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My blue-eyed lover came again last night.

“Could I tempt you to have dinner with me?” he’d asked via text that afternoon.

“I can be tempted,” I typed back. “Under the right circumstances.”

My phone rang. His number flashed on the screen. I connected without speaking.

“Would my tongue between your thighs constitute the right circumstances?” His tone was playful, but the rush of heat the words on the screen evoked in me was anything but.

“I rather think so.” I was glad he couldn’t see the flush on my skin.

“I’d planned on tempting you with that novel we talked about last time, but I see you’re easier than that.”

“Only for you,” I replied. I was astonished to see I’d wound my fingers up in the end of my hair like a nervous teenager. “Or so it would seem.”

When he arrived, I took the book from his hands when I opened the door, and like a scene in a movie, he kicked the door closed and buried his hands in my hair. His lips were cold from the February air, his tongue clever and hot against mine.

I was working on his shirt buttons when I remembered the sesame chicken on the stove. He bent to retrieve his coat from where I’d tossed it aside in my haste to get to his skin.

“The coat closet is there.” My voice was breathless, my body overly aware. The steam from the rice cooker rose up in front of me and I shivered. His hands on my hips, his kisses on the back of my neck, were enough to make me dig my fingers into the marbled quartz counter tops.

“Dinner will burn,” I protested.

“We can call for take-out.” His hands slipped up under my sweater, his fingertips teasing over my stomach. “God, Bianca.”

He nudged my legs apart with his body and set to work on my belt buckle. I shrugged out of the sweater, pushing it away from the workspace to save the cashmere. He pushed my jeans down over my hips and slid a finger along the crease of my thigh. I shifted against him, willing his fingers under the pale pink cotton which remained.

“You’re ready for me now, aren’t you?” he whispered in my ear. I could only nod. “Not yet, my girl.”

His touch was feather light as he stripped me. When he kissed the tender underside of my knee, my legs nearly gave out.

He turned me to face him, tracing the outline of my bra before I reached back to unclasp it. With tongue and teeth, he traveled a meandering path from lips to jaw, from collarbone to nipple, from hip to thigh. For a long moment, his warm breath on my wet flesh was the center of the universe.

And then his arm was under my knees. I shrieked as he scooped me up and carried me to my bed. We were both breathless with laughter when he came down over me on the comforter.

“Not yet, my girl.” He smiled and pressed his body against mine.

I reached for his shirt buttons with an answering smile.

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