It was an atrociously hot late-October afternoon when I decided to surprise Eric at work.

I cruised into the parking lot behind his central Phoenix storefront just as the sun was at its highest point in the sky. I took a minute to blot my forehead and sniff-test my pits before rolling up the windows and stepping out of the car. I drove my mother’s Volvo station wagon, which was almost as old as I was, and its air-conditioning had long ago taken a dump. It never seemed like a good idea to pay a huge amount of money to get it fixed, so I suffered through all ninety-seven months of Arizona’s summers with the windows funneling hot, dry air at me like they had a personal vendetta against natural hair.

Most of the time, I survived, thanks to a small army of products and a strict routine of care-based styling, which kept my curls adequately hydrated and looking seriously gorgeous. Not to mention clinical-strength deodorant to keep my underarms dry. But there were certain occasions when one needed to take the necessary primping steps in order to be extra-fresh. And surprising one’s fuck buddy at his place of business for a quickie was definitely one of those occasions.

It’d been almost two months now of hooking up on the regular with Eric, and to my surprise, the commitment aspect of our arrangement really didn’t scare me. For one thing, our sexual chemistry was off-the-charts hot. I found I didn’t really want to look elsewhere for a good time. For another, it was not exactly unprecedented for me to have an extended fling. Besides the yoga instructor a few years ago, I’d been fuck buddies with a couple of people in college. It was the perfect compromise for me – I had regular access to orgasms, and I knew I could leave at any time.

But the time hadn’t quite come with Eric. Somehow, I hadn’t grown tired of him yet. Every single time we got together, it was explosive. He knew just about all of my buttons by now, and he was an expert at pushing the right ones in combination to make me blast off like a motherfucking rocket. And I had a hell of a lot of fun figuring out where all his buttons were, too.

And what was more, I genuinely liked him. I’d come to think of him as a good friend, and I enjoyed hanging out with him almost as much as fucking him. We blended the two pretty seamlessly, if you ask me.

Like today, for instance. I knew he closed the shop early every Monday, and I didn’t have a show, or even rehearsal, that day. So I had big plans for us. First we’d indulge in a little afternoon delight to take the edge off, then grab lunch at the city’s best pizza spot, Pizzeria Bianco. After that, we’d catch a showing of The Big Sleep at this theatre in Scottsdale that showed old black-and-white movies, and end the day fucking each other into oblivion at my apartment.

I grinned. It would be a pleasant day all around, even if the goddamn sun was actively trying to kill us. Anticipating all the fun we were going to have today had me practically bouncing on the balls of my sandal-covered feet as I crossed the parking lot, humming “Too Darn Hot” under my breath.

When I stepped through the door of Levy’s Antiques and Consignment, I inhaled the familiar scents of leather, orange oil, and old books. The tinny strands of Louis Armstrong sounded from an ancient record player in the corner, and the light streaming through the front windows illuminated the dust floating in the air. I smiled as my eyes traveled around the shop. Everywhere I looked, I felt Eric’s presence, from the antique furniture, to the black-and-white photos and gold-framed paintings lining the walls, to the glass cases holding a neatly-organized display of vintage jewelry. This shop was just him.

My gaze didn’t linger too long on the various wares for sale, though. As was inevitable when I was in the same room as him, my eyes found his within seconds. He looked up at the sound of the old-fashioned bell above the door, and his whole body practically lit up when he saw it was me. He gave me a secret, knowing smile, the kind that told me he’d be happy to give me an orgasm at his earliest convenience.

But at the moment, he was helping the last customer of the day, an elderly man who leaned heavily on a cane as Eric showed him a Victorian-era sofa. So I hung back, killing time by rummaging through a rack of vintage clothing. I saw a ton of drool-worthy things that I would have loved to wear on stage, but as is usually the case when you’re a six-foot-one woman with generous curves, most of it was too small for me. Still, I diligently dug through every garment, because you never know when you’ll discover a hidden gem.

My fingers landed on butter-soft leather, and I paused, caressing it gently with my fingers. I pulled the hanger off the rack to find a beat-up bomber jacket, and I hummed thoughtfully. I needed a new coat for the mild desert winter, and this one was the right weight: thick enough to keep out the near-freezing temperatures at night, but light enough not to roast me alive when it was seventy degrees in the afternoon – in January.

I turned the jacket around in my hands, taking a closer look. The brown leather was still in good condition, but the fabric cuffs were frayed, and there were a few dark spots on the sleeves where patches had obviously fallen off or been removed. It would be a project to restore it to its former glory, but between my eye for detail and Jamy’s mad sewing skills, I figured it was doable. And the result would definitely be worth the work. If it was my size, that is.

