Chapter Three

AT HOME ALONE AND I don't have a date set up for tonight. You'd think my afternoon with Louis would have been enough, but no. I need more. I need to come again. Again and again. I need to know that it is these men making me come, my clients, my lovers who pay for sex.

I need to know that Joshua Spencer has absolutely nothing to do with it.

I have never, ever fantasized about another man while with a client. I don't have to. And I feel as if I've betrayed Louis.

Ridiculous, I know. He is not my lover. He certainly has no delusions of faithfulness. He sees other girls besides me. Of course he does. He has enough money to do whatever he wants, and we working girls cannot have any sense of possession over our clients. And I don't. But he felt my change in mood as soon as I rolled off him; he told me later. I'd gone to the bathroom and brought a hot towel to him, slipped the condom from his softening cock, cleaned him up as I always do. He knew from my touch, somehow. I tried to tell him I was just tired. But I can't risk this happening again. My trademark, what I'm known for, what my entire career rests on, is that I'm the girl who is right there, in the moment, getting off on whatever I'm doing with my clients.

What the hell is wrong with you, Valentine?

It's him. Joshua. But is that really all it is?

I hate when I get philosophical. Better for a woman like me not to ask herself too many questions.

My mind flashes back to my very first trick. The client was your average guy. Not attractive. Not unattractive. Didn't matter. What mattered was that thrill coursing through my body, simply knowing he was paying to have sex with me. I was thrilled and just guilty enough to make it even better.

He wasn't a very good fuck, but I came and came. I flooded the bed. I made him come twice. I could tell he was surprised. In shock. But he came back to see me once a week after that, every payday, for months. Until Enzo took me out of that place.

I'm getting warm all over, remembering. Either I need to get up from the sofa and make myself a cup of tea, try to calm down, or I need to slip my hand between my thighs and try to get myself off. But I know how that will end. I'm disappointed enough in myself already. I get up to go put the kettle on but pull the bottle of Tanqueray out instead. The kitchen floor is cold on my bare feet, making my toes curl, but I don't care. I need to cool down. Need to do something.

I pour a shot of the gin over ice, add a little tonic water. I lift the glass to my lips and pause, a small shudder of self-loathing rippling over my skin. Turning to the booze again. Two days in a row. But fuck it, I deserve it now and then—to feel a little sorry for myself. I'm careful enough never to let it get out of control. No, control is my thing, my modus operandi.

I'm feeling a little out of control right now.

That's when I remember my pretty silk evening bag is still on the console table in the hall. And in the bag is his card.

Don't do it, Valentine.

But I'm moving toward the hall, my half-forgotten gin and tonic in my hand. I eye the pale gold bag as though it were a poison apple. Dangerous. Tempting. I take a breath, take a sip of my drink, letting the alcohol burn down my throat. A drink for courage.

When have I ever needed that? I've always been brave. An adventurer.

The scent of the gin in my glass hits my nostrils, and I have one of those vague, unpleasant flashes I get sometimes, of my ugly, lonely childhood, the bars my mother would sometimes drag me into looking for my absent father. Dad and his famous disappearing acts.

I hated those bars. It was always far too late for a kid my age to be out; she'd drag me, half asleep, from my bed. But it was there I first saw them, the women in their makeup and high-heeled shoes, beautiful to me in their false glamour. These were the women who got the attention from the men. The men were absolutely fawning over them. It was years before I understood that many of them were working girls. And even then it was as glamorous to me, as exotic, as it was dirty. But when I was really young, those places scared the hell out of me. My mother scared the hell out of me, with her sour breath and her tears.

Fuck.

Alright, maybe I haven't always been brave. But I don't think about those times anymore. I try not to, anyway.

What the hell has gotten into me?

I step forward, put my hand out, let it hover. I feel ridiculous. Yet my heart is pounding in my chest, the same way it does when you're on a roller coaster, and about to fly down that first long drop into the empty air. I am that breathless.

Setting my drink down on the long, narrow table, I take the bag in my hand, twist the jeweled clasp open. His card sits in the red satin interior, nestled like a pearl in an oyster between a tube of lipstick and a small enameled compact.

My fingertips flutter against the paper for a moment before pulling it from the bag. I swear I can almost hear the slide of it against the fabric. I turn it over in my hand and look at it.

