Waking up the next morning, alone, my first thought was what an oddly erotic dream. And involving Anthony of all people.

Then I caught the lingering scent of cologne, took note of my sticky skin and pleasantly sore pussy, and bolted upright in bed with a shrieked, “Oh fuck me, I didn’t.”

Yet I had. I’d screwed my nemesis. And not just screwed. I’d indulged in amazing, pulse-pounding, sweaty, hardcore sex, the kind I’d read about but never experienced—until now. On the wall, in my shower, in my bed.

Three times we’d done it!

It was a freaking record for me. Usually I managed a one or two-hit wonder. The man must have had some magic in his dick; he certainly did in his tongue, because he’d not even had to work me too long to get me to orgasm so many times. Yay for me.

Reality slapped me and she wasn’t gentle about it.

Did the most amazing sexual experience of my life have to be with him? I hated him. Loathed him and everything he stood for. Or did I?

I analyzed my feelings in regards to Anthony—forget relegating him back to Mr. Vanderson status. I’d seen his penis. It seemed kind of dumb to pretend a distance that no longer existed.

Back to the hating thing? Okay, so maybe he wasn’t the total asshat I’d painted him to be. Yet, at the same time, I couldn’t state that I liked him. In spite of his prowess when it came to playing my body, the burning annoyance that he constantly bested me in court still existed. My general dislike of his arrogant airs and his luck in front of a judge hadn’t diminished. The only thing that changed—other than knowing what his dick looked like and could do—was now I not only resented his luck in the courtroom, I wanted to ride him like a cowgirl, maybe hit him with a riding crop and yell, “Giddy up!”

What is wrong with me?

If I believed in magic, I’d swear he put a spell on me.

Or drugged me!

No way. A man with his appearance wouldn’t have to resort to chemicals to get a woman to fuck him. Or would he? Was that how he got his kicks?

Springing from bed, I dashed to the bathroom and checked myself out in the mirror.

Yikes. Hello, morning-after hair. It stuck up all over the place. I resembled the poster child for why conditioner existed. Good thing Anthony hadn’t stuck around. I’d have given him ample evidence for a case to never see me again. However, my hair wasn’t what needed examination. Leaning in, I peered at myself.

My eyes appeared clear. Not even a touch bloodshot. My head felt fine, even when I shook it and swung it around like a groupie at a head-banging concert.

No blank spots seemed to exist in my memories. I remembered every decadent moment of last night. As for my body…it hummed happily. A little sore between the thighs from our enthusiastic coupling, but the good kind. Other than the tenderness, the only sign of the previous evening’s aberration was a red mark on my neck where Mr. DA got a little enthusiastic with his sucking.

“The jerk gave me a hickey.” This, even more than the sex with my nemesis, irritated me.

Now I could just imagine what some people would think at this point. Half would call me a sex-crazed slut. But those who knew me, who knew how I abhorred Anthony and liked to remain in control, would call the whole thing suspicious. Totally out of character. He must have slipped me something. What, though? Or the better question, when?

I racked my brain, replaying the previous evening’s chain of events. No matter how many times I ran them by, even in slow motion, I just couldn’t see a moment when he’d had a chance to slip me something.

I’d drunk my first cocktail before his arrival. And, while I’d chugged half my second, which he’d ordered for me, I’d had my eyes on it from the moment Liam made it until it hit my lips. Unless rich boy could move faster than light, I couldn’t blame drugs.

Damn it. One look into his mesmerizing blue eyes and I had succumbed. It appeared I had only myself to blame for my slutty actions.

That wouldn’t do.

I chose to blame Anthony. Somehow, someway, this was his fault. Him and his good looks, sexy suits, and…and…whatever else he possessed that had rendered me so horny—and given me the most intense orgasms of my life.

At least he’d had the good sense to leave before I woke. I don’t know what I would have done had I opened my eyes to see his face on the pillow alongside mine.

Screamed possibly.

Slapped him.

Or looped my leg over his and drawn him in for a good morning tussle.

