voice a little more faint than usual. She enjoyed when he used the bullet on her; that feels so amateur, compared to this. And she actually likes it. That surprises her.

"All right. I'm going to put a pillow under you and have you move onto your back again, okay? I just don't want you resting your weight on the plug, in case that makes you uncomfortable."

"That's what it is?"

"Yeah, a plug. Are you okay with it, or is it turning you on?"

"It's turning me on," she admits, and he helps her roll onto her back again. "Is this like what you were talking about? Um... like using a dildo while we have sex?"

He chuckles very softly. "Yes, kind of. So yes, I do plan on seeing if you like double penetration tonight. Now..." She feels the mattress shift, and then she can feel Ned's warmth radiating against her, and his voice is much closer. "It sounded like you like this."

He pulls her nipple between his lips again and suckles hard, scrapes his teeth over the tip and then bites it gently, and Nancy's hips begin to rock, almost of their own volition. "Mmmm, yeah," she moans. "Oh God..."

He lavishes his attention on her other breast, giving her nipple the same treatment, and she's still writhing a little when he pulls back. "And if I did that to your clit?"

She whimpers, her nipples throbbing again. "Oh God," she gasps. "Please..."

"What about more?"

He hasn't touched her sex at all, but she can feel arousal pooling there, slick and warm against sensitive folds of flesh. Will he be disgusted when he sees how the pain he's inflicting on her has turned her on? She tries to dismiss that fear. They've been together so many ways, and he's never seemed disgusted by anything she's done. "We can try," she breathes, and finds that she's arching her back a little, as though presenting her doubtless reddened breasts to him.

"Do you want me to tie your legs open?"

Immediately she straightens her legs, extending them toward the two lower corners of the bed, and he chuckles. "So yes, then."

"Yes," she agrees. Her clit is throbbing in anticipation of feeling his tongue and teeth against it.

"You've never done this before," he comments, his fingertips drifting up her leg from her ankle. "Of course you haven't, but it's just... interesting, to see what you're imagining."

"Of course I haven't done this before. Why..."

"Because I'm going to tie your legs like this." He takes her leg and bends it at the knee, and another shiver of arousal and anticipation runs down her spine. "I want you spread wide open, and I don't want you to be able to close your legs. Okay?"

She nods, and her heart pounds in mingled fear and anticipation as he uses zip-ties to tie her knees wide apart, as open as they can be. God, she can't move very much, and she's so vulnerable...

And then he's kneeling below her, and she releases a long, low moan when he licks her clit. When he begins to suckle against it, her hands clench and relax; she wants to bury her fingers in his hair to encourage him, but all she can do is very weakly rock her hips. Then he starts using his teeth, and she sobs. Her skin is prickling with heat, awareness and arousal and the frustration of not being able to move.

He pulls back, and she pants for breath. "More?"

"Yes, yes," she begs. "Oh God, it's so good..."

"Now, what I'm about to use... I can adjust how tight it is, so tell me if you want me to loosen it or tighten it. And once it's been on for a while, if it started out feeling good but it starts not feeling good anymore, just tell me and I'll take it off, okay?"

"Okay." She takes a long, deep breath, wondering what he's about to do.

She hears something, something metallic, and then a brush against her already sensitized nipple makes her flinch. He's pinching her nipple hard, and her hips flex as she takes another deep breath, but he doesn't release the tension. Then she feels another hard pinch against her other nipple, and something cool between her breasts.

"What?" she gasps.

"These are padded clamps," he says, and her inner flesh ripples as she tries to imagine it. "Too much, too little?"

"It's good," she gasps. "The... cold?"

"They're chained. I can pull on the chain and stimulate your nipples even more." He gives a gentle tug to demonstrate and she gasps so hard that it's almost a scream. "Too much?"

"Fuck," she sobs. "Oh my God..."

"You have to answer me, sweetheart."

"Yes, oh fuck," she sobs. "Do—do it again..."

He tugs again and she arches, gasping loudly for breath.

"There's another clamp," he tells her. He brushes against her clit, his skin warm, and she cries out. "Do you want it here?"

"Fuck, fuck," she pants. "Oh shit. Yes. Do it."

The pain is exquisite, incredible, especially when he tugs the chain and the clamps tug her nipples and clit simultaneously. He settles into a steady rhythm and she sobs loudly, tipping her head back, straining against the bonds. When she tenses, the toy filling her asshole feels even tighter, and the already-slick passage between her thighs is tingling.

"Ned," she forces out.

He stops tugging on the chain. "What is it, honey?"

"Get inside me," she begs him, her voice shaking. "I want you so much. Please."

"I will, baby. I will. Do you like the clamps, and having that plug stretching that tight ass?"

"Yes," she sobs, her voice rising into a cry at the end as he tugs again. "Oh, ohhhhh..."

He keeps tugging as he lowers himself to her, but she can tell he's still wearing some clothes, that he's not going to fuck her yet. He kisses her and she whimpers against his mouth as he keeps tugging the chain linking the clamps. He leaves hard love-bites against the side of her neck, and God, she's so fucking wet.

She's been able to tell that she's more aroused, but when she comes, suddenly, she releases a high, shrill scream. She's tensed, arched, and then—

She screams again when, suddenly, the toy in her ass starts vibrating. "Fuck fuck fuck oh God oh God!"

"Yes?"

"Yes!" she practically screams, her hips weakly jerking as the toy pulses even faster. Her eyes roll back under the cover of the mask, her throat bared, all of her exposed and vulnerable to him. She can't hold back; there's no way to do that. Her hips thrust up and down rapidly, even though he isn't inside her, and she can't even speak to tell him how much she wants him right now.

She doesn't even realize how hard she's come until she becomes aware of what's around her again, instead of the incredible height of her climax. He's dialed down the vibration to nothing and she's panting hard, sweat beginning to cool against her sensitized skin.

He touches her cheek with his fingertips and she gasps, tensing for an instant before relaxing. "Oh," she murmurs, and then she feels him moving closer. He kisses her again, a slow, deep kiss, and she closes her eyes, her body still trembling from the aftershocks as she kisses him in return.

"Are you all right?" he whispers against her lips.

She nods. "I... the clamps are starting to hurt," she realizes aloud.

"Yeah. That happens. Do you want me to make them less tight, or take them off?"

"Take them off," she says, reluctantly. After the big deal she made out of this, she's disappointed that she can't endure it any longer—but there's no pleasure in it right now, for her, only pain. She pants in relief when he takes the clamps off, the points of contact throbbing as she relaxes. The toy is still in her ass, but as long as she doesn't move, she's okay.

"Was it good?"

She nods. "Better than I even imagined," she admits softly.

"Good." He strokes her cheek again. "Are your arms and legs okay, or do you want me to free you?"

"I'm okay." She feels warmth sweep over her face as she blushes. "I want to have sex like this."

"You really do trust me, huh. And the toy?"

She sighs. "I didn't expect to like it that much, either. But I did."

He chuckles. "You sound disappointed."

"I guess I should know by now that you know what you're doing."

"That doesn't mean I don't want reassurance every now and then." She hears a soft sound; he's taking his clothes off. The trembling from the aftershocks has mostly passed, but she's still incredibly sensitive. "So you're a true masochist."

"No," she says slowly. "Or I guess I just don't like the connotations."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of. Some people enjoy rough sex."

"Do you?"

"Mmm. It would very much depend on the circumstances, and the partner involved."

She opens her mouth again, but then Ned's very slowly drawing his palm down, his fingertips drifting against her neck, the heel of his hand against her breastbone, the blade of his hand between her breasts. She closes her eyes under the blinding mask, slowly opening and closing her fists to make sure she still has sensation in her fingertips, focusing on the feel of his skin against hers.

He cups her breast very gently, and her nipple is still throbbing a little. She almost tenses in anticipation, but he doesn't hurt her again, doesn't pinch her. The gentleness after the pain is its own intoxication. She feels him shift the mattress as he moves between her legs, as his lips brush against her cheek, her neck. The warmth of him radiates against her bare skin.

He likes reassurance.

"I like this," she murmurs.

His hand pauses against her, his fingertips sweeping gently over her belly. "I can take the plug out, if you'd prefer."

"No. I'd like to try it. But I like... what you're doing now."

"Mmm. Good. You're so beautiful."

"Even like this?"

"Especially like this."

She sighs as he settles against her, as she feels his hips against her spread thighs. He's very aroused, and she makes a soft pleased sound at the feel of his erection against her. "I very much like this," she murmurs.

"Oh, do you?" He gently moves his hips, and his erection rubs against her belly. "How much?"

"So much that I don't think we'll need any lube."

He makes a soft approving sound. Then his lips brush against hers and she turns her head, seeking him. He kisses her deeply again, and when she arches her back he slides his hands under her, stroking down her sides to her hips, caressing her outer thighs, then her inner. He slides his tongue into her mouth as his fingertip gently brushes low between her legs, at the entrance of her sex.

"You're right," he whispers against her lips. "How are you doing, after the clamps? Too sensitive for any touching?"

The thought makes her shiver. "We can try it," she says cautiously.

He chuckles. "'We' aren't trying anything," he replies, but when he brushes his fingertip very, very gently against her clit, she cries out, her hips jolting up. "Too intense?"

"I think it's okay," she moans, crying out again when he brushes her clit again. "Oh God, please..."

"Please what?" He's so close that his breath is warm against her cheek and earlobe.

"Fuck me," she sobs.

He parts the lips of her sex and fits himself there, rubbing himself against her without penetrating her, and every time his erection brushes her still-sensitive clit, she sobs again. She can feel how wet she is by how wet he is, rubbing against her. When he kisses her again she's jolting her hips, and she can feel that she's close again, completely overwhelmed by the wave of arousal that keeps pushing her higher and higher.

"Baby, now," she gasps when he breaks the kiss. "God, please..."

"Okay," he murmurs, and she's panting, trying to hold it off, trying to make it last. He makes a quiet noise and then he's fitting himself just inside her, and God, if she could, she would wrap her legs around him and draw him to her hard, tight, fast. This torture is both worse and sweeter than anything the clamps did.

He slides inside her, slowly, easily, and she hears a quiet moan coming from him. "You were right," he murmurs. "Holy shit, babe."

She blushes.

"No, no. It's incredible." He glides out and back in. "So, so good, sweetheart."

That feeling, of completeness, of fullness, of both helplessness and utter trust, has her tilting her head back again, gasping for breath. Then he moves fully inside her, and the toy begins to vibrate again, and his thumb brushes her clit—

She screams, and her orgasm feels almost instantaneous. She's not in control of anything, at any level; her hips jolt and buck, his chest brushes against her breasts and her still-tender nipples and she shrieks, and even that gentle brush against her clit seems to send a rippling shudder all the way down the sheath of her sex. She can feel his lips against her cheek, her earlobe; his warmth is everywhere, and it's so intense, it's too intense, it's—

"Okay?"