A simple business card: heavy linen paper, very fine quality. His name in raised black ink. An e-mail address. A telephone number.

I swallow hard, my throat parched, tight. Then I remember my drink, pick it up and take a sip. Yes, better. I carry my glass and the card back to the sofa, sit down, turn the small rectangle of paper over and over. Each time I see his name my pulse races. I feel like I am twelve years old. I want to call him so badly it hurts, my chest pulling as though someone has tied it in a knot.

He has tied me in a knot.

Don't do it.

Do it.

I reach for the phone on a side table. It feels heavy in my hand, as though I am acutely aware of every single thing around me on some cellular level. The fading orange sunlight coming through the windows. The scent of the gin in my glass, sweeter to me now than it was a few moments ago. The rhythm of my own breath, which is coming a little too fast. I dial the number.

It rings once, twice.

Please…

Three rings, then it stops. Shit.

“Hello.” A statement, not a question, in his deep, lovely voice.

“Hi. Joshua?”

“Yes?”

“This is Valentine Day. We met last night at the opera.”

“Valentine. Hi.” Real pleasure in his voice, and it goes through me like a warm wind, bringing gooseflesh up on my arms, the back of my neck.

I am being far too romantic about this man.

“You asked me to call.”

“I'm glad you did. I hoped you would. How are you?”

Ah, a little small talk. I can do this. Even if my pulse is hammering like thunder. “I'm well. And you?”

“I'm fine. What have you been doing since the opera?”

I almost say “working,” but I don't want to open that can of worms. “Nothing really.” I walk over to my window full of orchids, touch a fingertip to one delicate petal. It's smooth and cool. “Nothing exciting. What about you?”

“Working. And I played hockey this morning.”

I can imagine him in one of those bulky uniforms, flying around the ice, getting into one of those angry crushes, a pile of male bodies pressed together. And I'm getting wet.

“Did you win?” I ask him.

“It was just practice for a team I coach. A few of the guys in my league work out with some of the at-risk youth in the city. We figure it helps them to skate off some of their aggressions, learn to work together. No one went home with more than a few bruises; that's always a plus.” There is another brief pause and I don't know what to say, but I'm smiling to myself. He's a nice man, this Joshua Spencer. Then he says quietly, “Have dinner with me, Valentine.”

“Oh, well…” I want to say yes. I really do. I never should have called. My stomach is a hard knot of fear and need. Fear of need. “I don't know, Joshua. I'm sorry. I know that sounds stupid. But… look, I should go. Okay? I'm sorry.”

I start to hang up, but I hear him say, “Don't do it, Valentine. Don't hang up.”

His voice is low, yet there is an air of total command in his tone. Maybe that's what makes me pause. I bring the phone back to my ear. “I'm here.”

I look out the window at the last remnants of the dying sun. The top part of the sky is already dark as velvet.

“Valentine, I want to see you. I will be a perfect gentleman. But at the risk of making a complete fool of myself, I'll tell you this: I need to see you. I don't know why. No, I don't mean that the way it sounds. Just… say you'll see me.”

My heart is pounding harder than ever. I should hang up the phone now.

“Alright. Yes, I'll see you.”

“Dinner?”

“I don't know …”

“Drinks, then. I can come and pick you up. Or if you'd prefer, you can meet me. What about the bar at Yamashiro? Do you know it?”

“Yes, of course. Alright. Drinks. When?”

“Tonight?”

But I can't do it. I need some time. To think. To breathe. To talk myself out of it.

“Tomorrow night,” I say, not even knowing if I'll have a client. A client I will have to refuse in order to keep this date.

I really must be losing my mind.

“Tomorrow night,” he says. “If we're there by seven we can see the sunset. Unbelievable colors this time of year. It's beautiful from up there; you can see the whole city.”

It is beautiful. I know this because I've been there with clients a number of times. But I've also been there with friends.

Stop analyzing everything!

“I'll meet you there at seven,” I tell him.

Another pause. He's a thoughtful man. Then, “I'm really looking forward to seeing you, Valentine.”

I nod my head, even though he can't see me. “Good night, Joshua.”

I hang up before I say anything foolish. Before I tell him how badly I want to see him, to watch his lips as he speaks, to feel the heat of his hands on me.