Yes, I still disliked the man on principle; however, all I had to do was picture his pale body poised over mine, his hips thrusting, his gaze intent, and my nipples hardened while my pussy gave a happy shudder.

Damn him for giving me great sex, and worse, for making me crave more.

At least I wouldn’t have to face him anytime soon. I didn’t have any court cases scheduled next week or the week after against him. Thank freaking gawd. It would give me time to brace myself for when I eventually needed to come up against him in a courtroom.

Or was seduction part of his master plan? Get me in the sack and fuck me silly so that the next time he had to deal with me in front of the judge, I’d remember him naked. Flustered, I’d throw my case and give him victory. A great theory except for the fact that I never won!

Enough of the Saturday morning regrets. I couldn’t change last night. I could just bury it deep in my subconscious and hope I never had to face him again. I might have to move. I wondered if Alaska needed any lawyers.

Flopping back onto my bed, I buried my face in my pillow, looking to catch a few more hours of sleep. The shrill ring of my phone messed with my plan. Scrambling through my clothes—the shredded remains, which made me sob—I located my hidden purse. I dug my pink bedazzled smartphone out and answered it.

“Oh my god.” Brenda’s squeal just about deafened me.

“Good morning to you too.”

“I can’t believe you took Mr. Hottie home.”

“That makes two of us,” I mumbled as I made my way to the kitchen in search of some caffeine. Forget sleep. Brenda would demand details.

“So how was it?”

“Isn’t the better question, why did I do it? I hate the guy.”

“Love. Hate. Who cares how you feel about him? DA Vanderson is HOT!”

She didn’t know the half of it. In a suit, he was delicious. Naked…shudder. I couldn’t believe my body still had the ability to get horny after last night’s debauchery.

“Sorry I didn’t warn you I was leaving with him. Events kind of moved suddenly.”

“Not too suddenly, I hope. Nothing worse than a man who comes before the main event, if you know what I mean.”

Subtlety wasn’t her strong suit. “I do know.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“How was he?” Brenda practically yelled the question in her eagerness to know every single detail of my sex life. Ha. How funny to think I kind of had one. Usually, it was the other way around.

“How was he?” I paused before I gave her a tidbit I knew she’d enjoy. “Hot and hung.”

“Hung as in a horse or a mule?”

I’d never understood the difference, or the comparison. I mean, comparing a man’s junk to an animal? Who the hell came up with that? Despite the inanity of the query, I replied, “Elephant.”

As Brenda waxed on eloquently—using language her mother would have washed her mouth out with soap for—about the equipment she never saw but envied me test driving, I brewed myself some instant coffee, lamenting the fact that I couldn’t yet afford one of those awesome Keurig machines. Fabulous instant coffee makers were for the lawyers not working as a government drone. Not me, in other words. With my paycheck, I got stuck with hot water poured over some Folgers’ crystals.

As I sipped the bitter concoction, which I preferred black, I couldn’t help thinking of Anthony. Did he also drink coffee? Actually, a man like him probably enjoyed something fancier. I bet he had an espresso machine in his mansion. With a butler to serve it.

I hated him with a passion.

Wished he was here asking me to shower with him again.

I wondered if I needed a lobotomy.

Phone tucked against my ear, I waited until Brenda ran out of breath—ha, like that would ever happen—and managed the occasional “Uh huh” in edgewise.

“So are we still getting together this afternoon for that marathon thing?” she gushed, finally finishing a sentence and pausing for a reply.

I’d just about forgotten about the marathon for cancer research. Not that I intended to run. Long-legged didn’t mean athletic. But I had told my mom I’d show up and cheer her on, along with my dads, who’d signed up to do the five-mile jog.

My stepfather had lost his first wife to the nasty disease, so we did what we could in honor of her memory. “Of course. I’m going,” I replied. “You?”

“You betcha. I’ve got my foam finger out and my travel mug ready.”

“Special coffee or iced tea?”

“I was thinking of having one of each, you know, in case the race runs a bit longer than expected.”

“You are a lush, Brenda Parker.”

“Lush and curvy, you jealous giant.”

“Pipsqueak.”

“Titan.”