"Yes!" she sobs, her eyes rolling back. "Fuck, yes, don't stop—"

In answer he turns up the vibration and moves inside her faster, and Nancy's screams become low, desperate moans. Her entire body is shuddering, and her wrists and knees are aching from where she's been fighting against the ties as her muscles involuntarily clench. He plunges deep inside her again, and she cries out, tipping her head back, baring her throat to him. It feels almost like...

On his next thrust her sex clenches tight around him and she's sobbing as she bears down, coming with a gush of fluid. Ned groans, his lips brushing her neck, and she screams when he rubs against her clit again.

"C-come," she sobs out, begging him. Her voice is almost hoarse from all her screaming.

He jolts against her again, and his moan of pleasure as he climaxes is warm against her skin. For a long, long moment Nancy's still shaking against him, wishing like hell she could embrace him. The soreness in her wrists and knees is forgotten. She just feels deeply, completely satisfied.

"Shit," Ned mumbles, and Nancy slumps a little when the vibration dials down to nothing. He kisses her earlobe and her neck before he slides out of her, and a moment later, she feels the pressure against her wrists loosen. He finishes cutting her free as she pushes the sleeping mask up. His bedside lamp is on, but that's all; the golden light spills over his muscular body, and she feels a thrill on seeing him. It's not that she thought he had asked someone else to have sex with her. It's just... she couldn't see him.

He slowly works the toy out of her, and she pants for a moment, gradually relaxing. "Oh my God," she whispers, gently chafing her wrists, slowly drawing her legs back together. "Oh my God."

"You okay?"

She meets his eyes and deliberately nods. "That was incredible," she says, holding his gaze.

He smiles, but the smile becomes a small frown as he looks down at her wrists. "Shit. I should have used some padding or something."

"And then I would have been able to get out of them pretty easily." She lets him draw her hand to his lips so he can brush his lips against the reddened skin of her wrist.

When he looks up at her, his lips quirk up. "Hmm?"

She shakes her head. "I wanted us to date, get to know each other," she says quietly. "This..."

He cups her cheek. "And we will," he says. "I want to date you. And I want to sleep with you. The two don't have to be mutually exclusive. I think we've learned that, anyway." She glances down, then turns and presses a kiss against his palm. "So, any other fantasies you haven't told me about yet... please don't hold back."

She gazes at him through her lashes. "And you?" she murmurs. "Anything I can do for you?"

He kisses her other reddened wrist, then draws her into his arms and leans back so she's on top of him. "Why, I can't think of a single thing," he teases her, and she laughs in delight as she kisses him.

"I love you," she murmurs, then moves back a little to look into his dark eyes.

His expression softens a bit. "And I love you too," he replies, pulling her back down to him again.

The best thing about apartment life, Nancy's decided after many years of it, is everything she can let herself forget.

Her new apartment in Chicago is in the South Loop, near Lake Michigan and a dozen restaurants. The new building boasts a massive gym on the ground level and a pool on top she fully intends to visit during good weather. A balcony off her modest bedroom looks out over the city. The kitchen is full of well-maintained stainless-steel appliances, the floors a warm blond hardwood. After arranging some new area rugs and a few hours of manhandling furniture up here and making sure it's arranged just-so, she started putting things away: her clothes, spices and canned goods in the kitchen, the few items she couldn't bear to leave behind at her father's house or at a goodwill store in New York.

She hasn't had a housewarming—ever, actually—but she treated herself to a trip to IKEA, so she has a new duvet cover, some neutral-patterned curtains up in her bedroom for a modicum of privacy, and a dining set she's still not sure she's in love with. It does look sleek and efficient; she can't deny that. She also can't deny that most meals are spent on the couch with a sweating glass in front of her on the coffee table and the television playing.

She's in a rush to make sure everything is perfect tonight, even though she's been moving in and surely Ned wouldn't recoil at the sight of a few half-unpacked boxes.

Distantly, in some part of her brain she hardly wants to even acknowledge, she's wondering where she will be in a year, where he will be. His lease will be up before hers. Maybe, over the months, as they learn about each other, he'll be spending more time over here, or she will be at his place. She does love being at his place, just for the sheer novelty of it. It's a level of trust that simply didn't exist between them during their time together in New York.

And she's been too long without him. Just as he did when he was moving here, she's kept in contact with him by phone, but phone sex is nowhere near as satisfying when she knows they can and will have so much more. When it was the last thread left linking them, she grudgingly accepted it. She doesn't have to do that anymore.

Plus, Ned promised she could tie him up tonight... and given his bad experience with that in New York, she wants to make sure it's just as good for him as it was when he did that to her. In a way, she's not sure he's left any particular sexual fantasy unexplored. In another, it's not the same when it's with a partner and in the context of a real relationship. If Ned had tied her up and done those things with her while serving as an escort, she would never have been sure if he'd really wanted to.

Nancy smiles slightly to herself. Ned's insisted that what he did with her then was completely consensual, and she does believe that. As afraid as she was to let herself believe it was real, she's glad to know that she wasn't going crazy, that the desire and affection and genuine emotion she sometimes glimpsed in his eyes was really there and not just the product of her own need and hopeless grasping.

He's meeting her here before they walk down to a local restaurant neither of them has tried yet. The night is sultry, so she's confident that her short spaghetti-strap dress will be warm enough—and even if it isn't, Ned will likely drape his jacket over her shoulders, or maybe even kiss her until she can't feel the chill. And that thought alone makes a shiver race down her spine. Her wet hair is up in a towel as she gathers her clothes, and she smoothes a wrinkle in the duvet before closing herself in the steam-sticky bathroom. She really needs to let it air out before Ned gets here, since the apartment only has one bathroom. Granted, the frosted-glass shower, sleek tub, and generous vanity make up for that.

An hour later, Nancy turns to scrutinize her silhouette in the mirror. Her reddish-gold hair, burnished more blonde than red by the late summer sun, falls in loose waves down to her shoulders. She smoothes the fabric of her deep-blue dress over her stomach, frowning slightly at the curve she sees there, but reminds herself for the thousandth time that she's a woman and her organs need some space in there; the airbrushed, computer-enhanced models on the covers of magazines don't count. Her legs are perfectly smooth, and she really does like the way the dress enhances her breasts. Her strapless bra provides just enough lift, and the lace print on the smooth fabric makes it look intricate without marring the line of her dress. The incredibly tiny matching panties, though, really are lace—and she remembers again when Ned came over to her apartment in New York, fingering her to orgasm before they'd even left her place, leaving her panties practically soaked with arousal.

It's a hard line to walk. She really does want to date him. She wants to do all the intimate couple things that they haven't really had a chance to explore: gatherings with their friends, going to the movies, supporting each other through difficult times in their lives. But she is also irresistibly attracted to him, and denying their blistering sexual chemistry makes her frustrated and disappointed. She wants him in every possible way. Maybe their sex life is a bit too fully realized in comparison to their newfound, genuine relationship, but imagining tonight not ending in bed, wrapped in his arms or screaming as he brings her to incredible climax, is unbearable.

She's just slipped into her sandals and finished fastening her earrings when the buzzer sounds, alerting her to Ned's arrival. Instantly a flush rises to her cheeks, and she can feel her nipples and clit growing sensitive too.

God, she's crazy. But at least she's found someone who isn't afraid of it.

--

Her building is nice. Ned's cataloguing everything as he walks in, exchanging a polite smile with the doorman, looking at the couple exiting the elevator before he boards the car. It's new construction and very clean, good lines, good location. It doesn't have the charm of his own building, and he's sure the units, including Nancy's, are generic in layout and amenities, but it's nice.

He gives his head a little shake. When he's nervous it's easy to sink back into the persona he used in New York, the persona that was slowly peeled away, layer by layer, the more he saw her. When he was an escort, he moved in the world around him, but did his best to leave no trace, no footprint. He exchanged smiles and nods, but didn't engage. He wholly belonged to his clients for the time they bought, but all they bought was time, and none of them touched his heart.

Not until her. No one except her.

And what he's said he will give her tonight... well, that took a lot. It's not that he doesn't trust her. But a part of him even quailed at tying her up in his own bed, even knowing his own limits and her desire for the experience.

The flowers in his hand guarantee that anyone who sees him tonight will know at least some of what's about to happen: that he's about to see someone important to him, that he likely expects more than a grateful kiss on the cheek. He isn't carrying a bouquet of garish, unnaturally-colored daisies, after all. Tonight it's roses and lilies and tulips, in shades from pink to deepest red to purple.

He didn't bring bouquets to his clients, not unless specifically requested, described, and paid for in advance as part of their fantasies. The women he's dated, though, dates in his private life—he loves giving them flowers, loves seeing their eyes light up and sparkle, loves their delight. He gave Nancy bouquets while she was his client, even though she didn't know the significance. For him, it's another way to show her that she's different, she's special, and what's between them is real. It always has been, for him.

She answers the apartment door and for a few seconds he's entirely spellbound. "You look so beautiful," he says, his voice quiet, and he's unable to look away from her. "I've missed you."

The flowers brought a smile to her face, but his words make her eyes gleam, and she reaches up to slide her fingers through his hair and draw him down to her for a long, sweet kiss. "I've missed you too," she whispers against his lips, after. "So much. You look so handsome, baby."

Then she takes a step back, giving her head a little shake as she grins. "Sorry. Come inside! I wanted to give you the grand tour before we leave."

He extends his hand to her, formally offering the flowers, and a delighted blush creeps up her pale neck. "They're beautiful," she says in thanks, burying her face in the blooms and breathing in before searching her newly-filled cabinets for a vase.

The apartment is cookie-cutter, but it is nice, and he likes the view. He glances at the dresser, at the generous vanity, and catches himself wondering if she'll invite him to leave parts of himself here: a toothbrush, a spare change of clothes, an oversized sweatshirt she'll wear when she misses him. But he doesn't want to consider it for too long and jinx it, so he just gives his head a little shake and notes that the shower is definitely big enough to handle both of them.

Dinner at the restaurant is delicious, although he's almost irritated by it. He finds her infinitely more fascinating, and it wouldn't matter if they were stealing each other's fries from a drive-thru order, as far as he's concerned. Picking the right venue, the right outfit, the right persona, is part of the seduction of being an escort. They're beyond that now. He doesn't need the trappings anymore, and when the manager stops briefly at their table, fishing for compliments or complaints, he somehow manages to respond politely, his hand joined to hers under the tablecloth.

