 
# Shine

### Book One of the Wild Love Ménage Series

## R. L. Jameson
Copyright © 2016 Lanita Beth Joramo

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### Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

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Acknowledgments

About the Author

# 1

So, yes, I've decided Paul will become my lover." I wait for Bethany, my best friend and only confidante to say, "It's about fucking time," like I expect her to. We're in our favorite bar and grill that's quiet with an older staff who knows our names and gives us extra cheesy nachos with wide smiles. It's our Wednesday tradition after work to meet, have drinks, eat greasy food, and laugh. In the pub, it's dark but not dreary. Just enough warm light to remind me of a campfire. Of sparkling orange ambience, which when I was a child was what I thought love would look like.

Bethany's been pushing me to find a new man for the last two years, and sometimes the pushing is a lot like bullying.

Still, I know she loves me, is looking out for my best interest. And it is about time I give up the ghost of my husband and start to live a little. Even if I'm only mildly interested in Paul Reddick. He is, however, the best out of the lot, which is a small lot since I live in Laramie, Wyoming—small town, Americana-style. Besides, he's an English professor and poet. Can't beat that, right? Dark crazy hair, slightly reminiscent of a saner version of Poe, dark intense eyes that seem to see right through my clothes. I like that about him. He acts like he owns me, and I should hate it. But it makes things easier. I don't have to guess if he's into me or not.

Bethany chokes.

I roll my eyes, thinking she's making fun of me and my _Victorian ways_ , as she calls them. It's not entirely my fault I have crazy virtues, the kind women a hundred and fifty years ago had, wanting to hold out until marriage to make love. And, yes, I've always called it making love. At least, out loud. In my head's another thing...

I've tried my best to shake free from my fanatic background. I mean, it's not every day a girl is proposed to by her uncle. I was fourteen. After escaping my past, I was left with the delightful question of what to be.

I'm an academic like Paul. An anthropologist. We teach at the University of Wyoming. And it's hard to be anything but open-minded when looking at young faces five days out of seven who want to experiment and find the answers to life. But some mind fucks are hard to shake. Like the idea that a man will never want me if I have sex with him before marriage. Lord, I'd love to shake that right out of my mind. But I never do.

It haunts me as much as my husband. And, yeah, I'd waited until marriage to have sex with him. I thought it'd mean something; I thought he'd notice the offering I made for him. I'd been young and innocent and so goddamned naive it now hurts my teeth to think about.

My husband, Tim, had taken my virginity in stride. And who knows how many others he'd taken after we were blissfully wedded. The fairy tale ending I expected was not for me.

It's not nice to think ill of the dead, I remind myself for the millionth time. That day.

That's when I focus more on Bethany. Her usual cheerful pink cheeks are darkening, blooming a color close to purple. Her quietness should have alerted me sooner.

"Are you okay?" I finally ask.

She grabs at her throat, tearing along her skin as if hoping to find a rope there that she could pull away.

Jumping from my stool, I race behind her, angry it took me that long to figure out she is really choking. My best friend is in need and I was absent-mindedly thinking about taking a lover and my dick of a dead husband who I really shouldn't call a dick, even if only in my head. He's dead. He can't defend himself now.

Vaguely I hear our waitress, Nan, yell for someone to call 911 as I reach around the one woman who'd seen me through the tangled mess of what was my marriage. She stood by me when I found out Tim was cheating and how often, how he'd been funneling our money into a separate bank account, how he'd been getting ready to divorce me and steal my money, and when he found out that cough of his was cancer. I waited on him hand and foot. The obedient wife, even though I never said that in my vows. I took him to his appointments, shaved his head and my own after the chemo. I cared for him so he wouldn't need a hospice. I loved that son of a bitch so fucking much. Then he died. He just died, but right before he told me he didn't deserve me, begged me to forgive him, and whispered so sweetly how he did love me after all.

I'm a thirty-two-year-old widow. I've only made love to Tim. And I've only loved him.

Bethany knows all this and she loves me anyway. She doesn't pity me as others do. I am a doormat. I know. I'm an idiot for my husband. My dead husband. But Bethany has always encouraged me to be more. She thinks I have it in me to do anything I want. Like take a lover, although I know I won't marry Paul. And I'm scared out of my skin he'll call me a slut after. No, I'm more scared he'll look at me with disgust. Is there anything as painful as a man's disgust? There is. His apathy. When he looks at you with as much interest as a piece of tissue he'd used to mop up his masturbation mess.

I find Bethany's notch under her ribs, right where the bones knit together. She holds my arm in a tight grip. My mind takes a picture of her hand on me—her beautiful bronze skin against my paper-white flesh. She's always teasing me that being the anthropologist I am I know more about her aboriginal background than she does. I need her teasing; I need her friendship. Terrified, I thrust my fists into that notch. Push back and up. Push back and up into her stomach.

Bethany's making this terrible noise, similar to a rabbit getting skinned alive.

Push back and up. I thrust with even more strength.

I'll never give up on Bethany, like she's never given up on me.

Push back and up.

Finally, I hear her cough. She doubles over then falls from my grasp onto the floor. I follow.

_Whither thou goest, I will go._

She's smiling and crying and wiping my face, her face still so red. Her body is shaking.

"I'm okay, Jane. You saved me. I'm okay."

I didn't know I was crying. I'm bawling.

"And it's about fucking time you get laid," she says and starts to laugh. "Just don't shock me so much when you say something like that."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm kidding, silly sausage." She's Australian, hence the endearing euphemism. She's also loud, crass, has maroon hair and I love everything about her. My only friend.

Someone tries to take my shoulder and bodily move me. But I won't have it. I need to keep Bethany in my view. I need to make sure she's okay because I love her so much and if one more person dies on me I'll buy a gun and...okay, not really. But I couldn't stand life without her.

I fight strong arms, gripping me around my waist, pulling me away from Bethany. I kick, buck, do everything possible to get my body back under my own volition.

Whiskers rake my cheek. "Shh, shh, I got you," a man whispers. His arms hold me even tighter.

That's when I see the firemen around Bethany. Their royal blue pants, royal blue t-shirts, light blue gloves over large hands.

"That's it," the man holding me says. "That's it. You gotta make room for the men to work on your friend, baby."

_Baby?_

I'm breathing so hard my lungs feel like there are fissures in every inch of them. The man has me in a weird grip, almost cupping one of my breasts, and I realize the position of my hands are forcing him to hold me that way. But I don't let go of him.

"You saved her?" the man whispers into my ear.

"Yes, she saved me," Bethany says loudly, smiling at me, still so red-looking it scares me. "She did the Heimlich thing. That's my friend, Jane, Jane Emory. She's super smart and super fast and she saved my life."

I want to laugh at Bethany's statements, but I just can't. I want to cry. However, my hands relax against the man's iron-like forearms. I notice the striations of his muscles there. They twitch, still holding me in a firm grip. He has blond hair. Golden. It sparkles in the light. His chest encompasses me from behind. It's so firm, and his heart is beating into my back. His whiskers are still against me. This is intimate.

"Good job," he says.

My bottom scrapes against his crotch. Was that...? Is he...excited? God, it's been so long since I've felt a man's erection I can't tell if that's just him or if he's slightly aroused. Probably not aroused by me. Like my name, I'm plain. Well, I'm fairly certain I'm plain. The way my husband treated me led me to think I'm nothing extraordinary.

But I like the feel of the man holding me. He's hard everywhere. My awareness of his body, of him, a man I haven't even seen yet, invades me, penetrates too deep. My nipples contract and I'm embarrassed.

"You did really good work," he whispers.

Ambulance workers pile into the small bar. The firefighters are talking with the new medical men to see if Bethany needs to be taken to the emergency department.

"I want to go with her," I shout into the fray of what seems like a million men fighting over who takes care of Bethany. God, she's got to be loving this. She is smiling at me, and glancing at the man behind me.

"You'll get to go with your friend," the man promises.

I sigh. I hate to admit how good it feels to be held like this. My legs are shaking and I'm not sure I could hold myself up otherwise.

"You okay if I let you go now? No kicking my ass again?"

I snort a laugh. "I didn't kick your ass."

He softly chuckles and it bounces down my spine like the low keys of a piano. _Plonk, plonk, plonk_ —the noise ricochets, descending into my clitoris.

He caresses his face against mine. His jaw feels like warm granite. His whiskers make my nipples contract even harder. Slowly, he releases me and stands beside me. His hands are out as I, embarrassingly, sway. He catches me by my waist, and my cheek smacks against something so hard I thought it was a wall at first. Nope, it's just his chest.

"Whoa, there. You all right?" he asks into the top of my head.

"Jane!" Bethany yells. "Jane, are you okay?"

I nod, humiliated. My legs are that of a newborn calf.

"Breathe," the man reminds me.

I glare at him, although I don't know why. I'm angry at myself. Not him.

But I stop my frown when I look up into the most open face I've ever seen. His breathtaking light blue eyes are the kind of azure only seen on a mountain top where the air is still virgin. His countenance is devastatingly handsome. The huge firefighter, still with his hand on my waist, is smiling at me. Or is that a smirk?

"You sure you can stand?" he asks.

I nod, unable to talk any longer. God, he's beautiful. I love his voice too—smooth, masculine, with just the right kind of roughness to land a few of his words into my body, making me much more turned on than I should be in this circumstance.

What's odd, I think, is the way he's looking at me. Maybe I have guacamole on my face. Maybe I'm ashen. I can't tell if he's looking at me with concern or ridicule. Or something else entirely.

His hand is still on me. Now the small of my back. The _very_ small of my back that on some days is kind of my ass. He just smiles at me.

"Do I know you?"

I shake my head. I would remember him. Well, no one would ever forget meeting him. He's huge, about six and-a-half feet, all muscle, a blond god. He's Odin. He's Thor. One of those Nordic gods who makes mortal women weak in the knees. Which would be perfect if I did genuflect before him. Then I could suck his cock.

Just where are these thoughts coming from?

I decide to take a lover then imagine taking another?

Who am I?

"I think I do know you," the man leans over, whispering in my ear.

I stiffen, sickened. When I escaped my uncle's proposal, my family, the fanaticism and horror, a reporter followed me around, asking me personal questions and annoying me senseless. She got her story then moved on. I had been told they'd blurred my face, but I worry if years later someone would reveal the real me to the world. An abused girl. A victim. I loathe that word. It can't define me. But it does anyhow.

The man rubs his cheek against mine, his whiskers are enough to make me want to clutch at him, pull him even nearer.

"I'm pretty sure you're my new girlfriend."

I can't believe I'm laughing at that.

"Cheesy line, huh?"

I don't agree with him. I don't know why, but I love that line. Perhaps he said it to get me to laugh, to feel stronger on my own two legs. Perhaps some crazy part of him is trying to hit on me. Whatever the purpose, I think I love him a little. And I don't even know his name.

He helps shepherd me though the crowd of people, following Bethany on a stretcher. He argues with the EMT workers, saying I should be in the ambulance with Bethany even though I'm not family. He makes several points, promises to wash an ambulance on his day off, then I'm inside the medical van.

I make sure Bethany's okay, hold her hand, try to think of something reassuring to say. Then I glance out the back of the ambulance, heartbroken. The blond demigod is gone. He was just giving me a line to make me laugh, to make me feel stronger than I was at that moment. I hate how disappointed I am that he vanished so fast.

I keep smiling at Bethany. The ambulance workers are like wonderful bees, always working, buzzing around.

"Can you believe this?" she asks me.

I smile at her and shake my head. The ambulance begins its trek to the hospital, and I'm even more disheartened that my blond fireman didn't do more, didn't mean his cheesy line.

"I should have done this ages ago," Bethany says. "I haven't seen such hot guys since I was in college, back in 1645 or so."

I laugh. Bethany's a tad older than I am, but she's always exaggerating about her age. The thing is, she has more energy than I do. So I think of her as younger than me.

We make it to the hospital in minutes. There's a lot of nurses, and then there's a lot of waiting as the apparently one and only doctor in the whole hospital—I am exaggerating—will eventually see my friend. I'm not sure why we're in the hospital now that the emergency is over. I guess they want to check her throat, make sure she can eat again. And as the minutes tick by, I hate how much I'm thinking about that big, blond man who was at my back.

Bethany takes a nap as I fantasize about the demigod, taking me from behind. I can imagine his huge hands covering my breasts. His tongue slides down my neck and we kiss over my shoulder. He bites my lip and back. He's thrusting inside of me and—God, I miss sex.

After rolling my head on my shoulders, I sigh, sexually frustrated and maybe suffering from some wounded pride too.

"Go get a drink of water."

Bethany has one eye open, which is looking at me crossly.

"Sorry, did I wake you?"

"I wasn't quite asleep, but you need to run off some energy. Go get some water or a magazine to read."

"I'm too loud, huh? I'm sorry. I—"

Bethany encompasses my hand with both of hers. "Honey, I've told you a million times how you sound Canadian when you apologize so much. So stop it."

"Sorr—"

She laughs. "But you're kind of driving me nuts."

"Now I really want to say I'm sorry."

She laughs harder. "Just take a walk, then come back. I don't want to be alone for too long, okay? But I need you to calm down."

"I can calm down. I—"

"Will you get me a magazine?"

Bethany is outwitting me by asking for the magazine for _her_ rather than for me. I must be annoying the shit out of her. After biting my lip, I nod.

"Thanks, honey."

I leave, again feeling like I want to cry, which is silly. I wasn't the one who choked. And it embarrasses me to feel like this. So, stiff upper lip and all that, and I walk through the emergency department to the waiting room, where I'm sure to find a good stack of outdated magazines.

First, I see three men in all blue. Firefighters. My heart stutters.

One of the men begins talking on a walkie-talkie. He's too far away to make out what he's saying. I want to ask him if he knows of the huge fireman who held me. I'm that besotted already.

And, hey, wasn't I already committed to having Paul become my lover?

He's a nice man, Paul. I know his name, unlike the blond firefighter demigod.

I'm too ashamed of the way I feel about the fireman to actually ask about him. I'd look like a fool, wouldn't I? I mean, he only said that line to make me laugh. To make me feel better. He's a nice, beautiful man who wouldn't be interested in me.

There's a family huddled together in a corner of the brown labyrinth of the waiting room. They're watching TV in a daze. I hope they're okay. I hope their loved one getting worked on is okay. Seeing a soda pop dispenser, I decide to get something when I realize I don't have my purse. I left everything at the bar. Of course, I'm fairly certain Nan will store our purses for us.

But that leaves me standing there in front of the soda pop dispenser, feeling through my pockets for loose change when a deep voice asks, "Looking for something?"

My purse and Bethany's swings in front of my eyes. The straps are held by a huge hand, this time without any blue latex on it. And I can't help but smile widely at the blond demigod with his dark golden whiskers that catch the light. I know what they feel like against my cheek.

Now, I'm not at all religious. Thanks to my past, I shy away from all forms of worship. And I'm a wee bit of a cynic when it comes to faith. But as for demigods, maybe they do answer prayers.

# 2

I asked Jake, that's the EMT guy who was driving the ambulance, to wait while I collected your things from the bar," giant Nordic God tells me with a grin at the corner of his mouth. "But the dick just drove off with you two."

He straightens, towering over me, taking another step closer, so I have to crane my neck back to look up at him. He's still smiling. God, I love his smile. Or is he smirking. I just can't tell.

"Sorry about the language."

"Language?" I ask, a little amazed my brain and mouth are functioning at all.

"I swore. Sorry."

I hope to assuage his worry away with a grin of my own. He smiles through it all. His sky-blue gaze bounces over my face, like he's fascinated with it. Again, I wonder if there's something on it. I wish I'd checked before now.

"How's your friend? She all right?"

As if I hadn't already liked him enough, but add his concern for Bethany, and I'm wondering if my heart will beat itself out of my chest at this rate.

"She seems okay. We're waiting for the doctor."

He makes one of those purely male grunts, acknowledging what I've said. I'm not sure when men figure out how to make that sound—perhaps as toddlers? Teenagers?—but they're so good at summing up whole thoughts into one noise. And coming from him, it's like Shakespeare. Good Lord, I've got it bad for him.

He's holding the purses by his side, looking at me, while I can't help but stare at him. He checks our surroundings, and I check too, worried I've made a complete ass of myself by gawking at him so unabashedly. The other firefighters nod at him and walk out of the waiting room. They smile at me as if I'm about to discover a secret.

I swallow, not sure what's going on, when the blond god grabs my elbow and yanks me into a nearby women's bathroom. He checks the stalls, and when he's made sure they're empty, he again smiles at me, standing about four feet away. It's more space than he's ever given me, and I feel cold without him closer.

"Look, this is really unprofessional of me." He shakes his head, looking adorably sheepish. "But I gotta know if you want to have dinner with me or something. I want to see you again."

"You don't even know my name."

"Jane Emory." He grins again. "Your friend said it. And I memorized it."

"You memorized my name?"

"Yeah," he says like someone would say, "duh."

"But I don't know your name."

He softly laughs. His chuckle bounces through my body and my nipples bead. Great timing they have.

"Sorry. My name's Chris Peters."

"Chris Peters."

We don't shake hands. We stare at each other. As if we're assessing each other, figuring each other out. The energy between us is so hot I wonder if we will melt the ceramic sink. I love being hot. Being cold...well, I've had frostbite on my toes. Living in Wyoming, I'm supposed to be immune from the wintry weather. But it bites through me every time. Being cold is painful. While being hot, even if too hot, is delicious. I love sweating. I love the feel of the sun on my skin, like a gentle lover's touch. Chris is like that—he's the sun. And I want him to lick every inch of me.

He's breathing hard. I wonder if he knows my thoughts.

"I know you're Jane Emory." He licks his lips. I wish he'd do it again. It makes me want to squeeze my legs together to augment the growing warmth at the apex of my legs. "I know you teach at the university. You're an anthropologist, huh?" He must have caught my surprised expression. "I Googled you on the ride here. I made the guys take me here to give you back your purses. But they know I'm really here because I want to see you. And I think you want to see me too."

"Chris Peters, the firefighter." I don't know why, but that's all I can say. I'm shocked he wants to see me. He wanted to know me, so he looked me up on the internet.

He nods and gives me that smile I like so much. "Yeah. That's me."

I realize then that I'm breathing hard and I keep licking my lips. Was he mimicking me? It's something all primates do when mating. It's something many animals do when trying to engage in sex—the mimicking and the licking of lips, touching of mouths, touching...

Slowly, he places my purse and Bethany's on the counter beside the sink. He looks at me again. No smile. He's serious now and his golden whiskered jawline kicks. I might just fall to my knees because I love the way he looks. I love his audacity of pulling me into a bathroom to ask me to have dinner with him. I love the way he looks at me. Like he sees through my clothes.

Like Paul does. Damn it. Paul and I kind of have an understanding. He'd taken me out to three dinner dates, two coffee get-togethers, and kissed me just last night. It was a sweet kiss, leaving me longing, which surprised me, since I thought I wasn't interested in him. But then I rationalized my body was interested; hence, he could become my lover.

I'm not the kind of woman who has ever kissed more than one man at a time. I'm not the kind of woman who does anything impulsively. But Chris is so...how to phrase it? He's hot, and, yes, I mean physically too, but he's so much more. He's inviting, intriguing, genuine, and so warm. Yes, he's the sun, and I love being hot.

We rush toward each other. I think I moved first, but I'm really not sure. He encompasses me with his huge arms, and we find each other's lips faster than I can say cheater. Even though the thought of Paul pesters me, I can't help but want Chris. I love how surprisingly gentle he is. At first. I clutch at his t-shirt, forcing my tongue in his mouth. Then he's pulling me closer, making me lift to my toes to deepen the kiss. One of his hands is at the nape of my neck, and he tilts my head, forcing me to open even more. When his tongue is in my mouth, I can't help but moan. He tastes like cinnamon. Like the candy cinnamon that's hot and spicy and tickles my nose.