I slipped it on, and oh, yeah. It was most definitely my size. The sleeves were actually the right length for my crazy-long arms, and it hit right at the top of my hips. I was able to comfortably pull it closed, and the zipper still seemed to be in perfect working order. Just to be sure, I moved my arms experimentally, lifting them over my head, and the worn leather stretched beautifully.

“You look good,” a deep voice said behind me, and I felt a familiar pair of arms circle my waist. Eric sniffed, burying his face in my neck. “You smell good, too,” he murmured, planting his lips on the sensitive skin behind my ear.

“I just washed my hair this morning,” I whispered as I glanced around the shop. We were all alone now, and he’d flipped the sign to Closed and pulled down the security grates. No one would be able to pop in and interrupt us. Excellent.

“That, too.” He moved his hands back up, his fingertips brushing the sides of my breasts, and I moaned softly. They were just so sensitive lately, more so than usual. I chalked it up to him, and it made sense. Everything he did, everything he made me feel, was just more than usual.

“But I meant you in the jacket,” he continued.

“Probably smells like dust and moth balls,” I quipped, popping the collar to hide my face – and my emotions.

“Nah.” He smoothed his hands down my sides, planting them on my hips and pulling me back into him, letting me feel his already-hard dick. I shivered, and he hummed in approval. “You smell like old leather and coconut oil and jasmine.” He took another deep breath. “And you. Which is my favorite fragrance.”

I gripped the rack in front of me, all but melting from the combination of his sweet words and hot hands. “Well, in that case, I’m definitely taking it.” I turned in his arms, setting my hands on his shoulders and giving him a deep, thorough kiss. “How much is it?” I asked when I pulled away.

He smiled, chasing my lips with his, giving me a series of soft pecks. “For you, free ninety-nine.”

I shook my head, frowning. “I can’t take it for free. You’re running a business here.”

He lifted a hand, taking a curl between his thumb and forefinger and gently twirling it – the only way he was allowed to touch my hair, by the way. No one messes up my ‘do and lives.

“But business has been good,” he replied, his brown eyes practically glowing in the afternoon light. “I sold a very expensive sofa and two end tables to the nice gentlemen who just left. And last week I sold that ‘66 Kennedy half-dollar through the website.”

My eyes widened. One day, when we were lounging in bed after a truly epic fuck-fest, he’d gone into detail about the strange world of rare coins, and how much serious collectors were willing to pay for them. That fifty-cent piece he’d sold was worth almost five thousand dollars.

“Wow. That’s impressive,” I said, and I meant it. It might seem boring, selling antiques, but I found it almost as fascinating as the man who sold them. I loved listening to him tell me the history of all these old things. As a matter of fact, I found it strangely erotic. His dark eyes would gleam with pleasure when he talked about a particularly interesting piece, and he knew every detail of what made it special. He saw the value in things that no one else did. And that was unbelievably hot to me.

And I think he knew it, too. His eyelids dropped to half-mast as he steered me toward a cheval mirror a few feet away. “You have to take the jacket,” he insisted. “It’s perfect on you.” He turned me around, tipping my chin up to make me look at myself. And damn, but it did look perfect on me. It fit like a glove, and it gave me a cool, almost androgynous vibe that I really dug right in that moment. It would look killer with dresses, like the one I had on now, or even jeans and tee shirts.

But as good as I looked in the jacket, I looked even better when his arms once again circled my waist. His fingers tugged the hem of the jacket, his pinky brushing lower – tantalizingly close to the promised land, in fact. “And it has a really cool story,” he added in a seductive murmur.

Oh yeah. He definitely knew my fetish for Professor Levy, the Antiques Expert.

I caught his eye in the mirror. “Oh yeah?”

He nodded, his brown eyes locked on mine. “Yeah, the woman I’m selling it for brought it in with a bunch of vintage clothing and jewelry. This was her dad’s jacket from when he fought in World War II.”

I gasped softly. “That is cool,” I agreed.

His gaze softened, and he hesitated for the briefest moment before continuing. “She said her mother had just passed away, and she specified in her will that her daughter should sell all their old family heirlooms. She wanted her to use the money she made to finally move to New Orleans and paint full time, like she’d always wanted to.” His arms squeezed me softly. “She wanted her to take the old memories, the old life, and use them to make a new one.”