"Are you sure about—tonight?"

She says it hesitantly, her hand in his as they walk back toward her apartment. The night is warm enough that several other groups, couples and friends, are out too, walking toward other restaurants, toward the lake to gaze out at the water, toward hotel rooms and apartment buildings. In most of the groups, he sees the electric blue glare of a smartphone screen's reflection on at least one person's clothes. He and Nancy haven't looked at their phones all night.

He forces himself to take the time to consider instead of responding immediately, giving knee-jerk assurance that would almost certainly be a lie. "No," he admits. "But I would like to try."

Her gorgeous blue eyes widen slightly, and she gazes up at him. "If you freak out, you'll let me know, right? I'll stop immediately."

He gives her a small smile and squeezes her hand. "Which is pretty much the only reason I'm willing," he tells her. "Thanks."

She raises their joined hands to her lips and brushes a soft kiss against his knuckles, then slowly rubs the trace of lipstick she left there away. "I love you."

"I love you too," he replies, feeling his heart kick in his chest, the way it has each time he's admitted his feelings to her.

In the elevator he slides his arm around her waist and she turns into his embrace, resting her head against the hollow of his shoulder, her body warm and yielding where it presses against his. He drops a kiss against the crown of her head, feeling the smooth silk of her hair against his lips, and they don't need to say anything. For the longest time his silence was to save himself, and now it's because everything he couldn't say to her has already been said. He just feels warm and safe, and it's a relief, after all the lies and all the different faces he trained himself to wear. Now she's seen what's behind it, and she hasn't walked away.

She's here, where he is. A life he resigned himself to build without her, and all the ways he tried to make himself forget, and here she is.

The apartment is so quiet once she's keyed inside and gestured for him to enter. "Do you want anything? Something to drink?"

"Water." He can't imagine being drunk for this. Maybe one day, eventually, but not tonight.

She runs her fingers through her hair, fluffing it a little, and gives him a nervous smile before crossing to her refrigerator. This is the first time he's been in her space, her home, with her knowing that what's between them isn't a lie or his toying with her feelings for him.

She hands him the water bottle from her refrigerator and it's cool against his palm as she gives him another nervous, happy smile. "I'll—Let me go get comfortable..." She trails off with another vague gesture, sliding out of her sandals and picking them up, then ducking her head and walking toward her bedroom.

Ned doesn't know why he does it. It's instinctual, he supposes, this claiming, this need to draw the tension out of her. He follows her to her room and when she turns to give him a questioning look, he sweeps her up into his arms and pins her against the wall, lowering his mouth to hers.

Her moan is low and needy, and then her hand is in his hair and she's drawing her leg up to wrap around his waist, to draw him impossibly closer. The loud smack of her shoes hitting the floor is hardly surprising, but they both startle anyway, his tongue in her mouth and her breasts crushed against his chest. He slides the hand not supporting her under the hem of her dress, and she releases another moan when he drags her panties down an inch or two.

This is how it always has been, between them. She gives of herself to an impossible degree, despite her wariness and caution. He fell headlong in love with her and even now, even after everything, a thousand different variations on this theme, he's captivated by her.

"God," she gasps, as he nuzzles against her neck, gently nipping at her skin, his hand sliding into her panties. "Ohhhh..."

"Mmm?"

She answers his inquisitive murmur with one of pleasure and encouragement, so he sucks against the join of her neck and shoulder, cupping her ass under her panties and giving it a squeeze. Her skin is so warm, smooth as satin, and he wants to just worship her, carry her over to the bed and strip her naked and explore her in kisses.

He pulls back, panting for breath, resting his forehead against hers. "I'm sorry—"

And she's pulling him back to her, her lips parted, wet and warm. His apology is wiped away in a surge of desire so strong that he's walked her halfway to the bed before he even realizes what he's doing, his mouth on hers again. The hem of her dress has ridden up and she's pressed tight against his erection, and when he moves to lower her to the bed, she wraps her other leg around him and draws him down with her.

"Beautiful," he whispers, grasping the straps of her dress and pulling them down her shoulders, feeling the liquid grind of her hips under his. She squirms under him suddenly, and he pulls back to see her yanking her dress over her head, swiftly unfastening her bra and tossing it onto the floor. It looks like lace, but it was smooth under his fingertips when they glanced against it, and then her legs are sliding around his hips again and he doesn't care anymore.

"Do you not want..."

"Later," he says, and his voice comes out low, almost a growl.

Somehow he's still wearing his shirt—he really should've brought over a change of clothes, knowing what tonight would bring—a few minutes later while she's eagerly licking and sucking his cock. She never takes him deeper than the back of her tongue, and that's all right; he's been deepthroated enough, though always with a condom, that he's not begging her for the experience. As wild and uninhibited as she can be, he has a feeling that will always be off the table for her. His head is resting on her inner thigh, the scent of her arousal, the sight of her flushed, sensitive sex filling his senses. His arm is looped under her, the full length of two fingers working in her as he suckles against her clit. The rock of her hips, at first gentle, now jolts with each wave of pleasure he provokes in her. Every time she groans against his cock, Ned thrusts his fingers a little faster. When his other hand even glances over her ass, her cry is muffled and vibrates against his cock, her nipples hard points dragging against his chest through the fabric of his shirt.

It takes all his strength to bring her to a shattering orgasm, to feel her gasp and scream against his cock, without reaching his own climax. He keeps his fingers motionless inside her as she thrusts her hips, pressing the join of her thighs up against his face, encouraging him even as her inner flesh tightens to caress his fingers. He rasps his stubble against the flushed button of her clit and she sobs loudly, then sucks and licks his cock again with an eager desperation.

He groans her name as she strokes his hips, his ass. Her face is flushed against his inner thighs and when her trembling fingers brush against his balls, he snarls a curse as his formidable self-control begins to fray. "I," he gasps, the taste of her still on his tongue as he tries to warn her, tries to pull back. She only grips him more tightly, rubbing her breasts against his shirt, her hum of pleasure vibrating against his sensitive skin.

He cries out as he comes, in disappointment, in relief, in exultation. He's not caging her; she can move away if she wants, but she doesn't. The suction in her mouth as she swallows makes his eyes roll back, one of her hands still pumping his cock to milk him of every last drop, her other hand still caressing and fondling his balls. He pants, nuzzling against her inner thighs, his tongue rasping against the lips of her sex as he licks up the sweet, tangy taste of her arousal.

Nancy releases him, slowly, once he's soft and spent, and he gently bites her thigh before rolling onto his back, flushed and exposed. His fingers are trembling slightly as he swiftly unbuttons the shirt, tossing it to join the rest of their clothes.

She's curled up, legs tucked up, and he moves to join her, gathering her in his arms. She's making a soft humming sound, and when she relaxes against him they seem to fit perfectly.

"I want your cock inside me," she sighs, her eyes closed.

He chuckles softly, then kisses her forehead. "We have time," he tells her.

"Mmm." She shivers, and after the space of a few heartbeats he gathers her up, moves to pull down the covers, and slides them both underneath. Sweat is cooling on his skin too, but in the dim, soft nest of warm sheets and her body, he relaxes again.

He doesn't even realize he's fallen asleep until he feels her move, and his arms close around her easily, without second-guessing or doubt. "Shh," he whispers, drawing her back to him.

She laughs very softly and kisses his eyebrow. "I'll be right back," she promises quietly, then cups his jaw and dots kisses from his temple to the stubbled jawline just under her palm, finding the corner of his mouth in the process. "Stay right here."

He rolls onto his back and considers, after she's closed herself into her bathroom. They're dating now, official now, although he hasn't told anyone. Once they've been seeing each other for a while, in Chicago, he'd like to introduce her to his parents—but that's only once they've started talking about the future, once they've dated for a while and really started to know each other. That persistent itch at the back of his mind, claiming that she's just humoring him, letting him down easy, has begun to fade. But he's keenly aware of the gaps in their history, all that they didn't trust themselves to share with each other in New York.

He knows that part of the attraction for his clients was always the forbidden, dangerous aspect of what they were doing. He knows it fascinated and scared Nancy; in the beginning, he had been safe because the feelings weren't real, just something she had ordered and something he was good at pretending to have. But the weight of the lies put that thin veneer under such stress that, for him, it was broken almost from the start.

And now... he doesn't have that dangerous, forbidden persona anymore. His life in Chicago, the life he's in the process of making for himself, feels incredibly ordinary in comparison, but almost any life would be. She's said that she wants to be enough for him, but he also finds himself determined to somehow be enough for her. They can tell themselves it would have worked if they had met another way, but given how adventurous her life already is, he finds himself unsure.

She returns to bed, a trace of mint on her breath, and snuggles against him again. Ned rests his chin on top of her head, her breath against his collarbone, and closes his eyes.

"So... when you tied me up, you did what I wanted. What do you want?"

He smiles, his eyes still closed. "What made the prospect of being tied up so attractive to you?"

"Being entirely at your mercy. And, I guess, the illusion of loss of control, since you made very sure I was okay with everything the entire time. I was never afraid of you or what we were doing." She pauses. "Knowing that you'd get me off and I wouldn't even be able to do anything. Much less want to."

"Well, the appeal for me is watching you get off and knowing I'll get off too. I mean, unless you're into orgasm denial or something."

She snickers. "Why stop something we both want?"

He shrugs slightly. "Because it makes the experience that much more intense when it finally happens, but that's not really what I'd want tonight. I won't really be doing anything, except watching you control what happens and pleasure yourself, and that's definitely an erotic experience all on its own."

She makes a soft self-deprecating noise, and he can feel the flush that rises in her cheeks when it radiates against his skin.

"You're adorable," he murmurs.

She makes an affronted noise and pushes away, and he opens his eyes to see her scowling. Her eyes are sparkling, though. "Adorable isn't sexy."

"The two aren't mutually exclusive." He opens his arms and laces his fingers behind his head, gazing up at her from her pillows. "After everything we've done together, I can still make you blush."

Her scowl has already faded to a smile; she leans down with a grin and kisses him. "I think you'll always be able to do that," she comments. "I'd apologize for not being a sophisticated, blasé woman of the world, but I'm pretty sure you already knew that about me."

"I did. Part of what I love about you."

And that casual statement, his tone offhand despite the firmer beating of his heart, softens her expression even more. "I'm glad," she whispers. "Love you too."

She cuddles up to him for a few more minutes, and then her palm rubs over his abs as she drops a kiss against his shoulder. "You can say no," she murmurs.

"I know. I'm ready if you are."

Her lips turn up; he can feel it against his skin. "All right."