At first, he just explores my tongue, taking his time to stroke me slowly. I have to place my hands on his wide shoulders for balance. I've never felt anyone like him. He's so...hard. So warm. His muscles bunch under my fingers, and I glide my palms down to his chest, that firm hot wall I like so much.

He moans.

I smile.

He leans away enough to grin too.

"I'm not sure what we're doing." His voice is so low and I nearly shudder from hearing it.

I shake my head. "I don't know either."

"But it feels so fucking good. Sorry for swearing. Again."

I grin. "It does feel so fucking good."

His smile widens, and he leans down and kisses me once more. We're back at it, inside each other's mouth, squeezing each other closer and closer. He's erect at my belly. High on my belly. God, what would sex with him be like? He's so big. Would he be big everywhere? I hope so.

I nearly giggle at the thought, but keep kissing him, so eager, so happy. I'm bubbling with happiness, which isn't like me. Oh, I'm not exactly depressed. But sometimes thoughts of my husband invade what I'm doing, and I simultaneously worry that I didn't do enough for him and that I did too much. He treated me horribly, then he treated me wonderfully. But was he so good to me because he was dying? Did he ever love me? What if I'm unlovable?

Chris pulls away, still smiling, slightly huffing for air. "Jesus, I love kissing you."

"I love kissing you too."

Love. What an odd word for him to use. But I like that he did. And I used it too, feeling a bit silly, but thrilled all the same. Like I'm stealing candy.

"I gotta stop."

"Why?" My voice is almost a whine.

He chuckles. "Because, baby, if I keep doing this, I won't want to stop."

I like that he calls me baby. But does he call every woman baby? Is this his thing—finding weak women to kiss after their emergency?

I nod. "I'd better get back to Bethany."

He nods as well. "I have to see you again." Leaning his forehead against mine, he says, "I have to. In two nights from now, I have some time off."

I smile. I can't help it. "Yes, I have to see you too."

I should say no. I've already made a choice regarding Paul. But looking into Chris's light blue eyes, I tell myself I'll talk to Paul, let him down easy, so I can be with this big blond stranger.

Or should I?

# 3

It's open hours for me, where my office door is ajar for all my students to come and ask questions, gab about whatever they liked or hated from my class, and sometimes complain about how tough college is. I usually don't mind. In fact, I love my students. Often I have students who are no longer mine drop in and catch up. I remember all their names, and what they're up to. Well, my biological family had forty-six children, all half-siblings to me, and there were the four other wives to consider too. And if I didn't remember my half-brother Decker, I'd have to take ten belt lashings against the back of my legs. So, yes, I'm good with names.

Today though, I can't concentrate to save my life. When a student came in earlier, I couldn't focus on her or her concerns for the upcoming midterm exams. I'm usually good at what I do and take a lot of pride in that. I come from a background where I wasn't expected to go beyond an eighth-grade education. But thanks to my foster mom, I graduated college when I was nineteen and got my master's degree by twenty-two, my doctorate when I was twenty-six. And, again, thanks to my foster mom, Dr. Anne Little, I had a job at this university. My foster mom was a psychologist who occasionally taught here. She never told a soul about my past. She gave me the freedom to pick my new name and to be anyone I wanted to be.

However, I find some past habits are hard to crush. I'm still a doormat. For some people. I still have a desire to earn love. Anne taught me unconditional love, which still boggles my mind. Anne and her love were so inclusive, so kind, so generous, so nurturing. Granted, I think my biological mother tried very hard to love me. But there were too many restrictions for her to give freely. Nothing was free where I came from. Anne tried so hard to teach me that her love always was. I can't wrap my head around that even now. But one day I hope to.

I have twenty minutes left of my open hours, and I'm thinking of writing a note to get away from my tiny office and the slit for a window beside my desk—the only way I know I'm not in a dungeon. The evening is fast approaching, making me miss all the firework colors of the autumn sunset from my tiny view. I don't usually think of my office in a negative light. Every wall is filled with books and my many tablets and computers—I like technology, and there's a filing cabinet that's almost as big as the room itself. It's home to me. More so a home than the house I live in. Adoration isn't a big enough word for the way I feel about my office.

But today it's a dungeon.

I kissed a man I hardly know last night. When my friend was in the emergency department. Who does that? I felt despicable, so I confessed everything to Bethany when I returned. She told me I made her night. She was proud of me and it was about time I got some action. God, I love her. She's so good to me. And thank goodness everything seemed to be fine with her, but she's supposed to get a follow-up soon.

However, no matter how proud Bethany is, the fact is I made out in a bathroom. I keep remembering Chris's erection against my stomach, and I longed to reach in his pants and feel his hardness. To smell him because I'd pulled underwear down around his ankles. I miss the scents and the feel of a man. A hard body, course whiskers running across my breasts.

And Chris Peters is the most virile man I've ever met, let alone kissed. God, he made my toes curl. I'd never felt that before. Well, when I'm about to orgasm, sure. But just during a kiss? Never. I wanted to arch my feet, clench my fists, and rub myself all over him.

But I have, er, had—rather, an arrangement with Paul. So, I need to take courage and have a talk with him. Need to tell him that...I met a man last night that made my toes curl. God, how do you say that to a person?

The "it's not you, it's me" line seems good. But it's so dishonest.

I don't know what to tell Paul. Social dictates tell me I should say something, right? My past experience is so bland compared to my life now that I almost don't know what happened to me. I'd been courted by my uncle, which was as disgusting as it sounds. Then, with Anne, I was busy trying to find my voice, my heart, myself, and to learn everything I could. I became an anthropologist because that was what I was interested in at that moment. But honestly, I want to learn everything.

When I was seven, I was told I couldn't be smart. I couldn't learn too much or I'd never find a husband. Never. Men didn't like that sort of thing in a woman. This was said to me by both my father, whom I hardly knew personally, and by the uncle who later wanted to marry me. He had me sit on his lap when I began to cry, trying to comfort me, but staying firm that no man would ever want me if I kept reading. I loved learning. And it felt as if my father and uncle asked me to give up my best friend.

But I obeyed. Belt lashes to the back of my legs were a delight compared to what encountered me when I disobeyed that order.

So, when I moved in with Anne and she gave me mountains of books, it took months to read without vomiting. Fear is an ugly motivator, and for me, I usually throw up when faced with it. But through Anne's steady encouragement, I began to read everything. And I mean everything. She homeschooled me, got me into university early, moved with me so I never had to sleep without her close by, and when I graduated with my doctorate, she asked me if I was able to start sleeping in my own apartment.

I didn't know she was getting ready to say goodbye. She had ovarian cancer. Stage four.

I hate cancer now. I hate the word. I hate the smell of hospitals. I hate how my loved ones smell after chemotherapy.

I met Tim after Anne died, and I clung to him. He let me. We married and I was so fucking grateful.

And that is the experience of my dating life thus far. Impressive, no? God, most of my students know more about men than I do. Oh, I am an anthropologist. I've read a lot about men and dating and rituals of such. But to actually contribute with dating and mating? I'm pathetically behind.

The problem is, I liked being married. Or in a committed relationship. I liked knowing someone wanted me as much as I wanted him. Only, I never had that with Tim. I thought I did at first. But I never knew if he truly wanted me, and when he was sick I think he only wanted me because I took care of him.

Other than Anne and now Bethany, I've never known what it might be like to be wanted just because I'm me.

Except last night, with Chris, I almost felt that. Granted, he doesn't know me. And I don't know him. But he wanted me. I know he did. And he didn't want me because I could do something for him. Or does he? What if he's only after sex?

Well, I had promised to take a lover. Can my pride and stupid heart handle casual sex? Really?

Why I had decided to take Paul as a lover was because, I think, he's been trying to woo me. The dinners, the coffees, the kiss. That sweet kiss that left me wanting so much more. And I thought the wooing meant he might want something other just a night, or day, of passion. He might want more from me, and I was okay with that.

Maybe because Paul kissed me and left me aching, maybe that's why I so easily succumbed to Chris. Or perhaps since I'd already told myself to take a lover, or at least try to, that's why I acted so uninhibited with my fireman.

I'm overthinking things, I realize.

It's a defense mechanism of mine. It deflects me from something uncomfortable or painful. Like the fact that I should talk to Paul. I can't kiss two men within a day's time. Although, wincingly, I already have. But I'm not the kind of woman who can keep doing that. Yes, I should have a talk with Paul.

But I don't want to. I'm a coward. I've never rejected anyone before. I'm a thirty-two-year-old pathetic woman who hasn't done...so much.

Finally, the minutes tick by and I give myself permission to leave five minutes early. I can figure out what to say to Paul, and call him, and talk. I hate that I'm going to do this.

Paul seems nice.

Maybe I should have this talk with Chris. I know him less than Paul.

God, I'm a mess.

"Hey." A deep voice interrupts the craziness of my internal rantings.

I jump and turn, shaken by Paul standing in my doorway. His hair is a wavy, rock 'n' roll mess. I love it. He's a slightly younger version of Johnny Depp. His passion is easy to see in his dark gaze. Not that he's passionate about me. He's just passionate. He is a poet. His black jeans and white t-shirt scream Bad Boy, but he's actually well-behaved and can recite Yeats if I just ask.

Oh god, what am I going to say to him?

"Hey, yourself."

He walks into my office, closing the door behind him. I stand in an awkward move, only thinking of what I should say, how to confess I've kissed another man.

His gaze bounces down my body. "I like the skirt." And with that, he kisses me.

And not the way he'd kissed me the night before last. He's kissing me like he's a dying man and my lips are his cure. He's greedy and needy and pushy. His hand is on my ass, pulling me against his hard cock. He's lean, and only a few inches taller than me, especially in my heels. I don't have to tilt my head far back to kiss him in return. It's easier than kissing Chris.

Great, now I'm comparing the two men.

That's a no-no, and I know it.

Paul kisses down my neck. "Fuck, that skirt is all sorts of naughty."

It's a plain black pencil skirt. It's nothing. I have no idea what he's talking about. But I like it, the way he's talking. He's never sworn before, and I feel like he's showing me the real him. I feel honored.

And how the hell am I going to tell him about Chris now?

His hands slip down my ass to my thighs. "Are you wearing stockings?"

I shake my head as he bites his way across my collarbone.

"That's too bad." He sucks in a mouthful of skin at my neck.

I moan. I don't mean to, but I do. His hasty kisses thaw me from the inside out. After I ran away from my past, I was hospitalized for exhaustion and frostbite. The gradual warming of my toes and fingers felt like needles of electrical shocks stabbed into every centimeter of my skin. It hurt. It ached, but it also felt good. So good to be warm again. That's what Paul's passion feels like—I ache, but it feels so good too.

"Are you wearing pantyhose?"

"No."

"So nothing under this skirt of yours?" He's pulling said black fabric up my legs.

I giggle and put my hands over his, trying to stop him. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to see what you have under this skirt. I heard two of your students talk about you today."

"Yeah? What'd they say?"

"They were nineteen year-old jocks who want to know what kind of panties you wear. Or if you wear them." He kisses my earlobe.

I can't help it, but my back arches, pushing my breasts against him as he tries anew to lift my skirt.

"They did not say that."

Paul softly chuckles. It's low and throaty. I like it as much as I like Chris's.

I have to stop comparing the two.

"They did say that."

I shake my head.

He laughs then pins me with another kiss. He's inside my mouth with his tongue, penetrating me, making me hope he'll lift my skirt all the way.

I'm huffing for air, but I pull away. Guilt and shame eating at me. "I kissed another man last night."

Well, that's one way of talking things out.

I'm such a moron when it comes to communication. I tend to blabber too much if I feel comfortable around someone, like with Anne. Or just blurt out what's on my mind if I'm uncomfortable. _I know how you slept with seven other women in our first year of marriage._ Surprise, surprise, but Tim didn't like it when I blurted that out.

I'm going to throw up but try my best to clench my mouth shut, nickel-tasting saliva pooling on my tongue.

Paul blinks. I see it. I've hurt him.

God, I wish I hadn't kissed Chris. But it was such a good kiss. Still, I wish I had better control of myself.

"I'm sorry," I whisper and clear my throat so I can say louder, "I'm so sorry."

He's still pressing his erection against my stomach, his whole body against mine. He's given himself enough space to look at me, though. Self-flagellation sounds appealing compared to waiting for his judgment.

After a big inhalation, he says, "Well, we've never said anything about monogamy."

I sigh, feeling even more embarrassed. Why didn't I think of that?

"I'm sorry."

He smiles. "Was it a bad kiss? Is that why you keep apologizing?"

I have no clue how to answer that. And what surprises me is Paul flirting, his smile.

He leans in, nips at my neck. I hiss, but love his sting.

"Tell me, honey, was it a good kiss or a bad one?"

He bites me again and my hips buck against him. He's playing a game with me, and I'm ashamed at how much I want it.

"Tell me, Jane." He scrapes his teeth down my neck, pulling me even tighter against his hard length.

"It wasn't bad," I whimper.

He softly chuckles just the way I like it. "Did he kiss you like this?"

He rams his lips against mine, punishing, bruising. His tongue is inside me, thrusting. His hips begin to push against me in sync to the dance in my mouth.

I clutch at Paul, fisting his t-shirt, so desperate for him to keep doing what he is. He pushes me hard against my desk, wedging one of his thighs between mine, where his hard leg rubs against my clit. I moan in our kiss, feeling my body drip with moisture. I'm ready for sex. Now. And I want it.

Just as I'm catching up to his frantic, domineering kiss, he pulls away.

"Did he kiss you like that?"

The friction between my legs makes my vision blurry. My head is swimming in need.

"No," I finally say hoarsely.

"Did he touch you here?" He presses his thigh against my clitoris all the more.

I arch my head back. "No."

He bites my neck. "Does he know how you like teeth on your skin? How I'm making you forget how to breathe when I do this?" He rakes down my throat again. I grind wildly against him.

"No."

"Did he touch you here?" He cups one of my breasts.

I gasp, surprised he'd be so bold. He's the man who didn't kiss me for three dates and two coffee get-togethers. He's the man who kissed me so sweetly for our first kiss. No tongue, but lingering.

His thumb glides over my nipple and I whimper. I can't help it. I hurt for him. I want him to make me feel better. I want him inside of me.

"Fuck." He glances down at my breast. Through my white silken blouse, through my white bra, he opens his mouth and sucks me in.

I arch my back, wanting him to take so much more. Tunneling his dark hair between my fingers, I pull him even more on my breast, amazed at the invisible string he's tugging from my nipple to the apex of my legs.

"You drive me crazy with your little outfits," he growls as he takes my other breast in his mouth. "Like you're this little innocent who just happens to wear sexpot threads."

He has no clue how innocent I am. Granted, I've been married. And while I thought my husband was faithful, we had an enjoyable sex life. I guess. But Tim never made me feel like this: desperate for Paul. I want him so much I can feel the moisture spread through my panties and down my thighs, right where his leg is rubbing me. I've never been this sticky with my own wetness.

"I want you," he whispers in my ear, then licks around my lobe.

"I want you." My voice is shaky at best.

"Yeah?"

"Yes. God, yes."

He pushes himself away from me to heft up my skirt. I let him. I've never had sex in my office, and I can imagine him inside me on my desk. And tomorrow I'll have fantasies about it. Of course, when tomorrow comes, Paul will more than likely no longer respect me, and I'll fantasize about this sex with a tinge of sadness mixed in.

He growls. Really growls when he sees my black panties. They're not a thong. And not exactly grandma underwear, or what Bethany and I call orthopedic panties. But they're not that sexy. A little lace. A lot of satin. However, he's acting as if they're exactly what he wanted. As if _I'm_ exactly what he wanted. Even though I kissed another man last night.

He parts my legs, pushing me farther up on my desk at the same time. I'm so excited to have sex, feeling like it's Christmas time and I got everything I've ever wanted. I'm that kind of woman who'll make love on my own desk. Yes. Well, I'm that kind of woman now. I hope.

Reaching in, he surprises me by hooking his finger into my panties at my sex not my waistline.

"You're so wet." His voice is low, reverent.

I lean back on my hands, opening my legs wider for him.

His finger is warm and glides along me. "This might sting. I'm sorry." He leans closer then pulls hard as my panties come apart. One side of my underwear digs into me before shredding into the fabric now tucked into his fist. But, god, that was hot.

Paul looks down at the apex of my thighs, smiling. "You want me, honey?"

"Yes." I'm nearly panting.

"I can tell. You're glistening you're so wet."

I moan and roll my hips toward him.

He bites his lip as he smells my panties. Then, while watching me, he licks right where my sex lay slick moisture for him.

"You taste good too."

I swallow, needing him to touch me, my vagina is in beautiful pain.

But he steps away from me. I lean forward, bringing my legs together. "What are you doing?"

"I want you so fucking bad."

"You can have me. Right here."

He shakes his head. "I don't want just that. I mean, I do. But I want all of you, Jane. I like you. No. Amend that. I can't think of anyone but you. You're all I want. And I think before you kissed this other guy you liked me too. In fact, I'm pretty certain of it. So the plan is I'm going to drive you crazy. So crazy all you can do is think of me and what I can give you. Because I can fuck you, Jane. I'll find out exactly what you like and make you come and come and come, make you feel so good. But I'll do more than that, Jane. I'll be so goddamned good to you. I'll do whatever you want. But you've got to want me too. And so, I plan to drive you crazy. That way I can have all of you."

"Well, what I want is...what I want is..." I can't say it. I can't say I want him right now. I need to have him inside of me. I've never said the words out loud.

"Tell me what you want." He steps closer.

"I want you," I whisper.

He shakes his head. "It's not going to be that easy, honey. Tell me what you want from me."

I lick my lips. He groans, holding my panties close to his mouth again.

"Tell me how wet you are for me."

"I'm wet for you."

He growls, looking frustrated and so sexy. The lines around his mouth are set, stern. His jaw is squared. He's lovely. "No, honey, I want you to tell me—"

"I've never been this wet before." I don't know where the words or the courage comes from and I'm scared I might retch, but I keep talking. "Never. I've never wanted a man like I want you right now. I've never felt my panties get soaked. And it's all because of you. I love how you touch me."

Love. I said that. And it reminds me of Chris. My heart pinches at the reminder.

"I love how you touch me too." His voice is soft, sweet. "Do you want me inside you?"

I nod.

"Show me." He glances down at my knees pressed into each other.

I glance down too. As a kid, I loved my legs. I ran faster than almost all the boys, except Sean, a distant cousin, who'd snatch me and wrestle me to the ground and kiss me then run away. I loved him for outrunning me, being able to wrestle me. But I also hated him for it. I never could understand my feelings for him.

As a woman I love the small space between my thighs. Oh, I have some nice meat at the top of my legs, but in the middle there's this gap that I think is pretty. I like how muscular my calves are, because I can still run fast. I've always been able to run. Running helped me escape my past life. And I worry I'll need it again. That's a worry of mine I wish I could let go. But I never do.

I can't see my sex. My skirt's in the way. But I like the way my knees are together, that lovely little gap between my legs, and the white skin of my upper thighs pressed together.

"Let me see your pussy, honey."

I look up.

"You ever call it your pussy?"

I shake my head.

"What do you call it?"

"I've never called it anything."

He steps closer, a small smile on his face. "You are innocent, aren't you?" He shakes his head, which I hope means I don't have to answer. "I love your pussy." He looks down at my lap again. "It's beautiful. It's a pretty pink and shining for me. I love looking at your pussy and hope I can do it again. I'd love to spend all day licking you, making you come. Yeah, I want to do that. I want to lick your pussy. Can I keep calling it your pussy? Or do you want me to call it something different?"

I've never liked the word pussy. Whenever I've heard it before, it sounded vulgar. But he doesn't say it like others do. He says it admiringly. Like my sex—the folds, the opening, the blonde curly hair—is a poem. So I like pussy when he says it. But I don't know how to tell him that. Swallowing, I can only nod.

