Текст книги "Crosstown Crush"

Автор книги: Cara McKenna

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

CHAPTER TWO

Mike woke late – nearly ten thirty, the alarm clock told him.

The smell of coffee had wafted up from the kitchen, and he pictured Samira cross-legged on the couch in her pajamas, with a book or magazine propped on a pillow in her lap, her mug’s steam lit all pearly by the morning light. She’d go jogging later, as she did most Saturdays, and her unwashed hair would be wild and wavy, her face bare. She never looked prettier than she did on weekend mornings, and Mike had taken the mental snapshot so many times he could shut his eyes and relish every detail.

He smelled sex in the sheets, a scent darker and more exotic than the coffee in the kitchen. Fucking hell.

He rolled onto his back, remembering last night’s game with a flush of fond, sheepish arousal, and a grin curled his lips. He and the other guys in Narcotics liked to one-up one another with evidence of whose long-suffering girlfriends and wives were the best. The women who waited up until two a.m. keeping dinner warm, who always covered for forgotten family birthdays in the midst of messy, endless cases, who never failed to record a single game.

Mike couldn’t exactly crow about his own wife’s beyond-the-call-of-duty cred. Well, boys, he imagined saying, every few weeks my wife stays out late and brags about fucking another man, then makes me come so hard it’s a miracle I haven’t had a stroke. How about those Steelers?

Still smiling, he tossed the lust-smelling covers aside and swung his legs to the floor. He was heading a small bust, starting at midnight tonight, but he and Sam had the day, and after next Friday, he was on vacation. Staycation or whatever the fuck it’d been dubbed of late, but that was fine by Mike. He could finally diagnose the mysterious squeak in the car, sleep in, putter and nap and breathe easy with no one relying on him for an entire glorious week. No one but Sam, and the rare demands his easygoing, self-sufficient wife might make were his pleasure to address.

He pulled on some clean shorts and jeans, a tee and sweater to cut the morning chill. He headed downstairs and found Sam just where he knew he would, mug in hand, gaze on an open book.

She smiled up at him from the couch, brown eyes sweet and dark as she liked her coffee, and shining in the sunlight. He wanted to record each and every detail of her, her laugh lines and the way she squinted, how her ears stuck out a bit, the molasses brown of her glossy hair. She was thirty-six and she looked it, but he wouldn’t have her any other way. She might rue every new line and gray hair she found, but Mike loved them, each a tiny hint about the woman she’d one day be.

“Morning, handsome. Coffee’s ready.”

He stooped to kiss her forehead. “Thanks. When’d you get up?”

“An hour ago, maybe. So weird to out-sleep you.”

He headed for the kitchen to fill a mug, speaking to her over the breakfast bar. “You must have worn me out.”

“Oh yes, blame your wife for your laziness,” she teased.

He grabbed last Sunday’s paper from the table and joined her on the couch. Leaning over, he planted an extra kiss on her temple. “It wasn’t a complaint.”

His cock gave a twitch at the memories of last night. He’d come home that evening wound up from work, every muscle strung tight enough to snap, a stress headache brewing behind his eyes. Then he’d texted to see when she’d be home, and her curt Stuck at work late was all he’d needed to know what was in store for him. Work drama forgotten, the tension had shifted, and he’d started growing hot and impatient as he waited. He’d already been playing their game in his head for an hour by the time she’d come home. When he’d collapsed beside her after the sex, every muscle and nerve had been slack, all the tautness erased from his body and brain.

Other men could keep their anti-anxiety meds. Sam was the only therapy he needed.

Tonight he’d spoil her rotten. Whatever she wanted – be it an entire hour of head or just a quick peck and a night’s reprieve from all sexual demands – it was hers for the asking.

He scooted closer so his thigh touched her knee. He reached under her pillow, disrupting her reading to give her chilly foot a squeeze. “Thanks.”

She met his gaze, oh so innocent. “For the coffee?”

“For last night.”

She smiled deeply. “My pleasure.”

Maybe, but probably only to the extent it was his pleasure. “Whatever you want tonight. Or this afternoon or right now. Whenever.”

“All I know is that I want to get takeout for dinner.”

“La Feria?”

“I was thinking Soba.” She shut her eyes, smiling. “Pot stickers. Oh yes.”

“That all it takes to spoil you? Where’s the challenge in that?”

She looked him up and down, mischievous. “I’m sure I’ll think of some other ideas as the day goes on.” Her tone confirmed his hopes, warm with flirtation.