While he knows he can't protest it if she does, he's hoping she isn't planning on using zip ties. He actually slumps a little in relief when he sees her draw a pair of play cuffs from the table at her bedside. The play cuffs have a built-in safety release; if he becomes upset or needs to uncuff himself, he can. It's one of the safer ways to explore this fantasy, but it also means he'll be aware the entire time that he's only staying bound because he's chosen to.

She raises her eyebrows and Ned nods his head, waiting a beat before he extends his arms and slots his hands through the slats in her headboard.

Nancy smiles and maneuvers so she can cuff him. He can't see the safety releases from here, but he knows where they are by touch. "All right?"

He nods again. "Pants pocket," he tells her.

She really is into pain play. He's met dilettantes, and he would never have accused her of being one, but it wouldn't have bothered him either. Her request for the clamps is intriguing, and he watches avidly as she fishes out the chain and shivers, letting the metal pool on the bed beside his hip. Then he wonders if she's planning to use them on him, and he tenses a little, watching her face. He doesn't find this level of pain arousing.

He's both relieved and incredibly turned on when she straddles his hips and fits the clamps over her nipples. "Mmmm," she moans, her own hips rocking a little before she reaches down and exposes the firm, flushed button of her clit. The groan she releases after clamping that, too, can only be described as orgasmic.

"Gotta be honest, that request surprised me."

She laughs, tossing her hair back. "I was surprised by how much I liked it, so I guess we're even," she says.

He raises his eyebrows when she mounts him. Her earlier arousal has mostly passed, and she flinches, panting, as she forces his cock into the tight sheath of her sex. The skin there is moist, but not deliciously slick, and he opens his mouth.

"Okay?"

She nods twice, her eyes sewn shut as she concentrates on what she's doing, the pain she's subjecting herself to. Then she suddenly opens her eyes wide. "Is it okay for you?"

He nods. "Not incredibly comfortable, but okay," he replies. "Are you...?"

"I wanted to try something," she tells him, and that expression crosses her face. She's unsure and this is new for her. "Um, just tell me if it's not all right...?"

He nods again, and she stays seated on top of him, his full length inside her, as she begins to tug on the chains linking the clamps. "God, oh God," she mutters a moment later, her hips moving shallowly as she begins to react, aroused by the pain. She's using him to hurt herself, too. He watches her face carefully, feeling her body jerk and writhe with each tug against the clamps.

Ned's mouth drops open as he feels her grow aroused, as her inner flesh becomes progressively wetter. She's not thrusting against him, not really, just using him for penetration, and he feels like her own personal sex toy. Not that he's really complaining, not with this incredible view. Sadism and masochism have never been his kink, but Nancy's enjoying herself, pleasuring herself through pain that's entirely in her own control, and her sex is rippling gently against his cock.

"You like this, baby?" he murmurs, pitching his voice so she can hear it through her own low moans.

She nods, gasping against another tug on the chain. "I... I want to try something," she manages to force out. "Um, I've never... done this before, so if it doesn't work for you?"

"I'll let you know," he replies, trying to keep his hips from jerking as another pearl of her arousal glides against his cock. "Do you want me to be moving?"

Her sapphire blue eyes glitter as she opens them and slowly shakes her head, keeping eye contact with him as she brings one knee up. "Not right now, anyway. You will tell me if this isn't comfortable?"

"Definitely."

She moves so her feet are just above the level of his shoulders, her heels planted on the bed, and her weight is supported there and on her palms, planted behind her. Ned takes a deep breath and when she rotates her hips, moving up and down his cock for her first thrust, they both release low moans.

"So it's okay?"

"Fuck yes," he tells her. "Especially now that you're wet."

She smiles and rolls her shoulders, tipping her head back, sending her hair rippling down in a curtain of reddish-gold. She's still wearing the clamps, and the chains jingle faintly with her every thrust. At first she's cautious, and then she's bouncing up and down, taking him as deep as she can before pulling back, gasping for breath. Her inner flesh has relaxed a little with her arousal, and she feels incredible against him now.

"Is it good, baby?"

"Mmmmm," she moans. "God, yes."

"Is this what you've fantasized about?"

She keeps moving against him, sliding up and down his cock, her hips trembling a little. "I think of you pinning me down," she admits, her voice all breathy gasps. "I love it when you do that. When I can't even move..."

Holding out, watching her fuck him, listening to her gasp and moan and eventually scream—it's almost impossible, but he manages it. He doesn't come even when she's fucking him rapidly, wetly, sobbing his name, and it takes all of his self-control.

She's collapsed after, still moaning softly, and Ned finds the releases to the cuffs by touch and uncuffs himself. He pushes himself up and Nancy's eyes are glittering again as she lazily opens them, her skin gleaming and face flushed with exertion, her limbs almost slack. He takes her legs and drapes them over his shoulders, then moves to pin her under him, her legs still up and pinned between them. Then he remembers, and slides his hands between them. She pants with relief as he unclamps her, leaving the chain on her bedside table.

"Is this all right?"

She blinks up at him, her eyes still hazed from her release. Then she nods, releasing a soft moan.

He sheathes himself inside her in a firm, smooth thrust and she tenses around him, gasping out a cry. "Fuck," she breathes, drawing the word out, her hips tilting as she relaxes. Her head is tipped back, her eyes sewn shut. She has to be incredibly sensitive right now. When he moves inside her again, she licks her lips, still gasping.

"Look at me." His voice is rougher than he expected, almost a low growl, and she brings her chin down and opens her eyes wide, surprised but not upset, not angry.

He knows some of his clients used him to exorcise demons, to imagine they were with those specific lost partners one last time. They closed their eyes and his body was no longer his own. Nancy isn't doing that, has never done that—while her heartache over Frank is what led her to hire him, she's always been fully present every time they've made love, never fantasizing that he's someone else—but he's feeling possessive tonight. He wants her to have no doubt about who's inside her.

"Ned," she moans, as he slides out and back inside her again, and his control nearly frays at the desire in her eyes, her fingers stroking through his hair, her warm body arched under his, the slick heat between her thighs tight against his bare cock. Her gaze is locked to his, and he can't break it. "Baby, you feel so good," she moans.

"This is what you wanted?"

"God, yes," she gasps, rolling her hips against his next thrust. Her expression becomes mingled pleasure and desperation. Thanks to his angle and position, she's open to him, she can't easily push or force him away, and her body is rippling, tensing and relaxing in response to him.

Her thumb brushes against his jaw, his earlobe. "I love you," she gasps.

"I love you," he replies, leaning down and kissing her deeply, forcing a hand between them to brush his thumb over her clit in ever harder strokes. She's almost thrashing when he feels her come, her inner flesh rippling in pulses against his cock, and he breaks the kiss and cries out in relief and pleasure as he follows.

He rests his head against her, his cheek pressed against the back of her leg, panting and still weakly rocking inside her. She's gasping her breath back too, her fingertips still stroking through his hair. He carefully shifts his weight so he's not crushing her quite so much, and she chuckles softly, nuzzling against him.

"Well," she murmurs, when he's so relaxed that he's considering just letting himself fall asleep, "we've thoroughly christened this bed."

He smiles and grasps her ankles, moving off her so she can stretch her legs, and she groans before rolling onto her side so she can cuddle against him. He slides his arm around her as she drapes her leg over his upper thighs, her cheek fitting into the hollow of his shoulder, her thumb brushing against his collarbone.

"That leaves a lot of this apartment to go," he points out, and the grin she shoots him in return is positively wicked.

She can't breathe. She can't see. Everything is pure, unfiltered sensation, and nothing outside them matters.

"Ned!" She manages to gasp his name, almost sob it.

They're supposed to be leaving for the club. Her small overnight bag is still by the door, where it crashed to the floor. She's bent over his table and he's, fuck, oh holy fuck...

Is she screaming? Her heart is pounding so hard she can't tell, and she can't stop sobbing. A slight twist of her hips and his fingers close around her nipple and she shudders hard, her eyes rolling back, gasping wetly.

Until him, she didn't know an orgasm could be this intense. Even now, it's almost paralyzing. Her limbs are trembling. Her bared chest is pressed against his table and imagining how they must look right now sends another paroxysm of desire over her.

The rush in her ears fades a little as she collapses, panting, and feels Ned tense and then relax behind her. She can't move yet, but when his fingertips drag against her hip, under her undoubtedly ruined panties, an uncontrollable shiver races down her spine again.

She tries to speak and coughs against the dryness in her throat. "So you like the dress, huh," she says, her voice a bit weaker than usual.

Ned laughs, then leans down and plants a gentle bite against the join of her neck and shoulder. "Yes," he murmurs, and his voice promises sin and bliss.

She's barely come down from this orgasm yet, but she can't wait.

--

It wasn't that she ever truly thought she and Ned would find they were incompatible on some basic level. She's pretty sure they would have figured that out well before now, but she's also aware of how much of their prior... relationship, was based on a few very fundamental lies.

Still, all the things that she thought were true about him remain true, and even some of what she hardly dared to let herself even contemplate. Those hints of jealousy that sometimes flickered in his eyes before were true. She doesn't sense that he would abuse her over it, and if she thought that a friendly conversation or even a little flirtation with another guy would mean a black eye or "falling against a table" when they were alone again, she would have cut off communication with him a long time ago.

No, he just likes to remind her of what she has, and how intensely satisfying it is. He's proud of his skill and his technique, of how intensely he can make her come, and he isn't stingy with it.

She's not sure how long she will be drunk on him, and the way she feels when she's around him. One day, she's sure, they will be comfortable, routine, familiar. But she's still in the flush of adoration and love, thinking about him obsessively, as though drawing her fingertips over the contours of him, worrying her mental image of him to something closer to reality. Reassuring herself that he does love her, that the pain and devastation of thinking he couldn't or wouldn't let himself is over now. This isn't just some golden dream woven of wish fulfillment and desire.

And his seeing her, all of her, all that she is, isn't going to convince him that dating her is a mistake. She can lavish all her attention and need on him, cry out her love for him, and shudder when he repeats it back. She can talk to him about her work and its demands on her without his feeling jealous or spiteful about it.

It's beyond her deepest, barely realized desires.

But she's still scared out of her mind when she slides out of his car, rising carefully on her heels. Her dress is demure and sweet, an opaque cotton dress with a full skirt that hits mid-shin, printed in blue and yellow flowers. Her jewelry is simple, her makeup minimalist, and her heart is pounding.

"They're going to love you."