And just like that, my lust shriveled up, snuffed out by something darker – something I didn’t want to feel. I swallowed roughly, overcome with a sudden wave of grief. My eyes stung and my throat clogged, leaving me unable to answer. I dipped my head, as though that would hide my emotions from him.

But he sensed them anyway, like he always did. He gently turned my head, planting a soft kiss on my lips.

“You miss your mom,” he whispered.

It wasn’t a question; the certainty in his voice told me he already knew the answer. But I wasn’t sure how; I never talked about my mom if I could help it. I hadn’t told him much about her at all, in fact.

He didn’t even know she was dead.

I opened my eyes again, searching his kind, steady gaze.

“You change the subject whenever something upsets you,” he pointed out before I could ask how he’d figured it out. “And you do it every time your mom comes up in conversation.”

I shivered at his words. Once again he proved that he saw right through me, down to my very bones. Hell, deeper than that. He saw all the way to the marrow, to all the dark and secret places that I normally kept hidden from the world. He saw them, and he understood them.

It was fucking terrifying.

I couldn’t do this right now. I’d come here today to have a carefree afternoon with the guy I was fucking. Nothing more than that. This whole damn thing with him was not supposed to be any deeper than that.

I cleared my throat, turning back to face him with the biggest, brightest grin I could muster.

“Well, you have to let me pay for it now,” I insisted, ignoring his comments about my tendency to avoid the hard subjects. Which pretty much proved his point, but I didn’t want to think about that right now.

Pathological, I know. But it was what it was.

“Your client needs it for New Orleans,” I continued, plowing on with the charade that everything was still shiny and carefree.

Those dark eyes searched my face for a beat before a small sigh escaped him, as though he was frustrated by my unwillingness to discuss my mother. But he tempered his obvious annoyance with a sweet, gentle kiss.

“I’ll buy it for you,” he replied, his tone soft and cajoling. “Your birthday is next week, right?”

I stiffened in his arms. “How did you know that?” I asked, suddenly suspicious.

He rubbed his hands up and down my arms, trying to soothe me. “I was at Todd’s the other night for poker with the guys. Celia said something about the girls taking you out to lunch next week, after you all went to pick up your dresses.”

My cousin Hannah was getting married in less than a month, and Jamy, Celia and I were her bridesmaids. We were going in for our final fittings next week – the day before my thirty-first birthday, in fact. I knew the girls wanted to celebrate with me, and I knew, too, that I’d have to pretend to be my usual fun-loving self for the entire day.

I wasn’t a big fan of my birthday. I’d had a lot of mixed-up emotions about it for a lot of years. It had been the best day of the year for most of my childhood. For three hundred and sixty-four days, I looked forward to it with giddy, breathless glee. My mom would plan these elaborate activities, like scavenger hunts at the Phoenix Zoo, or a road trip to San Diego for the weekend, or setting up a makeshift movie theater in our garage with a borrowed projector and a bedsheet, so we could have a Star Trek movie marathon on the big “screen.” One year she even managed to have none other than my favorite musician, Sheila E, call me and sing the birthday song to me. She’d never told me how she’d pulled that one off. To this day, I still don’t know.

My birthday was always, always the best day of the year. Until one year, it wasn’t. Now, for three hundred and sixty-four days, I dreaded the anniversary of my birth. It was just too clogged with bad memories. And this year would be no exception.

But I had bigger fish to fry right now than worrying about an unwanted celebration with my friends. Specifically, the fact that Eric had talked about me with Celia. The woman was practically psychic – she would know in an instant that something was going on between us.

And Eric had a terrible poker face. Everything he thought and felt was written all over his face at all times. He was just too honest, too sincere, to have any guile.

Panic sluiced through my veins at the thought of what Celia might know. “Did you say anything to her about us?” I demanded.

Hurt flashed in his eyes. “No,” he bit out. “I didn’t say anything to her, or anyone else. We agreed to keep this between us,” he reminded me, though he didn’t sound particularly happy about that. And not for the first time, either.

I wasn’t a fool – I knew he wanted to be more than just friends with benefits. But that was all I was equipped to give. I just couldn’t do relationships. I knew I was being selfish by not giving him what he wanted from me, what he deserved. He was a good guy. The best guy. He deserved someone who would give him everything he wanted. He deserved someone who would shout her love for him from the rooftops.

But that someone just wasn’t me. I didn’t know how to be that person for him. And worst of all, I didn’t know how to give him up so he could go find someone who could.