He smiles wider. "Can I see your pussy, please?"

Slowly, I open my legs.

His nostrils flare, his jaw kicks. "So pretty. Beautiful."

"Really?" I sound like a child, and I hate that I do.

"Yeah, look."

After adjusting my skirt even higher, I do. I see myself from his point of view. I see glowing golden curls that turn invisible around my lips, and my sex, my pussy, is an appealing-pink color. And still wet for him. Maybe even more so now.

"I like the way you smell too."

I look up at him.

"I can't wait to have my face between your legs. What do you want me to do to your pussy?"

He wants me to talk dirty. I've never done that before, either.

Softly, he caresses the back of his fingers against my cheek. "You want me?"

"Yes."

"You want my tongue to lick against your clit?"

"Yes."

"You want my tongue inside you, inside your pussy?"

"Yes," I moan.

"You want my cock inside your pussy?"

"God, yes."

"Say it."

"I want your cock inside my pussy."

He kisses me. It's fast and tender. "You want that other guy's cock inside you?"

I'm so startled by the question I jump, trying to pull my legs together. But Paul's between my thighs, and he places his warm hands on my knees.

"Sorry," he whispers. Then he steps away, closing my knees together for me. "Sorry. I push things too far." But the way he looks me over isn't apologetic. He's assessing me. He's trying to read my mind, and I don't have the heart to tell him how much I wanted Chris too.

He licks his lips and nods to himself. "I'm going to drive you crazy, Jane. Crazy for me, as crazy as I am about you. What's his name?"

Again, I'm taken aback by his question. "What?"

"What's this other guy's name?" He doesn't look angry. He just looks determined.

And god help me, but I give in. "Chris. Chris Peters."

Paul nods. "When he kisses you again, will you do me a favor?"

I shrug, not sure what to say, so confused I'm feeling lightheaded.

"Think of me when he's kissing you. Think of me rubbing against your clit. When he cups your breast, think of me sucking on your nipples. Think of me asking if you want my cock in your pussy. I want you to think of me. Then, tell me about it. Tomorrow night, I want you to tell me all about it."

With a quick kiss, he leaves my office with my panties in his hand, a smile on his face, and I'm utterly baffled.

# 4

I'm a mess. A hot mess. I'm sweating, and it's an evening in October, which in my neck of the woods usually means snow or at least frozen rain. Weather so cold it left many settlers dead in their tracks. So I shouldn't be burning, but Paul left me shaky, needy, desperate for him, and sticky hot. God, I want him.

Driving takes new effort I've never needed before. I like driving. It's like running for me. It's an escape and a means to an escape. I love cars. Fast ones. But, for Tim, for our marriage, I bought a tan sedan that I can lose in a parking lot with thousands of others that look just like it. However, my car is reliable. I'll give it that. The one thing dependable from my marriage.

When Tim had lost fifty pounds, looking like bones, his eyes bulging from his skull, I began to love my car as the only place I could run away to escape my reality. So, yes, I've come to like my car more and more, even if it is a mom car. And I'm heartbreakingly not a mom.

I almost swerve into a garbage bin and overcorrect, steering into oncoming traffic. Luckily, I'm still close to the university, where old homes guard the streets with tranquility. Not even eighteen-year-old students can put a dent into the calmness of the traffic here.

I get honked at. An old woman shakes her head at me as she passes from the other lane, but I smile and wave, feeling even more like an idiot. And of course, because the universe has an extraordinarily horrible sense of humor, that's when blue and red lights flicker behind me.

"No," I whisper to myself, not believing my luck. Of course this is my luck.

I slow down and park by the curb in the residential area, seeing curtains pulled aside to stare at the woman getting pulled over. Sighing doesn't do me a lot of good. Neither does rolling my eyes. The cop is taking his or her sweet time getting out of her or his car. So the snooping residents go back to watching _The Big Bang Theory_ or whatever it was I interrupted.

My hands are at ten and two. I vaguely remember my driving coach laughing at me, saying I didn't need to be so stiff when driving. But I didn't want to give in to the urge of driving as fast as I could. The driving coach wouldn't understand my need to run. I didn't understand my constant need to run.

I hate that I'm overthinking right now. I can't help it. It's keeping my mind from Paul and Chris and kissing two men in less than twenty-four hours. It's keeping me from telling myself I'm a slut, even though I never would think that or say it to a friend of mine. I don't know why I'm so vengeful to myself. Actually, I do know why. I just hate admitting to myself that I worry I'm not lovable. It sounds asinine, doesn't it? Like a problem a child might have. I did have it then. And I can't seem to shake it now. So many things I can't shake.

"License and registration, ma'am."

I jump when I hear the deep voice of the officer who's caught me driving recklessly. I forgot I'd unrolled my window because I'd been so freaking hot, thanks to Paul. I'd like to wring his neck about now. Then bite it.

I nod, not looking at the officer, feeling fire spread over my face. Leaning over, I find my insurance and registration in the glove box and hand them to a large calloused palm.

"You know why I pulled you over, ma'am?"

"Because I was driving like an idiot."

"You been drinking tonight, ma'am?"

I shake my head. No, I've just been imbibing on a man. A very naughty man who had me opening my legs, revealing my sex to him. I can't believe I did that. I was drunk on Paul, damn Paul. Damn me.

"You okay?" The officer's voice softens, and I can't help but look at him, wondering about the concern etched in his voice.

The night somehow approached and midnight blue encompasses the fall colors. I love this time of night. Twilight. It makes everything black and blue, two of my favorite colors. It makes everything nondescript. I can't tell what's what. It might seem spooky to some, but after running for three days in the twilight, I know it's not. It welcomed me into its arms and promised me safety if I just kept running.

I'm itching to run. It's what I do when I can't overthink things. I love the _pound, pound, pound_ of my feet hitting the ground, especially asphalt. All I'm thinking about is running when I look up at the officer's face. I can't see much. Dark lines of an angular jaw. Dark hair that might be the color of night. But what I can make out is his blue eyes, the color of twilight.

He briefly looks surprised as he tilts his flashlight away from my face. I hadn't even realized he'd been shining the thing on me.

"Are you okay, ma'am?" he asks again.

I nod, but, and god knows this is the worst time, I want to cry. I kissed two men. I don't know what I'm doing. And I feel guilty. Ashamed. I'm always ashamed of my needs. Wants. Desires. Tears begin to threaten. I blink and turn away from him. "I'm fine."

"Liar."

So surprised he's said this, I turn back to glare at him.

He's smiling. Maybe. The line that is his mouth has been slanted down, but I think that line is tilting up on one corner.

"Do you usually almost hit a garbage can and then drive into oncoming traffic?"

"No." I try to augment my frown because I'm not too sure, but I think he's teasing me.

"And you haven't been drinking tonight?"

I sigh. "No, but I need to."

"One of those kinds of days?"

He has no clue. Has he ever kissed two women in less than two days? Well, three technically if I count Paul's first kiss. And I should count it.

I nod, thinking the cop would more than likely call himself a stud for kissing two women.

Granted, being raised in the kind of environment I was, I heard my fair share of jezebel sermons. I was raised with rather restrictive rules regarding sexuality. But for mainstream people there still seems to be such a gap between male and female's sexual identities. One gets called a stud. The other gets called...

And I'm overthinking again.

The cop sniffs. "And now you get pulled over by some cop."

I nod again.

"You going to a bar to get a drink? With some friends? A boyfriend? A...?"

"My husband's dead."

He winces.

I don't mean to say that, let alone say it with that sharp tone. I know what an impact saying something like that can have. I'm usually more careful because people suck when it comes to grief. Very few people allow another to grieve with grace. Most try to comfort, saying things that are inappropriate unless I'm convinced of whatever religion they follow. If I'm not—and I haven't followed any religion since I was fourteen—it's about as comforting as if they'd taken a razor and cut along my arms. Others try to glaze over grief as if it's not really there. Denial is cruel with its negligence.

So I wait for the officer to say something, to try to make me laugh, try to comfort me with words that cut deeper than he intends.

He drops to his haunches, his head and shoulders in view through my window.

"I'm sorry."

I swallow.

He's one of the few who knows how to let another grieve. And usually those who know how have suffered greatly too.

I bite my lip.

"How long ago?"

It's rude he asks. It should be rude, but I don't take it that way. He balances himself with his thick blue-clad forearm on my window. He's very muscular. Like Chris. Maybe even more muscular than Chris.

God, why am I thinking this?

"Two and-a-half years ago."

He nods. "I'm really sorry."

"Thank you." I look forward, out my windshield. "Did a loved one die on you?" I shouldn't have asked. I know I'm being rude. He's a cop, pulling me over. I should let him do his job. But I've already asked the question. And I don't want to take it back.

"Yeah."

I look at him.

"My fiancé. About seven years ago."

He's young. Maybe not even in his mid-thirties. It's hard to tell with the blue light of night and he'd turned off his flashlight. Nothing to gauge his age. So I can't imagine how young he was when he'd fallen in love, asked a woman to marry him, she'd said yes, and then she'd died.

"I'm very sorry." I touch his forearm.

His blue, blue eyes focus on my fingers. "It sucks."

"That it does."

The corner of his lips curls up. "What do you usually do when you have a bad day? Have a drink?"

"Actually, I'm not a drinker. Not really. I like to run though, but—" the air escapes my lungs.

"But...?"

"But my treadmill's broken and I forgot to call someone."

"What's wrong with it?"

I can't believe we're talking like this. No, I can't believe _I'm_ talking like this. I'm comfortable with him. Really comfortable, and I'll say too much. He's the kind of person I have to watch out for, because I'll like him, want to know him, let down my guard. And I never let down my guard. I can't afford to. If people don't want to bend me to their will, they'll hurt me. Or die. I can't even afford to let my guard down around Bethany, and she loves me anyway. She's a fantastic friend.

"The belt—actually," I say, trying to stop myself but having no luck. "I thought it was the belt so I adjusted it, but then the motor started to make this weird noise, and now it doesn't run."

"It is under warranty?"

I smile. "Yes, I just got it. It's still under warranty." It's my baby and I love my new treadmill, even if the thing won't run for me.

"So you'll get it fixed soon."

I nod.

"But what to do in the meantime? After you've had a bad day, a cop pulls you over and is an asshole who reminds you of your husband?"

I can't help but grin again. "That makes me an asshole too because I reminded you of your fiancé."

"Nah, you were just being polite. I'd bet you're that way. Always polite."

"You don't know me, mister."

We're flirting. I can't believe we are. We're smiling at each other, and I have to mentally smack myself to remember that I just kissed two men. I have to stop the flirting.

"Tell you what, Ms. Emory—"

"Jane." Jesus, I need to stop being so comfortable around him.

"Tell you what, Jane. I'm Gabe. Officer Gabriel Thompson, badge number 83365, if you want to call dispatch about me. Tell them what a great cop I am."

I giggle, which I shouldn't do.

"I happen to have a membership at one of those twenty-four hour gyms. I can have guests come with me."

"Come with you?"

"I should have gotten off my shift about ten minutes ago."

"But you pulled me over instead. You are a good cop."

He smiles. "I followed you from the university's parking lot, Jane. You were driving like your head was in the clouds."

It was. I swallow.

"You're lucky you didn't cause an accident."

I nod.

"Okay, that was my lecture for the day. Now you need a good run. I'll follow you home, make sure you get there without any more garbage cans as collateral damage from your bad day. Then I'll do my paperwork, try to hurry, and I can meet you at my gym. You don't even have to run on the treadmill closest to mine."

"You run too?"

He truly smiles now. White teeth blast me into a stupor. "Not really, honestly."

"You're a weights guy."

He loses the smile, and he looks down to where I'm still touching his forearm. God, what is wrong with me? _I'm_ the one flirting. _I'm_ the instigator.

He shrugs. He's trying to be modest about the weights he lifts, because it's obvious he lifts very heavy things. His physique is the kind gods are envious of. I'm impressed by his humbleness. Or maybe that was his goal, to gain my awe.

I look out at the evening, turning darker and darker. I love fall. It reminds me of school, Anne's school, of schedules, books, lots of books, fun experiments with baking soda and vinegar, of being free.

So I say it before I can take it back. "Will you run with me outside?"

He's quiet, and I can't look at him while I wait for an answer, but he's silent for so long I have to see his face.

Slowly, he nods. "You'd rather run outside tonight?"

"Yes."

"I can do that, Jane."

"Are you going to wear your gun?"

"You want me to?"

I smile and shake my head.

"Yeah, I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you." He takes a short breath. "You want me to meet you at your house?"

"You know how to get to my house?"

He holds up my license and registration. "Do I seem kind of like a stalker now? Or is that just me?"

I laugh.

"It's going to take me at least an hour to get back to your house."

I nod. "Okay. Hey, aren't you going to give me a ticket for driving recklessly?"

He squints. There are fine lines around those dark blue eyes. I like those wrinkles so much. "I'll have to think about that."

"Maybe I can talk my way out of a ticket?"

He smiles and gives me back my information then pats my hand. "I'll see you in an hour or so." Then he walks away.

Twice in one day I'm utterly baffled. This time by me. I think with Gabe, though, I'm in real trouble. There's this sensation that I know him. It's powerful and I yearn to touch him, touch this feeling that hums between us like a hymnal softly sung in an old country church. Anne believed in past lives and she'd tell me we must have been friends before. Or lovers.

# 5

He came in less than an hour. I'd thought of calling the police department, asking for Officer Gabriel Thompson, and telling him not to come. But I didn't. Instead, I thought about the Greek gods striking me dead with a lightning bolt. Wasn't that what they did best? Strike down mortals who overachieved, reached too high, tried to fly toward the heavens?

Was that what I was doing by flirting with a cop and kissing two other men in less than twenty-four hours? Achieving only what the gods would do?

They were a rather lascivious bunch, those gods. So maybe I was trying to do as the deities. Maybe it was my destiny to want three men's attention. Or maybe I was just insane.

"I thought you'd call and cancel," he says by way of greeting when I open the door to welcome him.

He's wearing loose black sweatpants but his black t-shirt is tight across his shoulders and chest. Gods, do I love that. He's built like a brick wall. He's thick, only muscle, and looks like he's the kind of man who could take whatever I can dish out. But that's more than likely my fanciful thinking, since if he got to know me, really know me, he'd find out what a freak I was and still am. The little girl who ran for three days straight to get away from the fanatics who killed thirteen of their own before the FBI and sheriff's deputies stopped them.

Makes for a nice headline, doesn't it?

But after living it, it only makes me a freak. I know that. That's why I hide it from everyone.

"I thought _you_ might call and cancel," I say, opening the door wider.

He's looking me up and down. I'm wearing my black runner's leggings and black snug jacket that cradles my curves. I know it does and I wore it for him, freak that I am, overachiever that I am, trying too hard to reach for what the gods had.

"I never got your number." His voice is a growl. I wonder if he's angry with me.

"I never got _your_ number."

"Are you going to copy everything I say? If so, I could have a lot of fun with this."

He gives me one of his tiny smiles, the kind that curls up at the corner of one side of his lips. He has nice lips, now that I see him in more light. He has more stubble than I thought. Black whiskers. Black hair in a buzz cut. If his hair weren't so short, I'd guess he has a receding hairline. But as it is, I can't tell.

I giggle and he finally walks into my home. I got it after Tim died. I couldn't stay in the house where he passed away. I'm not a complete Miss Havisham. With the money from Tim's life insurance, I could buy a nice house. Not huge. Not lavish. But small and charming. However, my mother-in-law, Margaret, insisted on a rather large house. Said she wanted people to know I was well taken care of even if her son had died before his time.

I don't know why Margaret's still in my life. I would have sworn the woman hates me. But she's always there. Just a phone call waiting to happen. She asks me to do something with her, and I accept of course. Then she hardly speaks to me during a stiff lunch. I ask her how she is, etcetera. She might coldly smile for an answer and drinks a vodka martini like it's water. I know she doesn't drink except around me. I know I make her uncomfortable. But I also know why she's so willing to be uncomfortable. I'm a reminder of her son who she adored. I can't imagine the pain she must suffer having lost her baby boy. So I go and eat icy crab salad with glacier-like vodka martinis. I can give her that much. I wish I could give her more, though.

She bought this house for me. I don't know why I let her talk me into things. I didn't need this huge home.

But I love it. I love the light. How, once past the foyer, everything is open—the kitchen, dining room, living area, it's all so spacious. I kept the walls white, and added white rugs and a white sectional couch where I grade my students' papers, read, and nestle down like it's my nest.

I didn't want this big house, but I'm so grateful to have it.

"Damn." Gabe whistles as he walks past the foyer. "This is huge, Jane."

I wince. I want to say I'm sorry, but he might make fun of me.

I follow him, worried he'll run.

"Being a professor at our small university must pay better than I thought."

"You know I'm a professor?"

"I Googled you."

I think of Chris. I shouldn't be doing this. I might have an understanding with Chris. And Paul. God, what _is_ wrong with me?

Gabe wheels around in the middle of my living room, behind my white couch. "Damn, Jane, this is seriously huge."

I bite my lip, not sure what to say.

"I'm making you uncomfortable, aren't I?"

I shake my head, but he is.

"Sorry, but I didn't expect this. I mean, I should have when I read where your house is. And I should have when I read what your husband did for a living."

"You read what Tim did?"

He was plastic surgeon. Granted, he did the boob jobs and trimming of noses for our small town and surrounding counties, but he did that so he could save up to cover cleft palates in Chile or Brazil or some other exotic locale. At least, that's what Tim told me. Honestly, I think Tim liked the money too much to pass it by.

But the house was bought by my mother-in-law who's an heiress of the powdery soap that cleans toilets. Yeah, that's her. She fell in love with her cowboy of a husband, moved to Wyoming, where later he became a senator for fifteen years before he passed away. Half of Margaret's family is dead now. She and her daughter, Deidra who I adore and wish I knew better, are the only survivors. And that's why I always have lunch with her. I want to comfort her. But I haven't figured out how best to do that. Her smiles are freezing.

Still, I'll always love her, come what may.

Gabe nods. "Sorry."

"Did you have time for your paperwork?" I tease. I have to do something to steer clear of the house that I'm embarrassed of. It is too big for just me. Too opulent. I shouldn't have moved in. God, but I love this house.

He gives me that smile of his. "I'll do it later."

I can't help but giggle. "And I know nothing about you."

"You know I'm a cop who pulls over blondes who drive recklessly."

"I know that."

His minute smile vanishes. "You know my fiancé died almost seven years ago."

"I'm sorry."

He glances away and at my kitchen. "Jesus, you have a Viking Tuscany range."

I look at my stove. "Is that what that is?"

"'Is that what that is?'" He glares at me with a twinkle in his eye. "That's a range I have wet dreams about."

I laugh. "You must cook."

"You don't?"

"Not well." I swallow, liking this part of our conversation too much. We should be running. I should be trying to run faster than him, out run him. But I'm not. I'm here talking. "Want to teach me how to cook?"

He sighs. "I think it would be sacrilegious not to cook on that. So, yeah, it's my duty to teach you."

He shows me how to make scrambled eggs, which I thought I knew how to make, but I didn't. Not properly. And not until he showed me did I understand how important fluffing the eggs were, adding the milk and salt and butter. Oh god, the butter he added to the eggs was more sinful than anything I've ever eaten.

We eat standing over the island center of my kitchen, smiling at each other. While he had been showing me how to cook, he'd occasionally hold my elbow, then my waist, after that my hip. He touched me gently, soothingly, and it still sizzles in my body as I'm eating his eggs.

"Your mom never taught you how to cook?"

This is a casual question, and I know I should treat it as such. But I'm scared. I hide my fear as best I can. My older cousin Gloria and I were in charge of baking bread for our community. I know how to make sixty loaves before the sun peeks through the horizon. I know how much flour is needed, the yeast, the small amount of sugar to make the bread leaven. I know what it's like to knead the dough until I want to cry. Sometimes I did.

