The rest of my day involved more mundane cases—petty theft, shoplifting, a spousal altercation between a pair of husbands over whose turn it was for marital rights with the wife, a new legal problem since the introduction of polygamous marriage.

The world had changed vastly since I first came into it just over twenty-six years ago. Now, no longer was marriage defined as a union between one man and woman. As the world’s population dwindled and the realization emerged that men outnumbered women five to one, laws changed, as did society. Women were now encouraged to take on more than one lover at a time. Threesomes, foursomes, and moresomes flourished. Or crashed. Jealousy kept the courts hopping, and business boomed for lawyers.

Love triangles, squares, and pentagons weren’t the only thing that had emerged since my birth, though. The realization that humans came in more flavors than we realized was still something everyone worked at adjusting to.

I still remembered the cheap thrill of my first werewolf movie. Of course, the sexy on-screen version of a werewolf didn’t come anything close to the reality. Truth was, werewolves, or Lycans as they kept reminding us, didn’t actually turn into overgrown dogs. Don’t get me wrong, they sprouted fur, growled, howled and sported great big claws and teeth, but they did so while retaining their human shape. Less werewolf and more wolfman, in other words. Disconcerting didn’t come close to describing it when the first one was discovered.

One had to wonder, though, if the conspiracy theorists had a valid point when they argued that the little girl in foster care—featured on The View, who at the age of five with her blonde pigtails, big blue eyes, and adorable smile—wasn’t a setup. Who would have ever expected the cute little darling of being anything other than she appeared, a poor abandoned waif in need of a loving family?

The television crew of The View and its hosts certainly didn’t, but when that little girl transformed on live TV into a growling blonde hairball, frightened by the bright lights and loud noises, no one could deny her existence.

She became an instant media sensation. Scientists and doctors from all over the world wanted a piece of her. The government itched to get its hands on her. Everyone demanded an ounce of blood and a chance to examine the anomaly. Some true freaks even put in grotesque requests to dissect her.

Things could have turned out badly for the little girl with no one to advocate for her rights. The Lycans, hidden amongst us for centuries, could have left her to the mercy of those who wanted to treat her like an alien. To their credit, they didn’t.

Werewolves came out of the closet, so to speak, and into the light. The media spotlight. One man, John Benedict, came forward on behalf of the Lycan packs. A well-spoken, handsome man in his late fifties, he met with the media and admitted that, yes, werewolves did exist, and had, for as long as they could remember, lived amongst us and none of us ever knew. Well, the rag magazines claimed to have known all along, but then again, they still screamed Elvis lived, so no one paid them much mind.

But it wasn’t just werewolves. Dryads stepped forth from the redwoods and the Amazon wilds, begging we stop cutting their trees. Merpeople also rose from the sea, tired of getting caught in oil spills and fishing nets. Fairies flitted to the halls of justice and filed injunctions against the use of bug zappers.

Ever heard the sound of millions of jaws hitting the floor at once? Yeah, realizing a whole mystical subculture existed rocked the planet on its axis.

From that moment on, everything changed. Laws changed. The world shifted. And humans, or at least those without the twisted DNA gene that made them go fuzzy or fish-tailed, had to learn to live with it. So humans did what we did best. We started committees.

Groups formed for the ethical treatment of Lycans, dryads, and merpeople. Others formed to exterminate them. Religions were born, some for, some against. Fairies tied up the courts as they sued the makers of the bug zappers and sticky fly strips. And life went on.

As for poor Mary Sue, the little girl who started it all? She got adopted by a nice werewolf family and the doctors got their hands on some grown adults instead, who under the watchful media eye, let the population at large know that, hey, we’re just like you, only hairier.

As if anyone totally believed that. Oh, and those who invested in Gillette and Nair? They made a bloody killing when the stocks soared.

As for me, I’d dealt with a fair number of “special folk” since my ascension to the lofty position of public defender and resident of government cubicle number five. For some reason, the newly emerging species always seemed to end up in the chair across from my desk.

I found them to be just like anyone else, if more demanding. Lycans, by far, got into more trouble than the other new races discovered. It seemed they couldn’t help causing havoc. Indecent exposure being their most common crime.

They kept me busy even if I secretly mourned the fact none of them was as hot as the romances I surreptitiously read on my tablet. Or, at least I’d never met a truly hunky werewolf until today.

Mr. Cavanaugh was the first Lycan I’d met who fit exactly my perfect image of a werewolf. He was totally how I’d pictured them when I went through my paranormal romance phase where I devoured books about them like crack candy.

But lusting after a wolfman didn’t mean I would break my no-screwing-clients-or-crazy-people rule. Mr. Cavanaugh would have to eat dinner with—or from between the legs of—someone else. Some other lucky woman would have to enjoy his boyish grin. His callused, yet electric touch. His big, muscled body…

The tip of my pen snapped and ink leaked all over my desk. Lovely.

At exactly five o’clock, I called it a day. The government didn’t pay me by the hour, so they never got a minute more of my time. Altruism was for those with trust funds. I’d long ago lost my innocence when it came to my job.