God.

I throw back my drink in one gulp.

What the hell have I done?

YAMASHIRO IS AN OLD Hollywood institution. A bit old-fashioned, a place the Hollywood Old Guard frequents, but more quiet, more intimate, than any of the current hot spots. Great sushi, superb service. It's a sprawling Japanese-style structure perched on top of a hill with big banks of windows overlooking Hollywood. Below the restaurant is a meandering garden built into the hillside, a small pagoda.

The bar has been modernized, with slick wood floors and high bar tables done in black lacquer. Very Zen. Very polished. The tall windows look into the center courtyard, where a pool filled with lilies and koi carp is surrounded by potted bonsai and iris, and a deck where patrons eat in the warm weather.

It's empty out there now, the late September evening cool for us weather-spoiled Los Angelenos. Out of habit I've arrived early, as I always do for a client.

He's not a client.

A small, inexplicable thrill ripples over my skin at the thought.

God, I'm fucked up.

I've gone ahead and ordered a drink, one of their exotic martinis made with saki and lychee juice. Tapping my fingernails against the stem of the glass, I check out the room. There are only a few couples seated in the bar. It's early for the Hollywood crowd. Thursday evenings are party nights in this town; the real action won't begin until after ten.

I sip my drink, carefully set it back on the small paper napkin on the sleek black table. I'm a little chilly. Or maybe it's nerves.

Checking my watch, I see it's still early: five minutes to seven. I should have made a grand entrance, been fashionably late. But old habits die hard.

I tap my nails against the table, notice it and make myself stop. Maybe I should go to the ladies' room, refresh my lipstick?

“Valentine.”

That pure pleasure in his voice again, as there was on the phone. It makes my heart pound, makes me hot all over.

I turn and smile at him. “Hi.”

He takes my hand, lifts it, and as I stare like some sort of idiot, he brushes his lips over my knuckles. Heat shimmers up my arm, burrows deep into my body. I'm as wet as if his mouth were between my thighs.

Jesus. Can't even think about that now.

“You look beautiful,” he says, smiling. Fucking gorgeous, that smile. Absolutely devastating. “Even better than I remembered.”

I know I look good. I dressed very carefully in my black crocheted dress. It took me forever to pick my outfit, which is totally unlike me. I wanted something elegant but sexy. Short but not too short. Fitted but not too tight. I don't normally dress like a whore, anyway. I always take care with my appearance, and let's not waste any time considering ego here; this is my job. But tonight it feels nice that he noticed.

That he noticed.

“Thank you.” I cross my legs, an unconsciously seductive move that I am aware of only after I've done it. But my sex is aching with need already. I can hardly stand to look at him.

He's wearing a pair of black slacks that hang perfectly on his hips, a midnight blue shirt with some tiny, subtle pattern in black. Beneath the collar I notice a narrow chain in silver, or maybe platinum. His watch is a heavy silver Rolex.

I take in all of this in an instant. I am trained to assess a man. I like everything I see. But it's his smile that leaves me breathless, his eyes that make me yearn to touch him.

He orders a cold bottle of the Suishin Tenjomukyu sake without looking at the menu, an excellent choice. The waitress brings it quickly, eyeing Joshua as she sets the bottle on the table, arranges his cup, his napkin. I can't blame her. He is nearly gleaming, all raw male beauty. Or perhaps that's only my own warped perception, seen through the haze of my obsession with this man.

I shift, uncross and recross my legs.

“I'm glad you came,” Joshua tells me.

“So am I,” I answer, although I'm not really sure yet. What is this going to mean for me later, when I have to go home alone and frustrated? Empty.

He leans forward, fills his cup, sips it, sets it back clown. I can't tear my gaze from his hands. They're strong-looking, with long, agile fingers. I bite my lip when he leans closer. “Tell me about yourself, Valentine.”

“I'd rather talk about you.”

Oh, yes, I'd rather talk about anything else but myself.

“Not every man on the planet is entirely narcissistic, you know.” He's grinning at me, a lovely, crooked grin, and I notice then that he has a small scar at the corner of his lower lip.