I've never stepped into a bakery since. I worry I might retch if I smell the yeast. Or worse, cry. Reveal myself. I've never eaten bread since then. It isn't that hard, actually, thanks to the no/or few carb diets that are the craze now.

I shake my head at Gabe.

He grunts. He does it too, that wholly male noise of acknowledgement. I love the sound that he's made. But I really should be thinking of Chris. Or Paul. I should kick Gabe out.

"We're eating instead of working out."

I nod.

"You're a bad influence on me."

I smile. I like being teased this way. I wish I were a bad girl influencing him to do something naughty.

Oh for heaven's sake, I'm ridiculous.

"However," he says, chewing and swallowing, the movement in his throat more delicious than his eggs, "you could stand to eat."

"What do you mean?"

He glances down my body and I sizzle all over again. "You're skinny."

I scoff. "No, I'm not."

"Why do skinny women always say that?"

"I'm not skinny."

"I bet you can see your hip bones."

"I'd bet _you_ can see your hip bones."

He smiles. "Yeah, I guess. But you're not supposed to see your hip bones."

"Why not?"

"Too skinny."

"Too skinny for what?"

He shakes his head. "I always get in trouble with women. But hear me out. Women aren't supposed to see their hip bones, so they can—so men can—so—Jesus, I'm an asshole."

I laugh. "Are you trying to say that I'm not supposed to see my hipbones so men can bang into me better?" I'm shocked I said this, but I don't want to take it back. And I love how shocked he is too.

"Miss Jane, you have a mouth on you."

"You noticed." I can't help it. Maybe I should blame Paul for riling me up the way he did. Or I should blame Gabe for being so adorably gentlemanlike in my house, for showing up, for flirting with me. But I know why I'm acting like this with Gabe. I like him. I adore the way he looks—he's big. Really big. I like the way he moves—as if he has just the right amount of confidence to make him gutsy, but not enough to really be the asshole he proclaims himself to be. He's perfect.

He stares at my lips, a faint pink rising from his neck to the hollow of his cheeks. While gazing at my lips he asks, "So you can see your hip bones, then?"

I giggle and before I catch what he's doing, he sweeps in and pulls at my elastic waist, looking down my pants. After thanking god I'm actually wearing my pretty periwinkle lace panties, which I'd had to put on thanks to Paul shredding my last pair, I wrestle with the now-not-so-gentlemanlike Gabe.

He laughs. "I can see your hipbones. I knew it."

Then I lunge for his pants and pull, gazing down at black boxer briefs and a large bulge down the center and over to his left thigh. Yummy.

Honestly, I'm too distracted with that bulge to think of looking for his hipbones, and the only other part of him I look at is a vein twisting its way from the waistline of his briefs. How I want to hold my cheek against that vein and feel his blood pumping through his body.

"Hey." He pulls away, laughing. The noise is sexier than anything I'd ever imagine, and I just saw his cock. Well, his dick under black fabric. But still, I love the way his chuckle is more playful than I thought it would be, more full of life.

"Got a good look, did you?"

"Did you?" I try to temper my smile, but I can't help it, I'm beaming.

He's breathing hard and looking at my lips again. Just as I think he's about to lean forward, he shakes his head and takes a step away from me.

He swallows. "You know what you're doing here, Jane?" His voice is sharper than I'd like it to be.

I blink, not sure what he's talking about.

He points between his chest and mine. "I'm a cop. I make shit for a living. I can't afford a house like this, let alone your fucking gorgeous range. You're a professor who married a plastic surgeon. You sure you know what you're doing?"

At first, I'm hurt he's said this. He popped some sort of bubble and I feel like I'm standing in front of him naked and he's judging me. Too skinny, huh? Then I get mad, something I always, always repress. But for whatever reason, I don't catch myself and my temper comes out.

"You sure you know what you're doing, Gabe? I'm just a woman. That's it. I don't have to explain myself to you. But I will tell you, I'm just a woman. And you're just a man. That's all there is to this. That's all there is to life. We can give each other labels and try to figure out how much money we make. And, you're right, as an anthropologist, not even tenured, I don't earn much money. In fact, I'd bet you make more than I do.

"This house was given to me by my mother-in-law because, snob that she is, didn't want people to think my husband didn't leave me with much. And you know what? He didn't. He was siphoning off our money to one of his mistresses who, after we found out he had cancer, ran off with all the money. My mother-in-law is still trying to track her down, but she's somewhere in Germany. Or god knows where. And maybe I shouldn't have accepted this house. I didn't earn it, did I? I—"

He reaches in and kisses me. It's soft and apologetic.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. His voice is so velvety yet so masculine my knees almost buckle.

He shakes his head, only a few inches from my face. "I—I do shit to try to keep people at an arm's distance, my shrink tells me. And, yeah, I see a shrink. I shot a guy a year ago. He had a gun, was shooting at me. It was a clear case. I was in the right, but I still feel like shit about it. It's the first guy I killed, and I don't know why, but something about me is not okay with that, even though I know it's part of my job. So I see a shrink, and I say things to keep people from getting too close because I'm scared of getting hurt. And I—"

I kiss him this time. Soft, reassuringly, I hope. Yet I can't help but want more. So I test the waters by touching the seam of his lips with my tongue. He growls and wraps me in his arms, pushing me backward while he thrusts his tongue in my mouth. My hair's still so short, only a chin-length bob, but he clutches at my tresses, slightly pulling so I open all the more for him while we bang into the cabinets behind me.

Then he steps away, panting. "I—we shouldn't rush."

"We shouldn't?"

He gives me that smile once more. "I want to do things right by you."

My heart pulls in my chest. He's sweet. I never thought he'd be sweet, but he is.

"I should go."

I shake my head, reaching out for him and snagging him by his shirt. "I don't want you to."

He laughs. "Yes, you do."

"No, I really don't."

"Jane, if I don't go soon, I'll—I'll—"

"Tell me."

His dark brows draw together.

"Tell me, because I know you will go. I know you want to do the right thing. But tell me what you want to do, so when you leave I have something to think about."

He shakes his head and looks down at my hand on him. "I can't even tell you."

"Why not?"

"I'll get in trouble."

I laugh, loving that he's said this. "I doubt it."

"Oh yes, I will. I'll start to think more about it while I'm telling you, then I'll want to do it even more, then—"

I moan. "You're really not going to tell me?"

He clasps his big hand around mine and easily pulls free, but he holds my hand, turning it so my palm faces him. He kisses the soft skin there, then kisses again at the inside of my wrist.

"I'm not going to tell you, Jane."

I whine like a little girl. He smiles.

"How do you know that I'm not the one who'll get into trouble?" I keep flirting, hoping he'll change his mind and decide to do the wrong thing. With me. "You did say I'm a bad influence on you."

He actually gives me a real, wide smile. It's shocking how beautiful he is like that, grinning in such a carefree way. He's such a serious-looking guy, almost wears a scowl. But right now, he takes my breath away. My nipples bead, and I'm fairly certain I'm wet.

"Maybe you are the troublemaker." He nods. "But I will tell you this, even if you are trouble to me, one day I will do what's on my mind. And we'll both love it." He kisses me quickly on the lips then starts to walk away. "We're going to have dinner tomorrow. A real date. I'm going to do this right. I'm coming over here and cooking for you. At six. That good for you?"

"I don't want you to go."

That breath-taking grin is on his face once more, and I'm so giddy to see it I feel like I've won something.

He nods. "Maybe you're just as much trouble as I've ever been. But we're still going to do this right, Jane."

"All right." I pout, which makes him laugh. And he races back to me, kisses me until I lick his lips, to which he growls, then walks away from me all over again.

I see him to the door where we kiss a tiny bit more, but he's a man of his word, which makes me like him even more. He leaves. He's going to do right by me. Although, I have no idea what that means.

And it's then I remember Paul and how we're to meet tomorrow night.

I could juggle the two men.

Who am I kidding? I'm me. I can't juggle two men.

Wait, did Chris say something about tomorrow too? I can't remember.

Oh dear.

And...who have I turned into worrying about juggling _three_ men?

# 6

Maybe I should let go of all of them. Three men is too much."

Bethany glares at me. "Don't you dare."

We're at her follow-up doctor's appointment, where we've been waiting an hour for her doctor to show his face. It's Friday and I canceled my last class to be here for Bethany. She's a secretary for the English department, and I can't quite remember how we met, but we soon found ourselves meeting every Wednesday night for our weekly ritual. It's been a little over four years since that first Wednesday night, and we've become the very best of friends. Best friends. Maybe that term should seem juvenile to me, but I love it. I love Bethany.

She shakes her head, retying the flimsy ties of the wacko check-up garb that all doctors insist upon. "Your life just got sizzling hot, and there's no way I'm going to let you drop all those men."

"But I'm not the kind of woman who juggles three men."

"Why not?"

I swallow. "I—I'm not that kind of woman."

"And what kind of woman would that be?"

I'm the anthropologist here. These are the questions I ask about society, speculating what something means about us, we humans. But Bethany is better at it. At least when it comes to asking me the hard questions about myself.

I look down at the floor. "I feel slutty." I've told her everything, how I kissed three men. I didn't tell her every sordid detail about what happened between Paul and me.

Bethany gasps. "I can't believe you said that. You're not a slut."

I purse my lips. "Well, I can't help what I feel."

"Is it what you feel? Or what society tells you that you should feel?"

I growl at her, which makes her laugh.

After clearing her throat, she says, "Seriously though, if you want to give them up, then give them up for the right reasons. Like if you've fallen in love with one of them, then tell the others. But if you're just kissing them, having a good time, I don't see anything wrong with that."

"But what am I going to do about tonight? Chris sent me a text where he said something cryptic about meeting tonight. Paul definitely asked to see me tonight, but he hasn't called to finalize any plans. Then there's Gabe—"

"Gabriel, the angel."

Bethany knows I like Gabe. A lot. Still, I roll my eyes. "Gabe who told me he's making me dinner tonight at six."

"God, that sounds divine. You have to call me and tell me what he's made, how good it was, and how much you kissed."

I giggle.

"What if they all showed up at your house?"

I'm scared of exactly that.

Then Doctor Tardy walks in. That's not his name but should be. Seriously, we've been waiting for more than an hour.

He asks how Bethany's doing, acts like he's not really listening when she tells him about her emergency room visit. He nods and makes _uh-huh_ noises again and again. Then he asks to see down her throat, uses a lozenge and an otoscope to check what the emergency room doctor did just the night before.

He takes a sip of a breath. "Huh." Spinning away from Bethany on his wheeling doctor stool, he asks, "Have you been having any trouble swallowing lately?"

"No." Bethany shakes her head.

"Have you been needing to clear your throat more than normal?"

Bethany doesn't answer and I don't either. I know she's been having troubles with exactly that. She's been taking cough medicine to clear up the tickle she says she has. My heart starts to beat ferociously in my chest, scared to find out what the doctor's question means.

Bethany's doctor nods and starts scribbling things down. While he's feverishly writing, he says, "I see a lump by your oropharynx."

"But the doctor who saw her in the emergency department didn't say anything," I say, hoping I'm panicking for no reason, hoping my panic doesn't show.

"Well, they're in a rush down there."

Like he isn't? Dr. Shows Up Late spends less than five minutes in here and says Bethany's got a lump.

"Anyway, I do see some kind of swollen tissue there. Now granted, it could be from your choking episode. But I'm wondering if it's what caused you to choke in the first place."

"What is it?" Bethany asks.

"I can't tell. Do you mind if I take another look?" This time he seems more thorough, and Bethany's mouth is open while seconds pass. He shoots his scope in different directions, making his little perplexed noise of "huh" all over again. "Yeah, I do think we should run some tests and figure out what that is."

"Tests?" Bethany's usually loud voice is soft, and I take her hand and squeeze it.

He nods. "I'm recommending an upper GI and biopsy—"

There's the word I hate as much as cancer. Biopsy. It's such a good tool for doctors, I know. But I hate it. It means something's serious. It means someone's life will be on hold until the results are in, and then there's a mad rush to figure out how to spend the last few days while here on earth. My heart—god, I can't lose Bethany. I can't lose her. I can't.

I squeeze her hand more, hoping I look like I've got my shit together. That she can lean on me, that I'll be here for her no matter what. I hope she doesn't see the fear, the anguish, the need to cry.

The doctor turns back to us after he's told us more about the tests. "Remember, this could be nothing. But I like to err on the cautious side. So I'm going to recommend a different doctor for a second opinion. If she concurs, then we'll schedule a GI or biopsy. I'll talk to my nurse, Becky, to make you an appointment with Dr. Gallagher. She's one of the best at the oncology department."

Oncology? Shit.

I'm not sure if the floor is still there, because it feels like there's a huge gaping hole in the room.

I want to hit the doctor. Just stand up from my uncomfortable plastic chair and slap him across his round cheek. I know he's doing his job, and I know it is better to be cautious rather than put life to chance. I know it. But I still want to hit the smug little bastard.

He leaves shortly after, and Bethany stares at me, her face ashen, her vivid blue eyes dull. "Fuck."

I squeeze Bethany's hand all the more, not sure what to say to that.

"Well, now you have to do anything I say, don't you?" she says.

I must look confused because Bethany gives me a funny grin.

"You have to do anything I tell you to do now that I just got that news, don't you?"

I smile, trying to be brave like her. "Yeah. We'll have girls' night tonight. I'll get ice cream and margaritas. Maybe chili cheese fries too. We'll sit around in our PJs and watch all your favorite movies."

Bethany laughs. "No way. Not now. Jane, you're going to juggle these three boyfriends of yours and you're going to tell me everything about it."

"There's no way I'm leaving you alone tonight."

Bethany crosses her arms. "Who said I'll be alone tonight?"

I blink. "You don't want me to be with you?"

"No, sweetheart, I've got a date. A hot one too."

"You're going on a date?" My voice cracks. I wish it hadn't.

She squeezes my hand. "I'm scared shitless after that fuckwit told me I have to get tests done....oncology...fuck. But that just gives me more reasons to live my life the loudest I can. This is my one little life, and what Dr. Shit-For-Brains just said means I've got to live it to the best of my abilities. And, missy, that means you too. You're going to juggle these dates of yours."

I narrow my eyes. "No, not unless you tell me more about your hot date." I didn't know she was seeing anyone or even interested.

She narrows her eyes, mimicking me, but with a small smile on her pretty face. "Fine. But only after tonight. You have to first figure out how to juggle all your boyfriends, tell me about it, then I'll tell you about mine."

"Why don't I know anything about him?" I hate myself, but I'm whining.

She reaches for my cheeks. "Because, my lovely friend, I've been ashamed. I've been too ashamed to do anything about this guy. But fuck that, right? I'm not going to live with shame. Not now."

"Then why can't I know about him?"

"Because otherwise you won't tell me everything about your three, count them three, boyfriends."

I sigh. "You drive a mean deal, missy."

She smiles triumphantly. "Oh, and don't call tonight. I—er, might not get the phone. But call me tomorrow and tell me everything."

I giggle. "Might not get the phone, huh?"

Pointing a finger at me, she says, "And I hope for one of those guys, if not all of them, that you might find yourself too busy to call me tonight too. Oh, can you imagine all of them? At once?"

I try to laugh again, but I don't know how to stop from worrying. Maybe I should be worrying about the men in my life who all seem to have the impression that I'll meet them tonight. I can't, though. Not now. I'm thinking about Bethany. I can't lose her. I really can't.

# 7

After pushing the button on my remote to the garage door, I sit in my car and wait for it to open. Twilight is ascending through the sky. Soon the dark glow of the glooming will swallow me whole. I can't have anything wrong with Bethany. I know that sounds irrational, maybe even childish. Because I know I can't control her health or what happens to her.

It might not be cancer, I keep trying to tell myself.

It could be anything else. Why did I jump to that conclusion? The doctor didn't say anything about cancer. However, the specialist recommended is an oncologist.

I really need to calm down about what might be wrong with Bethany.

But I worry.

I know that sitting in my driveway and ruminating is a defense strategy, thinking of the worst-case scenario. That way if Bethany does get bad news, I'll feel more prepared, ready to fight this diagnoses. More in control.

But I've been here twice now. And there's nothing that can prepare you for that word: _cancer_. I looked it up when Anne was diagnosed because I wanted to know why the Greek word for crab grew to mean the disease I hate so much. It's because ancient Greek physicians thought the veins around a tumor looked like crab's legs.

Bethany doesn't have crab's legs for veins. The doctor didn't say so. She doesn't have cancer. She doesn't.

I'm going to cry. I'll just go in my house and take a long shower and cry in there. Maybe get drunk too, because I'm not sure if I can handle the uncertainty of Bethany's swollen throat. Why doesn't she want me to hang out with her? Who is she seeing? Why didn't she tell me about him? Doesn't she trust me?

I trust her with...almost everything.

Shortly after being fostered by Anne, she had me see a colleague of hers. I had therapy for six years. If I hadn't felt like a freak before, then I certainly did after. No, that's not true. The therapy helped. But it was like peeling off a scab every single time I went.

Dr. Betsy Tucker said I didn't have to tell anyone about my past. She said my past didn't define me. I could be anyone I wanted to be. So I chose to be an academic. It was also a way to snub my father and uncle. I was smart and flaunted it. However, my uncle's curse that I would never marry a man who would want a smart girl backfired on me. Oh, Tim liked that I was smart. He said so. I just don't know if he ever loved me for it. Or if he ever loved me at all.

A loud rapping erupts on the car's window, and I not only jump but scream.

Gabriel, Gabe, winces, then says through the window, "Sorry. But you were just sitting in your driveway...I didn't know what to do."

I'm clutching at my heart, panting, trying hard not to cry. Plastering a smile over my scare, I roll my window down. "Hi."

"Hi. Sorry."

I shake my head, looking at the two huge grocery bags he has in his arms. Leafy greens and a baguette poke their way out.

"You okay?" he asks.

He's here to cook for me. I'd forgotten. I forgot everything in my panic to figure out how to bastion myself from Bethany's uncertain diagnosis.

Gabe's blue eyes are compassionate. His dark brows do the cutest thing and turn up in the center, a mark of his concern. He shaved and I wish he hadn't. I liked him with his black whiskers. I want to kiss him, tear my clothes off and his, and have him in my bed. I know I want this because I want a distraction.

Bethany can't have cancer.

I shake my head. In a blur, I get out of my car and rush for him, throwing my arms around his neck. He drops the groceries and makes a grunting noise catching me. I meant to kiss him, fondle him, get him hot. But I clutch onto him, burrowing my face into his shoulder. He smells clean and male. Slightly outdoorsy.

When he puts his arms around me, I nearly sob.

"Hey. Hey," he lulls. "It's okay. It's okay."

I clutch at him more, lifting on my toes, squeezing him as hard as I dare.

He caresses up and down my back. "Something happen?"

"My friend Bethany," I say before I can stop myself. "She—I went with her to a doctor's visit. She choked the day before yesterday, and the ER doctor wanted her to get a checkup after. So we went. I thought it was just routine, but she's got something wrong. I can't lose her. I can't lose her. I don't have anyone else. I can't lose her."

He holds me harder. "I'm sorry. Do they know what's wrong?"

I sound irrational, I realize. The doctor just found an anomaly. But I jumped to a conclusion, and I probably sound crazy because of it. Still, because Gabe is who he is, and I feel instantly comfortable around him, I can't stop myself from blurting everything out.

"No, they don't know." I sniff. "I lost my husband to cancer and my f—mother. I can't lose someone else to cancer. I can't. Not Bethany. I love her and she—she puts up with me and how weird I am, and she knows all my crap and she still loves me."

"She sounds like she's a good friend." He massages my neck with one of his hands and I'm putty.

"Yes. She's my best friend."

"I'm sorry." He takes a deep breath.

I like feeling his chest against mine. He's so firm and warm.

