Perfect Strangers

11

I spendthe next three days in a state of suspended animation, cocooned in the apartment, writing in a blind, compulsive frenzy and ignoring the outside world. I’m consumed by the story and have a hard time tearing myself away from the page even to eat or sleep.

It’s like I’m obsessed by the characters. Or, more accurately, that I’ve become them. I see what they see. I feel what they feel. When they’re sad or happy or confused, I am, too. They’ve arrived in my brain so dimensional and complete, it’s as if I’ve known them my entire life.

They seem more real to me than some people I’m related to.

None of this strikes me as strange, only fantastic. A spigot inside my head has turned on and started gushing. A locked door has swung open wide.

Finally, after more than two years, the thing that makes me me has returned.

With it has come a profound sense of relief.

I haven’t allowed myself to consider what would happen if I’d permanently lost the ability to tell stories. The idea of a life without creativity is too terrifying, because I’ve seen firsthand what happens to artists when they can no longer create.

They shrivel up and die.

But now I’m feeling very much alive. Alive and on fire.

When the doorbell rings at five o’clock on Friday, I head toward the door with a grin splitting my face from ear to ear. The grin dies a death from shock when I open the door and see James standing there.

He’s wearing a gorgeous black suit, expensive looking, probably custom made due to the way it hugs every contour of his big frame. His white dress shirt is open at the collar to more perfectly showcase the strong, tanned column of his throat. His silk pocket square is white, too, his smile is small and mysterious, and the hunger in his eyes is that of a feral wolf.

Looking him up and down, I say faintly, “Oh.”

He glances down at himself. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’ve just never met a man who could make a suit look so hot.” I wave a hand in the air. “This is like…suit porn. If I took a picture of you and sent it to my girlfriend Kelly, her ovaries would explode.”

He flattens his hand on the back of the door and pushes it open wider, steps close, then takes me into his arms. Bending his head down, he softly presses his lips to mine. “And what are your ovaries doing?”

Tightening my arms around his broad shoulders, I say breathlessly, “The cha-cha. But they just noticed that hard bulge in your trousers that’s pressing against my hip, and now they’re about to faint.”

His grin comes on slow and wicked. “We can’t have that. Let’s give them something to stay awake for.”

His mouth takes mine in a deep, passionate kiss.

Though we’ve only been apart for a few days, we both must have been starved for each other, because we stand there for uncounted minutes, our bodies and tongues entwined, until we’re both breathing hard and I’m digging my fingers into his hair and sagging against him. I’m sure it’s only the strength of his arms that’s keeping me upright.

Then he breaks away, leaving me panting.

“Hi.” His voice is low, rough, and warm with stifled laughter.

I open my eyes to find him grinning down at me, his gorgeous blue eyes half-lidded and twinkling with amusement.

I grouse, “Hi yourself. And stop laughing at me. It’s not my fault you’re so sexy.”

He reaches down, grabs a handful of my ass, and squeezes. “I’m not the sexy one here, sweetheart. You look absolutely edible.”

“I borrowed this from Gigi.”

When he arches his brows, I say, “You said to wear a dress, but I only have that blue gown you already saw, and I didn’t have time to go shopping because I got so caught up in work, so I called Edmond this afternoon and asked him for her number. I thought we might wear about the same size.”

The dress Gigi loaned me is a sleeveless red silk wraparound with a plunging neckline that I had to pin together with a safety pin so my boobs don’t fall out. Her gravity-defying cleavage probably holds the neckline in place without any assistance, but mine needs a little help.

Cupping the back of my head in one palm and my butt cheek in the other, James says, “There’s no way she looks as good in it as you do. I want to rip it off your body with my teeth.”

He kisses me again, hungrily, until I’m shaking. This time when he pulls away, I’m laughing.

“Oh my God. I’m dead. You’ve killed me.”

Something sharp and dark flickers in the depths of his eyes. “Don’t say that.”

I was teasing, so the terse tone of his voice surprises me. “I was paying you a compliment, silly. I only meant that you’re a great kisser.”

A thundercloud settles over his mood. He pulls away, his shoulders stiff and his smile vanished. “You ready to go?”