When I’d taken the job of public defender, I’d had big dreams of coming to the rescue of battered women, falsely accused victims, and getting mired in environmental cases a la Erin Brockovich, that would get my name in the news as I argued to victory.

Reality sucked, as did my paycheck.

Exiting my closet of an office, without even a window to let me know the weather outside, I ran into Brenda, or more like she bowled me over as she sprang out of nowhere to verbally assault me.

“Chloe! You lucky fucking bitch. Me and the rest of the girls are so jealous.”

“Why?” Had I won the lottery and not noticed? Was that hottie Channing Tatum here looking for me?

“Why, she asks?” Brenda rolled her eyes. “Because you got to spend time with Mr. Hotness.”

She could only be referring to one person. “You mean the werewolf?”

“As if you had any other clients today who could even come close to that title. Yes, I mean the werewolf. You are the envy of the office.”

“I don’t see why. His case was pretty freaking dumb. Not to mention, I think he’s not all there.” I twirled my finger alongside my head in the universal sign of craziness.

“But the man is so fucking hot. Please tell me he asked you out.”

Yes, he had, but if Brenda found out I’d turned him down, I’d never hear the end of it. I lied. “No.”

“Did he at least act inappropriately?”

“Not really.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.

“With a face and body like that, I’ll be he growled at you.” Brenda shivered.

I threw her a bone. “A bit, but only because he was talking about his neighbor’s cat.”

“Oh.” She seemed so downcast I strove to find something to please her perverted, one-track mind.

“He did promise to not behave, though, and see me again soon.”

Her mouth rounded and her eyes opened wide. “Oh. I wonder what that means.”

My dirty mind hoped it meant him, me, and five minutes alone—all I’d need considering the state he’d left me in. But, more than likely, he’d do something to piss his witchy neighbor off even worse and he’d end up back in my cubicle on more charges, meaning no nookie for me with the hairy hunk.

How depressing. Finally, I’d met a guy who got my motor running and he ended up not even a contender for a one-night stand. Was it too much to ask that I meet a nice, normal man who made my pulse race just a little? Not for anything permanent. A boyfriend wasn’t on my list of things I needed or wanted, but a fuck buddy? That would totally work and save me on batteries.

“Are you done for the day? I think it’s time for a liquid dinner.” I mimed tipping one back.

Brenda’s nod was so energetic I feared she might have whiplash.

Best friends since elementary school and now coworkers, Brenda and I had a weekly tradition of hitting a martini bar located only a few blocks away every Friday after work. Getting tipsy on brightly-colored drinks served in fancy glasses didn’t make our jobs any better, but I personally enjoyed the ritual.

Given that the male population outnumbered the women—scientists theorizing the reason had to do with a lack of a great world war in the last half century to properly decimate male numbers—we usually drank for free.

We also got offers to get laid, eaten, screwed, and even proposals of marriage from perfect strangers. One time, an eager fellow had even produced a ring. I politely declined. Despite his healthy bottom line—which he showed me on his IRS return over drinks—I just couldn’t imagine staring down at the bald head on his five-foot-five body for the rest of my life.

But back to TGIF. Brenda and I, along with some other girls in the office, tended to head over to the hopping joint with its muted, flattering lights, retro eighties interior and spinning strobe disco ball—known to cause seizures in the unwary.

Guys in suits tripped over themselves in their attempts to get noticed. Flattering, but at the same time, overwhelming. The number of offers we received to have our every need satisfied—said with a salacious wink or leer—proved too many to count, but flattering to the ego.

You’d think with all the male attention we received, the problem I was suffering with my girl parts—AKA an urgent need for erotic attention—wouldn’t even exist or would be easy to resolve. However, while I enjoyed a healthy round of sweaty hardcore sex, once I got past the whole orgasm and itch scratched part, I couldn’t stand the hopeful “Call me.” Or how they expected repeat performances.

See, the thing was, once they gave me what I needed—their cocks—I lost interest in the men. Not on purpose. I mean, I tried to connect with them outside the bedroom. Engage them in conversation, see if we had hobbies or even television shows in common. It didn’t work. None of them stirred anything in me other than a general sense of relief when we parted ways and traded the oft used, “I’ll call you.” It didn’t help, I guess, that I didn’t want a permanent man in my life. I’d come to the conclusion a while back that boyfriends just required too much maintenance.

As Brenda had told me, on more than one occasion when I tried to explain my lack of interest in a relationship, I was comparable to a black widow. Using and discarding men with no care for their feelings.

Cry me a river. What about my feelings? Why did I have to settle down with someone who didn’t inspire that can’t-live-without-you spark? Why couldn’t I hold out for Mr. Right? I was still young. Still having fun. I had a career—of sorts. A decent life—with free drinks. A nice condo—which I’d own in twenty-nine years and three months. Why did I need to rush? Why did I need a steady boyfriend? Well, other than for the obvious.