I can't help but smile back at him. He is charming in some old-fashioned way, and I love it. “Maybe not. But I'd really like to know about you. I'm intrigued by a man who will indulge his mother by taking her to the opera.”

“Ah, you think I'm a momma's boy,” he teases.

“No, not necessarily. I think it's nice.”

He shrugs. Wide shoulders beneath the dark fabric of his shirt. “I'm a nice guy.”

“I'm sure you are.”

He locks his gaze on mine. His eyes are glittering in the low lighting of the bar. “Oh, I'm not too nice,” he says, his tone full of dark promise.

I shiver. Clear my throat. “Tell me about your family, Joshua.”

“You can call me Josh, if you like. Most people do. Except for my family.”

“I like Joshua. I always call people by their full names, for some reason. I get the idea you're close to your family.”

“I am. We lost my dad about fifteen years ago, so it's just my mother and my younger sister, Lanie.”

“I'm sorry. That must have been hard.”

He shrugs again. “It made me grow up a little faster. I had to take over the family business. But I don't regret that part. Too many young people have no sense of responsibility these days. Turns them into slackers. The world is too easy, in some ways.” He pauses, laughs. “I sound like some old man, don't I? Some old curmudgeon bitching about today's youth.”

“No, not at all. And I happen to agree with you. The hardest things in life teach us the most.”

“Sometimes. Sometimes it just teaches us to be pissed off. It takes more than just the hard part to channel all that into something else.”

“Yes, that makes sense.”

“You should see these kids I work with. All of them from the worst parts of the city. Broken homes. Drugs. Absent parents. A lot of these boys have spent their whole lives having to fend for themselves. And when they first join the team they're out there trying not to slip on the ice and trying to bash the hell out of anyone who comes near them. But after a while, they get it. Every single one of them. Just having someone give a damn about them transforms them.” He pauses, laughs. “I'm sorry. I'll get off my soapbox.”

“No, I like it.” And I do.

He smiles, nods, and I sip my drink, enjoying the heat of it going down my throat. Enjoying talking with him. He really is an incredibly good guy, which makes me yearn for him all the more in some perverse way. Perverse for a woman like me, anyway.

“So, you became a businessman at an early age,” I prompt him, wanting to understand him, his life.

He nods. “Real estate. Dad had been prepping me since I was a kid, and I was already studying business in college, so I wasn't completely unprepared. It was rough for a while, but now it's just… my life. I even enjoy my work sometimes, which is more than most people can say.”

“And your sister? Are you close with her?”

He pauses for a moment, his gaze wandering, as though he's really thinking about his answer. “In a strange way, we are. Even though she has a tendency to drive me crazy. Classic little-sister syndrome. And she hates that I'm always telling her what to do. Classic big brother syndrome.” He flashes a quick, devastating grin at me and I go hot all over. “She's always been spoiled. By my parents. By me, to be honest. Lanie's an unbelievable bundle of energy. Luckily she lives in D.C. with her husband; she's his problem now. He's a great guy; I know he takes good care of her. But I miss her. I don't get to see her enough.”

So sweet, the way he talks about his family. His affection for them shines through everything he says.

“It must be lovely to be close to your family.”

“You're not close with yours?”

“No.”

“Do they live in L.A.?”

“My mother is still here, but my father … I honestly don't know. That sounds pathetic …”

“No, it doesn't.”

I shrug. “I never really knew him, anyway. He wasn't a part of my life even when he was around, so there's nothing to miss.”

“And your mother?”

“We're … estranged.”

I'm sorry.

“No, don't be. It's fine. Fine.”

Don't think about her now. Don't let her ruin this evening.

“So I guess that means you grew up here in L.A.?”

I nod, take a sip of my drink. “In the Valley.”

He smiles at me. “A real California girl.”

“I suppose. Although my childhood wasn't beach parties and surfing. In the Valley we rode bikes, skateboards, roller-skated. But there were a few kids in the neighborhood who had pools. My girlfriends and I used to slather ourselves in suntan lotion, close our eyes and breathe in that coconut scent, and pretend we were at the beach … Isn't that funny, how kids think?”

In my mind I can see the sparkling blue of the water in the neighbor's pool, smell that scent of chlorine and wet cement, along with the suntan lotion.

“That doesn't sound like a bad life, even if you weren't at the beach.”