“Anything,” he said, and let her foot go with a final squeeze.

For a long time they read without speaking, the calm enriched by the smell of the coffee, the rustle of pages, the sounds of traffic and activity outside. After a half hour or more, Sam broke their companionable silence.

“You know last night,” she said lightly.

A familiar, irrational surge of anxiety jabbed Mike – fear that she was done with their games. Though she gave him no good reason to, he felt this worry now and then, aware of how strange his needs were and how thoroughly he’d already been spoiled. She was patient and more than indulgent. But would she grow weary of their games, in time?

He spoke casually to mask his fear. “I seem to recall last night, yes.”

“All this stuff we do. All the stuff you like…”

Mike’s field had conditioned him to always expect the worst, and his heart sank in selfish mourning. “Sure.”

She met his eyes. “How far were you thinking you wanted to take it? Further than we have?”

The fist around his heart loosened. “Oh, honey.” He turned and cupped her jaw, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs. “I love what we do. I’m not going to ask you for anything more. I’m not going to ask you for anything you’re not comfortable with.”

She’d been dropping hints for a couple of months now, clearly curious to know if he intended to leverage his kink beyond fantasy talk into something serious. He should have assuaged her fears the first time he’d sensed them. “Were you worried I was planning for us to take things further?”

She averted her eyes, her expression not evidencing the relief he’d hoped to offer. “No, I wasn’t worried.”

“I can read you like this book,” Mike said, tapping her paperback. He pulled her into a hug, but her body stayed rigid. “Jesus, Sami. I’d never ask you to do that.” He searched her face for signs of impending tears but found none, thankfully. “Is it not fun for you anymore?”

She didn’t answer right away, gaze focused on some nowhere-space between them and the far wall. “It’s still fun.”

“But?”

She bit her lip and met his eyes. “Have you ever thought about taking things further?”

He wouldn’t lie, as much as he feared freaking her out. “I’ve thought about it, sure. But that doesn’t mean I’d ever —”

“Would you like to?”

“I… In theory, yeah, maybe. But what we’re doing, it’s great. It’s enough. Hell, it’s plenty. Don’t worry. I’m not biding my time, waiting to ask you to do anything you’re not into. I’m not grooming you for some skeezy three-way.”

Finally, a tiny smile. “I’ve thought about it, too.”

His fearful heart thumped hard, then froze. “Thought about…?”

“About maybe taking things further someday.”

His mouth was dry as sand. “Like…”

“Like us, and another guy. Maybe.”

For a couple of breaths, he felt that sensation he dreaded so much – that suffocating feeling of inferiority, of worthlessness, of being not-enough, never-enough, not-even-close. Then, as always, it shifted, like gas dousing fire. His cock grew heavy between his thighs and a flush crept from his chest up his neck. “Like, you and a guy, and me watching?”

She nodded, a practical gesture, as though they were discussing whether to get the Focus’s tires rotated. “Yeah. Something like that. Whatever gets you hot.”

Fucking Christ, he was hot right now. But it wasn’t simply a matter of turning up the volume on their role-playing. They were talking about a real live other man, the real live sanctity of their marriage, and a scenario that demanded they both trust his turn-on wasn’t going to go sour and rot through the foundation they’d built together over the past few years. He’d nearly driven her away once before with his jealousy – the scare of a lifetime.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Do you think we’re up to it?”

“I think we’re up to talking about it. The idea, and the logistics. Whatever consequences could come of it.” She smiled. “I am an actuary, after all – I get off on risk assessment.”

It reminded Mike of the conversations they’d had as newlyweds about whether to have children. Weighing the urges against the risks and reality; their easy, low-stress home life versus the ticking clock that demanded a decision be made. They’d ultimately decided against, and why? To keep things simple, keep each other at the center of their lives.

To keep ourselves free and open to exploring this marriage to its fullest, Mike thought. Would it be a disservice to their decision to let this question mark go unexplored?

He took Sam’s hand and linked her slender fingers with his big ones, and focused on the baby steps. “How would we even find somebody?”

“Probably online,” she said. “Put an ad on a personals site. Like, a kinky personals site. The background check would be a piece of cake, at least.”

Mike nodded. True, he could get the dirt on any guy with a few keystrokes. But that didn’t cover STIs, character, intentions… He wasn’t exactly a public figure, but he was a public servant. If some sexual tourist found out Mike’s position, what was the worst that could happen? Three-ways weren’t illegal, and they wouldn’t be soliciting. He’d face a hell of a lot of judgment and scrutiny and humiliation, but his job wouldn’t be at risk. Neither would Sam’s, though she still had her privacy and reputation to consider.