She gazes into his sweet dark eyes and can't speak for a moment. He looks incredible, but to her he always does; he's wearing summer-gray slacks and a navy polo, and a heavy expensive watch on his wrist. His jaw is mirror-smooth and his dark hair is effortless and gorgeous. When he grins, she knows he will turn heads. He's just... everything. Easy and confident and beautiful. Entirely out of her league.

She shakes her head and smooths her skirt. "I hope so."

"I know so." He offers his arm and she takes it with a soft laugh.

The restaurant is Chicago's version of La Comtesse, and they walk into murmured conversation and laughter, a quiet jazzy soundtrack, warm lighting and the smell of freshly-grilled meat. She's been to a dozen different versions of this place, usually for meals with her father, sitting across the table from various clients. This is where deals are struck and negotiations hammered out.

Much like the one they initially decided on months ago.

She stumbles and grips Ned's arm, and he holds her up. She doesn't even break her stride, not really. "All right?"

"Yeah. Just... thinking. And nervous."

"I would tell you not to be, but I know how completely pointless that would be."

She smiles. It would be.

Ned's mother is surprisingly short, but most people seem short beside Ned; his father is about the same height as he is, and she sees in him a glimpse of who Ned will be in a few decades. Handsome, distinguished, creases at the corners of his eyes from laughter. To her, Ned often exudes raw sensuality; Ned's father seems content and friendly.

"Nancy? It's a pleasure to meet you." Edith smiles up at her, meeting Nancy's gaze with her own intelligent blue eyes, sporting crow's feet like her husband's. Nancy sees the same settled contentment in her expression.

And she understands Ned's fear. His parents look very... conventional, Nancy supposes is the closest word. Not necessarily conservative, but that's not unexpected. When they look over at Ned, the love in their eyes is obvious, and they're clearly glad he's living nearby again.

Their table isn't a screened-off booth, but it's not in the thick of things either. Ned's parents have just been to a late afternoon show, and they open the conversation recounting that. They're easy and affectionate with each other; she sees James put his hand on Edith's shoulder or arm, the warm glances they exchange, the joined laughter.

Nancy's work shows her the absolute worst of relationships. She sees furtive exchanges, arguments, affairs. She hasn't realized how starved she is for this until it's in front of her, beyond the romance novels, the dramatic shows, Bess's breathless recounts of her escapades. She sees the fondness and... she wants it.

This is what Ned has seen his entire life. To go from this to a series of casual encounters—but she remembers what he said, too. That life had been a means to an end, temporary employment. And he wanted a partner who had no knowledge of it. He wanted a partner he could introduce to his parents—clean.

And then she wonders who he would have been, with someone clean. Someone perfect. Who he wants—

No. She reaches for Ned's hand and he takes it immediately, giving her a gentle squeeze. Whatever he thought, whatever he believed or thought he wanted, she is the one he chose. He walked away and he could have closed everything off permanently, but he didn't. She didn't force him back to her.

He chooses her over and over, chooses her, loves her, knows her. There's no one else she needs to be.

"Listen to us! Just chattering away." Edith smiles at both Nancy and Ned as she reaches for her glass of water. "So, Nancy, Ned said you two started dating while he was finishing up his degree."

Nancy nods and pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. "It all started when I received an invitation," she says, Ned's hand still holding hers. "My former boyfriend's brother was getting married this summer, and I didn't want to go alone. I wasn't seeing anyone at the time, and... well, I'm almost embarrassed to say it, but..." She shakes her head. She's trembling a little, can feel the dampness of her palms. "I joined an online dating service, hoping that I'd find someone kind enough to be my date."

Ned makes a quiet scoffing sound beside her. "'Kind enough.'"

Edith is glancing between the two of them, her eyes bright. James is looking at Ned. Nancy's heart hasn't stopped pounding.

"We decided to meet, and, well... it was pretty much love at first sight. For me, anyway."

"I'll never understand how your ex was dumb enough to let you go, but I have to be grateful," Ned says. "I'm not sure we would ever have met otherwise, and the thought of not knowing you... that's devastating."

Nancy glances over at Ned, and his expression is calm, placid, but his eyes. He's saying it casually enough, but for him, it's true.

Then he brings her hand to his lips and brushes a kiss against her knuckles.

And it's entirely inappropriate, how very turned on she is by that gesture, by the sight of his dark eyes smoldering at her as he does it.

"So you and Ned went to the wedding together."

Nancy nods, pointedly not thinking of the running tally of times they had sex versus number of positions used, number of her personal records he managed to shatter. After him, the thought of finding this happiness with anyone else seems inconceivable. "I couldn't get him out of my mind," she says. "And when I found out he was moving back here, it seemed like the perfect time to do that, too."

Edith beams. 

"And you're a detective?" James puts in then, meeting Nancy's gaze.

She nods. "Private investigator."

"I've never met a private investigator before," Edith admits. "And you... you do seem familiar."

She smiles again, but this one is smaller. "My father is Carson Drew."

James and Edith exchange a glance, and Nancy imagines that she can see it, the adjustment in their mental calculations. Nancy is no great beauty, and being a private investigator doesn't necessarily have a fantastic cache attached. But being Carson Drew's daughter is something else entirely.

"I'm sure he's glad you're nearby again. Just like we were delighted when Ned said he was moving back."

Gradually Nancy's heart slows, as she relaxes into the rhythm of their conversation. If she's going to have a long relationship with Ned's parents, the story she's given is so close to the truth that it's nearly indistinguishable, save for the financial angle of the transaction. She has no qualm about sharing this version of it with anyone else, either. It's a perfect alibi for explaining how they actually met and her hesitation and reluctance to tell the truth. Meeting someone through an online dating service still has such a strange taboo attached.

Granted, meeting someone through an escort service remains much, much worse. That secret is safe between them, though, as far as Nancy is concerned.

Dinner is absolutely wonderful, and Ned even feeds Nancy a few bites of his own meal. While she eats, she listens to the way Ned interacts with his parents, and the way they interact with each other, and she's filled with such longing. No wonder Ned wanted to come back here and start his life here. She wonders if missing his parents, the loneliness of his life in New York, had led him to seek out... what he did. A simulation of intimacy without intimacy.

Maybe. It hardly matters now.

By the end of the meal she isn't entirely comfortable with Ned's parents, but she's far closer than she was. When Nancy made jokes, their laughter seemed genuine. Nancy hasn't seen any clearly skeptical or judgemental glances directed her way, and Ned's father doesn't pull him aside with an ultimatum that Ned stop seeing her.

"You okay?"

On the way back to his place, once they're alone together again, Nancy lets out her breath in a long sigh and nods. "Yeah. Better."

"I told you they were going to love you."

"That's because you do," she replies, with a smile. "And they clearly love you. I can't imagine..."

"What?" he murmurs, casting a quick glance at her.

"Growing up with parents like them. My father... I know he adores me. Spoils me as often as he can, and he let me do and be so much that I would never have been otherwise. But... I always knew that his other half was missing, you know. Or my other half, I guess. The grief he feels is a tangible thing."

"I'm sure it is. I can't even imagine."

She shrugs, reaching up to rub her palm over her shoulder blade as she considers. "Your parents just seem so comfortable with each other."

"They are. In a way, it spoiled me too. I want what they have."

"Of course you do," she said quietly, and reached over to touch his hand. "I would want that, too. I do want that."

He glances over at her again, and her heart is pounding.

"I'm glad... that you said what you did."

She smiles. "Close enough that it might as well be the truth."

He nods.

"But I... I'm not gonna rewrite it in my head, either. Yeah, I wish we'd met another way. I also refuse to regret it. Like you said, if I hadn't needed a date, who knows if we ever would have stumbled across each other?"

"Well, maybe if you had moved back here. A chance encounter at the local pizza place."

She grins, but sobers a bit. "And you really would just never have told me, then. Do you know how... oh, how tempting it is, to know someone's holding something back? Something that has to be important if they're going to such great lengths? I just don't know. I don't know if I would have bought it."

He raises an eyebrow at her on his next glance.

"I'm not saying it makes us even, having this... this non-secret between us, but... I look at you and I'm just in awe. Entirely speechless. You could have had anyone, and somehow, you chose me."

"And one day I'll wake up and realize that I settled."

"Something like that."

He shakes his head. "Every date we have, every hour I spend with you, I get it," he says. "What I have with you is far more important than some half-examined idea to feign shame and remorse. I showed you the worst... and you're still here."

She shakes her head too. "You didn't show me the worst. It was you the whole time. And maybe you were holding part of yourself back, but... I was responding to who you are, and I think what hurt so much was... was that disconnect."

"I hated who I was—who I told myself I had to be, with you."

"You know that whole 'If you can't handle me at my worst' thing?"

"Yeah."

She smiles. "If that was your worst, Ned Nickerson..."

He makes a quiet sound. "The only thing I honestly regret was holding you at arm's length the entire time."

"If anything, I was at dick length."

He snorts, and then they're both laughing.

--

When you know, you know.

Ned turns in the darkness, naked between the sheets. She's beside him, asleep on her belly, blankets tugged up to just beneath the nape of her neck, covering her bare shoulders. She's naked too, so deeply asleep that he watches her for a moment just to detect that slow rise and fall, and a small tightness loosens in his own chest.

He knows. He's put it out of his mind so many times, told himself that it's too early, too soon. Too everything. He's come up with a dozen excuses, come up with a dozen little tests to prove that it's right or wrong.

He loves her. Endlessly, completely, wholly. At every test or challenge, it only seems to grow. He has eyes for no one else; he wants no one else, and it's almost frightening. He thinks it would be frightening, if things were different.

She spent a night in the hospital a week earlier, thanks to some injuries sustained on a case and the admitting physician being worried about a concussion. Ned found sleeping without her hard, because they always slept together. They may have separate apartments, but at this point it's like an excuse for plausible deniability. No, they can't be living together, because they pay rent on different homes. No, they can't be living together, because it's too soon to know that he wants nothing else, and he's letting himself believe that she might want that too. No, sometimes he does sleep over at her place, and sometimes has to go home to pick a few things up. But so often she's here, and when she isn't, he's acutely aware that something isn't right.

Intellectually, he understands that she's not the center of his universe, that she can't and shouldn't be. She's a human being with her own wants and needs, and his intense feelings about her don't mean she feels the same way or that she should feel obligated to.

But he's also been very honest with himself about the person he is when he's with her and that persona's relationship to the core of his identity, and he feels—better, with her. He's still navigating the occasional re-realization that her first knowledge of him was an oversexualized version of who he truly is, but they've worked through it. She's open and willing to explore what she wants and needs with him, but she's no longer pushing against boundaries just for the sake of doing so. She's also so very willing to explore his own fantasies, although for him it's the novelty of doing so with her, not the newness of the concept.