“No. It doesn't sound like a bad life.”

Suddenly I remember being about twelve, coming home from one of those pool parties to find my mother passed out on the sofa, her dropped cigarette burning a hole in the cushion. I remember standing there and staring, watching the hole smolder, grow. The sharp odor of burning fabric, smoke filling the room. I remember how utterly sick I felt. Even worse that when I poured a whole pitcher of water on the fire to put it out, she never woke up. And she never said anything about it, as though that hole wasn't there. She just flipped the cushion over.

I look away, tightening my fingers around the stem of my glass.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I turn back to him. “You're a very nice man, Joshua. You really are, you know.”

He reaches out and takes my hand, and the heat is there, enveloping me, my hand, my entire body. And I can't seem to sort it all out—the heat of him, my response, the strange thoughts going through my mind. Thoughts about how lovely it would be to do this, to date this wonderful man. To have a normal life.

There is nothing normal about your life.

No, there's not.

I want to pull my hand back. I start to, but he hangs on to it.

“Am I doing something wrong, Valentine?” he asks me, his voice low.

“What? No. Of course not. I'm just… out of practice.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“I haven't dated in quite a while.”

“I haven't, either.”

“It sounds as though you work an awful lot,” I say, trying to change the subject. My hand is burning in his.

“I do, but that's not it. To be honest, I broke up with a woman a while ago, and I've been hiding away ever since.”

“Ah. You were in love with her.”

“That's the sad part. I'm not sure I ever was.”

I look up at him. His eyes are shadowed, unreadable. He pours another glass of sake and drinks. “Anyway, it was what it was. I needed to be on my own for a while. Needed to figure a few things out.”

“And have you?”

“I like to think so. I'm more clear on what I want.” He's smiling at me again. Such a dazzling smile, those strong, white teeth.

I know what I want. I want to kiss him. Need to kiss him.

I haven't kissed a man on the mouth in years. We don't do that, we working girls.

I don't want to think about that now. All I want to think about is him. I want to continue with this little charade, pretending to myself that I can have him.

“And what about you?” he asks. “You said you haven't been dating. Is there a reason why?”

I pause, bite my lip. What can I possibly say? And why do I want to tell him the truth, all of it? It's not about being self-destructive. I just want to. But of course that's impossible.

“Not that it's any of my business,” he continues. “I know that. But I'm curious. You're welcome to tell me to go to hell, if you like.”

One corner of his mouth is cocked in a small, crooked grin, and it is irresistible. He is irresistible.

“I just… Dating is not a successful venture for me. It never has been.” I shrug my shoulders, feel them loosen up. “I can't seem to get it. All the rules, the posturing. I wish the whole dating thing was more honest. I don't understand why people feel they have to lie to each other.”

Isn't that what you're doing now?

Yes, but in some way, I'm being more honest with him right now than I have with anyone in a very long time. Other than Enzo, no one really has any idea of what goes on in my head. Not even Regan and Rosalyn, my only real friends, and frankly, I'm not too sure how real they are. A part of me is always hidden away behind the walls I've spent my life constructing. We talk about clothes, shopping, celebrity gossip, my girlfriends and I. Nothing any deeper. This is more truth than I've spoken in years. It's freeing, as clichéd as that may sound. And it's addictive. I want to tell him more.

Get yourself under control.

“I don't get that part, either,” he says. “The games. All that shit—and pardon my language, but it is shit—about not calling a woman for three days, a week.”

“Exactly. And you don't have to worry about language with me. There was plenty of it in the house I grew up in. I'm used to it.”

Damn it. I'm saying too much. But he hasn't noticed.

“I'm going to be honest with you, Valentine.” My hand is still resting in his, and he uses both his hands to turn mine over. He strokes my open palm with his thumbs, and I am shivering immediately with lust. Drenched. Aching. “You are the most beautiful and fascinating woman I've ever met. I know you're holding something back from me. But I find it intriguing. I don't mind that little bit of mystery.”

I'm nearly blushing now; another first in this decade. When I look up into his eyes they are steady, unblinking. Beautiful, his long, dark lashes.

“Tell me about your life, Valentine. Whatever you want to tell me. You decide.”

I nod my head. He understands me, in some strange way. And he's incredibly kind. I don't know what to think of him, this impossible man. Like something I dreamed up.