“What about if the guy, like, talked about us online or something?”

She smirked. “I think you’re underestimating how likely you look to break his neck, honey.”

“Oh. Maybe.”

“Or that invisible gun that’s always hovering at your side, even after you’ve taken your holster off. But if that’s not enough, we could make him sign some confidentiality agreement, I bet. So we could sue him if he told anyone. But really, people do this stuff all the time.”

“I know. I’m just trained to expect the worst.”

She leaned into him, a hug without arms. Her hair was a whisper against his neck. “I know you are. Do you think if we did find someone, theoretically… How do you think you’d actually feel, watching another man with me? Would it be as hot as what we talk about, or would it be upsetting, in reality?”

Tell her the truth and risk crossing some line, being too kinky for her to stay on board with…? Truth only. Always. “I think it’d be the hottest thing I can imagine.”

She sat up and smiled, a mysterious, beguiling little gesture. “You’re such an interesting man.”

He felt his face heating and cast his gaze down at their linked hands.

“And after the sex was over?” she asked. “Would the hotness be tainted once the deed was done? After you went back to being Mr. In Control?”

“Once the deed was done, I’d know that guy would realize I have the sexiest, most decadent wife in the world. And that I’m the one who gets to wake up with her every morning, while he was the one who had to go home alone.”

She nodded, seeming to like his answer. Her attention shifted and she picked up her phone, checking the time. “I better get running soon. I’ve got a haircut at one.”

“You driving there?”

She shook her head and stood. “Walking.”

“Cool. I’ll check out that whining noise in your car.”

She smiled and leaned in to kiss his forehead. “You’re lovely.”

He got to his feet, tailing her down the hall. “You need the bathroom, or can I grab a shower?”

“I’m good. I’ll see you when I’m back.”

“Have a good run,” he said.

“I will. Could be a long one. I’ve got a lot on my mind now.” She shot him a grin over her shoulder. “I think maybe I’ve got a project to start planning.”

CHAPTER THREE

Samira’s plotting officially kicked off two evenings later, when Mike was out on a bust that might take three hours or thirty. After a couple of days’ soul-searching, she’d decided to give the first stage of planning a shot as a treat for him, a bit of wicked news to keep him buoyed through his rough assignment.

Step one was creating a post on a kinky personals site.

BULL WANTED FOR CUCKOLD SCENE,  

GREATER PITTSBURGH 

Even typing that one line had her heart pounding, pleasure and fear mingled in every beat. It felt as though somebody were behind her, reading over her shoulder. But she’d already given herself permission to bail – if she got replies and they creeped her out across the board, she’d hit the abort button. If she received replies and they didn’t all creep her out, but her intuition wasn’t happy, she’d still abort. Though maybe she’d print out the more intriguing replies, in case they gave Mike a thrill, and further deepen the unlikely groove they’d been steadily etching into his libido.

But the more she reread the subject line, the less it intimidated her. She took a fortifying sip of wine, and a half hour later she examined her composition.

Me: married female, mid-thirties, professional, pretty, curvy, Persian roots, great skin and smile.

My husband: late thirties, calm, submissive cuckold fetishist, indulged in role-playing only so far. That’s where you come in.

You: can pass for early thirties/late twenties. Single, safe, handsome, tall, built, and hung. No race preference, brunet a plus. Open-minded and kind on the inside, gruff and cocky on the outside. No penetration during the first visit or two – we can build up to more explicit stuff if things feel right. Ultimately my husband wants to watch us together and should be made to feel belittled and outmanned, and generally have his nose rubbed in how much manlier you are than he is.

We’re fun, sane, childless, and STI-free. Ideally we’d love to find a man we have chemistry with, for a longer-term, casual arrangement. Please, no leather/rubber/intense BDSM stuff. You will pretend to be my normal old piece on the side, who just happens to be gorgeous and bossy.

If interested, let’s chat via e-mail. Please send a photo, including face. If it feels like a good fit, I’d love to meet for a drink. Then if the chemistry’s right, we can flirt and kiss while my husband watches from afar, pretending I’m meeting up with the guy I’m cheating on him with. We won’t take you home on the first date, but if it feels natural, the sky’s the limit for the future. Be warned, we will require your real name before we invite you into our home, and we will run a background check as a formality.