They fit. They just fit together in a way he's experienced with no one else. And that scare last week, as clichéd as it is, made him realize it.

The worst she can do isn't to say no, and it will be better to clarify how they stand with each other, but his heart is still pounding when he considers it. He doesn't want this to end, but no matter how she answers, it will. They will begin something new together, or they will let each other go.

He knows. But what if she doesn't? 

For a while he can't imagine going back to sleep with this burning in him, and then his phone is buzzing angrily on the bedside table. She's snuggled against him, and his arm is over her, his face almost buried against her scalp. He doesn't want to release her to turn off the alert.

"Mmm." She shifts under him. "Sunday?"

"Yeah." He sighs and rolls over, silencing his phone's vibration without looking at it. "Breakfast?"

"In a while. Snuggle," she murmurs, and he obeys, relaxing almost immediately into sleep again, breathing her in.

They drift back to consciousness together once the sun is fully up, and he offers to make her breakfast for her; she smiles, knowing what's on the list of dishes he can prepare. A few minutes later he's in the kitchen, and she walks in to see him pondering a bowl of strawberry yogurt as he rinses a handful of strawberries. The yogurt is already topped in granola and blueberries.

She reaches for the loaf of bread to make herself some toast, but he shakes his head. "I'll do it. Go drink some coffee."

His tone isn't upset, but she can sense something in him, some solemnity, and her smile falters. She takes her coffee to the couch and sits down, a pit in her stomach, and can't bring herself to pick up the remote and turn on the weather forecast, pretending everything is normal and he's not about to—

She doesn't know. Before this very minute she would have sworn that she did, but now... she just doesn't like that pensive expression, as though he's steeling himself for something.

He brings her bowl and a saucer with two slices of buttered toast, smiles, then returns to the kitchen. She looks at her spoon.

It's nothing to be upset over.

And yet, she can't bring herself to pick up the spoon, either.

There are moments when she has known so clearly that her life is about to change, and this... feels like one of them.

He sits down on the couch with his mug of coffee, and takes a long sip. She does the same, belatedly realizing that this will likely do nothing to help her anxiety. The room is cold, and normally she would be snuggled against him, but she remembers it in a brief, unpleasant flash: Ned telling her not to get comfortable during her first visit to this place, since he had been expecting her to walk out once he had told her... well, everything.

But we made it through that, she reminds herself, wishing that would help.

He puts the mug down and turns to her, and she hates that she's cringing at all, but she can feel herself bracing against the expectation of hurt, in the way she can't quite fully straighten, in the way she has to angle her eyes up to look at him and can't quite meet his eyes.

He reaches for her hand and she sees his adam's apple bob. That by itself is terrifying.

"Next month," he says. "The cabin."

She nods. His parents' cabin on the lake, which they've promised Nancy and Ned are welcome to use at any time. They had confirmed it was available for her vacation time just last week. "Oh no," she says before realizing she's spoken. "We can't go?"

His brow furrows slightly. "Did you have a conflict?"

"No, but..." She gestures with her free hand. "You look upset, so I thought that explained it, maybe."

His expression clears, and he glances away for a moment. "Better?"

Despite that persistent pit, she smiles. "Yeah. So we're still on for the trip."

He nods, and at that she does relax slightly. If he were breaking up with her, that would be an easy way to get her acclimated. Canceling the trip, canceling other plans...

"While we're there, I'm going to ask you if you would like to get married."

Tears immediately rise, and she impatiently blinks them away, sending them streaming down her cheeks. "Why... why not now?"

He blinks, then. "Because it's not fair to spring something like that on you," he says.

"You mean you aren't?"

He chuckles. "Well, I was trying not to, anyway."

She sniffles and reaches for the napkin on the coffee table to wipe her cheeks and nose. "So this is just a heads up."

"Yes. So you have time to consider it. So we can talk over anything you need to talk about. So that... well, if you think it through and decide that you don't want to do it..."

"You won't put me on the spot by asking."

He nods. She can see such sweet concern in his dark eyes. "You can just tell me that you don't want our relationship to change, and we won't."

She smiles, but this time it's brief, tight-lipped. "It's pretty incredible that you think this won't change us."

"Oh, it will," he replies. "Whether the answer is no, or yes, or ask me again later, we'll be different."

She sniffles again. "Well, let's save some time," she suggests. "When you ask me, my answer's gonna be yes."

Ned's eyes widen, and he searches her gaze. "There—there are probably some things we should talk through," he replies.

"And we will. I know you. You will be very thorough and very conscientious and I'll feel confident in my decision at the end of it. I'm pretty sure you aren't actually proposing some kind of harem situation, because that's definitely off the table, but... yes. I'm gonna say yes."

She laughs when Ned pulls her onto his lap, but that laughter ends as soon as their lips meet. Ned's kiss is a celebration, a pact, an act of claiming. He kisses like an expert, and she supposes that he is; he also kisses with such sensual confidence that he generally leaves her swooning, and this interlude has her clinging to him to stay upright as his tongue slides over hers.

He hastily gasps a request into her ear, and she nods immediately; a moment later she's on her back with her legs draped over his shoulders and he's sucking her clit. She's shivering from the cold but she still parts her robe, fondling her breasts through the thin fabric of her long t-shirt, rubbing and pinching her nipples as he lashes his tongue back and forth. When she begins to pant and rock under him, he just suckles harder.

It seems like a good sign, she thinks, her last coherent attempt to do so, that his first request on our pre-engagement is going down on me.

As he nearly always does, he leaves her sobbing his name, shuddering hard as her orgasm crashes over her. Her inner flesh is weakly clenching around nothing as she blinks tear-sodden lashes to see him rising. Her legs are spread wide, the slick trace of her arousal cooling on her skin, and his erection is—

Even after seeing it, fondling it, sucking on it countless times, she still shivers when her gaze falls to it. At this point he usually has her move to all fours and he fucks her from behind until she's come again, her screams beyond any attempt to stifle them. She begins to struggle, to move into position for him, although her orgasm-dazed limbs hardly seem ready to obey any commands, even her own.

But he shakes his head. "Like this?" he murmurs, and it's barely a question, but she nods.

She helps prop up her weight, knees bent and her feet on the couch, as he lifts her hips and plunges into her slick, tight sex with a groan of triumph, and Jesus, she feels conquered, she feels spent and helpless as a rag doll, but then his thumb finds her clit—

She screams his name, arching her back as he stimulates her again, his thrusts long and smooth and deep. She's senseless, undone, and he takes her beyond, as he so often does, to a place past pleasure where she is just a string to be plucked, and the enormity shatters her. She can barely hear him cry out his own release over the roaring in her ears, the shuddering, quivering destruction of her own body.

He's remade her over and over again, but she's remade him too. When he collapses to her she holds him, trembling uncontrollably still, punctuated by the random flinches of aftershocks. All they can do for several minutes is just breathe.

"Jesus."

She coughs. Her throat is dry. "Was that an audition? Baby, you were already definitely getting the part."

He snorts.

"Don't say it," she warns him. "Yes, I know, I'm the one who already has the part." She weakly clenches around him, and they both groan.

"I love you," he says, suddenly. "I mentioned that, right?"

"Generally you do at least once a day," she replies, idly stroking his hair, "but I don't think your spoiler alert included one."

"I'll be sure to mention it for the real thing. And every day between."

She smiles. "As though everything you do for me doesn't already tell me," she whispers. "I don't doubt it, baby. I love you too. And I can't wait to be your wife."

At that, he laughs in genuine joy, and she wraps her legs around him as he catches her in another long, deep kiss.

It's three days later when Nancy receives a casual message from Mel, just a reminder about the show they idly discussed catching in the city during her planned January visit. Nancy takes a long sip of water and glances down at her left hand. They're going ring shopping on Saturday.

Given everything, it's incredible that he's being so very conscientious, but she thinks he will probably draw the line at dress rehearsals for the proposal. Maybe.

I have it on good authority that next time I see you, I'll be engaged.

Nancy's heart is pounding when she sends the message, but when Mel doesn't respond immediately, Nancy smiles and returns to her own work. Comparing the two lab reports is painstaking, but she's well aware of how important it is.

Then her phone begins to vibrate across the desk, Mel's name on the display. Nancy gasps and snatches it up, glancing around.

"What? Tell me everything," Mel demands.

"It hasn't happened yet," Nancy protests.

"Then how do you—"

"We're going ring shopping this weekend."

Mel laughs. "That's good authority, all right."

"Yeah." Nancy glances down at her desk. "I owe you big time. If you hadn't talked me into getting back out there, I don't even know where I'd be now."

"Drunk at your desk in the city," Mel replies immediately, so confident that Nancy has to laugh. "Stalking your ex on social media and making up excuses for it. Oh, I'm so happy for you. Ask if he left any cute friends in New York who might be interested."

Nancy chuckles. "Definitely."

"And you don't owe me anything. He's good for you. If I had some small part in helping that happen, that's more than enough for me."

"Then can I ask one more favor?"

"Of course."

"Be one of our witnesses for the ceremony. It just seems... fitting."

"Is this a courthouse situation? Have you two been especially naughty?"

"God, no. I mean, yes, but my birth control is responding valiantly."

"Good." Nancy can hear the smile in her voice. "Then I wouldn't miss it for worlds."

The ballroom is gorgeous. Ned takes it all in as he walks in, Nancy's arm through his.

Back in high school, there had been formal dances, the ubiquitous proms, and in college there had been the same, but this is a step beyond that. In fact, the only time he's ever been in a room that approaches this...

Well, that was a previous life, a very different situation, and Ned lets that note of recognition register and fade. He always tried to do the best he could to deal with it in the healthiest way possible, and when he realized that he still had some guilt and shame over it, he had pored over it, walked himself through it, and finally realized that it wasn't just hurting him, it was hurting the woman he loved, to deny that part of himself. When she pointed out that his scheme had been doomed to failure, he hadn't wanted to admit how right she was.

Any woman who would have loved that incomplete version of him... he would have lived in dread of her finding out. And while Nancy had met a different incomplete version of him, that version of him had been the most vulnerable of all, and in some ways the most authentic.

So he doesn't feel ashamed at remembering, even so briefly, that he was an escort the last time he crossed a gleaming parquet floor like this, to see crushed blue velvet curtains sweeping across the margins of the dancing surface, the perfectly calibrated lighting reflecting off hundreds of starbursts, from crystal chandeliers and sconces polished to a mirrored shine. The artifice is subtle as an anvil.