After a beat, he says, "Well, the good news is we don't know yet what's wrong."

I look at him, wanting to smack him, even though I know he's trying to give me sense.

He rubs up and down my arms. "When we find out what's wrong, then we'll fight it. Whatever it is. We'll figure this out."

_We. We'll._ It's been years since I've heard those terms. Tim only used them when we were first married. Maybe I should have known he was fucking around because he stopped saying we. It's such a small thing. Such a small word. But there it is. Or there it isn't, in my case.

Gabe is probably saying things like this to stop my craziness. He's just being nice. But, oh, how I like it when he says we. And I hate how I have a little hope he means what he's said. That he doesn't break promises and vows. That I'll never have to go to the doctor, humiliated, because he's had unprotected sex with who knows how many women.

I take a shaky breath.

He smiles at me, notices my lips for two seconds longer than usual, then says, "Maybe we should get drunk. I'll cook after I get you good and drunk."

I shrug. "I have a little vodka, I think."

His grin widens. "I brought plenty to get you plastered."

I laugh. "You'd planned on getting me drunk?"

"How else am I going to get into your pants?"

"I remember you looking down my pants. Without my permission, by the way."

"You looked down my pants. Without my permission, Jane."

"I also remember you saying you were going to do right by me."

He keeps that smile on his face, the one that makes my heart tattoo a pattern into my breastbone. "I knew I shouldn't have said that. But see, I was thinking after I left your place last night, that life is short."

"Life's short, huh? Carpe diem and all that?"

His eyes are twinkling with the early evening's blue luminescence behind him. "Now, you're thinking."

"So that means you're going to forget doing right by me for getting me drunk. And there's something about getting into my pants?"

He looks down my body. "The problem is you're wearing a skirt today."

"I am. That put a stop to your plans?"

"Nah. I'll work around it."

I'm not sure how, but we gather the groceries, put my car in the garage, then he picks me up and carries me inside. The part I'm not sure about is how he gets me to laugh. I wonder if Gabe is magical. I know he's not, but he obviously has some sort of magic over me. I'm spellbound. I'm relaxed. I'm more myself than I should be. I'm vulnerable. God, I hope he doesn't know how vulnerable I am with him.

He pours me a white wine, while he gets to work on dinner and I change. I have no idea what to wear. He's sexy as hell in dark blue jeans and a black t-shirt. He's casual, his flirting is casual, as if he doesn't mean it. Or like he doesn't want me to think he means it. But deep inside those eyes, I wonder if I do see heat. He stares at my lips for long moments. Before I said I'd change, his gaze skimmed down my body and he said, "Sure do like those shoes of yours. And are those pantyhose? Or stockings?"

I never answered but giggled and raced to my bedroom to labor over what to wear. Finally, I settle on light blue shredded jeans, a lacy camisole with a thick heather-colored cardigan. There's a very slight wave that my usually stick-straight hair never gives me. See? Even my hair likes Gabe.

I'm in big trouble with him because I already feel compelled to tell him everything. This will end badly. How do I know? Because everything ends badly.

When I leave my bedroom, my house smells exquisite with garlic and rich cheeses. He's making a risotto with artichoke hearts and steak.

"I hope you're not vegetarian."

I sneak a crumb of the asiago cheese he's grated. "And if I am?"

"More steak for me, sweetheart."

I smile. "I'm not a vegetarian."

"Darn."

"Darn? Do you really say darn? Or are you censoring yourself?"

He smiles and then snags me by my waistband, pulling me hard and fast against him. His lips are on mine, pushing, moving, urging me to open for him. Taking the nape of my neck, he angles my head and I finally open my lips. He tastes of the sweet white wine, and his tongue penetrates deep.

"This is what I'm like when I'm not censoring myself with you, Jane," he says then returns to kissing me.

"Oh, but I think I like you uncensored."

He chuckles then feathers his lips against mine again, this time softer. "I'm trying to be a gentleman. You shouldn't encourage me to do otherwise."

Then I take his nape and force the kiss to escalate, pushing my tongue in his mouth, thrusting, arching my back so my beading nipples skim across him.

"You shouldn't have worn that top under your sweater," he growls, his hands vise my waist.

"Why not?" We keep kissing between our whispered words.

"It's driving me crazy." He squeezes my waist even more. "I want—I want—" He pushes me away and takes a healthy step back. "Jesus, you—how am I supposed to be a gentleman when you kiss me like that?" He glances down, and I hope my braless nature has gotten his attention. His nostrils do flare, then he licks his lips.

I'm thinking of telling him I want him crazy. I want him uninhibited. I want him. I've never talked like that. Out loud. I've wanted to. But I thought Tim would laugh at me. I don't think Gabe will.

But then my doorbell chimes and I swallow, hoping it's Bethany. Maybe she's changed her mind and wants to be with me, after all. It looks like Gabe has cooked enough for several people, so I could invite Bethany to eat with us.

The doorbell sounds again.

"Going to get that, Jane?" Gabe gives me one of his rare breathtaking smiles. And I suddenly realize it's probably the last time I'm going to see it.

I'm fairly certain I know who's on the other side of the door, and Gabe won't like _him_. Actually, I'm not sure which him it is, but I'm guessing it's Paul.

After savoring Gabe's smile for a second, I reluctantly amble toward the door, reminding myself this is why mortals don't kiss more than one man at a time. I knew it would catch up with me. If Paul is on the other side of the door, he'll humiliate me. Gabe will leave angry and I won't blame him.

Well, it was fun while it lasted, I tell myself. As if I'm not disappointed. So disappointed I want to cry.

I open the door to not just Paul but Chris too, both smiling at me like I was expecting to see them.

"Hello, honey." Paul breezes into my house, kissing me quickly on the cheek. "Look who I found."

I'm shaking by the time Chris says, "Hey," then also sweeps down and kisses my cheek. Like we do that kind of thing. Like we're all good friends who only kiss each other on the cheek.

"Whatcha got cooking, honey?" Paul walks past my foyer and into the house where I once loved how everything was so open. So easy to spot a strange man cooking in my kitchen. Paul turns and smiles at me. "It smells wonderful. And who do we have here?"

# 8

I'm shaking and can't answer Paul. When Chris walks past the foyer, I'm utterly shocked to hear Gabe greet him.

"Gabe!" Chris says in return. Happily, I might add. There's not a note of possessive male jealousy in that welcome. And he walks quickly out of my eyeshot.

Paul turns and arches a dark brow. "Hiding?" he whispers.

"What are you doing here?"

He narrows his eyes. "I'm making things better. You'll see."

But I can't see anything except for Gabe and Chris fuming in anger and storming out of my house, never to be heard from again. I worry, too, about Paul. If he's set this up so I'll only date him. If he's that manipulative. If I'm that stupid to think I could have dated three men.

Paul hooks his elbow out, like he wants me to hold his arm. "Oh, ye of little faith."

I point at my chest, silently asking—Me?—while I vaguely hear Chris and Gabe talk about their respective jobs.

"Yes, you, Jane." Paul's starting to look impatient with me, but I don't want to leave the safety of my foyer, where Chris and Gabe don't have to see my cheeks which feel brand-iron hot.

Paul shakes his head. "You have no faith in me, do you?"

"To do what?"

"Why, work a miracle, honey." He's teasing me. His dark eyes are twinkling. In the spectrum of teases, is he just being cute? Or is he proving a lesson to me?

All the same, I don't see any point in leaving the foyer. After all, soon enough everyone will walk through here to exit.

Paul sighs and steps closer. "You're afraid?"

I don't know how to answer him. I wish I was witty right now, but I'm panicking and I want the night over. I want to be alone. For the men to have stormed out like I'm sure they're going to, and me left reeling, maybe getting drunk on my own.

"Oh, hey," I hear Chris say, "This is Paul Reddick. He works with Jane."

At the mention of his name, Paul turns his back to me.

"Paul, this is Gabe Thompson. He sometimes comes down and cooks for us at the station. He's a cop."

Gabe comes into my view, shaking hands with Paul.

"Nice to meet you," Paul says, and I can't tell if he's genuine or not.

Gabe nods. "Likewise. You work with Jane?"

All the men are looking at me, paralyzed in my stone-floor foyer, the white walls I hoped would be welcoming, but seem too bright now. I'm in too much light. I'm sure they can see through my skin.

"Whatcha doing there, Jane?" Gabe asks. He sounds fine. Comfortable. Like he hasn't pieced together that I've kissed all of them.

I shrug.

"It's my fault Jane's acting shy," Paul says. "I made a joke about anthropologists, and I'm sure she's trying her damnedest to be polite and not give me a what for about English professors."

"You're an English professor?" Gabe asks.

Paul nods. "Don't let that fool you, though. I'm actually an idiot."

Gabe laughs. "I gotta get you a drink now. Jane and I are having wine, but I also brought some beer. Jane, sweetie, do you have anything else for them?"

Is Gabe acting like he's my boyfriend? Like he just offers drinks to _our_ guests?

"Vodka," I say weakly. "Maybe tequila somewhere too."

Paul smiles at me. A tad too widely. "Vodka it is. Let's all have some."

Somehow, I'm convinced to leave the foyer and we eat together. Maybe it was Paul and his enticing shots of ice-cold vodka with sugar and lemon juice, but we're acting like we're the best of friends while we're sitting at the table, finished dinner plates pushed aside. I still don't know how Paul and Chris came to be at my house. Together. Gabe hasn't asked either. And we're laughing. Yes, even me. The vodka helped. A lot of vodka helped.

"Have you seen her while she's teaching?" Gabe asks Paul, leaning over his wiped-clean plate.

Paul nods. "Of course." He leans back, folds his hands behind his head, elbows splayed, looking so damned comfortable.

"You have not." I cross my arms.

"Like I'd let you see me when I'm stalking you."

I laugh. "You were not."

Paul smiles then looks at Gabe. "Rumor was that running around campus was a great anthropology professor who seemed like she actually cared, gave a damn about her students. And I'd heard she was hot."

Chris laughs loudly. "Yes, she is."

I catch Gabe's eyes flicker with something other than camaraderie. It's very quick, but something slithers across his gaze that seems a lot like jealousy, like what I thought he might look like once Paul and Chris walked into my house. I don't blame Gabe if he is jealous. If roles were reversed...I'd have stormed out.

"So you caught her in class?" Gabe asks, the green-feeling or whatever that slithering look in his eyes is now covered and he's egging the conversation on.

"Yes." Paul nods and smiles at me. "I don't even remember what you talking about. Sorry, Jane. But you took my breath away. You were in that gray skirt and gray shirt thing that's almost translucent in some light, and you were laughing, and I knew..."

"Knew what?" Chris asks, pushing his empty plate away.

"That he wanted her," Gabe finishes, his voice cold. His gaze darkens.

Everything stills as if all of us are holding our breath.

My heart is up in my throat. My stomach is—maybe—missing. I don't know. I feel hollow and scared. Things are being said. Feelings are coming to light. And I might throw up.

Paul takes a shot of vodka and pours for everyone else. "I think we should get very drunk."

Gabe looks at the shot glass offered him and crosses his arms.

Chris smiles and swallows the alcohol quickly then stares at me. "I knew it too. I knew it when I saw you in the bar—she tell you how we met?" Chris asks Paul and Gabe. They're both quiet, and Chris continues, regardless. "Her friend had choked. Jane, here, the little hero, saved her by doing the Heimlich. But we're still called in. And it was my job to get her out of the way so the guys could work on her friend. Man, Jane, you fought me. You kicked my shin—"

"I did?" I gasp.

Chris smiles yet again. "It's okay."

"I'm sorry."

He nods. "I knew it when I held you, while you were fighting to get back to your friend. I wanted you."

"You did too?" Gabe asks, only looking at the shot glass. His voice deeper, colder.

"Yeah," Chris keeps smiling.

How can he keep grinning like that? How is this happening? Are they going to storm out now? Gabe looks angry. My mouth fills with saliva. My stomach roils. If I throw up now, it will be the coup de gras of my humiliation. I shouldn't think such things. The universe has a knack for always finding something more to either humiliate or hurt me. There is no such thing as rock bottom.

Needing clarity, needing space to process what's happening, I lunge from the table, racing back to my kitchen island where Gabe's neatly stacked the pots and pans, waiting to be cleaned. It's so neat and tidy. My life used to be tidy.

No, that's a lie.

There's nothing tidy about having your husband cheat on you. There's nothing tidy about cancer. There's nothing tidy about surviving. It's messy and chaotic, and sometimes I worry everyone can see the shamble that is me.

"I'm making you uncomfortable," Paul says, standing at the table.

I turn and look over my shoulder at him, shrugging. "I'm sorry," is all I can offer.

Paul walks to me. "This isn't your fault, darling Jane."

I brace myself against the counter, looking at Gabe's stacked pans. I'm trying so hard not to feel ashamed, to not feel anything at all. And especially not to throw up.

"I knew it too," Gabe says. I can't see him, but his words rumble through me. I love how baritone his voice is. I love the gravel in his pitch. I'm going to miss the way he talks. I'm trying to brace for it, for when he leaves, but I know it will hurt when he storms out. I know it will hurt when they leave.

"I pulled her over for driving recklessly," Gabe continues. "I was supposed to give her a ticket. Give her a lecture. Something. But there I was, feeling like I had to get her number. I just had to have it. I just knew."

I shake my head. I can't be hearing this.

"Jane, honey, come back to the table," Paul says.

I turn, looking at three men looking at me. "I'm sorry."

Chris stands and walks to me. "What for, baby?"

The baby has me a little undone. I gaze at each of them. They have to know how sorry I am, how ashamed. Why do I need to explain myself?

Chris caresses my shoulder. "You can't help it if we all want to be closer to you, get to know you better, date you."

"Yeah, she can't help it." Gabe stares at me, his blue eyes slitted, his face tense. "But she's got to pick one of us."

"Why?" Paul asks, shaking his head like what Gabe's said is ludicrous.

Gabe's visage tightens all the more. "Because that's the way it's done."

Paul huffs. "Jane here is the anthropologist. She can explain this better than I can. But I don't think she has to do anything conventionally. Unless she wants to."

Gabe shakes his head and finally stands, turning and looking through the glass sliding doors to my secluded backyard. "That's why you're here, on the night I asked Jane to have a date with me? To make a play, to get her to choose you?"

Paul sighs. "I—I don't know. Of course I want Jane just to myself. But instead, she's got two other guys after her. Two. I knew of Chris, but I didn't know about you."

I look at Chris. "Why—how did you come with Paul to my house?"

He smiles sheepishly. "Honestly, he said you were a friend of his and he wanted to see you, and that's all I heard. I just wanted to see you so badly that I jumped at the chance. Don't laugh at me."

I shake my head. "I would never laugh at you."

Chris's smile turns more serious. "That's why I like you so much."

I shake my head. "See, none of you know me. None of you really knows me. So how do you know you like me enough to...to...do...I don't know what I'm trying to say."

Paul sits down at the table. "Well, let's get to know you, Jane."

Gabe turns and slowly nods. "Yeah, let's get to know you."

"Where did you grow up?" Chris asks.

I actually growl. I can't stand all the attention, the tension. Grabbing the vodka bottle, I march into my living room.

Diva? _Moi?_

Yes, I realize how I'm acting like a princess. But the growl and running away from the men is merited. They would surely run if they knew who I was, where I grew up. I can see them in my mind's eye, how I'd say, _Well, I grew up in a little commune not far from here. You might have heard about it since it made national news and the FBI and ATF were stationed there for months. But I escaped. I escaped before my uncle could marry me and before my father killed my mother and thirteen other members_.

The men follow me into the living room.

_Thy people shall be my people._

I shake my head as all three find places around the big sectional couch that I nest in.

"I don't want to talk about my childhood," I say, worried I sound like a petulant teenager.

Chris winces and sits close to me. "Sorry."

I reach out and almost touch him but am too aware of the other men. "No, I'm sorry."

Gabe sits at my other side and Paul's the exact opposite of where I'm sitting, so he's looking directly at me. I swallow, wondering just what his purpose is. What does he have in mind now?

Chris shrugs. "I forget that some people didn't have the upbringing I had. Great folks. Hard working. We were poor, but happy."

"Me too," Gabe says.

Chris leans forward and grins at Gabe. "I know. Your old man is a legend at the station."

During dinner, we'd found out that Gabe occasionally goes down to cook for the firemen because his father was a firefighter. It was a tradition his mother started when Gabe was a baby. And Gabe continued it after his mother was killed in an accident when he was only seventeen. His dad is now retired from the force, but Gabe loves to cook, so he considers it a good outlet for his hobby, cooking for a station of firemen.

Paul leans back. "I lived in six foster homes before I was eighteen."

Chris looks at Paul, his mouth open. "Shit, man. I'm sorry."

"Me too," I whisper and spy on Paul with a new light shed on him. We have more in common than I'd thought. I'd guessed, because he's so bright, so witty, so...just on the verge of cocky, that he was one of those boys who had everything—rich parents, nice car at sixteen, weed on the weekends, and a girlfriend who gave him blowjobs in the basement of his mansion.

But perhaps I should have known we had survival of a rough childhood in common. There's always a slight edge to people like us. We try to hide it as best we can, but we know we've endured more than others. Only, it's not a badge of honor. It's a thing of shame, which we bury in six-foot-deep holes in our psyche.

Paul shrugs. "My mom was an addict. Still is. I have no clue where she is now. I gave up on her about ten years ago, when she stole every cent I had. But I'll tell you, having her as my mother made for one hell of an entrance essay into Yale."

That's Paul's defense mechanism. His too-dark humor. It makes people uncomfortable and that's the point. He wants to stick people in the gut with his truth. But in actuality he wants people closer, I'd guess. But he hasn't figured out how to do that yet, too ready to defend himself if someone else abandons him.

I get up and sit next to him, handing him the vodka bottle. "You need this."

"Fuck, yes, I do." He swigs a generous mouthful.

"I broke my foot when I was eight," Gabe says.

Paul and I look at him.

He shrugs. "I thought we were telling sad stories to get the vodka and Jane."

"If that's the game," Chris adds, laughing, "then let me tell you about a paper cut I got last week."

Paul gets up and sits where I was, handing the bottle to Gabe. "Fuckers," he says with no animosity.

I love men and their communications. Just like a magician's puff of smoke, in a second of time, Paul, Gabe, and Chris are somehow closer, more friendly. Just one swearword and—poof!—they're good buddies all over again. Honestly, since being raised in a society that purposely shuns, and seeing it performed by girls and women outside of the commune, it seems terribly barbaric and cruel compared to calling someone a fucker and laughing off whatever tension has been built.

Then the three men and I are teasing each other, drinking, and talking. Really talking. We're playing a weird musical-chairs game with the vodka, where we're constantly moving, rearranging where we're sitting. As the hours pass, I feel the buildup of tension again. Only, maybe because of the booze, it doesn't feel like a storm brewing. It doesn't feel black, foreboding. It's more red and sultry. It feels like the tension built at the end of a date, worrying if he's going to kiss me or not. But which he I'm talking about I have no idea.

# 9

I wake and I'm fairly certain Metallica is setting up a home in my skull. My tongue is wearing a wool sweater, and I may just throw up. Not because of my nerves, but because of vodka. God, hangovers are the pits.

I can't open my eyes. Not yet. And my right hip and lower back hurt. A lot. I'm pretty sure I'm lying in an awkward position, but I don't want to move. Just give me five more seconds before Metallica moves on to their next song.

Finally, I slit my eyes open. My pillow is hard. Someone's thigh. I'm lying on my side, I think, and I lift myself enough to see I'm in Gabe's crotch. He's passed out, sprawled as wide as possible on my couch. Chris's head is on my hip, hampering me from moving much. Chris is also passed out, one hand wrapped around my thigh. He's so cute when he's sleeping, but my hips are aching. He's younger than me. Younger than all of us. Only twenty-nine. And he's always wanted to be a firefighter. He's so idealistic you'd think it would make me cringe. But I think he's beautiful. His angelic thoughts are lovely and I hope life will be wonderful and kind to him.

