Uma opens the door before I can ring the doorbell with my forehead, as I have my hands full carrying Sam. He fell asleep in the car while listening to the CD with his favorite Nepali lullabies that Uma got for him. I’m so glad he slept. Otherwise, we would’ve been stopping for him to puke every twenty minutes, just like we’d done on the way to Yvelines three hours earlier.

I took him there for a checkup with his doc.

“So, what did he say?” Uma whispers as I carry Sam upstairs.

I glance at her. “Were you waiting by the door?”

“You were late, and I got a bit anxious, but I didn’t want to call you while you were driving.”

With my shoulder, I push the door to Sam’s room open. “I’ll tell you everything once he’s in bed, OK?”

“You’re putting him to bed without dinner?”

“We grabbed a bite before heading back.”

She nods and tiptoes to the family room.

When I join her there with a bottle of champagne and two flutes, she’s cross-legged on the couch, embroidering. I sit next to her and open the champagne.

Uma sets her work aside and points to the bottle. “Does that mean good news?”

“Very.” I hand her a flute. “The doc ran some tests and confirmed what we’ve been suspecting. The new antiseizure drug is working like a charm.”

Her grin broadens.

“Wait, it gets better. If Sam goes seizure free for a year, the doc will start weaning him off the meds.”

“Really?”

I nod. “Apparently, there’s a sixty-five percent chance he won’t have another seizure after that.”

She claps a hand over her mouth.

“But whatever happens,” I say, “even if he continues to have seizures, the doc is confident they can be controlled with this drug and the diet he’s on.”

Uma’s beautiful eyes glisten when she says, “He can have a normal life.”

“Yes.” I pick up the second glass. “He’s come a long way.”

“Here’s to his health!” She raises her flute.

I raise mine. “To Sam.”

The champagne is damn good. No wonder, considering it’s a Bollinger. I refill our glasses, and we empty them. I refill them again. It would be a crime not to finish the bottle.

“Good thing it’s Saturday tomorrow,” Uma says on her third flute. “It would be a pain having to get up early after this.”

I shrug. “It’s just champagne. You’ll be as fresh as ever tomorrow morning.”

“Speak for yourself.” She rolls her eyes. “We aren’t getting the same amount of alcohol per kilogram of body weight, are we?”

“Touché.”

She cocks her head. “Tell me, is it a requirement to be as big as you are to play water polo?”

“No.” I smile. “But it’s certainly an advantage for the hole-set—that’s me—and the hole defender. Remember Julien?”

She nods.

“And, of course, for the goalie. Noah is about the same size as Julien and me. For the other players, it doesn’t matter that much.”

“Why does it matter for the hole set?”

“My job is to score, right?”

“So?”

“The opposing team’s job is to prevent me from doing that. So, every time I get ready to shoot, two or three guys jump at me, trying to stop me. One would hang on my back like a human backpack, another would try to drown me, and a third would kick me underwater where the ref can’t see.”

Her eyes widen. “That’s awful.”

“It’s part of the game,” I say. “That’s why the hole-set must be big and well-trained, so he can fend them off.”

She leans forward a little. “I have another question.”

“Ask.”

“When Sam and I attended your match against Toulon, I noticed something…” Uma looks down, hesitating.

“Yeeess?”

“You and some of the other players were shaved everywhere—legs, chest, the whole body.” She lifts her eyes. “Why?”

My lips curl up. “Picture the situation I just described when the other team’s players try to hurt me beneath the surface, so the ref won’t know.”

“Do they—” She frowns in disbelief. “Do they pull your body hair?”

“They’ll rip it out if given the chance. Armpit hair and the hairs under the Speedo are a preferred target.”

She squirms. “Oh my God.”

“That’s why I make sure I’m shaved everywhere before all important games.”

She picks up her flute and sips slowly, keeping her eyes on her beverage.

Am I imagining it, or have her nipples hardened under her T-shirt?

My cock sure has.

Walk away before it’s too late.

This whole “celebration” was a terrible idea. Hadn’t I promised myself to never be alone with her again? But I was so happy about the doc’s conclusion that I had to share it with Uma. For some weird reason, I wanted to share it with her before anyone else, even before I called my parents and Colette. I should’ve resisted that urge.

As I brace myself for the salutary retreat, Uma places her glass on the coffee table, uncrosses her legs and lowers her feet to the floor.