He stepped back, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, and I thawed a little. I loved it when he did that. I knew it was because he didn’t want to mess up his neatly-combed, crisply-parted hair, and I fucking loved that he indulged in that one little bit of vanity – one of few my sweet, selfless guy allowed himself.

Besides, I could relate. Like I said, no one messes with my ‘do and lives.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I knew what I was getting into when we started.”

I closed my eyes, humming softly to try to drown out the echo of the words he’d left unspoken – that he wasn’t sure how much longer he could put up with it. How much longer he could put up with me.

When I opened them, he was watching me carefully. I stepped closer, putting a hand to his chest. “No, I’m sorry.” I winced. “I had this whole day planned, and then I went and messed it up.”

His eyes softened. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” I admitted.

“The whole day, huh?” I tried to ignore the gleam of triumph in his dark eyes as he put a hand over mine. “What did you have planned?”

I gave him a sheepish smile. “Well, first we were going to have a quickie in your office, but we can just skip that now.” I gestured between us with my free hand. “I’m sure I killed the mood.”

He raised a brow, his eyes suddenly intense in that now-familiar way he had when he looked at me. Seeing it sent shivers up my spine every single time. “Who says that?”

He moved his hands back down to my hips, pulling me until my body was flush with his. His cock must have gone soft during our argument, but it was rapidly hardening now against my belly, and I hitched a breath, lifting my eyes to his.

“How about we forget about the office?” he rumbled.

What the hell? The evidence of his desire was throbbing against my belly. “You don’t want to fuck?”

“Oh, we’re going to fuck,” he promised, and I shuddered, that rare dirty word causing my panties to flood with wetness. He hummed, turning me in his arms until we were once again facing the mirror. “But I want you to watch,” he whispered, reaching an arm around my chest and unzipping the jacket. He shucked it off, laying it gently over the rack, then did the same with his own suit coat. His brow furrowed in concentration as he unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. Then he removed his glasses, tucking them safely in his jacket pocket.

Finally, he returned to me, his arms folding around me. His big hands explored my body, skimming up my belly until they were cupping my breasts.

I leaned forward, clutching the edges of the mirror to support myself. Fuck, that felt so good. He rolled my nipples through my clothing, and I cried out, the pleasure just on the edge of pain.

“So sensitive for me,” he murmured, kissing my neck, my shoulders, everywhere his lips would reach.

“For you,” I agreed. Because it was true, and I was just done fighting it. He created sensations in me that I’d never felt with anyone else. Only him.

“Watch us together,” he demanded, cupping my chin and lifting my head until our eyes met in the mirror again. “Watch me give you the pleasure you deserve.”

“Yes,” I moaned, my eyes fixed on his like they could bore right through the mirror and into his skin. I wanted to crawl inside him. Nothing else was close enough. “Fuck, Eric, I’m so wet for you.”

He gave me a positively predatory smile. “I know you are,” he growled, his hand pulling up the hem of my knee-length dress. “You’re always wet for me, every time.”

“Only for you,” I breathed. I was ruined for every other human now. It was all him, only him.

“Watch yourself come on my fingers,” he instructed, trapping the loose fabric of my skirt in the belt I’d used to cinch the waist of my flowy dress. Then without any further teasing, he pushed my panties to the side, sliding two long, thick fingers in me.

“Ungh,” I whined, tipping my head back. “Feels so good.”

He slapped my ass lightly, the sting just sharp enough to get me to focus. “Watch,” he commanded, moving my chin once more.

And I did. My eyes were riveted to our reflection as his fingers pumped slow and steady, in and out. Soon, so soon, my knees grew wobbly as he brought me to the brink of orgasm with nothing more than his fingers inside me.

He must have felt how close I was to shattering, because his other arm clamped around my waist, holding me upright. When he was sure I wouldn’t collapse, he curled his fingers forward and rubbed that secret spot deep inside my pussy. He did that over and over again, until I was losing my damn mind. But I needed just that little bit more.

“Please,” I begged, shameless in my time of need. I needed him to make me come right fucking now. “Please, babe.” My eyes fluttered closed as another plaintive moan escaped me.

“Watch,” he commanded one more time.

I wrenched my eyes open, giving his reflection a murderous look. “Make me come, goddamn it.”

He chuckled evilly. “Well, since you asked so nicely.”

He stroked faster for a minute or two, building me up higher and higher. Then, finally, his thumb came out to play, pressing against my clit. He rolled it once in a circular motion, and at long last, I fell.