–S

“Not bad,” she decided aloud.

She fussed with the wording for another hour – and another glass of wine – and was shocked at the confidence with which she hit POST.

Her nerves tingled, but her curiosity far outweighed her fear. She wouldn’t get her hopes up – the fact that she was genuinely rooting for the ad to result in some candidates was thrilling enough. There was no deadline, after all. It would happen if and when it was supposed to.

The next morning, Sam sat with her coffee mug hovering near her chin, blinking, shocked by the e-mail flood that greeted her. Shocked and terrified and flattered and excited.

She was at her desk in the corner of the living room, and Mike was puttering in their tiny kitchen, beyond the breakfast bar. He’d gotten in around four a.m. and had to leave again in just a few minutes, but maybe this would give him a boost. The coffee alone probably wasn’t enough on three hours’ sleep.

“Honey, come here a sec.”

“What is it?” He rounded the counter with his own mug in hand, and peered over her shoulder at the subject lines. “Whoooaaa…”

“I know.” She’d opened a new e-mail account specially for the task, and it looked like a big old in-box full of sin, staring at her with accusing messages titled Bull found! and Can’t wait to meet a hotwife and the like.

“Forty-three messages,” Mike said.

“In about twelve hours. And here I thought you were an outlier.”

“Wish I could stick around and see what the hell they say.” But instead he kissed her cheek with a mischievous little grin. “Another late one tonight.”

“I figured.”

“But maybe you’ll have some developments to share with me when I get in.”

“Here’s hoping.”

But the number dwindled as Sam filtered out men who lived halfway across the country, ones whose pictures turned her off, ones who claimed to be “a very youthful fifty,” and some plain old creepers. It ruled out a lot of candidates.

“We’re down to six viable options,” she told Mike when he got in at eleven that evening. She slid his dinner into the oven. “Is it unreasonable of me to also get rid of the guys who didn’t bother punctuating or capitalizing their messages?”

He came up behind her, wrapping his strong arms around her waist and planting a kiss on her neck. “We’re shopping for a man we think deserves to sleep with you. Be as picky as you want. It’s not the kind of decision you should rush or force yourself into.”

She smiled at that, pleased to know that no matter how much he wanted this, there was no pressure. He valued their relationship and her feelings above his fantasies. Of course, she’d known that all along, but having spent her evening in front of that intimidating screen, the reminder was welcome – as reassuring as the hug.

He left her to shower, and as Sam headed back to the computer, she gave herself permission to dismiss the messages with bad spelling and lazy capitalization.

It left only two candidates, but she liked their photos and introductory messages. She replied to both conversationally, asking if they were local, how old they were, if they had any experience with cuckolding, and what about it appealed to them. She also included a photo of herself. It seemed only fair, though she chose a long shot, one with an erstwhile haircut. It gave a sense of her body and her face, but wasn’t detailed enough that the men would be able to recognize her in the supermarket, should she chicken out and abandon the mission.

After Mike ate his late dinner and disappeared to sink into a much-deserved coma, she sat down again at her laptop, intending only to shut it off. But there it was, a message in her secret in-box.

The reply was a disappointment. The guy was way too eager, with only fifteen minutes having passed between the time she’d hit SEND and when he had. His reply consisted of a rather dirty and not at all arousing missive about the things he wanted to do to her, and he was too antsy about setting a date for Sam’s taste. Enthusiasm was one thing, but her gut said this was quite another. Pass.

The second reply was worse, in that it didn’t arrive – not that night, nor by the time she was heading out to work the next morning. Two dozen new responses had come in from the ad, none of them especially appealing, all of them totaling discouragement.

“It’s fine,” Mike said when she debriefed him that evening. “What were the chances we’d strike gold the first time out?”

He was right. And having him home at dinnertime was treat enough.

But the following day, something changed.

Sam had checked her personal e-mail while her hair dried and her coffee cooled. She’d decided she wouldn’t check “the dirty account,” as it might just overwhelm her, the task now feeling impossible. Not a cloud she needed following her to work for the third day in a row. But even as she got her shoes on and shouldered her purse, curiosity had her crossing the floor, sitting down, clicking the bookmark, and typing in her password.

Ten or so new messages, but she didn’t have it in her to tackle them beyond reading the subject lines. Then she recognized the e-mail address of the second short-listed respondent.

“You took your time,” she muttered, opening the message. Though had he, really? Taking a day or more wasn’t criminal. In fact, it struck her as rather encouraging that he had other things to do in a given day besides pursue his chances at playing sexual tourist in other people’s marriages. A hobbyist, not a fanatic.

