Perfect Strangers

I consider it, trying to picture the scene. James and I are on a bench—a secluded one, under a tree—and I’m on his lap. I’m wearing an overcoat that’s hiding my legs, which are straddled on either side of his hips as I ride him, getting closer and closer to orgasm, my head thrown back and my fingers clenched into his hair as he ravishes my breasts with his hot, hungry mouth…

When an old man walking a poodle dodders past and shouts, “I’m calling the police!”

“I don’t want to get arrested for public indecency, thank you.”

Kelly heaves a sigh. “I’m gonna get on Google and see if I can find any good ideas. I’ll text you if I have anything.”

“You sure you want to do that? Google can be a scary place. I once searched on ‘natural headache remedy’ and became convinced within five minutes that I had an infestation of parasitic fleas feasting on my brain. If you start looking up ideas for sex you might wind up on some site with graphic pictures of gangrene of the genitalia.”

Kelly makes a soft sound of condolence. “It must be scary inside that head of yours.”

“You have no idea. I wish I could clone myself so I’d have someone who understood.”

The doorbell rings, and I freeze. “Oh shit.”

“What’s wrong?”

“He’s early!”

Kelly hoots. “All right, let’s get this party started, sister! Rawr!”

“Please stop making tiger noises. I’m having a breakdown here.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“I’m scared.”

“You’re not scared,” says Kelly firmly. “You’re nervous. Two different things. And remember…”

“What?”

Her voice gentles. “You can survive anything, babe. A date with a hot guy is nothing compared to what you’ve been through.”

My throat gets tight. I have to blow out a hard breath before I can speak again. “Have I told you lately that I love you?”

“I love you, too. Now go break off a piece of that man candy and have yourself a good time. And call me first thing in the morning. I want to hear every dirty detail.”

As the doorbell rings again, I say, “Copy that, Sarge. Talk to you tomorrow.”

We hang up and I head to the front door, grabbing my purse from a chair and stuffing my cell phone into the back pocket of my jeans. Then I stand in front of the door with my hand on the knob, gathering my courage.

I pull open the door and there he is, all tall, dark, and gorgeous six-foot-plus of alpha male. A lion on the hunt in the Serengeti wouldn’t look half as majestic.

Or hungry.

We stand there staring at each other in crackling silence until he says, “Your face is red.”

“And my palms are sweaty. How are you?”

“Feeling like a champagne cork right after that wire thing on top is removed.”

“About to blow, huh?”

Eyes flashing, he looks me up and down. “Have you ever snorted heroin?”

“Nope.”

“I haven’t, either, but I bet this is what it feels like.”

“I know. This isn’t normal. I’m glad it’s not only me, though, because that would be sad.”

His cheeks crease as he smiles. He’s wearing jeans and an untucked white dress shirt, like the first time I saw him at the café. He’s unnaturally good-looking. It’s intimidating, to be honest. The guy has a face that should be on the cover of magazines, and here I am…not looking like that.

I say, “I think you need to tell me what my ass looks like to a man now, because I’m having trouble wrapping my head around how pretty you are.” I make a motion with my hand indicating the two of us. “Is it glorious enough to bridge the gap?”

Blue eyes burning, he says roughly, “It is definitely fucking glorious. It’s perfect, in fact. Do you know why women’s asses are sometimes compared to fruit?”

“Fruit?”

“Yeah. An apple. A peach. Like that.”

“I think we’re reading different books.”

He ignores me. “It’s because when a man sees a perfect, round, ripe ass—like yours—his mouth waters and all he can think about is sinking his teeth into it.”

I purse my lips, examining his expression, finally deciding this right here is enough for me to go on for the next fifty or sixty years. We don’t even have to kiss or have sex or anything—the way he’s looking at me is so deeply satisfying an orgasm wouldn’t even be close.

Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but you know what I mean.

He holds up a finger. “Also? Your breasts—”

“Wait, let me guess. My breasts are like cantaloupes.”