He wouldn’t be able to hold back the groan. He’d shoot his release all over his desk, all over important documents and client files and test results. He’d keep coming, his eyes glued on the screen, glued on the image of me, and he wouldn’t care, wouldn’t think about anything except how badly he wanted me—

My orgasm crested, my touch softening, my back arching as the waves of pleasure bundling and breaking, my body sinking into the padded plastic as they ebbed, then fell away.

My hand fell away from my soaked opening, and I lay there for one long moment, recovering.

Recovering… and hating myself for what I had become. Insatiable and freaky. I had a porn star of a husband and still couldn’t keep my imaginary knees together.

Easton didn’t know it, but I’d stopped taking my fertility drugs three months ago in an attempt to curb the fantasies. They hadn’t stopped. If anything, they were getting stronger. More frequent. More insistent. Prior fertility drugs, I’d been able to have a fleeting attraction and move on without a second thought. Last week, I’d temporarily shut down an open house so I could finger myself in the powder room, my head clogged with filthy thoughts of the owner coming back early and catching me.

I had to do something. I couldn’t continue like this, not without getting caught by someone.

A cart rattled in the hall and I rolled over with a contented sigh, then got dressed.


I hovered my palm over the horn, prepared to lay on it if the Maserati ahead of me got any ideas. “Keep going,” I urged under my breath, hissing out a breath as I watched the nose of the purple sports car ease toward the only parallel spot on Lincoln. Its brake lights flared and then went dark, the engine sounding as the driver gunned it forward. I whipped my wheel to the left, then right, ignoring the irritated horn of the car behind me as I maneuvered my snub-nosed coupe into the tight spot. Lifting my hand, I waved my thanks to the impatient driver, then jerked the shift knob into park.

Opening the car door, I was hit with the full force of the Miami humidity. The heat was like a wool blanket, clawing up my skin and working its way under my loose chiffon top. I stuck one wedge-clad foot out, then the other, sticking close to the car as I eased out and avoided the lane of traffic that flew by.

Rounding the back end of the BMW one-series, I hit the lock button on the fob, averting my eyes at the cheap beep it made. It was bad enough on our tree-lined street where old money kept classic Rolls Royces in their four-car garages. At this address I’m a different kind of pathetic—the sort overshadowed by flashy wallets who see my intro Beamer as what it was—an attempt to sit at the big kids table despite my saggy diaper.

“Elle!” Chelsea called out from a table under a striped umbrella. I waved at her and navigated past the hostess stand and through the crowded street-side patio. On Lincoln Ave, space was expensive, and I accidentally whacked at least two people with my bag before I made it to Chelsea.

“No seats inside?” I tossed the bag under the table and sank into the opposite seat. Grabbing the menu, I fanned at my neck.

“Nope. But the misters are on. Just sit there a minute, you’ll feel them.” She lifted a pale pink concoction to her lips. “I got you a mojito.”

“Great.” I glanced at my watch. “Sorry I’m late. The home inspector didn’t show up until ten and took forever.”

“It’s fine.” Chelsea waved off the ten minutes without concern. “I’ve been flirting with the waiter. He and I are in total agreement that you are a thoughtless bitch, so be sure to play the role up.”

I let out a laugh. “No problem. I’m feeling like a total thoughtless bitch. By the way, you’re buying lunch and I want the tuna appetizer.”

“There’s my bitch.” She smiled at me. “And I already ordered the tuna appetizer so find something else to be difficult about.”

“Hmm…” I crinkled up my nose. “Give me time. I’ll come up with something.”

“Mojito?” The drink was delivered by a very dark-skinned man who filled his green golf shirt to perfection. He smiled at me. “Welcome to Papitos.”

Chelsea tugged on the man’s sleeve, then launched into a detailed quiz about the gluten-free options on the menu. I ordered, then sat back in my chair and took a moment to let out the morning’s tension.

This closing would be the death of me. Two weeks over contract on a house that I desperately needed to sell, and my sellers were being cheap. The home inspection had been one long breath-holding procedure where I waited for the inevitable bad news, then got exactly what I’d expected. Aluminum wiring in the attic and polybutylene pipes in the downstairs bath. It would cost ten thousand to repair, if not more. Ten thousand dollars on a contract where I’d already eaten a grand of commission, just to seal the deal.

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