If only I could fuck him and get off like I do with my clients. But I don't want to think about that part now, that part which will mean an end to this lovely dream. By tomorrow I will have to wake up and understand it's over.

If that's the case, what does it matter if I let him in a little? My mind is reeling with the idea.

“I don't know where to start,” I tell him.

“Start with what you like, what interests you.”

I pause, thinking. My brain is whirling.

“I always loved going to school, from the time I was a kid, and later, in college. I took classes on every subject. I never earned a degree. I just… learned.”

He leans in closer. “What were your favorite classes?”

“History. Sociology. Cultural anthropology. If you put them all together, it's like a picture of the world. Of people.”

“I loved my sociology classes, too. And psychology. It all seems like such a long time ago, now. But it's come in handy in my business. Knowing how people tick. Or some of it, at least. People are a mystery to me on a lot of levels, which I find interesting. Fascinating.”

He pauses, takes a sip of his drink. The ice cubes rattle in his glass as he sets it back down on the table. His lower lip is left a bit damp, and it's all I can do not to reach out and taste that droplet of fine sake, just lick it off with my tongue.

“It's like a window letting you inside,” he goes on, “having these odd bits of knowledge. Being made to dissect the way we all think, how we function, what makes us do whatever it is we do.”

“Yes, exactly. But I thought you went to school for a business degree.”

“I did. But I had other interests. I was young, and I'm sure my dad saw it as lack of focus. But the world was too varied. I didn't want to do any one thing forever.”

“And now you've been running the family business forever,” I say quietly, then immediately regret it. It seems cruel of me to point that out.

He nods. “Yes.” He's quiet a moment, then, “When we're young the world is one big possibility. But then we have to grow up and face reality. This is my reality.”

“I never had that,” I tell him, realizing suddenly how true it is. “I never felt that sense of endless opportunity. I envy you.”

“What did you want to be? When you were a kid? When you were in college?”

I shake my head. “I don't really know. I don't remember ever having any dreams for myself. It never occurred to me. Even now, recently, I've been taking art history courses just because I love art. There's no definitive end, no plan.”

A knot is rising in my chest. This is hitting too close to home.

“I remember we talked art at the opera the other night. But where did it all lead you, Valentine? Do you have a job, a career? I've just realized I don't know that about you.”

“I day trade from home,” I tell him, which isn't a lie, exactly. I've spent the last several years learning about the stock market and I dabble a bit, enough to make some extra cash. It was Louis who taught me. And it's my standard answer. But he doesn't have to know any of that.

I feel a little sick to my stomach.

“Ah, you're a risk-taker,” he says, smiling at me.

I'm not sure if being a call girl for the last nine years qualifies as being a risk-taker. I am as stuck in my job as any nine-to-five corporate hack, if for very different reasons.

I shrug, take a sip of my drink. “Maybe. I do like the thrill of it, the idea of losing all my money, but it's really all a big fake for me. I tend to play it fairly safe.”

“I'm surprised.” His tone lowers and he leans in a little closer, until I can smell the subtle fragrance of his cologne. That wood and citrus scent that filters into my body, finds an empty place right between my thighs, and I swear it strokes me, teases me. “You strike me more as an adventurer,” he says.

There is something distinctly sexual going on in the wicked gleam in his eyes. In the way he is stroking my palm again, in slow circles. The same way his tongue might dance around my clit. Oh, yes, something sexual in my response to his scent, his voice, his touch. The tone of our conversation has shifted with a hard, grinding lurch. I can't help but go loose all over, hot and melting. I manage to smile at him. Actually, I can't help it. My mouth is suddenly not my own. I am about to do something entirely foolish.

I drop my voice. “In certain arenas, yes, I can be very adventurous.”

His slow smile spreads. God, his teeth are so strong and beautiful. The need to kiss him, to feel his tongue in my mouth, is nearly overwhelming. I squeeze my thighs together. I'm throbbing, hurting with the need for him to touch me.

He lets my hand go, pulling away slowly, inch by excruciating inch, like a long caress, his eyes never leaving mine. He clears his throat. “I think I need another drink.”