Which led me to ask, whatever happened to no-strings sex? Why couldn’t I just enjoy a hot and sweaty, wall-banging fuck? The kind where I could say thank you as I tucked my skirt down and went back for another drink with my bestie.

For some reason, a certain werewolf I’d just met came to mind. I’ll bet he could pin me like a bug to a wall and pound me until I found religion and screamed, oh my God.

Sure, his eyes promised decadence. His lips promised pleasure. But would he be like all the rest and think he owned me if I gave in to his allure?

And even more important, would he shed all over my three-hundred-thread-count, Egyptian cotton sheets?

So what if I got them on sale? I’d never slept better and the thought of having to keep a lint brush on my nightstand just to have great sex really didn’t appeal.

Sometimes even I wondered where I got my warped ideas from.

Entering the bar, with Brenda chattering a mile a minute—the only speed my BFF knew when it came to speech—the noise of the TGIF crowd hit and rocked me as if battered by a wave.

Packed with bodies, my favorite bar was hopping tonight. People looking to escape the mind-dulling, yawn-inducing doldrums of a week spent cooped in offices. With the weekend here, many felt a need to throw off the shackles of boredom and remember what it felt to be alive.

I was one of those people. Bring on the booze and the booty shaking.

Wading through the throng, I endured a good number of pinches and gropes to my full bottom. I had a weakness for cream-filled donuts in the morning, which I ate as a dessert to my pair of toasted cream cheese bagels. Sue me for having a healthy appetite. I knew a good lawyer who’d argue my case to enjoy copious amounts of food and screw the health nuts who said otherwise.

Some women might take offense at the touching of their person without express permission. I saw it as a compliment. Worship me for I was awesome.

And thirsty.

In dire need of an alcoholic beverage, we inched our way to the bar. Despite her petite stature—five-foot-five when wearing her highest tottering heels—Brenda could always find a spot. She also knew how to make one if needed.

Cute as a button with curly blonde hair, a pert nose, and a sassy smile, her sweet “Excuse me,” “Pardon me,” and, “Hello handsome” never failed to garner attention, and just like that Moses guy, she parted the testosterone sea. The few times when that didn’t work, a jab to the ribs, a subtle hit to the groin, or a stomp on the toes did the job.

Brenda might appear adorable and benign on the outside, but piss her off and she turned into a vicious wolverine—a verbal one, not a real one—who could tear into a person and leave them sobbing for their mommy.

Gawd, I loved her. Best friends forever. We’d even sworn on it with blood and ice cream.

Reaching our objective, a barstool magically vacated—probably because my BFF shoved the guy off when he least expected it—and Brenda popped her butt onto it while I leaned my hip against the polished granite countertop.

While Brenda thanked the fellow who’d given up his seat, whether he liked it or not, I ignored the ardent gazes checking me out to order an Ocean Breeze martini. Not too sweet, a shocking bright turquoise, and oh so yummy, it was my drink of choice when we came here. I also wasn’t averse to blowjobs, the alcoholic shot variety, not the kind with hairy balls and a creamy finish.

With a promise to dance with him later, Brenda turned from the stool donator and ordered something bigger than my puny girly drink. A monstrous-sized beverage with high alcohol content, an umbrella, and a trio of cherries.

Brenda might lack height, but the girl could drink and do things with a cherry stem that made more than one man fall at her feet fervently promising everlasting love. She usually settled for jewelry.

The bartender slid us our concoctions and said, “Courtesy of the gentlemen.”

“Which one?” I asked idly as I took a sip.

“All of them,” replied Liam.

And, no, it wasn’t strange I knew our bartender’s first name. When you visited a place often enough, even your local bar, after a while, you got to know someone, not to mention Liam and his life partner, Dave, had come to our rescue more than once when a gentleman needed a little extra persuasion in understanding the word “No.”

“All of them?” I wrinkled my nose. That was more than usual. “We just got here.”

“Yeah, well, we started charging the guys a cover to enter. Fifty bucks a head.”

I almost spit out my mouthful of tropical paradise. That would have been a waste of a great drink. I swallowed before I replied. “Fifty dollars? That seems pretty steep.”

“Only if you’re cheap. We were getting too crowded. Fire marshal gave us a citation. So, in order to weed out the undesirables and cheapskates, we imposed a cover charge. You’ll be glad to know that these new proceeds mean ladies drink for free at all times.”

Really? I brightened. “I like that part.”

As Dave slid by with a tray loaded with empty glasses, he added, “I thought you might. We’ve also noticed since we put the new door charge in effect that we’re having to deal less with guys thinking a girl owes him because he bought her a drink. And it keeps the riffraff out.”

“I think you should raise the rate,” I muttered as my gaze caught the arrival of a certain guy in a suit.

Say hello to my nemesis. Anthony Vanderson. District prosecuting attorney and pain in my ample ass since he’d transferred to our district six months ago.

Gorgeous and always impeccably attired, Anthony never appeared in public without every hair in its proper place and his tie perfectly straight.

I’d had to contend with the stone-faced, eloquently spoken bastard more than once in a courtroom. We’d never technically interacted outside of work, but he’d dismantled enough of my cases that even though he was super hot, I disliked him on general principle.