My eyes squeezed shut, my head tipping back once more, lolling dizzily against his shoulder. Unconsciously, I gripped the arm that was still clamped around my waist, my nails digging into his skin, scoring his flesh in time with each pulse of my body.

His hand was shaking as he pulled his fingers from me. “Need you right now,” he growled, pressing his erection to my ass.

“Have me,” I whispered, too breathless to say it any louder.

“Won’t take long,” he warned.

“Don’t care. Just fuck me.”

He took my hands and planted them on the wood frame of the mirror, pulling my hips back so my ass was sticking out, waiting for him. He held my eyes for a moment, his expression stern.

“Don’t move,” he growled, and I couldn’t do anything but nod.

I watched, still panting, as he fumbled with the zipper of his dark wool trousers. I licked my lips in anticipation as he reached into his briefs – royal blue today – and freed his erection. It sprang up, slapping his belt buckle, and I winced in sympathy. But he didn’t seem to feel it, too busy digging in his wallet for a condom. Once he found it, he made quick work of tearing it open and sliding it down his length. My mouth went dry as his eyes snapped back to mine.

“Watch,” he admonished as he lined himself up at my entrance.

I nodded once more. And then with one smooth thrust, he slid deep inside me, sheathing himself to the hilt.

“Oh my God,” he breathed, leaning forward and resting his forehead between my shoulder blades. He muttered something in what I thought was Yiddish, planting sloppy kisses all over my neck. “Always so perfect.”

Before I could make any reply, he gripped my hips, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and slowly pulled all the way out. Then he slammed back in.

I cried out, gripping the mirror for dear life as he began to pound into me over and over. I watched him slide out of me, his perfect cock stark against my darker skin, then watched as it disappeared back inside of me like I’d swallowed him.

“God, Sabine, you. are. so. perfect.” His words were strained through gritted teeth, and a vein popped out on his forehead as his hair escaped its neat coif. “Not gonna last.”

“Then don’t,” I urged. I’d already come hard enough to last me for days.

Okay, maybe not days. Until later tonight, anyway. Point was, I was well-satisfied. He could go ahead and have his now.

“Come on,” I taunted, pushing my hips back until my ass slapped his pelvis. “Give it to me.”

And with a shout, he did, his hips jerking as his cock swelled inside me, pulsing again and again. When he was done, he slumped forward, burying his face in my neck.

“Don’t know how you do that to me every time,” he panted, his voice filled with awe.

I closed my eyes. “It’s because you do the same thing to me,” I admitted in a small voice.

He let out a happy sigh as he turned my head, capturing my lips in a kiss that seemed to go on forever. When he pulled away, I looked up to see him watching me with those eyes that penetrated through my bullshit walls, right through to my gushy center. I shivered, needing to look away before I said something stupid.

Like a declaration of my love, for instance.

Because I did. I loved him. I loved him so much my teeth ached at the taste of him, my brain imploded at the thought of him, my eyes bled at the sight of him. My heart throbbed painfully, trying to claw its way out of my chest and into his, where it belonged. I was his, wholly and completely, and I wanted to keep him forever.

But I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t keep him. I couldn’t keep anyone.

He pulled out of me, and I staggered away from him, drunk on some voodoo cocktail of lust and love and grief. I took a deep breath, straightening my panties. Then I pulled the hem of my dress from my belt and smoothed the fabric down, trying to erase the telltale signs of what we’d been up to. I checked my reflection in the mirror, wiping the sweat off my forehead and fluffing my curls. Trying like hell to get these damn feelings under control, locked away where they belonged.

Eric didn’t seem to notice the shift in my mood, though. He hummed as he disposed of the condom and set himself to rights, and his pitch was so horrendously flat that it took me a minute to realize the tune he was going for.

It was Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time.”

I inhaled sharply, freezing in place. I blinked back tears as I listened to him butcher my mother’s favorite song. The song my father sang for her the night they met. The night he broke her heart, though she wouldn’t know it for years.

Not until my tenth birthday, in fact. The day his worthless, deadbeat ass left us for the last time.

Gradually, I realized Eric had stopped humming, and I looked up to find him once again fully dressed, his hair neatly combed and his glasses buffed clean. He was watching me with a soft smile on his face, his arm holding out the leather bomber jacket, offering it up to me like he was holding his heart out for the taking.

I didn’t take it. I couldn’t take it.

He cleared his throat. “So,” he said, his tone impossibly gentle, almost as if he knew how fragile the I was in that moment. “What else did you have planned for today?”