When I met Greta last night, the last thing I expected was to fall for her in a real and deep way--but here I am--twenty-four hours later, my heart melting. It’s like she’s the person I’ve always dreamed of finding, but the sort of woman I didn’t believe was real.

The crazy truth is, she’s the kind of woman I wrote a book about. The kind of woman my friends tease me I’ll never find--this woman-on-a-pedestal. In my novel, Sarah was resilient and above all else, beautiful. So damn beautiful.

Just like Greta.

Except, of course, Greta is real, not just a dream. Which is what Sarah was, a character I dreamt about, the woman I wanted when I closed my eyes at night.

And so I wrote her story. It was a story of death and heartbreak and loss and love.

I want to tell Greta that ... but the idea scares me. Just how much can you know about someone in the space of a day?

Turns out, a hell of a lot.

“So you’re horny,” she says smiling. “But what else do I really know about you?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

I follow her through her house and am amazed at how much of a home this is. Couches filled with throw pillows and stacks of books--so many books. Children’s books, and cookbooks, and novels--bookshelves and end tables filled with them.

There’s also scented candles and Christmas decorations, and a basket of unfolded laundry. Dishes in the sink. There is kids’ artwork on the fridge and a fruit bowl is filled with actual fruit, and when she pulls open the fridge, revealing fully stocked shelves, I realize, in an entirely new way, just how incredible Greta is.

She’s doing all of this on her own--and sure, it’s clear she has a strong support system, but she isn’t just a character from a book--she is a living, breathing woman who is raising a family on her own. I am in awe of her.

“What are you smiling about?” she asks, cocking an eyebrow at me and pulling out a bottle of white wine.

“You. This house. You have beautiful children and a beautiful life and somehow you are having dinner with me. I just don’t know why.”

She snorts, pouring the wine into two stemless glasses. “Remember the part about being the sexiest man Linesworth has ever seen?” She hands me a glass.

“So we’re back to that, this is just about screwing a hot piece of ass while he’s in town?”

She stares into her wine glass, her tight black sweater hugging her curves in the most tempting way. Finally she looks up, but I can hardly focus on her eyes. Her hard nipples show through the sweater, telling me she’s as wanting as I am.

“Ansel you aren’t just a piece of meat--you’re vulnerable yet still all man. Totally in charge … but also sensitive. You make me feel like there is life after death. Life beyond motherhood.…” She pauses, closing her eyes in a way that makes my heart beat hard, when her eyes close all I see is her. The woman I’ve dreamt about in the flesh.

“All that to say,” she says, opening her eyes and exhaling. “Would you want it to be more, Ansel? More than just sex with a stranger?”

I set down my glass without having taken a sip. My arms are around hers in a matter of seconds, the heat between us growing. This time there are no tears in her eyes, no pain--this time there is only desire.

“I want this to last more than a night, if that’s what you mean?”

She nods. “I want that too,” she tells me.

I pull her mouth to mine, kissing her hard, with a growing need. And she must sense it--feel it--because her hand is on my groin, my hard cock pressing tight against my jeans. I run my hand over the curve of her ass. “Greta, you’re so fucking perfect.”

“Not perfect,” she whispers. “Maybe, just, flawed and --”

“Faithful,” I finish for her, the moment feeling too good to be true.

Her eyes are on mine, filled with wonder. “You’ve read Her Fragile Heart? It’s my favorite book.”

I want to say yes, that in fact I wrote it, but she is caught in a spell, a smile breaking across her face as she practically rips off my clothing, so turned on by the fact I know the words to her favorite novel.

“I could quote you more,” I tell her.

She laughs. “Really?” She unbuttons my flannel shirt, pressing her hands against my bare chest. “That’s hot, Ansel, really hot.”

“Her eyes were like full moons, bright and glowing against a dark night.”

She looks up at me, her hands on my belt, flying over the buckle and tugging at the buttons. “Keep going,” she begs.

In my mind, I flip through the story I’ve practically memorized, fixed on finding the right passage. “Her heart is strong, like beach glass found on the seashore. Beaten and bruised, but not broken. Stronger because of the storm. And colorful, so fucking colorful.”