The fact he could bring a quiver to my treacherous lower parts irritated me even more than the fact I’d yet to win a legal battle against him.

Figures he’d show up. Way to ruin my night.

“Ooh, do you see who I see?” Brenda poked me in the arm. “It’s that hunk from the DA’s office.” Brenda eyeballed my enemy.

“I saw him. The guy’s a jerk.”

“I didn’t know you’d finally met him.”

“I haven’t.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t judge him.”

“Any man who looks that pretty and wears suits that are ironed is too high maintenance for me,” I stated. Who the hell ironed shit? Hang it in the shower and steam it like everybody else.

I listened with half an ear as Brenda extolled his virtues—tall, about an inch or so more than me, chiseled features, short-cropped, blondish hair, pale skin as if he didn’t see much sun, probably because he spent it all in his office plotting ways to make me look stupid in front of a judge.

“—wonder what he’s doing here? I don’t think I’ve seen him in this bar before.”

“Maybe he’s slumming.” Because the one thing everyone knew for sure about the wonder boy of the DA’s office was that Anthony Vanderson was loaded, as in, lived in a gated mansion, drove the nicest car, and wore thousand dollar suits loaded. It made me hate him even more.

I’ll bet he doesn’t have to work in a tiny cubicle at a desk with one leg propped on a notepad and using a dinosaur of a computer still running Window’s Vista. I ignored the fact I’d chosen to work in a public office. When it came to reasons to dislike the panty-wetting DA, any reason, rational or not, would do.

“Are you still peeved he won that last case?”

Yes! And the case before that. And the one before that. Poor loser? Bet your last fucking dime I was. I could hold an epic grudge.

Given the number of horseshoes he must have shoved up his ass, I had to wonder how his buttocks managed to look so trim in his perfectly cut slacks. Yeah, I’d looked. What else could I do but sit and glumly stare at his excellent glutes as he took my defense and expertly unraveled it before a riveted judge and jury?

“Are you calling me a sore loser?”

“Yes.” Brenda never spared my feelings.

“Am not. Even if I won, I’d still dislike him.”

“Oh, please. We both know you think he’s hot.”

“A little. Doesn’t mean I’d do him.”

“Chloe is a liar,” Brenda sang.

She was right. I totally would do him, but I wasn’t about to admit that. Last time I had told my BFF about how I’d like to get intimately acquainted with the UPS guy’s abs, she’d arranged a blind date and I spent the whole dinner removing his hand from my upper thigh—as he told me how bad things were with his girlfriend. “You’re a witch.”

“Better than a bitch.”

“Hag.”

“Slut.”

We burst into laughter, not taking offense at our name-calling, a habit of ours we’d never outgrown.

“Cheers!” She clinked her glass against mine. “I wonder why he’s here. I pictured him more of a boys’ club kind of guy. You know, one of those dark, wood-paneled places with stodgy old men and big club chairs.”

“You watch too many movies,” I retorted. But I knew what she meant. Anthony came from old money, the kind that arrived with a silver spoon and a servant to hold it. Guys like him didn’t belong in sweaty, middle class bars with an aroma of desperation.

“Ooh,” Brenda exhaled. “He’s looking this way.”

“Don’t make eye contact.” First rule of a singles bar. Never meet their gaze unless you wanted them to hit on you.

“Too late. He’s heading in our direction.”

Of course he was. Any man who came here was looking for one thing and one thing only.

If a hook-up was what Mr. DA wanted, then Brenda could have him. I, despite the expectant jiggle of my girly parts, would never sleep with the enemy, no matter how good-looking. My morals wouldn’t allow it, which made me wonder if perhaps I needed fewer of those.

This was the second hunk today I’d stricken off my doable list. Perhaps I needed to rethink some of my rules. After all, shouldn’t I prefer real dick to plastic?

“Don’t turn around now, but he’s almost right behind you,” Brenda whispered in a shout.

I rolled my eyes. Thank goodness Vanderson didn’t have a werewolf gene, or he might have heard her less-than-subtle warning, but I did appreciate it and kept my gaze on the gleaming array of bottles lined up behind the bar.

A body brushed up against my back and a shiver went through me.

Please don’t be him. Please don’t be him. Not for the first time, I wished Liam would invest in a mirror for the wall behind the bar.

A hand flattened itself against my lower back as a hard body, sporting an aftershave that tickled my nose pleasantly, wedged itself against my left hip. “Excuse me,” murmured a low voice that I would have recognized anywhere. My girly parts certainly knew who it belonged to and quivered.

Damn. It seemed my plea for him to go away had gone unanswered. Despite myself, warmth flooded my senses as my less-than-discerning libido enjoyed the closeness of another body.

“Would you listen to that, they’re playing my song,” Brenda shouted as she abandoned me.

The traitor.

Trapped by Anthony’s masculine frame, I couldn’t follow and instead found myself peering sideways at the jerk who never let me win in court.