Somehow, I find a decorative pillow and extract myself from Chris while replacing my hip with the pillow. It works. Or Chris could be unconscious. God, we drank way too much.

Did anyone ever say professors were more mature than the rest of society? Well, that's quite a lie. We're probably just as puerile as the next person, if not even more so. We just have a great vocabulary to our immaturity.

I glance down at Gabe. He doesn't seem to notice I've left his lap. He's slightly snoring, which I think is endearing. He's a year older than me. Paul is the oldest at thirty-seven. But Gabe...he seems the wisest out of us all. That saying of an old soul fits Gabe. And I love that he cooks for the firefighters because his father was one. He spoke a lot about his dad last night. His father is always tough, unforgiving, which makes for a difficult relationship, since Gabe worships his dad. I love Gabe's vulnerability. He also has quite a bulge in his pants right now, and I'm wet. Even with Metallica paying me rent, I still like what I see. No, I love it.

Turning around, I wonder where Paul's gone. I thought he passed out on the couch too, but there's no sign of him. Tiptoeing though my house, I look at my driveway, where his black, late-model BMW is now missing. He's left. And I'm sad about that. I have no idea what to do with the firefighter and cop in my house. But I thought Paul would know what to do.

I'd wondered what he'd been about last night. I still have no clue. But he hadn't wanted to manipulate the situation so the other men would leave. In fact, he seemed to keep encouraging them to stay. But I have no idea what that means. It's not like I could date all the men at once.

Oh, yes, I'm an anthropologist who knows all about polyandry. I teach it. My younger students, usually right around eighteen, giggle and blush, even the boys blush when I lecture about polyamorous relationships. But usually there's an older student, a mom trying to finish her degree who approaches me, shyly at first, saying how her life would be so much easier with one more husband. She can imagine all the to-do lists done, the house clean, and her kids well taken care of. She can imagine her life less frantic, less pressure on her. And if her husband hadn't given her an orgasm, she could go to the other husband for that.

We chuckle and I agree, saying it sounds wonderful.

As a graduate student, I was drawn to researching more about Nepal women who were in fraternal polyandrous marriages. That's where two or more brothers marry the same wife. There's no fighting for inheritance because _all_ the brothers inherit. The brothers are the fathers of the children. Primogeniture is thought of as barbaric and cruel.

As a woman who's come from a society where I wouldn't inherit anything except what my uncle-husband might have wanted to give me, which would be beside what he'd give to his oldest son, fraternal polyandrous marriage sounded appealing. Apparently, the Romans were appalled when they discovered certain clans of Britons were polyandrous. Shaking their heads at the savages and their idiotic marriages. Killing the clans for their heathen ways.

And, no, not every man from my childhood had multiple wives. My uncle, who wanted to marry me, was monogamous until his wife died. Then he looked to me to fill that position.

I don't have a real opinion about polygyny. But in the commune, women were inferior. That I have a problem with. I was raised to believe I would never matter as much as a man. Yet, through my veins pounded something contrary. I don't know why I thought any kind of clashing belief. I really don't. I was beaten into submission. But there was something in me, something with feathers and wings, that wouldn't submit.

Still, I live in an environment that doesn't allow much room for anything but what those Romans enforced through slaughtering the Britons two thousand years ago. Oh, there's nothing wrong with monogamy. I love monogamy and wish I'd had it. But there's the rub: there are so few who are committed, truly committed. Maybe there's nothing wrong with monogamy or polyamorous relationships. Maybe there's something wrong with the humans who go into those relationships.

I creep into my bathroom which is en suite to my bedroom, so glad I closed my curtains and everything is dim. I'm fairly certain Metallica disbanded and some of the members are playing in my eyes now. After I retch a few times, not throwing up anything but feeling rotten, I take some aspirin, hoping I'll keep it down. A heavy dose of mouthwash seems to help. Crawling into my bed, I sigh contentedly as I stretch. Chris's head was heavy on my hips, twisting my legs to lie still. So it feels fantastic to lengthen my legs and arms.

My bed was a gift from a visiting art professor before he returned to Finland. The thing is so huge it needs custom mattresses and bedding. Dr. Lieben worked at our campus for only one year. In that time I had a few lunches with him, asked him how he was doing, but nothing extraordinary. Yet, when his green card was refused, he gave me this giant hand-made bed. The frame is a mixture of spun iron and balls of milky glass, ornamentally placed here and there. It looks like a throne bed for a princess from _Game of Thrones_. It's one of the most beautiful works of art I've ever seen, let alone slept in.

Tim thought Dr. Lieben was in love with me. But I've never thought that. I think he was lonely. And loneliness, I know all too well, creates a wildness within a person. The lonely forget social rules, forget to mask emotions, forget to cover gratitude. Instead, there's such overwhelming relief from the ever-squeezing loneliness that gifts become too extravagant and love is given too freely.

Tim hated the bed, so away it went to a storage unit. After Tim died, after I moved into this house, I—and the help of half a dozen movers—hauled it out of storage and into my too-large blue and lavender room. I worry I love my things too much. I can't help but adore how pretty my bed and bedroom are.

Drifting into the peaceful cloud right before sleep takes over, I vaguely feel my stratocumulus moving. Someone's getting under the covers. The mattress dips and quakes. A warm chest presses against my back and a heavy arm is slung around my waist. A nose nuzzles into my nape, moving to my ear.

"You okay, Jane?"

It's Gabe. I smile.

"I threw up."

"Oh, poor Jane." He gently caresses my stomach. And what I like so much about him is he's not teasing me. He's not ridiculing my upset stomach. He seems genuinely concerned.

I know, maybe that shouldn't shock me so much. But Tim would have laughed at me. Many others I've known wouldn't have been concerned if I were sick. Especially sick from a hangover.

"Are you okay?"

He kisses my lobe. "I'm better now."

His erection presses against my ass.

My eyes pop open. Wow. He's huge. Good morning, I can't help but think.

"Sure, don't invite me," Chris grumbles as he walks into my bedroom. His blond hair is standing on end, and he stumbles around my bed and gets under the covers on the opposite side of me. "Shit, I feel like shit."

Gabe stiffens at Chris's entrance, but says, "Jane threw up."

Chris looks at me, and I'm staring at him, I'm sure, in bewilderment. He cups my cheek. "I'm sorry, baby. You need me to get you some Sprite or something? Ginger ale?"

"Maybe you should," Gabe says, then presses his hardness against me again. "I want coffee too."

Chris chuckles and rearranges the covers, revealing his t-shirt-clad wide chest. "Sure, Gabe. I'll just leave you alone with Jane. I might not be all that smart, but I'm not dumb."

Gabe laughs. "Can't blame a guy for trying."

Their easy camaraderie throws me. Well, having two men in my bed at once throws me. I have no idea what's going on. Do they know what's going on? Why are they so comfortable both being in my bed?

"Where'd Paul go?" Chris asks.

Gabe and I shrug, then I say, "I was going to take a nap and call him, see where he went."

Gabe's hand holds my hip and pushes his erection into me all the more. "Paul's a nice guy." His voice is close to a growl, and I almost shudder from the noise.

"Yeah, he is. I like him." Chris sighs. "I never thought I'd like one college professor let alone two." He smiles at me and winks.

Gabe's hand skims up, up, up, just touching the base of my breast. "Yep," he says. "Paul's a good guy."

"You're a good guy." Chris points at Gabe.

I'm holding my breath while Gabe's hand slowly returns to my waist. He sighs with a sound I'm fairly sure is tinged with guilt. "You're a good guy too, Chris."

"Did that make you stop from feeling up Jane?"

Gabe silently chuckles. "I don't know why you'd say you're not all that smart. You're pretty damn clever."

Chris rolls on his back, flinging a giant arm over his eyes. "Nah. I just thought if I were you, what I'd be doing under those covers with Jane pressed against me."

We're silent for a long time. Gabe starts rubbing a small circle on my belly. Chris's breath evens out. I try to relax, but I have no clue how, sandwiched between two men who have made themselves at home in my bed.

Gabe sweeps his nose against my nape again. "Think he's asleep?"

"I'm not asleep. Just resting my eyes," Chris growls.

Gabe softly chuckles and kisses my neck. The feel of his whiskers against my sensitive skin nearly makes me moan. His tongue traces a design on the side of my neck, an area that feels connected to the apex of my legs.

"And what do we have here?" Paul walks into the room, smiling at Gabe and me.

# 10

Paul's holding a drinking carrier full of what appears to be coffee and a bag that looks suspiciously like it's from a pastry shop.

I can't explain it, but all the tension in my body is released when Paul walks to the foot of my bed, smiling.

"Coffee." I sit up, holding my hands out to him. "You are a god."

He laughs and shakes his head. "You want what I have, honey? You're going to have to come and get it."

"But I'm so comfy."

"I bet you are." He glances at Gabe and Chris who are now sitting up and leaning against the headboard that's laced with shredded white silks and rayons and threaded with eye-catching crystals.

I affect my best Oliver Twist. "Please, sir. More, sir."

Paul's smile widens. "Not my favorite Dickens, but close." Then he lifts a brow, a mischievous glint in his dark gaze. "What are you willing to do for some coffee, honey?"

Apparently, Paul can drink like the devil because he doesn't seem to be affected by a hangover. Oddly, Metallica seems to have left my skull and eyes. I feel better. Spunky. Playful while looking at Paul.

"What do you want me to do?" I shift to sitting on my shins.

Paul's smile is appreciative that I'm playing with him. He takes a deep breath, like he's mulling over how best to make me beg, even narrowing his brown eyes.

Last night, I learned that Paul lived by himself for almost a whole year before he'd been put into foster care. He'd been thirteen. He went to school every day, even on days when he'd been sick because it was his one sanctuary. He loved reading. He'd fall into a book, as he calls it. It was his escape. It was his world. It's why no matter how shitty things got, he always went to school. He has a post doctorate that I didn't even know about. He's highly overeducated to be working at the small university where we teach. But he wanted a small town. He wanted stability and thought he'd find it here.

I wish I had it in me to give him stability. I have no clue what I have to give any longer. But I love playing with him. He's brilliant and I feel like he has no clue how smart he really is. He's never demeaning, which someone with his IQ could easily be. Instead, he's encouraging. Kind. And it seems under those huge words, his self-effacing humor, he just wants someone he can rely on.

"I want you to kiss..." he pauses dramatically, "Chris."

I'm surprised Paul's said this and turn to Chris as if he has an answer to Paul's request.

Chris smiles and shrugs. "I was just saying how I liked you, Paul, and thought you were a real good guy."

"Kiss ass," Gabe grumbles.

Chris laughs then looks at me. "I'm game if you are."

Swallowing, I crawl toward him, hesitant. Quickly, I swoop in and kiss his lips, and pull away, settling a few feet from Chris, before any kind of passion is revealed. Ah, but I loved the way his lips felt against mine, the morning whiskers against my chin, his warmth and scent.

"Nah-uh." Paul shakes his head, frowning. "I want you to really kiss him. Like you would if Gabe and I weren't here."

I blink, feeling my arms begin to shake. I don't know why I'm trembling. I'm scared, I guess. And I am. I'm also terribly aroused. Is it Paul that makes me feel so...ready for sex? Or is it the situation? Or is it the men in my bed? I really don't know but wonder if they can sense my excitement. And shame.

"This is weird," Gabe says.

Paul, in a look I've never seen on his face before, glares at Gabe. "Don't do that, man. Don't make her feel bad." I've also never heard his voice like that. He's gruff, not smooth as velvet. He's animalistic and, although Paul isn't exactly a big man, at that moment he's so alive with tension he looks like he could take the other two men down.

I can't look at Paul for too long. At that second, with him so feral, he makes me think about staring into the sun, the glare so bright it hurts. So I glance over my shoulder at Gabe.

He's wincing, his lips twitching. I expect him to be angry. For the men to fight, storm out of my house. But he's looking down at my blue and lavender bedding, taking a deep breath, seeming to look like he's thinking and sorry too.

He glances up at me, swallowing. Too quick to know what he's doing, he lunges for me and kisses me quickly and tenderly. His morning whiskers rub against me. His hair is coarser than Chris's and I'd love for Gabe to rub his face along my breasts.

But I don't know what to think or feel or what I _should_ do.

Gabe leans back. "Kiss him." He glances at Chris.

I look again at Paul, wondering how the ring leader got this to happen. I don't understand any of it other than I'm turned on. Perhaps I'm merely dreaming. I did drink a lot last night. Maybe this is just an alcohol-induced dream. But it's a damned good one.

"Go ahead, Jane." Paul nods toward Chris. "Kiss him so you can get your coffee. Better hurry before it gets cold."

I turn back to Chris and crawl slowly toward him. The moment is clear to both of us. What we do next will change something. We know it. Everyone in the room knows it. I kneel on my shins beside his lap. He's staring into my eyes with such longing and warmth. That's what I feel from him. He's a heater. Not just physically but I feel that heat spread through my breastbone straight to my heart. Like Paul did in my office, Chris is melting me.

I've been so cynical. I haven't trusted a man since I first met my husband. And I hate to admit how with every man I meet, I wonder if he's a cheater. I wonder if my dean cheats on his wife. I wonder if my general physician has sex with one of his nurses behind his wife's back. I wonder if the friendly man at the DMV has fucked around, hurting the woman he loves.

You know what disease my husband left me with? The disease of pessimism. And, oh, how I don't want what Tim did to define me. I hate that it has.

But in Chris's gaze all of that seems blurry. My poisonous pessimism is lessened because his optimism outshines it. I want to see the world as he does. He knows down to his bones there's more good than bad, more love than hate. So I gently place my lips against Chris's, hoping he'll melt all of me.

He caresses my cheek, gently feathering his lips against mine. His tongue slides against me. I hesitate, but I want to feel the way I did in the bathroom when we first met. I want to feel his big hands everywhere on me. I want to feel so hot that I can't help but burn.

I open and thrust my tongue in his mouth. He captures me by my neck, and holds me still as he strokes against my tongue. Slowly, I place my hands on his chest. God, he's so hard and his heart is beating into my hand. I love that. I feel him. I feel the very heart of him. And I want him to be mine.

We kiss and kiss and kiss, until I hear Gabe breathing. I pull away, not daring to look at anyone but down at the rumpled bedding. What did I just do?

Gabe reaches around my waist and pulls me on his lap. I'm compliant because I feel terrible for liking what I've just done. Then Gabe kisses me. It's not like before, quick and tender. He's inside my mouth, claiming me, moving his lips, making me come back to life for him. I kiss him back. His legs are firm, his chest is iron, and he's so insistent, so pushy, so sure. He makes me feel more confident while I kiss him. And I'm melting for him too.

But I pull away because I've got to know. "You don't think less of me?" I can't look at Gabe or anyone. And, really, I'm asking all of them.

After a lifetime of men thinking I'm less, I can't help but worry. In graduate school I was always trying to prove myself especially to my male professors. I wanted to be...I just didn't want to be less than anymore.

And at that second, all the years of feeling I had to work so hard and having never been enough, never having enough, never feeling loved, comes creeping out. I'm scared I'm going to cry in front of them.

Gabe's shaking his head when he glances over my shoulder. Paul's there. He must have put the coffees and pastry bag somewhere, and he swiftly catches me and holds me in his arms, taking me away from the bed. I've never been manhandled like this. First Gabe, now Paul. They hold me and sweep me off my feet.

"Say the word, honey, and we'll back off. Or at least, I will." Paul leans his head against mine and places me on my bureau, where I can see Chris and Gabe still in my bed, looking at me.

"I'll back off," Chris says. "If you don't want me."

I look at Gabe who frowns. "Fuck that. I want her. If she says no, I'll keep trying. I mean, I'm not going to stalk her, but I want her." He looks directly at me. "You. I want you. I've never met anyone like you. I feel comfortable with you. I can see you becoming my best friend. So, yeah, fuck that. I'll fight to have you, Jane. But I would never do anything to hurt you."

Paul softly laughs. "Gabriel, the gallant. But he does make a good point." He glances at me. " _My_ point was, I don't want to do anything to make you uncomfortable. You have all the power here, honey. You say one word and we'll do what you want, except I think we'll try to win you back if you say you don't want us."

I shake my head. "I—I don't understand. I'm not trying to be daft, but what you're saying...did something happen last night? Did you guys talk? I don't understand."

"We didn't discuss if we were willing to share you, if that's what you're thinking." Paul shrugs, sliding a hand down my back to rest on my bum and the bureau. "After you passed out in Gabe's lap, and by the way he was rather gallant making sure your head didn't land on his dick. Anyway, we did talk about you. I think we all feel the same. We want you, want to get to know you better, and, like Gabe, I think we all feel you could become our best friend and hopefully our lover."

" _Our_ lover?" I gasp.

"That—that came out differently from what I meant." Paul furrows his dark brows.

"Is there such a thing as a Freudian slip, doc?" Gabe asks. "I mean, I think that _is_ what you meant."

"Fuck it," Chris blurts and leaves my bed, slowly walking toward Paul and me. "You guys are making this way too complicated. No, we have no idea what we're doing. But all of us feel the same—this attraction to you is so powerful there is no denying it. And that means something. We all agreed about that then passed out." Chris grabs a coffee and smiles just at me. "And forgive me, baby, but I think you owe Paul a kiss." Then he sips his drink. "Hey, this is hazelnut, huh?"

Paul shrugs. "I thought everyone would like it, and I—"

I grab Paul and force a kiss on him. He grunts but then groans in my mouth. He's pushing my legs astride and standing inside my thighs so fast I'm not sure what to do. He's pushing the kiss to do more, be more, and I'm trying to catch up.

I think he has been orchestrating this so we could become lovers. All of us. Maybe even at the same time. And my vanilla mind sizzles at the possibilities. Paul captures my waist and pulls me against him. Hard. And he's hard. Ah, god, he's so fucking hard. Through his jeans and mine, I feel the width of him, the length. I wonder if I can even feel his pulse.

Suddenly, he pulls away, taking a step back. He glances at Chris, still beside us, then down to the ground. "Sorry. I got carried away."

I feel dizzy and so needy. My—okay, I've got to get the courage to call it what Paul does—pussy aches for him. I want him inside me.

Paul takes another step away, but Gabe's there catching his elbow, saying, "You're just going to leave her like that? You kiss her like that and walk away?" Gabe smiles at me. "If you don't do something, I will."

But Chris acts first. His mouth is on mine, he's right where Paul was, in between my legs, my chest against his.

"That was hot, the way you kissed him," Chris whispers then kisses his way to my ear. He lifts me and carries me back to the bed.

"Wait," Paul says and instantly Chris peels himself off me, leaving me panting on the bedding.

Paul's shaking his head. "I have to know, Jane." He waits until I sit up and look at him. I'm sure I'm blurry-eyed and probably look flummoxed, but he asks, "Do you want this?"

For such an articulate man, he's not asking me specifically what I want.

All three men are around the bed. Gabe to my left, Paul in the center, and Chris to my right. They're waiting for me to answer.

We haven't even discussed what this is that we're doing. I'd guess Paul hasn't been articulate because he doesn't know how to put it into words either. We haven't nailed down any of the details.

Maybe I should feel disgusted with myself, how lascivious I am, how I want all of them, how I have no clue how to have them all at once but I'm excited to try. I am a tad ashamed, I have to admit. But my desire is much louder. It's roaring in my ears, through my body, pulsing in my sex, my pussy. I want them. I want them inside me and I don't care that they don't love me, that they don't want to marry me.

Those are the rules. And I'm breaking them.

But I don't care. I just want Chris to make me hot, so hot I can only sweat and moan; Paul to make me soar through the heavens; and Gabe to ground me, be my earth, be my solid base. I want them so fucking much.