His parents have a membership at the local country club, they belong in the upper class—but theirs is relatively new money, and this is a place that whispers of old wealth, careful sophistication, established dynasties and deals murmured over handshakes between sips of aged scotch, miles of milk-white skin. All the men around them are dressed in classic white and black; there isn't even a quirky pocket square or pair of leather tails to break up the monotony, just the occasional addition of a single conservative flower at the buttonhole.

The women... ahh, well. Many of them are second or third wives, selected for beauty and poise, and they wear shimmering satin columns, outlandish ball gowns that would hardly have been out of place at a couture show seventy years ago, and the few first wives, hair shot through with silver, fillers supplementing what nature flattened, wear what looks like modified mother-of-the-bride, in stylish understated pantsuits trimmed in glass beads, long shot-silk jackets. There are a few in the crowd Ned marks as girlfriends or possibly escorts, but it hardly matters. He's in Chicago, a place he's already unlikely to run into anyone from his previous life, and he is the absolute last person to judge anyone for hiring an escort.

It's just that in situations like this, that persona seems so very easy to assume—maybe because he adores Nancy, is absolutely besotted with her, and can imagine nothing he would enjoy more than playing the part of the very attentive and captivated partner. Because he already is. Turning it off seems to be the problem, more often than not.

Nancy's dress is breathtaking, and he apparently has Bess to thank for it, Nancy noted when modeling it for him. It's off the shoulder, floor length, and he knows enough to describe it as ombré, black and gold, constructed of what seems to be a million sequins. The neckline isn't low, or at least it isn't as low as Ned prefers, and the dress reveals her shoulder blades in the back but not much lower. The fabric clings to her hips and then flows out to shimmer with her every step. It's an absolute showstopper, and she carries a simple black clutch, her everyday rings, a pair of diamond earrings. She looks absolutely regal, with her reddish-gold hair swept up and her blue eyes shining.

She looks like she belongs here, like she was born to this, of this. This glittering celebration of wealth and privilege and beaming philanthropy. When she smiles and accepts a flute of champagne from a passing waiter, Ned can't help imagining licking the sparkling wine off her perfect breasts.

Which is off limits. For now, anyway.

The speeches, soliciting for donations, are both gentle and perfunctory; they're surrounded by people who have no problem producing a tasteful credit card or dashing off a check or approving a wire transfer from some international bank, an anonymous donation or one meant to buy naming rights for whatever might be promised. Ned hears murmurings about family trusts, foundations, and keeps his smile as genuine as he can make it while he thinks of all that could be done with a fraction of the donation amounts he's hearing tonight.

Money can't buy happiness. But poverty definitely can't.

Nancy's here at her father's behest, to be casually and naturally introduced to an acquaintance who is in need of some discreet investigative work, and Ned leaves them to it. She's good at what she does, and Ned knows it. She puts herself in danger more often than Ned would like, but he can't blame her. He put himself in danger a lot too, in that previous life. He understood the stakes and the potential reward. She does too.

Ned's sampling a shrimp bite from the flawless table of finger foods when he feels that specific peculiar prickle at the back of his neck. Someone's eyes are on him, but when he glances in her direction, he discovers they aren't Nancy's.

He relaxes fractionally. Then it doesn't matter. One of those bored second or third wives is the most likely party, and Ned has no intention of engaging even in the most mindless flirtatious banter tonight, or at least not with a stranger. With Nancy, well... he's most interested in how long it will take for him to gather up that long heavy skirt and shove it above her hips, to nudge aside the thin, doubtless wet strip of fabric barring him unimpeded entrance—

Another tray of chilled champagne flutes passes within his radius, and Ned snags one. She's promised him dancing, and he will take it. Just as he will take her, tonight, with her enthusiastic, breathless, pleading consent.

It's strange, or maybe it isn't, not at all. He considered his appetite terrifying before, but she is both its endless source and its bottomless quenching. He is hers. He reaches for her every morning, sleeps with his nose buried in her hair nearly every night, and the contentment he finds with her is bone-deep.

And when she comes to him again, directing a beautiful smile in his direction, her eyes sparkling, the music is up and the relief of being in her arms again is undeniable. They sway together, his palm resting on the fabric covering the small of her back, and her perfume is sweet and a little sharp and lovely. He wants, very much, to trace every line of her bare skin, to caress her shoulder blades, her shoulders, her elbows, her collarbones. He wants to draw her into some secluded corner and murmur things in her ear that will have her blushing and batting ineffectually at him, and then grabbing him by the lapels and dragging him to the car.

He settles for brushing his lips very gently against her ear. "You smell amazing," he murmurs.

She laughs, very gently, and cups the side of his neck, her thumb grazing the line of his jaw. "You always smell amazing. And you have that look on your face."

"Good. So what's gonna happen in the limo won't be a surprise."

She laughs, more heartily this time. "Oh, love," she murmurs, and their gazes catch, and he searches her eyes.

"I am," he says, as he guides her into another turn, "so completely, totally, head over heels in love with you. You look incredible in that dress and you're going to look so good once it's on the floor."

She grins. "As though several woman haven't ovulated at just seeing you in this tux."

"Hey. I do what I can."

Once she confirms that she's made contact with the friend of her father's and her primary mission for the night is over, Ned relaxes a little and she rests against him, one of her hands just inside his jacket, just over his heart. It's possessive and sweet and charming, all at the same time.

For a second he imagines, idly, what his life would have been if they had met years earlier, if she had been his date to senior prom. If there had been no decision to try for an acting career in New York.

If he had met her—

But clean isn't the word, not anymore. They both would have been different people then. Maybe they would have been a young couple in the city; maybe she would have encouraged him to act. Maybe she would have been the man she followed there, but he would have been the one who stayed.

He lets it go, feels passing through him. He can imagine any number of things, but he prefers the fantasies that have any chance of becoming real, the faintly scandalized but overwhelmingly intrigued glances she shoots his way when he picks out some scraps of lace and satin barely pretending to pass for lingerie for her. The last time he bought her a bouquet of roses, then plucked one from the vase and glanced over at her, to see her there on the bed, naked and waiting for him, cheeks growing pink in anticipation of everywhere those petals might brush against her.

It's been too long. Hours are too long.

They've just begun to consider saying their goodbyes when they next song begins, and then Nancy turns. Someone's trying to cut in on them.

And Ned's eyes widen as he meets that person's brown-eyed gaze.

--

When Nancy turns, she already knows her expression is so close to flat, dismissive refusal that it hardly matters. Whoever would have the absolute nerve to cut in on her while she's dancing with Ned—

But the person is a man, of Ned's height, dressed in a very similar tuxedo to all the rest around them. He's just—oh, at least twenty years older than Ned. The older man's hair is shot through with gray, but he has kind eyes, laugh lines. He's the kind of man that Nancy would have found herself instinctually inclined to trust.

And the older man has no interest in Nancy. His gaze is locked to Ned's.

Nancy glances between them.

And then, oh, Jesus, she knows.

Because what she sees flicker so briefly in Ned's eyes is complex. She sees fear and something—it's not regret, precisely, but maybe grief or guilt. Fondness. But not that spark she so often sees when Ned gazes at her.

The older man was one of Ned's clients in New York, and he's here, among this crowd, and...

And if he's feeling vindictive, angry about losing Ned, he could very well cause a scene.

She hates that it's her first thought, that she's immediately suspicious, but she can't help it. She knows what she's been lucky enough to claim as hers, and she can imagine how horrible it would be, to feel that happiness being snatched away.

Nancy's arms are still up, over Ned's shoulders. She relaxes one and angles her body, letting the other hand glide down Ned's arm, and then his fingers curl and catch hers. She's not sure that what she feels in his fingertips is the rapid pounding of his own heart; maybe it's hers.

"Fancy meeting you here." She doesn't catch the typical New York accent in his voice; it's more polished. The note of vulnerability is unmistakeable, though.

The older man has barely cast a single glance at Nancy. She studies his gaze and her heart cracks, just a little.

Because she has been where he is.

Nancy shifts her arm to slide it over Ned's and he takes it, automatically. She shifts her weight and while it's not immediate, the older man does recognize her presence enough to glance over at her.

"Hello," she says, keeping her smile polite, hoping she's wiped any hint of pity or sympathy out of her expression, anything that would tip off that she knows. Because, were the situation reversed, she wouldn't have been able to bear it. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to glare at you when you tried to cut in. My husband and I find so little opportunity to dance together that I hate to lose it."

She doesn't bother emphasizing the most important word in the speech, knowing that he will pick it out, and that it will shift everything. And it does. The older man's eyes widen slightly, and then they gleam a little before he blinks a few times.

"Wife."

Ned nods, a gentle, almost regretful gesture. "My wife," he says. "She followed me when I moved out here for my new career."

And Nancy watches the older man glance between the two of them, and while her own heart is pounding pretty hard, she doesn't move away from Ned or distance herself in any other way. She keeps her smile in place.

"I'm a very lucky woman."

The older man nods once, then slides a hand into his pocket. Nancy tenses slightly, but doesn't see anything threatening, no gun or weapon waiting.

"I'm glad you're doing well."

Ned nods. "And I hope you are too," he replies, and no one else in the room would be able to hear that faint note past his polite tone, that gentleness that she associates with him when he's slipped into therapy mode.

This. This is something that, especially early in their relationship here in Chicago, she worried about. Oh, someone discovering Ned was an escort while he accompanied her to Joe's wedding would have been mortifying on a few levels, but almost everyone at the event could be safely avoided for the rest of her life, if she hadn't managed to just laugh it off as a spectacular joke. But here, surrounded by family and friends, all the people who are important to both of them, to have them look at Ned and judge him for his choices and his lifestyle...

When so many of the people around them are definitely less than squeaky clean in their own personal lives.

She was so aware, early on, of the irony—that Ned wanted someone pure and unspoiled regarding his own nature, someone he could become right for. Her awareness tainted her, that and her repeated, willing, pleading involvement. His moving past it, coming to terms with the knowledge that yes, it was a job, that yes, he did well at it, and that yes, it's not something he can simply unwrite... that took a while, and she's not even sure how or why he managed it, only that when they spoke their vows to each other, even if someone had stood up when the minister asked for reasons they should not be wed and bawled "because he fucked people for money," she would have calmly gazed into Ned's eyes and indicated that the ceremony should proceed.

The idea she can't bear is that of Ned being ostracized, snickered at behind his back, losing his professional standing, losing his reputation—but she's also aware that it's all entirely out of her control, and anyone small-minded enough to talk shit about Ned is already a deeply insecure, morally bankrupt person.

Ned can only be who he is, and that person is kind and considerate and would bend over backward to help anyone. His sexual magnetism is off the charts, and knowing that he concentrates all of it on her, that she is his sole desire in bed and he is addicted to every possible permutation of her orgasms—

Well. She considered writing that into her vows somehow, but saved them for their wedding night instead.