Bright blue eyes met my gaze. “Ms. Bailey, what an unexpected, yet pleasant, surprise.”

Funny, he didn’t appear surprised.

“Mr. Vanderson.” I inclined my head in acknowledgement.

The right corner of his mouth tugged upward. Damn, the man oozed gorgeous. I wanted to look away, my eyes however preferred to remain locked on him.

“No need to be so formal. We have, after all, met before.” Way to remind me. “Since we’re not in the courtroom, please call me Anthony.”

Pretend we were friends? Over my dead, horny body. Never in a million years. No way. Hell would freeze over first.

“Hello, Anthony.” I purred. What could I say? My mouth had a mind of its own and, right now, it liked the fact that he stood so close, close enough that it would only take a little effort to see if his mouth tasted as minty as his breath smelled.

“I do hope there are no hard feelings over last week’s case.”

Hard feelings? Yes. And as for the three extra pounds around my waist from the gallon of ice cream I ate? Also his fault. “Of course not. Win some. Lose some.” Please don’t tell me that tittering giggle came from me. If I could have slapped myself without appearing mentally unstable, I would have.

“Glad to hear it.”

“What are you doing here? I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before.”

Great. Now I sounded like a drunken lush who spent enough time in a bar to know all the patrons. Sometimes, the truth hurt.

“A coworker suggested I try this place out. Apparently, they make the best Earl Grey martinis in town.”

I held up my mostly empty glass and tilted it, draining the contents for liquid courage. “I don’t know about the Earl Greys, but Liam here sure knows how to dish these up.”

“Let me get you another.”

“No need,” I hastened to say, realizing too late how it sounded.

Anthony held up two fingers and pointed to my empty glass. A moment later, Liam slid two fresh beverages our way, both a bright blue. Looked like Mr. DA would have to wait to taste his Earl.

Not that he seemed to mind. He slid a twenty at Liam, waved away the change—show off—and lifted the flared glass with long fingers, the nails perfectly rounded and clean. No calluses on him.

Wonder what those smooth fingers would feel like on a certain sensitive body part?

Shudder. My poor panties. I might have to wring them dry.

He tilted the martini in my direction. “To finally meeting outside a courtroom.” Anthony chimed his glass off mine.

“Ditto,” I mumbled before gulping back half the contents. I couldn’t have said why a languorous heat spread through my limbs.

Perhaps I was still horny from my meeting earlier with werewolf Pete? I mean, the dude totally rocked my libido.

Yet, I’d controlled myself.

So why this sudden fierce arousal for Anthony? It wasn’t as if he did anything overtly sexual, just leaned against me. What choice did he have? The place overflowed.

Yet, a simple brush of our bodies shouldn’t ignite my senses.

Was it the alcohol? I didn’t think I’d drunk enough.

Unconsciously—or not—I caught myself shifting, almost rubbing myself against the guy.

Someone get a spray bottle. I was acting like a pussy in heat, and he didn’t help things.

The hand on my back no longer lightly touched but firmly pressed, his thumb stroking me, branding me through the thin silk blouse I wore.

I should have moved away, or made some attempt to ignore him. A smart girl would have joined Brenda—my traitor of a friend who’d ditched me. She currently gyrated with a few guys in suits and loosened ties, her jiggly little body doing some kind of techno bop on the barely existing dance floor. It looked fun, especially since I enjoyed dancing.

However, I didn’t move.

Neither did Anthony.

“I have a confession to make.” His lips practically brushed my lobe as he leaned over to whisper in my ear.

A shiver went through me.

“Are you going to tell me you’ve made a deal with the devil, which is why I can never win a case against you?” I blurted the strange accusation, my martini courage giving my wayward tongue free rein.

A normal man might have taken offense, but not Mr. Hot Shot DA. He threw his head back and laughed. Had I mentioned he possessed the most incredible laugh?

“Not quite, but I might need a deal with the devil if you keep up your good defensive work. You certainly keep me on my toes.”

“Glad to know I’m giving you some exercise.” My wry reply didn’t daunt him in the least.

His lips brushed my ear lobe again. “I enjoy the challenge, which is why I’m glad we finally get to meet outside of work.”

“You are?” I couldn’t help but turn my head, which brought our faces incredibly close.

He possessed the most incredible skin. Smooth, unblemished, and his lips…they moved.

“You sound surprised,” he said.

“Probably because I am. We are, after all, working on opposite sides.”

“But it doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”

Oh my freaking gawd. I recognized that inflection. He was hitting on me. “I don’t know how appropriate that would be.”

“There are no laws against it. I checked.”

He’d done what?

The grin curling his lips short-circuited my brain for a second. The man blinded me with his good looks and his charm.

“No laws maybe, but I have my own personal rule, which states no fraternizing with coworkers.”

“And yet didn’t I see you here with one of the legal secretaries?”

“That’s different. We’ve known each other since kindergarten.” And I didn’t want Brenda to put a dick into my pussy.

“So long as we’re not sharing information on a case, or actively arguing a case, I don’t see why we can’t explore certain opportunities.”