He motions to the waitress, orders for both of us while I try to pull myself together. But I am buzzing all over, lust as sharp as knife blades in my sex, my hardened nipples, on my skin. I want him too badly. Too much to handle, and I am about to blow it.

You cannot have this.

I need this. Need him.

God.

“I'm sorry. Please excuse me. I'll… I'll be back.” I grab my purse and rush downstairs to the ladies' room.

I ignore the attendant, a dark-eyed woman pointing out the perfume and breath mints on the counter, and push my way into the marble-lined stall, slamming the door behind me. My breath is coming in rough pants. I yank up the hem of my dress and press the heel of my hand over my aching mound. My silk panties are soaked. When I slip my fingers under that damp edge, into my cleft, I am as wet as the ocean, slick, needy.

I am absolutely burning. And my fingers are rough as I massage my engorged clitoris. Harder and faster. I need this, need some release, even knowing I won't find it. Dropping my purse on the floor, I slip two fingers inside, pumping, thrusting, searching for my G-spot. I gasp when I find it. Joshua's scent is all over me. His face in front of my closed eyes.

Yes.

I tilt my hips, spread my legs, plunge deeper.

Yes, just fuck me, please …

Pressing harder, I circle my clit. I am so damn wet, so full of need, I'm going to explode.

Joshua.

Fuck me, please. Please, please, please … let me come. Make me come with your beautiful hands.

And I begin to, that lovely keen edge like a bomb about to go off. And just as quickly, it fizzles into nothing.

God damn it!

I slump against the door with a small sob.

What am I doing here? This is insane. I'm insane.

Joshua.

What is he thinking, left alone in the bar while I masturbate in the ladies' room?

I sit down and pee, get up and stand for a few moments in the stall while I catch my breath. Lust is a hard ache between my thighs still. Unsated. But it's not as if I expected anything more.

Finally, I go out to the lounge area, wash my hands, brush my hair, spray a little perfume on my neck, touch up my lipstick. I tip the dark-eyed attendant when she hands me a paper towel. But it's another minute or two before I can go back upstairs, face him.

He smiles at me when I get back to our table, sliding my drink across the smooth surface toward me. My body surges with lust, a powerful tide. I could drown in this. And I understand now how dangerous this is. How close I am to doing something I'll regret. And drinking more is not going to help. I'm barely hanging on to any sense of control as it is.

“Joshua, I'm not feeling very well. I should go.” I hate lying to him. I feel too damn good, need desperately to feel better. To come.

Oh, God.

“I'm sorry. What can I do? Do you need me to drive you home?”

I shake my head. “No. Thank you. It's … just a headache. I'll be fine.”

No you won't.

“Let me ask the waitress for some aspirin.”

“No. That's not necessary. I just need to go home.”

I don't mean to sound so cold, it just comes out that way.

“Of course.”

That easy sense of intimacy is gone, or at least diminished, and it's my fault. But I can't go there with him, can I? Better to cut it off now.

He is all gentlemanly manners, walking me out with a hand at my waist, which I have to grit my teeth against. He gives the parking valet my ticket, insists on tipping him, then hands me into my car. I am so relieved that he is no longer touching me. And empty. Yearning.

“Call me, Valentine. I want to see you again. Hell, I'd like to see you tomorrow.”

He is too gorgeous in the silvery moonlight, the amber glow coming through the windows of the restaurant. His eyes are dark and mysterious, his smile sincere, his lips unbelievably lush. My sex gives a sharp squeeze.

Just go, get home.

“I'll… I'll give you a call,” I say, having no intention of doing so. “Thank you for the drink.”

“It was my pleasure.”

He reaches into the car, caresses my shoulder lightly, his hand whispering over my skin. I shiver. I want to take him home with me, feel that touch all over my body, fuck him in my bed all night.

You know what you have to do.

It's my heart that gives a hard squeeze now. I really like him.

Fuck.

“Joshua, I have to go.”

“Yes, of course.” His hand slips over my shoulder, down my arm. If I turn my head he will kiss me. I don't do it. Instead, I nod, give him a quick, pale, sideways smile, and shift my car, pull away.

When I glance in the rearview mirror, he is standing there watching me.

I feel as though I've survived some sort of test, and I am exhausted. But is this really any sort of triumph? Or am I nothing more than a coward?