“Munchkin.”

“Prosecution dick lover.”

I exhaled. “Oooh, that was low.”

“Not as low as you went on him last night,” she said with a snicker.

How did she guess? Speaking of which, I couldn’t help remembering my worship at the altar of his magical dick. I couldn’t believe he’d pulled me away instead of letting me finish him off. Maybe next time, I’d tie him down so I could get the job done.

No! There would be no next time. Ever. Not happening.

Now, if only I believed myself.

---

A hot shower managed to erase the scent of my shame—but not the memory of pleasure. I dressed in comfortable clothes, athletic gear comprised of black yoga pants, a T-shirt with an Angry Bird saying something rude, and running shoes. The picture of an athlete—who exercised with a TV remote.

Hungry and in need of calories to replace the ones I’d burned the night before, I treated myself to a greasy breakfast at a diner around the corner from the subway. I devoured the Hungry Man; three eggs, two slices of bacon, two sausages—the edible not manly kind—three pieces of toast, and home fries washed down with a cup of horrible coffee and orange juice. For dessert, and the ride uptown, I brought along an apple Danish. Some people fasted and stretched before a marathon. Apparently, after a sexual one, I needed to eat.

I met up with Brenda at the volunteer table where I managed to avoid answering questions as we hurried to get our station ready. Lucky me, I snagged the spiked ice tea she brought along while Brenda sipped her thermos full of coffee, generously flavored with Bailey’s.

Our volunteer position involved manning a water station at the halfway point of the course, which put us out in the middle of nowhere. Bored out of our skulls, my BFF slightly hung over and wearing giant shades, we waited for the first runners to reach us.

I’d already given Brenda as many salacious details as I dared about my sexual encounter with Anthony. In return, I’d gotten way too much information about the threesome Brenda got into—or that got into her more accurately—with a pair of bailiffs, who, while short in the penile department, made up for it in enthusiasm and endurance.

“But sweaty,” Brenda exclaimed. “I mean, these guys should have worn those headbands you used to see back in the eighties for exercise, you know the fabric ones that soak up moisture.”

For some reason, that brought to mind an image of a pair of Mr. Cleans with white terry cloth headbands. Not a sexy thought. “Sorry, but no man should ever wear a headband.”

“Skiers do.”

“And few can carry it off. I’m also sure they take them off before sex.”

Had I mentioned that many of our conversations seemed to center around the almighty O? As single gals, with no dependents—not even a cat or a budgie—we tried to avoid the depressing topic of work and never spoke about politics or religion—unless we were exclaiming over the newest laws pertaining to threesomes and moresomes.

Brenda already knew everything about my family, seeing as how she’d practically grown up in my house. What did that leave? Shopping, food, and sex.

The first we couldn’t afford often. The second, we’d indulge once the race was done. As for the third, while I did go through dry spells, Brenda didn’t and she loved to discuss her love life—in living detail.

What a novelty that, for once, I actually had some dirty deeds to share too. I swear Brenda almost shed a tear she was so proud.

A wave of runners came into sight, fit and toned freaks—whom I envied with a passion. Not for the first time in my life, I wished I possessed the kind of drive and enthusiasm they did when it came to staying in shape.

Sadly, my idea of working out involved doing the vacuuming and laundry. By the time I got around to doing either, it was a total workout and left me with a pearly sheen of exertion. That sounded more attractive than the reality. In other words, dressed in my cast-off rags, I sweated like a sumo wrestler as I tackled the accumulated dirt, stunk like a pig as I washed the grubby bathroom, and wore a layer of dust atop it all once finished with my Swiffer. How Cinderella pulled off the sexy-servant-girl shtick, I’d yet to figure out. Must have been the glass slippers.

Handing out the water cups as the paragons of fitness jogged in place to keep their blood flowing, I didn’t pay much attention, tossing out generics to sound supportive. “Good job,” “You’re halfway there,” “Keep up the good work.”

Look at me, doing my part for charity, the encouraging cheerleader with a pasted smile on my face.