The guy just wouldn’t give up. Flattering. Disconcerting. And annoying because, despite my dislike of him, I couldn’t help enjoying his flirting. Just like I couldn’t stop wondering if his lips would feel as soft as they looked.

Is he a giver or a taker? A part of me was tempted to find out.

But the smarter part of me knew better than to play his game.

“Listen, Mr. Vanderson—”

“Anthony.”

What was it with guys insisting I use their first names today?

“While your attention is flattering, I just don’t think this is appropriate.” Taboo, my body agreed. So taboo. Naughty even. Very naughty. Could I blame the drinks on my rising temperature?

A body jostled mine from the other side and the hand on my back went full circle to steady me. Anthony drew me in to his hard chest, pressing me flush against a torso that I instantly noticed was really happy to see me. Up went my gaze to meet the brilliant blue one of my nemesis—a man who claimed he wanted to get to know me better.

Maybe I should let him. Wasn’t there an expression about getting to know thy enemy? And what better way than naked?

“Crowded place,” he observed, making no move to let me go or allow any space between us.

“No more than usual.”

“What do you say we adjourn somewhere quieter? Maybe grab some dinner.”

Actual food? Or did the inflection imply something else, something I’d just said no to?

A smart defense attorney would have rejected his offer, however I’d already proven myself stupid when it came to Anthony.

Mesmerized by his gaze—my body melting like butter in his grasp—I found myself nodding.

With his arm around my waist, he managed to guide us with more ease than expected from the bar.

Outside, the cool night air brushed over my fevered skin. It brought back some of my sanity and I pulled away from him, determined to put some distance between us, to tell him I’d changed my mind.

What was I thinking agreeing to go to dinner with the enemy? I hated Anthony, I mean Mr. High and Mighty DA Vanderson. I—

Before I could say anything, he spun me in his arms and his lips came down hard on mine.

Holy shit. Talk about instant, flaming heat.

Good intentions? Kiss them goodbye.

Reasons to walk away? Burned to a crisp under the expert caress of a man who knew his way around a woman’s lips.

He left no part of my mouth unexplored, sucking my upper and lower lip, one at a time, massaging them, tasting them.

He didn’t suckle alone. I gave as good as I got, tangling my tongue with his, groaning when his teeth grazed me. The man could freaking kiss.

We stood on the sidewalk, in plain view, without a care for who might be watching, embracing passionately. Hungrily.

I clung to him, my fingers laced at the back of his head while his arms hugged me tight, his hands cold brands over the silk that impeded his way to my bare skin.

A strident whistle with a catcalled, “Fuck yeah, buddy. Do her!” brought me back a semblance of rationality.

What the hell am I doing?

I drew back, lips swollen, breathing uneven and legs wobbly. For a moment, I could have sworn Anthony’s eyes flashed with blue fire, but he blinked and the odd light disappeared.

Am I drunk? I didn’t feel drunk. Aroused, wet, and hungry for kisses, yes. Yet, I seemed in perfect control of myself, if I ignored the fact I wanted the man before me to fuck me.

Now.

Screw our public location or my dislike of him. Need consumed me. A need he could take care of.

I licked my swollen lips. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” I whispered, my voice not quite as steady as I would have liked.

For a moment, he didn’t reply, just stared. When he did finally speak, his low tone slid over me, a sensual tickle of sound that I swore actually touched me between the legs. I quivered.

“Come with me. My car isn’t far. Just a few blocks.”

A part of me urged me to say yes. I wanted to go with him and steam up the windows of his luxury sedan. Leave ass prints on his surely leather seats. But why resort to a quick, uncomfortable coupling when I knew of a bed nearby?

I did the unthinkable.

“My place is closer.” I later blamed this poor decision on my pussy, which mutinied and took over my body, a total limb assault on a quest for sex.

At my words, I could have sworn I saw, once again, a blue flare in his eyes. Probably just the glint of the neon lights flashing around us.

A smart man, he didn’t say much after my invitation, else I probably would have had time to change my mind.

His fingers laced with mine and even though I’d not told him which building I lived in, off we strode, just another couple, hurrying to get home so we could screw like wild animals.

No denying, I wanted to feel him inside me.

Something about my behavior should have rung warning bells. I didn’t take coworkers home. Especially ones I abhorred. I also never left the bar without telling Brenda, my wing-woman. Then again, I’d also never experienced such an ardent need for a man before.

I barely registered the walk to my place. I floated, my body on fire and aching. My breasts heavy and tender. My pussy soaking and so ready for his cock I thought I would die if we didn’t get there fast.

It seemed I wasn’t the only eager one. We’d no sooner entered my elevator and pressed the button for the seventh floor than he pinned me to the wall, his tongue thrusting into my mouth, his body flush against mine. The hardness of his arousal ground against me, titillating evidence of his attraction for me. Did I forget to mention its sizable nature?

We made out in the elevator like frantic teenagers, groping and kissing with wild abandon.

The cab dinged and the doors slid open. Another ten seconds and I would have probably had my thighs wrapped around his waist. Stupid modern elevator. If I’d not feared getting caught, I would have slapped the close button and given in to my fantasy.