I nod. Oh, yes. I want _this_.

# 11

But under my raw desire, my aching sex, my sensitive breasts, I'm terrified they'll leave me when it's over. When the non-articulated _this_ is over. And I'm worried they'll leave disgusted with me.

Gabe sits on the bed beside me, caressing my cheek, my jaw. "You sure, Jane? You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

I nod again. Because I do want them. I want to know each of their touches. I want this intimacy. I'm just terrified of what comes after.

I've always thought that if I stuck to the rules then good things would happen. Due to the cursed words from my father and uncle, I've always worried Anne died as a consequence of wanting to learn, going to college then graduate school. I followed the rules with Tim. We didn't have sex until we were married. Although, I ached to know what he felt like inside me, to shed my virginity long before we were wed. Still, I followed the rules, because I thought the consequences, whatever they may be, would be easier to face.

I never thought I'd have to deal with cancer twice. I never thought Tim would find so many women to sleep with.

I know thinking if I only follow the rules then good things would happen is childish. It doesn't work that way. But discovering that lesson hurt more than anything I've ever known. And I just don't know if I can face the consequences if the men leave me, sneers of repulsion on their faces.

So, I tell myself not to care. I have to stop giving myself away. I can't fall in love with any of them. Although when I look at Gabe, his dark blue eyes focused on me, his hand calmly reassuring, I'm so scared that no matter what I tell myself, I'll do something even more stupid than have sex with three men at once.

Chris is suddenly behind me, massaging my shoulders and neck. Then he kisses my nape and I arch my back, closing my eyes. Huge warm hands cover my breasts and I moan.

"Does that feel good?" Gabe asks. It's his hands caressing my breasts.

"Yes."

Chris works on the other side of my neck and I feel another set of lips on me. I glance up at Paul who's come on the bed. He smiles reassuringly and I have to tell him everything.

"I haven't had sex in more than two years. Almost three."

He nods and kisses my lips. "We'll be gentle."

I caress his whiskered jaw, the corner of his lips. "I—I've only had anal sex once."

"Did you like it?"

I can't look at him. I can't look at anyone, remembering how drunk Tim was, how he'd fumbled for me and tore into me. The pain was deep. I bled for two days.

Paul caresses around my eyes, leaning forward and kissing my lids. "I can make it feel good. I can make you come from it."

I don't doubt that he will. I kiss him while Gabe's pinching my nipples and Chris is sucking my lobe. My senses are close to overload, but I anchor myself to these men and what they're doing. It's so good, so intense. I doubt I'll ever feel anything like this again.

"Can I take your shirt off, Jane?" Gabe asks.

As soon as I nod, Chris pulls my camisole up and over my head. I look at Paul. "I want everyone's shirts off."

He smiles. I love the way men remove their shirts. They reach around to their backs, bunch up the fabric in their fists, then tug it over their heads. Gabe and Chris are first, and I'm amazed at Gabe's musculature, the dark hair all over his chest. I lean back and savor the feel of my skin against Chris's. As far as I can tell, he has no hair on his chest. He's so warm. Hot. I feel the hills of his pecs against my shoulder blades. His stomach against my spine.

Chris rubs up and down my arms as Gabe feathers over the very tops of my breasts. But Paul...I check to see what he's doing. He's still smiling, looking at me. Only, his grin is so much more than it was earlier. I feel humbled the way he's looking at me. It's as if I'm someone special. Special to him. As if he adores me. I don't know how to explain what I'm feeling other than something akin to bubbles bursting against my heart. It tickles. It fizzles. It's so beautiful.

I feel cherished if I believe what's on his face.

I've never felt cherished before. And although my body loves what Chris and Gabe are doing, I reach for Paul, kissing him with wild abandon. Now, he's having a hard time catching up with me. But, god, I love the way he looks at me. As if the only thing he wants is to make me happy.

Or maybe I'm reading him wrong.

But for now, that's the way I interpret his look. For this moment to continue, I will believe he's cherishing me. I'll worry about my heart and wounded pride later when he walks away from me.

Frantically, I tear at his t-shirt, lifting it up and over his head. Then I feel him. Oh. His skin is smooth. He's not overly hot, but I like the heat from him. He's lean with a cut stomach revealing every single muscle. I kiss down his neck, feeling with my hands along his goose bump-filled pecs to his belly.

"Let's take off your pants, honey," he whispers, taking my wrists in his hand and somehow twirling me around on my bed. I feel like a ballerina. Maybe that sounds fanciful. Or silly. But I love feeling light, delicate, feminine. Adored.

I'm on my back in a blur of motion and both Chris and Gabe are unbuttoning and unzipping my pants.

"Slow down, guys," Paul says, still loosely holding onto my wrists now over my head.

Gabe's gaze slowly ascends to meet mine. On the way he takes in my breasts, which I'd never thought were much to look at. They are enough to get in my way when running. I always need support. But they aren't large enough for men to fall over for. Or to look at me so hungrily as Gabe's doing.

"You're so perfect, Jane," he whispers. "So fucking perfect.

"I thought I was too skinny," I tease.

He smiles and braces his arm beside me, leaning down for a kiss. At the same time, Chris is continuing to pull my pants off and has to get off the bed for his work.

"Not too skinny," Gabe growls.

"Just right," Chris finishes.

I can't help but giggle. But then I stop when I notice Chris. It's the first time I've seen him. I did feel engulfed when I had my back to him, but now I see why. He's huge. God, he's just...giant. None of the men are small by any token. But Chris is...then I check the bulge in his pants and can't help but feel intimidated. That's humongous as well. How could that fit? Oh Lord.

Chris catches me looking at him. I must have worn my apprehension on my face because his is instantly downcast.

"I'm sorry." He looks away.

I sit up and cradle his face in my hands. "No, no."

He shrugs. "You're not the first woman to look at me like that."

God, I've wounded him, and I bleed for him. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He shrugs again. "I think I should go."

"I want you in my mouth."

He shakes his head. "I know what that look means, baby. I've seen it before."

"I want you in my mouth," I repeat.

His blond brows pucker. His light blue eyes study me, and I wonder if I can read his thoughts: he wants me to suck him as much as he doesn't want to scare me, hurt me.

Reaching for his jeans, I slip the button through the hole when he stops me.

"You don't have to." His voice is pure gravel.

I feel his past rejections inside my body. I know rejection all too well. And whatever intimidation I might have felt is vanished. Chris is so kind, considerate, and beautiful. If I hadn't promised myself to never fall in love with these men, I'd fall for Chris. He's clean. Pure of heart. I can't say that about very many people, but I can about Chris.

And that turns me on. His huge body turns me on. My desire for him heats my veins, coaxing me to do what I want.

"I know I don't have to, sweetheart," I coo. "But I want to."

He huffs for air as I take his zipper and pull down. Behind me, Paul's there, caressing my back. Gabe's watching, waiting for me to do something. I reach into the waistband of Chris's white cotton boxers, the fabric so soft and smells of detergent and him. Through a small thicket of curls I find him. His cock is huge, pulsing, and I take him out.

Chris is nearly panting by then.

"Let's take off your pants," I whisper.

After I release him, he stands and makes quick work of his jeans and boxers. He's the first one of us to get naked, and he's beautiful. He should have been first. His gold hair, golden skin, even his huge penis has a tint of gold along the shaft, while the head of him is blushing pink. I clutch at one of my breasts as I look at him. God, yes, I'm scared of him being inside me. But I'm up for the challenge.

# 12

I crawl to Chris, feeling Paul's fingers trail on my ass. Then I kiss Chris's muscular stomach, his hip. Sitting on my shins on the bed, I nuzzle his shaft against my lips and cheek.

"Fuck," Gabe whispers.

"Getting condoms." I vaguely hear Paul say. Is he going to a store for those? It doesn't matter, because I have all the time in the world with Chris's cock.

I lick him up and down. Swirling my tongue around his head, I'm making him moan. Pearly moisture beads out of him. My pussy is throbbing. Aching. It feels so good. Such an odd dichotomy this sensation of almost pain mixed with pure pleasure. This is desire at its best.

I suck the dew at the tip of him, and he tilts his head back. Then I open my mouth and take him in.

"Fuck," this time Paul says it, and I can tell he's thrown something on the bed.

When Chris is in my mouth, Gabe caresses up and down my thighs then glides his fingers over my sex. I moan. Taking Chris's shaft in one hand, I try to engulf him more and more, while my loose fist compensates for what can't fit. I make sure to get him warm and wet, and he fiddles with my hair, gently caressing me.

Gabe takes both sides of my panties' waistband with hooked fingers and pulls down the cream-colored lace. I lift slightly, my bum in the air. I need both my legs to support this position for Chris. So I can't really help Gabe when it comes to taking off my underwear.

"Tear it off," Paul grunts.

"Jane, is it all right if I tear off your panties?" Gabe asks, his voice hoarse.

Sucking Chris to the very tip, I extract my mouth, keeping time with my hand. "Yes. Please."

Gabe chuckles then yanks my panties off.

Cool air touches my aching folds. But a warm, calloused hand sweeps over my sex.

"Jesus, you are wet, Jane," Gabe growls.

I spread my legs more, arching my back, pushing my ass toward him, starving for him to touch me there, touch me everywhere. He runs a hand down my spine as I open for Chris again and suck in as much as I can.

"Blonde everywhere." I'm not sure which man says this about my pubic hair. It's said so reverently, on a whisper.

I've never been wanton like this. I've never allowed myself. The lectures I heard as a little girl to remain chaste have clung to me. Until now. I'm sure so many other little girls receive something similar, how only an innocent woman has virtue. Will I have any worth if I continue to let go?

The problem is I can't help but give into this glorious pleasure, no matter the consequence.

Gabe's hand is over my pussy again, just skimming. I rear back, needing to make contact, continual contact. Please, just touch me, I'd beg if I were more bold.

"Touch her." Paul's voice is raw. "You're torturing her."

I stop what I'm doing and glance over my shoulder at Gabe. He's staring down at my backside turned up for him, his nostrils flare, his breathing is hard. His hand on me is stiff.

"Did I do something wrong?" My voice is too soft.

But I know I did something wrong. Feeling this much pleasure is forbidden. It's in all the myths. Life can't be this good; life isn't this forgiving; life is dangerous and cruel.

Gabe glances up. "Chris, buddy, hang on."

Chris holds his own cock, looking unsure, staring down at me. Then strong rough fingers grab hold of my ankles. In a quick move, Gabe twists me and shrugs me down the bed, closer to him. If the air hadn't been swept from me, I might have laughed. But all I can do is stare at Gabe.

He glances at Paul and Chris. "I want to make her come."

Paul smiles and I can't even catch what Chris is doing before I feel warm, warm lips on my sex. Gabe kisses me open mouthed, pulling in my clit, sucking, making me arch my back. Clinging to the bedding, I moan and moan, turning my head side to side as Gabe then licks with quick motions.

All I feel is what Gabe's doing to me. I open my legs more, let them fall to the side, feeling already helpless to the desire flooding my blood, my body. Butterflies escape from my heart and tickle through my belly, down to my womb and channel.

Hands are on my breasts, squeezing, caressing.

Gabe is licking down and around my opening then swirling back up and over my clitoris. He does this over and over until I'm dizzy, hardly noticing the hands helping me arch off the bed.

"So pink," Chris says, taking my nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

"Like little rosebuds," Paul agrees, leaning over and suckling my bud into his mouth.

Sucking, licking, kissing, touching, caressing, massaging, all of it is engulfing me. I'm nothing but my senses. Gabe finally gives me a second to breathe, stopping his ministrations.

"Like that, Jane?"

"You're killing me," I moan and look down between my thighs. Gabe's wiping his mouth; Paul's licking around my areola; and Chris is massaging my breast with his huge hand.

Gabe softly chuckles.

" _Le petite mort_ ," Paul says. His French accent impeccable. Of course.

So the men are planning to kill me. _Le petite mort_ is what the French refer to when passing out from an orgasm. Chris, Gabe, and Paul plan to kill me with pleasure. What a way to go.

Gabe licks me again, this time slower, more measured. Unlike before when I couldn't even breathe, I can sip in air between his efforts. Paul and Gabe begin to time their movements. They're in sync. Chris leans over and joins the rhythm, sucking my nipple to the beat too. And I feel it. My orgasm is pouring down from my skull, through my spine and is scuttling into my belly, making my stomach muscles contract and flutter down.

Gabe inserts a finger or two into me and I crest over the edge, clutching onto the men's heads at my breasts, rolling my hips as my orgasm takes over.

I might be screaming. I'm not sure. I keep bucking my hips into Gabe's fingers, into his face. After what might have been a decade, my orgasm finally subsides, and I fall onto the bed, trying desperately to catch my breath.

"That's one," Paul says.

"Are we going to make her come—"

Gabe interrupts Chris. "As many times as she can."

My nipples bead and I can't help but look at them, giggling. "Now, why is everyone but Chris and me so overdressed?"

Paul pulls me to sit with him, his chest to my back, softly laughing, which I feel through my still boneless body. "Did that feel good?"

"Yes."

"Is Gabe good at it?"

"God, yes."

Paul wraps me in his arms, cradling me, soothing the orgasm to make me feel like I'm not just a sexual nerve. Of course, if I stop and think too much about the fact that I'm having sex with three men I might start maniacally laughing, walk out of my house naked and down the street, where I'm sure to get taken to a psych ward.

This is crazy. And weird, like Gabe said.

But why does it feel so good?

Why does it feel so right?

Paul's palms cup my breasts. So much for no longer feeling like a sexual nerve. When Paul massages my breasts, I close my eyes, the feeling almost too intense. I moan and arch my back when he rolls over my nipples.

"That feel good too?" he asks with a whisper against my ear and neck.

"So good." My voice is throaty.

"You ready for more?"

My orgasm washes over me again. Aftershocks. I'm shaking but nodding my head. My sex is already feeling needy and desiring to be filled. Gabe's fingers felt so good, but it wasn't enough. I want to feel someone inside of me for eons, pushing himself in and out of me, the slick friction of sex. I want that so much.

"Chris," Paul says, which surprises me, "do you want to lick her?"

I open my eyes to glance at Chris. He's smiling. His giant cock jutting up, slapping against his stomach. He's so erect. So beautiful. I know I was scared of his size. But I'm not now. I will beg for him if I have to.

Paul lifts me. "Sit on your shins, honey."

I do, while Paul leaves my back. I'm feeling cold without him. But then I notice Gabe placing a giant box of condoms close by.

"Someone was thinking ahead," I say.

Paul's back behind me, holding me tight, kissing my neck. "I was hoping."

I turn to look at him over my shoulder. He _had_ orchestrated this. I know he did. I wouldn't have done this. I doubt Chris or Gabe would have either. We were susceptible to his suggestion, of course. But actually instigate this act, this coupling with more than one man, I would have never tried.

I kiss Paul over my shoulder, which is always awkward. But with him, like this, it's sweet. He's tender, affectionate. And so eager. Not in an intimidating or annoying way. He just wants me to catch up to him, to want what he wants. His hands again find my breasts and when I arch against him, I feel his nude lower half. He'd been holding me away from his erection, but I love feeling it against me. He's hard, straining against me.

He might be trying to rein in his desire for me, and that turns me on. Our kiss deepens, even in this awkward position, his tongue is stroking mine. I'm trying to reciprocate.

Then he lifts my body a few more inches. I'm still on my shins and knees, closing my eyes, so eager for what might come next. A wet tongue slides down my core, from my clit to my opening. I gasp, looking down at Chris's face under me. He takes hold of one of my hips then ushers me down farther, while Paul's caressing my breasts, kissing my neck and shoulder.

Chris's tongue enters me and I can't help but scream a little. I hope not too loudly. It's just gorgeous, delicious—his wet tongue inside me, then slowly thrusting in and out of me.

"Feel good?"

I can't answer Paul. I've returned to feeling like my body is just raw sexual nerves that the men are plucking. I can only feel every move they make, how divine all of this is.

Paul leaves one of my breasts. "I'm going to touch your ass, okay?"

I nod, not sure if he means my cheeks or—

Oh, he must have licked his finger, because what meets my tight back opening is warm and wet. Almost like a tongue, like the tongue that's plunging in and out of me. And nothing about this scares me. After Tim had bungled with my first anal sex experience, I have to admit I wondered why any woman, or man for that matter, would want it. It'd hurt so much, not just physically, but I was fairly certain Tim had noticed how I'd shut down and started to cry. I know I should have told him to stop. But I often wondered why he didn't when I was crying. I thought it was a sign that he didn't care about me. Didn't love me.

As Paul's barely touching me back there, leaving teasingly flirty caresses, I push away all thoughts about Tim, and the worry that as soon as the men have had their fun, they'll leave. I won't think about that now. I can't. It will break my heart to think about these three men no longer looking at me the way they do now.

"Does it feel good, honey?" Paul centers me with the question, returning me to heaven on earth here on my bed.

I nod and moan.

"Real good?"

"Yes."

"I'm going to stick my finger inside you now. If you ever want me to stop, I will."

I doubt I would have believed that if Tim had said it. But for whatever reason I trust Paul, and I nod.

He doesn't push in very far, just a tiny bit, and I'm surprised my body wants more. I moan again as Chris switches to my clit, licking me there, sometimes sucking me in, pulling me into a dark haze of a world filled only with pleasure. Paul's gently pushing his finger in and out. Every time he's in, he's just a tiny bit deeper.

"Still good, honey?"

"Yes. So good."

I hear Gabe chuckle and open my eyes to find him. He's leaning back against my headboard, staring at me, at what's happening to me.

I reach out to him. "I'm sorry. I'm forgetting you."

He laughs again. "I want to watch this. I want to watch you come again. Cup your breast, Jane."

I do. The crotch of his jeans jumps. I smile. "I want you to touch yourself."

He arches one brow. "Sure?"

I nod, hardly able to with whatever Chris is doing. God, he's good. He's flicking at the nub between my legs so much I think I might scream again.

Gabe unzips himself and out springs the most perfect long and wide cock I've ever seen. I shouldn't think that. But Gabe...oh Gabe...his dick is creamy, veiny, with a happy pink tip. The crisp dark hair surrounding his member is cut short. And I worry if he's more manicured than I am. I haven't had sex in years, so I never thought about cutting my nearly translucent curls.

I hope they like my crazy blonde bush. I hope they like it so much.

"Jane," Gabe says as he strokes himself once.

I moan and nod, sucking in a finger between my needy lips.

"Lean down and give Chris head again." Gabe clears his throat. "Please."

I think the please is especially for me. I think he'd meant to ask, but he's turned on, and so hard, and a drop of him comes out the slit of his pink head. I want to lick it, but he smears the moisture into his flesh.

Then I follow Gabe's orders, bending down and reaching for Chris's staff. He moans. And I'm so happy, so terribly happy that I don't lick him or tease him. I just suck him in as far as I can take him.

"I'm going to put another finger in you, honey." I vaguely know this is Paul asking, and I say yes between my hurried strokes of Chris's cock.

The stretching, the added tension from my backside turns me into a frenzy of need.

"Fuck, Jane, you're going to make me come," Chris groans as I sense he's reaching for my pussy. Within a second, his finger is inside me.

Paul and Chris work in a rhythm and the combination is crazy. I had no clue how good this could be. This is why people like anal sex. It adds another dimension to what is already an absurdly wonderful thing.

"I'm putting three fingers inside you, honey," Paul says. "Just tell me if it's too much."

But it's not. I'm threading the line between pain and pleasure. No, Paul is doing that for me. But I feel so much pleasure from the experience that whatever is uncomfortable is factored out. My brain and body won't let me even think about it.

"Did you bring lube?" I think Gabe asks Paul.

"Yeah," Paul grunts. "In the box with the condoms."

I stop for just a second, long enough to look at Gabe. He's smiling down at me, slowly, so slowly stroking his perfect dick that I can't wait to sit on.