Head ducked as I grabbed another cup, I thrust out the paper cone at the shadow that fell over me, sloshing water over my hand in the process. “Oops. Sorry. Let me get you another.”

“Take your time. Or, even better, spill the next one a little higher. I’m always up for a wet T-shirt contest.”

No way. I recognized that rumble even if I’d only heard it once before. Up flew my gaze to meet the amused one of a certain Pete Cavanaugh. And, oh boy, forget putting a headband on this big boy. Sweat looked good on him. Real good. But it would look even better on me.

Down, girl.

Towering over me, wearing a black sleeveless shirt and athletic shorts that stopped mid-thigh—oh my, what muscled thighs he owned—my werewolf nutjob sucked the breath from me and tickled my pussy with just an amused tilt of his lips.

Despite my more than satisfying sex the night before, my body responded. My nipples poked the tip of my shirt, my sex sent out a moist SOS, and a herd of butterflies took up residence in my lower anatomy.

“You.” It emerged sounding accusatory.

His brow lifted. “Yes. Me.”

“You’re running in the marathon?”

The wide grin did nothing to quell the winged visitors doing somersaults in my tummy. “I’d say that was obvious.”

Fighting the heat that threatened to rise in my cheeks took effort. It would have helped if I could stop sounding like a freaking idiot. But something about this man—just like a certain DA—flustered the hell out of me.

I tried a different tactic and went on the offensive, calling forth my sarcastic, cynical side to the rescue. “I’m surprised you aren’t leading the pack.”

“Why?”

“You seem like a guy who stays fit. Or am I wrong? Is your girlfriend not taking you out for regular walks?” Me, fishing for info? Never!

A grin showed he didn’t take offense at my jab, and he satisfied my curiosity. “No girlfriend. For the moment. What about you? Is your special friend running today?”

“My special friend prefers to stay in my nightstand drawer.” Too late. I said it out loud. Blushed beet red too as I slapped a hand over my mouth.

My obvious embarrassment did not stop him from laughing, and Brenda, instead of saving me from myself, practically fell to the ground in stitches.

Just how much “truth juice” did my special coffee contain?

“If you were my girlfriend, I’d let you take me for a walk, and while I wouldn’t let you store me in a drawer, I’d definitely engage you in some strenuous activities that would keep me in top shape.”

I’ll just bet he would. Hot, sticky, panting activities.

I gulped. “Dream on. I prefer guys who don’t sweat so much.” Spoken a faint voice as he mopped his damp brow by lifting the hem of his shirt.

Good grief, I couldn’t help but stare. Did he have the world’s most perfect abs? If I’d not seen another perfect set the previous night, I would have said yes. As it was, he tied for first.

The shirt came back down, hiding his perfection, and thankfully before I did something stupid, such as ask if I could test their firmness by bouncing a roll of quarters off them.

Okay, I didn’t have quarters, but hey, I could sacrifice a little dignity and bounce myself. What could I say? My scientific side really wanted to know if they were as hard as they looked.

“If you’re making out with a guy and you’re both not getting hot and bothered, then they’re not doing it right.”

A naughty smile shouldn’t make a girl cream herself. Apparently, I didn’t get the memo. I clenched my thighs tight.

“You never did answer why you’re so far behind the other runners,” Brenda interjected, finally coming to my rescue.

“I started late,” he replied with a shrug that sent mounds of muscles rolling.

I watched, utterly mesmerized by the motion. Brenda also noted it, or so I surmised because a terse runner had to ask her twice if she was going to give her some water or what. Brenda muttered something about whiny women ruining her fun as she thrust the cup at her.

“For a guy who started late, you’re not doing so bad, I guess.”

“I had to sprint for a while to catch up.”

“Sprint? Son, if that’s what you call a sprint, I’d hate to see you in a full-out run.”

Cue the big groan. Figured my parents would show up while I ogled the hunk in front of me.

“Mom, Dads. You made it. How are you guys holding up?” I asked, reaching for some more water cups, glad for an excuse to focus away from Tall, Dark and I-want-to-fuck.

Perhaps I could fight my treacherous body by keeping my attention on something slightly more rational like my three parents.