Down the hall we glided to my apartment. I fumbled with my key. His cool hand covered mine and guided the stupid metal thing home. With a click, we were in and the door had barely slammed shut before buttons went flying.

Normally, I embarked upon sex with a practical nature. Have a few drinks. Neck a little. Find a bed or a car. Get undressed then do the bump and grind until my little O came along.

Yeah. Apparently, I’d been missing out.

What flared between Anthony and I didn’t want to wait. It didn’t care that my hundred dollar blouse—bought on a clearance rack for a discounted $19.95—got torn from my body with a ripping sound that just titillated me further.

My eager fingers gripped his shirt, which probably cost more than I made in a week, and tore it open, the satisfying ping of buttons feeding some unholy savage inside me.

In record time, we stood naked amongst the rags of our clothes and, dear gawd, he lifted me. Me! The six-foot-tall Amazon whom universities had courted, begging to play on their basketball team.

He hoisted me as if I were light as a feather, slamming my back against the wall, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to show he meant business.

Incredibly hot. As if my wet pussy needed any more encouragement.

He kept his mouth latched to mine as he pushed his body between my thighs and I wrapped my legs around his waist and eagerly pulled him to me. And missed his damned cock.

Swollen and hard, it rubbed across my wet pussy, not where I wanted it.

Inside me.

I groaned against his lips.

“Looking for something?” he teased, the gyration of his hips seesawing his shaft against my sensitized flesh.

“Keep doing that and I won’t,” I gasped, digging my fingers into the muscles of his shoulders. It seemed Mr. DA hid a nicely toned physique inside those designer suits. Pale in color didn’t mean he neglected his body. Not that I’d had time to admire it much before he’d pinned me to the wall—a fantasy come to life.

“We can’t have that now, can we?” he murmured. Pulling back, he thrust his dick home, and by home, I meant he drove it into me. A powerful stroke. A deep penetration. Oh, how he stretched me nicely.

Back went my head as I savored the way he filled me. I’d gone without a real man much too long, which made his slow in-and-out movement that much more maddening. I didn’t want a languorous ride to the top. I wanted him to fuck me.

I urged him on. “Faster. Give it to me. Don’t hold back.”

Not all men could handle a woman giving them directions during sex; some whined it distracted them. Some got performance anxiety.

Not Anthony. I asked for more and he gave it to me. My gawd, did he give it to me. Held up by his hands and the wall, such a novel position, he pistoned me, his cock pounding my willing pussy, striking my sweet spot with each and every stroke.

I fucking loved it.

Wanton and wild in his grasp, I showed him my pleasure by clawing at his back, his shoulders, anything I could get my sharp fingernails on. My breathing turned harsh, the sounds coming from me a cross between a moan and a high-pitched scream. He buried his face in the hollow where my neck meets my shoulder and he sucked the tender flesh there, just another sensation to add to the pile already driving me wild.

My body tensed and coiled and the muscles in my channel gripped him tight, forming a suction he had to fight against with each stroke, pushing and shoving.

It was freaking fantastic. It also tipped me over the edge.

I came first with a scream that I hoped the neighbors didn’t mistake for a cry of help. Not that I could have stopped it. The orgasm sweeping through me demanded acclaim.

Anthony proved more restrained. With his mouth still buried in my skin, he thrust a few more times before his body pulsed. Instead of yelling, he pinched the skin of my neck as he bit down, not that I cared in that moment, not with my own climax still rendering me limp as a rag doll.

I don’t know how long we stood there, him sucking on the sore spot he’d bitten, me panting, trying to regain my breath, our bodies intimately joined.

Then it hit me.

Shit. “You forgot to use a condom!”

And I couldn’t believe I’d gotten so caught up I didn’t remember. Pregnancy didn’t worry me. I took my pill religiously. But, who knew what icky germs my seducer carried?

He gave a final lick to my neck before lifting his head to stare at me. “I’m clean.”

“Says you.”

“Says my last medical check-up.”

“And how long ago was that? Also, how many women have you slept with since?” I showed no quarter.

I’ll admit, I didn’t say it nicely. STDs were a fact of life and I couldn’t believe I’d gotten so caught up in the moment I’d forgotten to keep myself safe.

“I was declared medically sound not even three months ago and I haven’t slept with anyone in over five months since I broke up with my girlfriend. What about you? Should I be concerned?”

Of course he’d flip it around and try to make me feel guilty. Never mind he was justified in questioning me back. As a woman, I held tight to my right to irrationality, especially since I didn’t understand how things had gotten so out of control in the first place.

Tone indignant, I answered, “On the pill and clean as a whistle.” An expression I didn’t get. I mean, whistles were things you blew in and covered with spit, which meant bacteria. Wouldn’t a better saying involve soap?

“No lovers or boyfriends I need to worry about either?” He arched a brow as he put me through the inquisition.

I scowled. “I do not sleep around.” Which given I still had my legs wrapped around his waist might seem kind of hard to believe. “I don’t usually do things like this.”