“Oh my god,” she moans, dropping to her knees and pulling my jeans down. “Do you have any idea how sexy this is?”

My cock is hard and I know the moment she presses her mouth to me, I won’t last long. “Oh Greta,” I groan as her sweet mouth wraps around my length. “You feel so good.”

Her fingers gently massage my shaft, her hand cupping my tight balls, and her tongue swirling over my tip. Dammit, I’m so fucking close to coming.

“Keep talking,” she tells me, looking up from the floor, her eyes big saucers, her open mouth right on my cock. Fuck, she is amazing.

“Darling,” I grunt. “You’re the only sunrise I ever want to see; make me worthy of your dawn.”

I come then, unable to hold back, my hands on her head, steadying, and her hands reach around, grabbing my ass. Her mouth on my cock, deep throating me like it’s the only place she wants to be.

“Oh, yeah,” she moans, taking my ribbons of come in her mouth, swallowing me as I fill her up. When I finish, she slowly stops sucking, as if savoring every last thrust. She licks her lips, slow as fuck, getting me hard all over again as she wipes away a droplet of come.

I take her hands, pulling her to stand, and then kiss the top of her head. Her hand is on my cock, like she doesn’t want to let go, and my hands wrap around her waist, feeling the stretch of skin between the hem of her sweater and her jeans. I could spend the rest of my life touching that sliver of skin.

“How did you know all that?” she asks. And I know what she means. The quotes.

I don’t want to change the moment; the moment where everything in the world made sense--and sure, I’m the guy who just had his cock sucked--so of course I’d say that--but she seems perfectly happy right now. I don’t want to change that.

Still, it feels dishonest not to tell her.

“Actually.” I pause, clearing my throat. “I’m A. Stone.”

She pulls back, looking confused. “Wait, like the author?”

I twist my lips, then confirm with a nod.

“You wrote Sarah’s story?” she asks, her voice hushed.

I nod, scared to speak, scared of whether she is going to slap me or kiss me.

She swallows, her beautiful eyes filling with tears again. “You … your words ... they got me through the hardest ... the most impossible days. You saved me, Ansel.”

I shake my head. “It was a story--I’m no savior.”

She steps away, a hallowed look on her face. “No, Ansel, you are. How can I ever repay you?”

I give her a soft smile, tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. “You thanked me plenty with that blow job. Now let me do my part--show me your bedroom.”

She blushes, but leads me down the hall to the master bedroom.

“I haven’t been with anyone since Luke,” she confesses, standing in her doorway.

“If you don’t want me to come in, I totally understand.”

She shakes her head. “It’s not that I don’t.” She exhales. “It’s just, I get nervous that you might get halfway through … whatever … and look around my room and see stuffed animals littering the floor and half-empty sippy cups on my bedside table and rethink this evening. Because the thing is, Ansel, I really want to go out with you tonight. To smile and laugh and have fun with you. Hell, I even shaved.”

“And you think me seeing your real life is going to scare me away?”

“Well, doesn’t it? You’re this successful author, living the dream and I’m.…” She shakes her head, covering her face, like I could never understand.

I step toward her, pulling down her hands, and looking into her eyes. “I don’t know why this life of yours doesn’t scare me. But I look around this house and see a life that is being lived, that is full of joy. I’m just a guy living in a condo I never even liked, typing all day in a sterile Seattle coffee shop. My life is dull and redundant. Even if you don’t see it, Greta, you’re life is painted in watercolors. Bold and beautiful.”

“And messy.”

“A little chaos is good for the soul.”

She laughs, unable to resist giving me a smile. “You’re quoting your book again.”

I shrug. “I’m just trying to get in your pants. Is it working?”

She reaches for my belt, this time her eyes no longer nervous; suddenly she’s all warmed up.

“Yes, A. Stone, it’s working.”

Then she pulls me in her room, knowing we don’t need a trail of breadcrumbs to lead us anywhere.

We’re already exactly where we want to be.