I watch her, my thoughts getting increasingly muddled.

She turns toward me. “Would you like to kiss me again?”

Sweet Lord.

There’s nothing I’d like more right now.

Nothing at all.

Before I can dissuade myself, I hoist her onto my lap. She trails her small hands along my jawline, through my hair, and rests them on my nape. Our gazes lock. Her touch, her scent, the look in her eyes combine to intoxicate me in a way that no amount of alcohol ever has.

I come undone.

Gripping the back of her head, I pull her face closer, and claim her mouth. Unlike in the gay bar last week, I skip the tentative part and push my tongue between her parted lips. That’s how much I crave her taste. She opens up. The more I demand, the more she gives, her need matching mine.

I can’t get enough of this woman.

Releasing her mouth for a moment, I rain hot kisses on her eyes, cheeks, nose, and chin. I trail my tongue along her neck and down her shoulders, tugging at the neckline of her tee. It will have to come off sometime soon. Very soon. Because I need to kiss and stroke more of her, taste every inch of her skin. Because I need to learn the shape of her breasts and the shade of her nipples. My hands ache to rub them, to pinch them gently, and to feel them go hard against my palms.

My mouth burns to suck them.

A weird need surges within me—something primal, almost animalistic. I want to mark her somehow. I want to stake a claim to her body and make sure no one else ever dares to kiss her like I’m kissing her.

Get a grip, man. You should be ashamed of those feelings.

And I am. But I can’t help them. When I cup her breast through her tee and kiss the side of her neck, biting slightly, she moans. I can feel her heart racing. When I lick the sensitive hollow at the base of her throat, her head falls back. Another soft moan escapes her. She murmurs a word, her voice throaty and low, barely recognizable. But there’s no mistaking it. She said my name.

She wants me.

My sweet Uma wants what I want, every sultry, scathing bit of it. Unless… unless she doesn’t realize what’s coming next.

She’s inexperienced, remember?

But is she that inexperienced? Does she believe kissing is all I intend to do to her tonight? Is she under the impression I’ll let her go to bed without stripping her naked first and claiming her? More than once. In more than one way.

I touch her between her legs.

That’s where I’m headed, Uma.

Slap me, punch me, call me a jerk. Stand up and run away. Do something. Anything.

Because if you don’t, I’ll keep stoking your desire until you lose yourself.

And then I’ll take you.

She stiffens a little, no doubt shocked by my unceremonious move. Her lids are still heavy and her eyes glazed with arousal, but there’s a question in them, an inkling of concern.

“I’m going to fuck you,” I say.

Never in my whole life have I spoken to a woman like that. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

The confusion on Uma’s face grows by the second.

Good.

I apply more pressure to my touch. “First, I’ll do it with my fingers.”

She blinks.

“Then with something bigger.” I draw back, unzip my jeans, and let my raging hard-on free.

If anything can shock her into dashing to her room and locking herself in, this will.

She stares at my cock, wide-eyed.

What, still not running? Has my good-guy image numbed your instincts?

I push my thumb between her lips. “But before I pop your cherry, I’ll have you give me head.”

A deep crease forms between her eyebrows as her confusion gives way to censure.

Good.

“Do you know what that expression means?” I ask.

She gives me an unblinking stare.

I hold her gaze, trailing my thumb over her lips. “I think you do.”

The sick irony of the situation is that I’m not just saying these things to shake her out of her trance. I would love to do them to her. In that exact order.

She stands up. I force myself not to move. But instead of scurrying to her room as I expected her to, Uma runs downstairs. I hear her open the creaky entrance door and close it.

It’s past eleven.

I sprint to the foyer. Her purse is in its usual spot on the shelf. This means she’s out on the streets with no money, no ID, and no phone.

What was I thinking, trying to shock her into action?

She’s shocked, all right, enough to run out into the dark, at an hour when my part of town is empty, and she can bump into all manner of individuals. Bad individuals.

I grab my keys and bolt outside.

After forty-five minutes of searching in vain, I go back home. Sam has been alone in his room too long already.

All I can do now is pray she’ll be safe and knocking on the door before long. If she isn’t home by midnight, I’ll take Sam with me in the car and comb the town, leaving no alley unchecked.

I close my eyes and pray again, Please, come back, Uma.

Please, please, please.