“Like what?” he asked, his lips curved in a slight mockery of a smile.

“Take guys home and screw them without even a first date.” When flustered, I resorted to bold language, and lies.

I did believe in one-night stands, so long as a thick layer of latex was involved and I could sneak out before they woke up.

He laughed. “I feel honored.”

“You should.”

“Is there any way I can thank you?”

Good thing he didn’t use the naughty grin he tossed me when we battled in court. I would have probably declared my clients guilty myself just before I tackled Anthony to the ground to have my wicked way.

“What were you thinking?”

“How big is your shower?” Anthony cocked a brow at me and threw me a slow, sexy grin that made me immediately horny. He let my body down slowly, a sensual glide of skin on skin that sent a shiver through me. As he turned and walked to my bathroom, I licked my lips at the view of his taut buttocks. Yuuuummmy.

My body thrummed with anticipation as I followed and I crossed my fingers, praying to whichever sex god was listening that my shower and tub were big enough to fuck in. With our almost matching heights, the pair of us took up a lot of space. Sex in the tight confines of my shower could prove challenging. But I was still willing to try.

Anthony already had the water streaming and stood under the spray when I entered. I took a moment to admire the view through the glass door, thanking the fact I’d opted against the frosted version.

Good grief, he was so sexy, even more so with water glistening over his toned flesh. I swear he did it on purpose to tease me, especially when he grabbed the soap and lathered himself, his hand closing around his semi-erect cock, sliding back and forth in a manner that seemed more pleasurable than cleansing.

My mouth watered. I knew what I wanted for a snack. In I stepped, my hands using his chest to steady myself, a cheap excuse to touch him. His lips quirked in amusement.

“Your shower isn’t as big as expected.”

“Big enough for what I have planned.” I slid my hands down from his pecs, palm flat, fingers spread, feeling the heat of his skin and his rapidly thudding heart. His nipples puckered, begging for a nibble. I leaned forward so I could bite one lightly. He sucked in a breath and it was my turn to smile wickedly. I played with his chest, alternating between sucking his little nubs and rubbing my cheek against his slick skin. I might have teased him for a while, but something kept poking me in the belly, something hard and demanding.

Apparently, his cock wanted some attention too. I was more than happy to comply. I dropped to my knees and brought myself eye level with his shaft. Despite our recent coupling, there was nothing semi or soft about it now. I reached out a hand to stroke it lightly and it jerked in response. I peeked up and saw Anthony gazing down at me, his blue eyes seeming alight from within.

My lips curved into a wanton smile as I touched him again. This time, I wrapped my hands tight around his length. Back went his head, a hitching sigh leaving him. Pleased at his response, I pumped his rigid cock, back and forth. The thickness and length of it tempted me. Out flicked my tongue to lave the head, already swollen and blushing with color. Fingers tangled in my hair as Anthony shuddered under my ministrations. Gawd, I loved how he responded and how he groaned, a long low rumble and then a bark of pleasure as I finally took him into my mouth.

The fingers in my hair tightened, a little tug of pain that excited me. Deeper I took him into the warm recess of my mouth as my hand reached up to fondle his heavy sac. I fucked him with my mouth, taking him in and out, the slick length of him grazing my teeth. With his fingers still entwined in my hair, he aided me, thrusting his hips in time to my oral cadence.

In the past, I’d sucked guys; it was kind of expected, but frankly boring for me. Those guys weren’t Anthony. For the first time, I realized that the pleasure of the act could go two ways. With him, I didn’t do it because I had to. I did it because I wanted to. Needed to taste him. Needed him to lose his mind like he had made me lose mine. And oh, he did not disappoint. The guttural sounds he uttered, the way his cock jerked and pulsed in my mouth… Damn did it excite me.

Using my free hand, I stroked myself, my pussy wet not just from the shower but from arousal. I would have happily sucked him to completion and probably come on my hand, but he abruptly pulled his cock from my mouth with a wet pop.

“I wasn’t done,” I protested.

“Good, because neither was I,” was his reply. He yanked me upright then turned me so I faced away. A hand in the middle of my back pushed me over so that I presented my buttocks to him. Understanding his plan, I braced my hands on the shower wall just in time for his first deep thrust.

I just about expired of pleasure on the spot. Thankfully, I didn’t because the best was yet to come.

Despite my tight shower, he managed to fuck me, his throbbing cock driving hard and deep, each stroke leaving me panting and climbing a peak toward ecstasy.

“Harder,” I begged. Then, “Faster.” Each time he complied, and soon I couldn’t speak, so ragged was my breath. But I had enough air to scream when my orgasm finally hit.

“Dear fucking gawd!” Not that there was anything holy about the carnal bliss roaring through my pussy. Whatever mighty power he’d used to sate me, it left me boneless and happy, enough that I let him carry me, cradled in his arms, my body dripping wet onto my fine Egyptian sheets. But I didn’t really care, not when my body hummed so happily. And later, my usually sacrosanct sheets got a workout too.