I eyed my family. Mother appeared flushed, but happy, her cheeks holding a rosy tint, although she panted a little bit. My two dads, on the other hand, seemed fine. They went for daily jogs farther than this, so to them, this marathon thing was a breeze.

“Beautiful day for a run,” Mother gushed in between gulps of water.

“Indeed it is,” my werewolf client replied.

“Shouldn’t you be off chasing a cat?” I muttered.

“Don’t you mean pussy?” he murmured back as he leaned forward to toss his empty cup into the pail by my feet.

I gaped at him and the jerk winked.

Thankfully, he’d said it low enough that I didn’t think my parents heard, but they must have sensed the undercurrent between us because my first father said, “I get the impression that you’ve met our daughter before.”

“As a matter of fact, I have. She helped me out with a minor legal matter.”

“Nothing too serious, I hope?” dad number two inquired.

What was this, the sweaty-guy inquisition?

“Nope. Turns out her advice was just the thing I needed.”

“It was?” Color me surprised. I didn’t hear that one too often. Usually my clients did the opposite and went back out to commit the same offenses that had landed their asses in front of me in the first place.

Wearing a smug smile, Pete said, “Animal control came right out and took care of the issue before suppertime.”

Oh dear. “You didn’t?”

“I most certainly did. The menacing feline critter is behind bars. Rocky and Periwinkle send their thanks.”

“Pets of yours, I assume?” my mother asked.

“Lovebirds.”

“Beautiful creatures. They make the most delightful music.”

“Yes they do. I’d show you a video of them chirping a duet, but I left my cell phone locked in my car.”

“What a shame. I would have enjoyed seeing it. I work at the local zoo. Marketing department.”

“I love the zoo,” Pete exclaimed.

What was this, charm my mother day? I scowled as my mother beamed up at Pete.

“Find me after the race, and I’ll play it for you.” Pete flashed his hundred-watt grin.

Mother wasn’t the only one taken in by it. I could see my dads relaxing instead of forming a daddy wall between the male interloper and their little girl.

Did no one grasp his despicable plan to seduce me? Would no one save me from his incredible charm—and rock hard body?

“You know what. I have a better idea. Why don’t you join us for dinner tonight? You already know Chloe. You can show us the video then.”

And there it was. Out of the blue, but not unexpected. My mother the matchmaker making an appearance. I should have known she’d try something like this.

I tried to halt the will-you-date-my-daughter train before it got chugging. “No. He can’t. He’s probably busy.”

“Actually, I don’t have any plans and would be delighted to join you for dinner. I’ll bring my phone so I can show off my birds.” Oh the stupid, stupid man. Did he not see a ploy by a mother desperate to see her daughter settle down? Apparently not, because he took the pen Brenda scrounged from her bottomless purse and inked my parents’ address on his arm. I could only watch in more or less stunned silence.

“I should probably get going if I’m going to sprint past the leaders. I’ll see you tonight.” With a grin, off jogged Pete Cavanaugh, his long-legged stride eating up the ground.

Only now did I regain the power of speech. “What were you thinking?”

My mother blinked innocently. “Whatever do you mean? He seems like such a nice boy. Handsome too.”

“But he’s a werewolf.” I’m not sure why I felt a need to blurt that out. On the surface, he appeared nice enough, if one ignored the fact he liked to pee in public.

“A werewolf, really?”

Shit. Trust my mother to find that tidbit fascinating rather than detracting. “Yes. And he claims to live next door to a witch.”

Uh-oh, wrong tactic. One of my dads perked up. “You don’t say? I’ve long said they must exist.”

At that point, I gave up. One way or another, Pete, with the ultra sexy abs, was coming over for dinner. As was Brenda, to meet a certain man mother gushed was perfect for her. Oh, and I had to go too. Oh, yay.

This Saturday was sinking faster than the cookies I made a few weeks ago and then pitched from the public marina dock. The only thing missing was a certain DA to make my life hellishly complete. Thankfully, Brenda’s purse came with more Bailey’s. It tasted a lot better without all that coffee diluting it.