She sipped the last of her cold coffee and read the e-mail.

Thanks for the reply, S.

Bless him and his use of commas and capitals. She opened a new tab and found his first e-mail, wanting to confirm he was the one she was picturing. Yes. Oh, good photo. It was a shot of him in a park, crouching with his hand on a yellow lab’s collar. He looked big and strong, with a fearless sort of smile and a lot of stubble, messy dark hair. Could be any ethnicity – Italian or Hispanic, or just a white guy with a summer tan. She liked the shape of his shoulders under his T-shirt, and wished this were like Zappos, so she could rotate him and examine his design from multiple angles and browse other women’s reviews.

But he looked good. Not too wholesome, despite the park and the dog, but not sketchy. There was something in his smile, something lazy and easy, just a touch cocky. Mischievous. She began to wonder about his voice, then realized she ought to read the e-mail before she got her hopes up too high. She clicked back to the first tab.

To answer your questions, yes, I’m in Pittsburgh. I turn thirty-six in a couple of weeks, but I think I could maybe pass for a few years younger. Maybe. May need to bust out the Grecian Formula on my temples, but —

Dear God, prematurely graying temples? Mike might get hot over the prospect of competing with a younger man, but Sam’s legs always went a bit wobbly over salt-and-pepper facial hair and the like. She liked a man with a few miles on him. A man who looked like he knew his way around a woman’s body. Yes, please.

– maybe that’s negotiable.

Actually, I’ve got no idea what’s negotiable. I’ve never been part of a cuckolding scene before. In fact, I had to look it up to make sure I had the right idea. I found your ad because I’ve got an exhibitionist streak I’ve been thinking about exploring. The idea of some guy watching me with his wife in the comfort of their home has more appeal than getting arrested for public indecency, and the latter seems to be what most of the people looking to be watched or get caught are after. So there was that, plus you’re cute. So here I am, sleazing up your in-box.

Sam grinned. Then she glanced at the computer’s clock, and realized she was going to be late. Fuck it.

You asked what about it appeals to me. I can’t speak to the cuckolding, but as for wanting to be watched… Okay, I can’t really speak to that, either. The idea just turns me on. And I’m not in the market for a serious relationship, so I’m not in a position to ask anyone to trust me enough to tape anything or let an outsider watch. And I don’t really want to be out there on the Internet, in video format. But when I thought about what you and your husband are looking for, it made sense, especially when you mentioned a background check. I figure you’re as concerned about keeping things discreet as I am. I’m not married or the manager of a day-care center or running for mayor, I just don’t want to be another casualty of the Internet’s infinite memory.

Anyhow, that was long-winded. I promise I can be utterly filthy and lecherous, if that’s what you guys want in bed. Just thought I’d make sure we’re on the same page logistically.

Oh, logistics. Sam’s heart gave a flutter. If he’d attached a spreadsheet, she just might have climaxed.

If you don’t mind, could you explain a little more what your husband gets out of this? I don’t quite see what’s in it for him, if you and I ultimately slept together. I’m curious to know what about the idea gets him off. I know you said you’ve never done this before. Sorry if you’re looking for a “bull” who’s a bit more seasoned, to facilitate. If we end up hooking up sometime, I’ll require a little breaking in, myself.

Anyway, hope to hear from you again,

Bern

“Bern?” Mike muttered when he read the e-mail over her shoulder, late that night.

“I’m sure it’s short for something. Bernard, maybe? At least he’s not a Bernie.”

“Or a Nard…” Mike’s gaze skimmed the message a second time. He was wearing his poker face, feigning perfect apathy. “He seems sane enough, and he wrote in full sentences. What do you think? Could you sleep with a Bern?”

“I’d like to at least meet him. I like that he mentioned wanting to be discreet. And I like his photo. He looks kinda sexy.” Kinda very sexy. “He’s the best candidate I’ve seen so far. By miles.”

Still, it was like ordering a dress online. It looks so good, seems so perfect; then it arrives and the color’s off or it fits all wrong, leaves you feeling dumpy, and you’re out seven bucks on return shipping.

“What did you say when you wrote back?” Mike asked.

“I haven’t yet. I wanted to hear that you were still interested before I went any further.”

“I am.” He kept his voice businesslike, but Sam could sense his excitement. “You want to maybe do what we talked about? Meet him at a bar?”

“With you there, spying on us?” For both titillation and safety.