If this older man loved, loves, Ned as Nancy did, when she had no hope of her love being returned, when she was painstakingly piecing all she knew and wished about him into some semblance of an actual person worthy of that love—then she can imagine the utter torment in him. Ned is lost to him, now. Worse than that, here with his spouse, and both can be humiliated and temporarily defeated with a few declarative words.

That Ned didn't pay for sex—that he himself was paid to perform it. By other men.

It's mutually assured destruction, a double-edged sword, but sometimes pain demands that. Annihilation of both the wounded and the villain. A cosmic balance of justice.

Nancy remembers sobbing on seeing Ned, that damn black duffel bag slung over his shoulder, walking into someone else's apartment with a grin on his face. She remembers suddenly doubting everything, scrutinizing all their past interactions for hints of artifice or veiled disgust, for signs he had lied to her in any way. She remembers the horrible betrayal of not just knowing but seeing that she wasn't his only partner, and feeling an ugly punch of desperate misery. Feeling like she wasn't enough for him.

She's deeply curious about the other man, beyond the immediate question of how much or how little he wants retribution for this outrage. Maybe he was a regular. Did he ever take Ned to a wedding? Show him off like a trophy? Admit to his friends that the model-gorgeous man on his arm could be a party favor, for the right price?

That part of Ned's life isn't a closed book to her, and he's answered any question she's put to him about it, but Nancy knows that all the encounters he had weren't uniformly perfect. For all she knows—though she doubts it—this man standing before them made threats against Ned, or hurt him.

Even though she sees no sign of it, she still feels protective toward him, still keeps her arm linked through Ned's.

The older man is still gazing at Ned, and Ned's gazing back. Anyone who looks over at them would see the tension there.

"It was a pleasure to meet you," Nancy says, and there's no sarcasm or insincerity in her voice. She doesn't follow it up with the regular empty platitudes or gestures toward anything like friendship. Instead she strokes her thumb along the side of Ned's hand, and when he glances over at her, she gives him a little shrug, indicating the other dancers.

Ned sighs silently and nods to the man. "I hope you have a good night."

When she glances back, she can see the tears brimming in the older man's eyes, but another couple whirls beside Nancy and Ned, and then she can't see him anymore.

--

Pop culture has taught Ned that there are few ways to deal with blackmailers. One is to pay the blackmailer forever. The other is to murder the blackmailer. Maybe to find even more damning information about the blackmailer, if that's possible.

Stephen won't blackmail Ned.

But there are other people who would. Who would consider it, anyway.

Nancy vanishes into the bathroom once they return home, and although Ned's heart is trembling in horrible anticipation on what feels like every third beat, he hasn't brought it up and neither has she. It was likely a close call and they won't need to worry about it, but now that it's happened once, it could happen again.

Leave and start a new life. Go somewhere I'll never run into a former client again...

Utterly absurd. He hasn't committed a crime; not a real one, anyway. He is a great therapist. His past being out there might even make him more respected. Somehow.

Ned sighs and begins to strip out of the tux, his movements slow.

Nancy returns, face scrubbed clean, wearing what she likely had on under the gown: a boned corset in unlined black lace, her stiff pink nipples clearly showing through it, garters hooked to the corset and holding up lace-topped stockings...

And nothing else.

Ned swallows, and his gaze slides up to her face. It's not that she's never worn anything like this before—far from it—but she's devastatingly sexy.

She crosses the room and cups his face in her cool palms. "Talk about it, or make love? Or both?"

He smiles, briefly, and stops himself from asking her whether she's sure. All that she doesn't know is incidental. There are no fatal traps hidden in the darker corners.

"He asked me to move in with him."

Her eyes widen slightly, but she nods slowly. "He's the one you told me about?"

"Yeah." He slides his arms around her waist. The lace is scratchy against his skin. "And I considered it. He was kind. He's incredibly rich."

"Like ninety percent of the other guests tonight."

Ned nods. "I guess it was foolish of me to think that I would never run into anyone from that life again. Present company excluded, of course."

"Of course," she agrees, with a little chuckle. "In case you don't know this, though, or in case anything has made you doubt it: if something happens and someone decides to 'expose you,'" her mouth tightens in a moue of distaste, "then we'll deal with it, together.  Possibly with a flamethrower."

Ned laughs and draws her to him, burying his face in her hair. Her perfume lingers there, sweet and smoky and darkly floral.

"He's a nice guy. It wouldn't be him."

"Anyone who goes after you would have to admit how they came upon that knowledge."

Ned sighs and nuzzles her ear. "Keep talking legal, you know how hot it makes me."

She laughs then, combing her fingers through his hair, letting her hands glide down to finish undressing him. "I can put my heels back on, if you'd prefer."

"It is a good look on you. But all your looks are good."

She kisses his cheek as she unfastens his fly. He turns his head and she's rubbing the heel of her hand against his length, through the fabric of his underwear, as he kisses her deeply. She arches on a shudder as he skims a palm over her ass, then cups her from behind, sliding one finger between the plush, slick lips of her sex.

"Mmm. Knew you were wet."

She laughs. "When I'm within ten feet of you? Perpetually. Embarrassingly."

"Sexily."

He takes her hips and moves her onto the bed, finishes stripping his own clothes off, then gazes down at her, moaning quietly at the sight. Her knees are up, her legs spread, and she's surveying him through low lashes.

"I just don't want to lose you, or..." He waves his hand.

"You won't," she says.

"Your father?"

She shakes her head, holding Ned's gaze.

He pales by a few shades. "Because he already knows."

"He's a 'trust but verify' kind of guy," she replies. "Especially when it comes to his only daughter."

"How long has he known?"

She shrugs. "Since we announced our engagement."

Ned swallows. "And you didn't think that was an important topic of conversation?"

She shakes her head. "He loves you. I think a part of him is chalking it up to youthful indiscretion or curiosity or something, but he does love you. He'd take on a defamation case for you in a second, libel, slander, whatever..."

"Which only applies if what's being said isn't true."

"If someone said that you'd been paid to have sex, that wouldn't be true."

Ned snickers and climbs onto the bed, between her spread legs. "Technically."

"Technically is enough." She unfastens the first few hooks of the corset, then palms her breasts and begins to fondle them, still meeting his gaze. "I refuse to let anyone try to make you feel ashamed about your past. I wish someone would come to me and attempt something. 'Of course I know he was an escort, because he was fucking incredible, literally and figuratively.'" Her hips angle up as she strokes her thumbs over her nipples, offering the join of her thighs to him.

He smiles briefly, humorlessly, resting his palms on her knees. "Do my parents know," he says quietly.

"I don't know," she replies. "But I do know how much they love you, and that they wouldn't disown you if they found out." The last word slides into a moan as she bucks her hips, as she skims her palms down the corset to between her thighs.

Ned shakes his head, watching her spread herself for him, revealing the slick pink folds of her, the nub of her sensitive clit. "Fucking incredible, huh."

She gasps sharply as he leans down, drawing her clit into his mouth for firm suckling, stimulating her with his tongue and teeth until her head is tipped back, baring her throat. "Yes, yes," she begs him, her hips quivering.

"Mine," he growls.

"Yes," she sobs, then cries out when he works two fingers up into the slick passage of her, fucking her with them in slow, deep thrusts. He feels her come from the inside as he eats her out, as she fondles her breasts and pinches her nipples, as she bucks under him and clamps her inner muscles around his fingers, pulsing from her orgasm.

He's not entirely surprised when, as soon as she's recovered from her aftershocks, she's nuzzling against his chest, trailing kisses down, licking him and leaving the occasional gentle bite. It takes all of his self-control to keep from coming as soon as she's drawn the head of his cock into her mouth, after nuzzling against it, kissing it, licking it, and stroking the base of it with her palm.

"Mine," she growls, then licks a drop of pre-cum off the head of his cock.

"Yes," he groans, pleads, cupping the back of her head.

She sucks and licks his cock until he's cursing, warning her, ready to explode—and then, in a sudden movement, she's mounting him. They both groan as she slides down onto his cock, enfolding him in the slippery grip of her sex.

Their lovemaking—their fucking—is wild and frantic and desperate. She's already ridiculously wet, and the first glance of his thumb against her clit has her bouncing on top of him in rapid urgent thrusts, gasping out increasingly more profane pleas for release. When he clenches his jaw and rolls her onto her back, his feet hitting the floor, she arches in anticipation and screams at his first thrust.

His wife.

For her, this has always been and meant love. This has always been an act she has shared with him because she loves him. Stephen doesn't threaten her. None of them can. Because none of them had this with him.

He holds himself in increasingly more difficult control, timing it so that he comes when she does, frantically rutting together, his thumb rapidly stroking her clit, both of them blind at the utter ecstasy of it. They cry out together, the pleasure so intense it wipes out everything, absolutely everything other than the perfection of reaching their climax together.

She's breathless, sobbing, when he recovers enough to register anything, and he leans down to nuzzle her jaw and ear, his thumb still lazily stroking the slick button. Her legs are fallen open but he's still buried to the hilt inside her.

"I love you." She whimpers the words, her breath warm on his cheek.

"I love you." She trembles as he slows and stops that gentle stroking, as he slowly pulls out of her, and she makes a quiet contented sound as he rolls onto his side and gathers her to him.

"I wouldn't take any of it back," she murmurs, nuzzling against him, his chest, his shoulder. "Not any of it."

"I would have met you earlier," he admits. "I would have told you how I felt earlier."

"Okay, yes. Wholehearted yes on that."

He kisses her ear. "I would have taken you to bed on our first date," he murmurs. "I would have made sure you were addicted to me before I left the next morning."

She laughs, tangling herself around him. "It's really fucking intimidating to know that your boyfriend isn't exactly hurting in that department," she points out. "That it was probably smarter not to put out."

He considers as she nestles against him, all long muscular limbs, her breasts soft and her breath warm. "Yeah, but that's kind of what showed me," he points out. "I knew that having great sex with a willing partner wasn't the end-all and be-all. I knew you were fascinating and complicated and gorgeous, and that as much as we were attracted to each other, that was almost incidental."

"You say that, having given me a mind-blowing orgasm."

"I'm vast and contain multitudes."

She wriggles up and gives him a long, sweet kiss. "You do," she murmurs. "We do. Whatever else, this is where I, where we, needed to be. So I wouldn't change anything if it meant risking this. Not a second of it." She strokes his cheek.

He smiles. "We would always have found each other," he says.

"Oh?"

"There's no way to prove otherwise."

She grins. "We would always have found each other," she murmurs. "No matter what."