Mike nodded.

“I think I might.” A rush of fear and excitement rolled through her, the whole venture suddenly feeling very… possible. “Would you like to answer his questions about what gets you off about the whole thing?”

He shook his head. “No. If we’re going to do this, I want him and me to be as close to strangers as possible. Since that’s how the fantasy’s worked, with me being oblivious to the other guy’s existence. As long as you’re comfortable being the liaison, I don’t want to have any contact with him, outside of the role-playing.”

“Okay.”

“Going forward… even if this guy is as decent as he comes off in an e-mail, I want to imagine he’s the cocky shithead my wife’s fucking around on me with. So if it’s cool, I’m happy to trust your judgment the rest of the way. Plus you’re better at wording stuff. You’ll explain my freaky streak better than I ever could. And it’ll sound better coming from a woman.”

“Okay, then. And you’re feeling… okay with it?”

“Sure.”

She sighed, smiling up at him wearily. “I know you’re trying to sound like you couldn’t care less, so I won’t feel pressured – but tell me honestly if this is exciting you or not.”

Mike said nothing, just took her wrist, drawing her hand from the mouse and back to cup his cock, rock-hard behind his fly.

“I see.”

He let go of her hand, smiling. “If I had the luxury of staying home tonight, I’d drag you to the bedroom and listen to all your horny theories about this Bern guy. I’m just trying to be blasé so if you’re not into it, you won’t feel bad about pulling the plug.”

She turned onto her hip and held the back of the chair. Mike smoothed her hair, tucking it behind her ears.

“Don’t be blasé,” she said. “I know it’s my decision. And for now, I’m excited, in no small part because you’re excited. So don’t downplay anything.” She gave his erection another quick squeeze. “At least part of you is always forthcoming.”

He leaned down to kiss her temple. “You’re the most amazing wife ever, I hope you realize that. Wish I could stay and ravage you.”

“Me, too.”

“But I’ll be happy all through this damn case, knowing maybe you’re right here, writing an e-mail to some guy.”

“You may be the weirdest husband ever, I hope you realize that. But good. Happy to make you happy.”

Another kiss, then Mike had to go out to relieve a colleague on a marathon of a drug bust. The glow of Sam’s computer screen had become her most constant companion of late, but in a way, it fed the fantasy. My husband’s never home, she imagined telling some handsome stranger. He won’t suspect.

So after she locked the door behind Mike, she poured herself a glass of red and got comfy before the screen.

Bern,

Thanks for such a thoughtful reply. And thanks for the offer of lechery, though your pragmatism was actually much appreciated. I’m new to all this, too, and not looking to rush anything.

But my husband and I are both excited at the prospect of maybe meeting up sometime. I know it sounds sort of drawn out, but I’ll tell you how I’d been hoping it might go down…

She paused, and a bold thought overtook her. An impulse born of both curiosity and practicality. Though mainly the former.

Actually, would you be willing to speak to me on the phone? I’m home tonight, and I’ll be up until about eleven. I’d like to hear your voice and your thoughts on how I envision all of this going. If you’re comfortable with that, please feel free to give me a call.

She typed her number with a pounding pulse, and the second she sent the message, she worried it was a dumb move.

She worried he’d call. She worried he wouldn’t. She worried herself through the rest of her glass of wine, and to her horror, her cell phone chimed as she was pouring a refill.

“Please be Mike. Please be Mike.” Please be anybody but Bern.

Oh fuck, private number. She gulped a breath, grabbed the device from the coffee table, and hit TALK. “Hello?”

“Is this S?” Oh, what a voice. A deep, easy rumble of a voice.

“Yes. Is this Bern?”

“It is.” A soft chuckle came through the ether, relaxing her by a small measure. “Wow. Weird.”

She laughed herself, though it was tight and high and nervous. “I know, very weird. Thanks for calling.”

“Was I too eager? I just happened to be checking my e-mail when yours came through.” Fuck, that accent. Sam couldn’t say if he was from Texas or Tennessee or Georgia or any other place, but his voice was steeped in bourbon and honey. Even if it was put-on, she prayed he’d keep it up.

“No, this is fine.” She grabbed her glass and sank into the couch cushions, hugged a pillow to her middle. “I was worried giving you my number was too eager…” Sam bit her lip. “Jeez, now that I have you on the phone, I have no idea what I’d planned to say to you.” His voice was as appealing as his photo – and his punctuation – and suddenly she felt like a stammering junior high schooler.