"You going to make Chris come?" he asks.

I smile then return to Chris's thick member, sucking and twisting at the very tip of him. It's one thing I learned from my husband. He told me it made oral sex amazing. And Chris makes a new kind of moan, one of appreciation, great appreciation.

Chris reaches around my hips with both hands and has me sit on his face with renewed fervor. He's licking my clit so hard I can't hear. I can't think. I say yes to something, and my backside is left alone. Then Paul's blunt tip of his cock presses against me, my back opening.

Chris is flicking harder, I'm sucking faster, then Paul enters me. Just an inch, if even that. But my orgasm rips through me.

Paul's moaning. "That's two."

"Jane—baby—" and then Chris joins me. His cock pumps his seed into my mouth. Hot sprays shoot into my top palate. I swallow him as I keep bobbing my head down, making him moan. His hips buck. I love watching him like this. I love that I made him like this. Helpless to the pleasure. Like I am. He's moaning and thrusting and finally he stops licking me to hold my head still.

"Sorry, baby," Chris hoarsely whispers. "But you're going to blow my mind if you don't stop." He maneuvers his body lower and lower until we're face to face, then he kisses me. It's long and sweet.

Paul carefully begins thrusting again, and I'm not sure if my orgasm has ceased or what I feel. I'm so sweetly satisfied I don't know what to call it.

And I love kissing Chris like this in a Spiderman, upside-down way. I love that he tastes like me and I taste like him. He licks my lips then smiles up at me. "We're doing that again."

I can't help but smile. I'm not sure if he's just saying sweet things because he's just come, but I love it.

Paul wraps his arms around me and has me straighten slightly against him. He's caressing my breasts again, whispering against my ear. "Does this feel good?"

"God, yes."

"It doesn't hurt?"

I shake my head.

He pushes a little farther into me. "I don't want to hurt you. I don't ever want to hurt you, honey. You're so precious to me. It was so fucking hard to be a gentleman on our little dates, meeting and having coffee and not kissing you, not touching you was killing me."

I'm moved beyond words by what Paul's confessing.

"Rub your clit, honey."

I do. He moans.

"God, you feel good."

"I do? Back there?"

I feel his cheek smile against mine. "Yeah, honey. God, yeah." He's still gently pushing in and out. I love his patience. I love his consideration. He's so tender with me.

I lean forward slightly. "More."

Paul huffs then gives me a little more of himself.

I bend down on the bed again, circling around my clit, making everything he's doing feel powerful and surged with Paul's thoughtfulness. "More," I ask.

He pushes himself a little more into me. "I'm almost there, honey. Does it feel good?"

"Yes." And it does. My one arm holding me up buckles and I fall on my chest, arching my back. I'm still touching myself and I can't believe how wet I feel. This is so good.

Paul pushes a little more, making a grunting noise. He's filling me. I can feel his stomach against my ass. I don't know how I'm holding him, but I am, and though I am uncomfortable, the pleasure is greater.

Paul leans over me, very gently moving now. "Honey, you still good?"

"Yes."

"I want you to sit on Gabe's lap. I want his cock in your pussy. You want that?"

I look up. Gabe's nostrils are flaring. His blue, blue gaze is focused on me.

I nod. "God, yes. I want you inside me."

# 13

Paul scoops me up, shuffling both of us in tandem toward Gabe.

There's my police officer, startled, looking unsure. I swallow, worried what he must think of me. Suddenly Paul's invasion of my body is too much. Pain knives through me.

"What's wrong?" Paul asks, halting, embracing me around my chest and stomach, holding me tenderly, sweetly.

Looking into Gabe's skeptical gaze, I can't hide my shame. I'd given in to my desire. I'd been greedy and taken without thinking. My shame is a palpable monster always caging me in, where I fly against the bars, bruising myself even further. Does Paul, still so connected to me, feel my wounding shame?

"Am I hurting you, honey?" Paul whispers, reminding me of my body, of this moment.

When I take back my own weight, he slowly pulls out of me, carefully, gently.

He's lovely for being that considerate. But I can't look at any of the men on my bed. I'm humiliated. I can't believe I've let my passion, my desire for sex lead me to this...to this rather unorthodox position. They all think less of me. I can see it in Gabe's eyes.

I rush from the room to the en suite bathroom. I hope they'll leave. I may never see Chris or Gabe again, but I'll see Paul. I'll remember the way he felt in my body, and I'll remember this shame forever.

A soft knocking at the door startles me. I don't know why. These men are the most considerate I've ever met. My mind races, trying to think of an excuse, something to get them to leave.

"Jane." I'm surprised to hear Gabe's gruff voice. The way he'd been looking at me made me think he'd like to run even more than I do. Oh, I'm so good at running. I hope they are too.

"Jane, did I do something wrong?" Gabe asks.

"No." I try to calm my voice but it comes out warbled and too emotional.

"You don't want me."

I almost laugh. How could he think that? I would do anything to have sex with him, to feel him inside me.

"Of course I want you," I say to the door, frowning at it, feeling ridiculous. I catch sight of my reflection in the large mirror over the sink. I'm so pale in the gray light filtered through the one hazy window in this room. I look like an apparition, my hair and skin devoid of color. I am a ghost.

I ran away from danger, from getting killed. But then I plunged head first into a relationship, my marriage. And I stayed there with a man who—I can't keep blaming Tim for everything that goes wrong with me. My husband wasn't the one who stayed in our marriage. I was. I broke myself by staying. I'm a ghost of who I once was. I was a girl who ran to my freedom. I was so strong I was admired on national TV. Now people would laugh at me for being so...needy. Or maybe that girl who ran never existed. Maybe I hadn't survived, after all.

Utterly shocking me, Gabe opens the door and walks into the bathroom. I scurry from him, as if he's come to beat me. God, I'm being an idiot.

Softly, he closes the door. His eyes scan down my body. He's still hard, not as much as earlier when he'd been stroking himself, but his not-flaccid penis makes me want to swoon. I'm on a serious rollercoaster of emotions, and I kind of hate myself for it.

"You want me?" He points at his chest.

By the shower, the cold lip of the tub kissing the back of my calves, I nod.

"Then why are you in here?"

"I saw the way you looked at me." I can't believe I've said this. Of course, it's the truth, but it's also revealing myself. And I feel so damned vulnerable I want to break the thick frosted glass of the bathroom's window and run from here.

Gabe takes a step closer to me, his dark brows furrowed. "How did I look at you?"

"You're disgusted with me."

Now he's mad. He takes a huge breath, moving his giant chest, all his muscles clenching. "You're a mind reader? Is that it? Because I wasn't thinking that at all. Tell me, what number am I thinking of?"

He's sarcastic and making a hell of a point, but it hurts all the same. I cross my arms over my bare chest, trying hard not to shiver or cry.

He takes another giant breath and then another step closer. He's acting like he's breaking a green colt. I'm not wild any longer. I've domesticated myself in the hopes I would be lovable.

"I'm not disgusted."

I swallow, gauging his words, him.

He takes another step closer. He's about two feet away, but it's near enough to feel his body's warmth. I want to lean against him, touch him all over.

"Are you disgusted with yourself? With me?"

"Not with you," I answer. Too honestly.

He sighs. I feel it on the top of my head and he steps toward me again, caressing my arms. "Why are you disgusted with yourself, Jane?"

For letting this happen. I didn't want to lose any of you, but I will. By being so needy, so greedy, you, Chris, and Paul will leave me.

Gabe leans forward to kiss the top of my head. "Jane, sweetie, you have to stop being so hard on yourself."

I glare up at him. "How do you know if I'm hard on myself?"

"Is this the first time you've sexually experimented?"

I don't answer because for whatever reason I'm angry at him for telling me to stop being so hard on myself.

"Have you experimented like this before?" I ask instead.

He shakes his head. "No, but—no. Have you had sex with anyone else after your husband?"

I purse my lips but shake my head.

"Was your husband your first?"

I nod, even more angry at him, at me.

"And now you're having sex with three men. At once. Wow."

I wish I had more room to backup, but I'm stuck. He's cornered me.

"Do you want to stop? You want us to leave?"

"Why are you doing this in the first place?" I blurt out.

He slowly nods. "Fair question. I can't answer for the other guys, but I'm here because of you. When I met you, even here, now, I feel so...drawn to you, like Chris said. This is rare for me. This powerful of an attraction—"

"For me too," Chris hollers through the door. "I'm sorry for eavesdropping and you can call me all the names you want, the both of you. But I'm worried.

"I like you, Jane. I haven't felt like this...ever. And Gabe tell her she's not disgusting."

Gabe actually chuckles as he's looking over his shoulder. Then he's gazing down at me, his smile dimming. "You're not disgusting."

"Not even close," Chris yells. "You're beautiful and so sexy."

"Did you hear Chris?" Gabe asks.

"Yes," I choke. "Thank you, Chris."

"You're welcome, baby."

Gabe takes another breath and I'm amazed by his chest all over again. "Granted, I don't know you well. I think Paul knows you the best since you work together and apparently had a few dates. And maybe you're not the person I think you are. But—" He swallows. "—But what scares me in equal measure as it intrigues me is maybe you are exactly who I think you are. And I want that, Jane. I want you, the woman who seems so strong yet vulnerable enough to maybe one day love me. The woman who makes me laugh. Who I feel comfortable enough to be myself. I want you. And sometime this morning, I think all of us figured we feel the same. So...that means sex. With all of us, I guess."

"For this morning?"

"Are you asking if we want sex with you this morning and _only_ this morning or...?"

"Yes," I again choke out.

"I can't answer for them, but I'm here, babe, until you kick me out. This isn't a onetime deal for me."

"Not for me either," Chris yells.

"Of course, it's not for me either," Paul also says loudly through the door.

"I know it's fast," Gabe continues. "And maybe having sex so soon was too fast for you?"

I shake my head, feeling braver after the men admitted they might stick around. Of course, right away something in me niggles that the men are lying, they couldn't possibly want me for more than just sex. But I do my damnedest to not listen.

Gabe cups my cheeks, standing closer and closer to me. I feel his still-hard cock against my stomach.

"You going to stop running away?"

I bite my lip and look down, but instead of the floor to retreat to, I see his perfect length. While shrugging, I take him in hand. He gasps.

"Maybe," I say with a smile.

He softly chuckles and kisses my forehead. Carefully, he traces my back with his gentle touch, letting me explore him. He's getting harder in my hands and I'm fascinated. I've never understood penises. How can something that hard be wrapped in such velvet skin? It makes it so I crave to touch him, touch all of the men in my bedroom.

But right now only Gabe and I are in the bathroom, and he lets me stroke him, watch him. His breathing is rapid. I love watching his chest rise and fall. From my periphery, I catch sight of his beating pulse in his neck.

"Jane."

"Hmm?"

"Will you let me fuck you now?"

I almost recoil at the words. I've never liked pussy or fuck or some of the other words used for genitalia and making love. Honestly, Paul must have woven some sort of spell for me to have liked it when he'd said pussy, then I wanted to use it too. It's like playing grownup, saying pussy. But fuck, fucking...? I always get the image of a man using a woman. Are these three men using me? Or am I using them?

Gabe brushes my hands from him. He bends at his knees and slides his cock between my legs, slipping against my sex.

He groans, and pushes my legs closer together, pumping through my thighs. "I want to be inside you..." He trails off with kisses around my hairline. "I want to make you come. Again. I want to make you feel good. So good."

Is that what fucking is to him? Making me come, making me feel good? It doesn't sound all that bad.

That's when I realize the depth of Paul's spell. I'm looking at sex, even at my own sex from his point of view. I felt how Paul thought I was pretty, even my wet pussy. For maybe the first time in my life, I felt gorgeous. And with Chris and Gabe, I'm seeing things from their point of view too. Fucking might not be using someone. It's just feeling good. Is it hedonistic? I don't know. And I no longer know if hedonistic is really all that bad, sinful.

These men, in one drunken night to one sex-filled morning, are changing me. I wonder if I have as much impact on them.

I kiss Gabe at the corner of his mouth, where he shows his slight smile. Then I time it right and lift my leg around his hip as he's pushing his length forward. He stills at my opening.

He's huffing for air. "You on birth control, Jane?"

I nod. "And I'm clean." I know since I had to be tested after my husband fucked around. Maybe I should start calling it something else. Maybe call it when Tim lost his mind and felt compulsive about putting his dick into any living woman, including me.

"Me too." Gabe's lingering in my opening, lightly touching me there with his blunt cock. "We should grab a condom anyway."

I nod. He's sensible and right, but he feels so good where he's at. And I almost whimper at the thought that we have to leave each other's bodies, even if only for a few seconds, to get a condom.

But then he angles himself a little lower and thrusts inside me. I'm shocked and I think he is too by his wide eyes. Then he moans, closing his lids, his dark glossy lashes making shadows on his face. And he's holding me so close.

"I knew it would feel like this," he whispers. "I'm made to be inside you. You're made for me."

At that, my heart sprouts legs and sprints straight toward Gabe. Yes, this will end badly. Very badly. I'm sure to end up internally bruised and bleeding with my heart running away like it is.

Oh, but at that second I'm not sure I care.

# 14

Gabe slides out of me, his body twitching. I'm so surprised by what just happened that I'm compliant to whatever he wants, whatever he needs.

He lifts me by my waist, and I wrap my legs around him, my arms around his neck as he turns and somehow opens the door. Lying me down on the bed, I notice Chris at the top, sitting, still naked and looking down at me.

"Condom," Gabe gruffly says.

Paul comes to stand beside the bed, his face tense but trying to smile for me, handing Gabe a foil wrapper. He's taken his own condom off and is naked too, and he's lovely. He's so cut, so lean. I see the striations of muscles along his shoulders and stomach, thick blue veins reaching down to his groin. He's growing hard looking at me, looking at Gabe hovering over me.

Before I can reach out and touch him, Gabe scoops an arm under my hips and hefts me up the bed, closer to Chris. Then he's opening my legs with his thighs, while he's rolling on the condom in haste.

He's frantic, and suddenly I am too. I need him inside me. I ache without him there. I feel so gorgeous with Paul looking at me while he's hard, and stroking himself as he looks down at my pussy.

"Jane," Gabe whispers, and Chris holds my hand.

I must be glowing because I feel...beautiful. In their eyes I am. And it's a heady drug, feeling like this. I'm sure when the men walk away from me I'll be in withdrawals. But for now, I'll take all they can give.

Gabe slides inside me and we both moan. I look up at him and he's smiling, giving me that breathtaking grin of his that makes me stare only at him. He rears back and thrusts inside me again. He's slow. Careful. But soon, he's circling his hips, pumping in and out, faster and harder.

"So tight," he whispers.

Chris is still holding my hand, and he inserts his fingers between mine. "Feel good, baby?"

I nod, while looking at Gabe. "So good."

Gabe lowers onto me. Skin against skin while he's deep inside of me, and I know I'll orgasm soon. Then he rolls us over.

"Can Paul...you want him back, Jane? Doing what he was doing?" Gabe asks, taking my hips in his hands and pumping me up and down.

I glance at Paul, hopeful. "You want me?"

Paul smirks and rolls his eyes. "Come on." He glances down at his now engorged cock. The head of his penis is nearly purple.

I reach out for Paul with my free hand. "I need you."

He growls and rushes behind me. I can hear him with a foil wrapper, the slapping noise of the condom being put on too quickly. Paul sucks in a breath, leaning against my back.

Then Gabe reaches down and circles my clit while he holds my body still. And I'm putty. I'm so malleable I don't recognize myself. I've never felt this open, this free to let go. Gabe pulls me down and kisses me. My stomach is squishing his arm, but he's still rubbing against that sensitive nub of mine. And then I feel Paul at my tight back opening. He's rubbing something warm all over me with his fingers and his cock.

I think he might have had lubrication the first time he was inside me, but everything felt so good I never noticed. Now, I want to notice everything. The way Gabe feels inside me, how I ache for Paul too, Chris holding my hand.

I look up. He's hard now too. And I can't help but roll my lips in, wanting him. He slowly smiles, looking at my mouth. Then Paul tenderly enters me. With Gabe already inside, I feel so full. I'm not sure I can take much more, but Paul gently pushes farther, prodding my body to take him again.

"What's it feel like?" Gabe asks in a whisper.

"So much. So good." That's all I can think of to say.

"Do you like it, honey?" Paul gently pries my body to take more of him.

With Gabe rubbing me, I like everything. "Yes," I say breathy.

With a little extra thrust, Paul is back inside my body, and I hadn't realized how much I missed him. I can only hold still as Paul very tentatively begins to slide in and out of me, which causes me to push and pull at Gabe's cock. It's slow, but so good.

I lean away from Gabe, putting my hands on his chest. He's looking at me, his blue eyes even darker than twilight, gauging if I'm all right. And I don't doubt that if I'd say one word, he would make everyone stop, including himself.

Growing up the way I did, I never knew safety. With Anne, it was the first time I could sense dependability and protection. She would do everything in her power to keep me safe, shelter me from harm. But having never known what that felt like, I often doubted I could truly rely on her. For that, I'm ashamed. I wish, while she'd been alive, I could have given her more of me. I think she would have liked that. I think she would have loved that and loved me even more for it.

But I was so scared.

My mother never protected me. At twelve she started pushing me toward my father's brother, shortly after his wife died. She'd have me sit on his lap, tell me to kiss his lips. I didn't. But she still forced me to sit on him. He was, however strange as this might sound, my only source of protection as he didn't touch me inappropriately until a year later. He said he was done mourning. He said I'd helped him through it, and, thanks to God, he realized I would take the place of his wife. He only kissed me. Then he told me how a wife and husband were supposed to kiss. And he said he'd give me time to kiss him that way.

My father thought the union was ordained, and when I threatened to run away, he threatened me right back. With a knife. I still have the scar on my calf. He promised he'd cut deeper if I dared dishonor his brother ever again. He swore he'd take my legs from me. Cut them apart and take the pieces into the forest, scatter them, so wild beasts would eat them.

After my father said as much, I never would have run away from the commune. But...my mother was pregnant. She hadn't been with child since me, so my father suspected she was worshiping the devil. My uncle promised to protect my mother _if_ I married him. I agreed, but he died that night from my father. My father then killed my mother and twelve more people. Or so I was told by the FBI. I ran when I saw my dead uncle's body, shot through the forehead, his face twisted from fear.

My defiance was a whisper in the wind as I ran that night and the next two. And I can't help but wonder if having sex with these three men is another whisper of defiance. Society tells me I'm wrong for wanting three men. Doesn't it?

However, at that moment, all I feel is my body, pleasure pouring in, the bump and thrust of men's bodies against mine, and it's so beautiful. Maybe I'm even beautiful too. I open my eyes and smile at Chris.

"I want you in my mouth again."

He rolls forward, reaching for my head, holding my nape and kissing me with such sweet longing. It takes a bit of finessing, Chris is so tall that it takes me leaning to the side while still anchored to Gabe and Paul, but somehow we manage to make it work. And finally I feel perfectly full, Chris in and out of my mouth, Paul at my back, Gabe inside me, circling my clitoris.

I don't have to move. I don't have to think. The men maneuver my body and I just take in the lovely sensual feeling they are giving me. Ambrosia is said to come from the gods. It's the most exquisite flavor, the most nutritious too, giving the very essence of life to any mortal who dare drink it. I'm daring. I'm imbibing. I'm living in this very present moment, so full of life, so full of passion. So full.

"Honey, you're going to make me come," Paul says.

"Me too," Chris grunts.

Paul's first, shortly followed by Chris, and my own orgasm is so close, so happily present. I love the way Chris tastes. I love his consideration as he gently holds my head and comes inside me. Paul's also sweet, clutching at my hips, cupping one of my breasts, as he spasms.

Somehow Paul and Chris fall away and I grow limp to the mounting pleasure. Gabe rolls me over and pumps, pumps so hard into me. I feel his balls slap against me and it feels good. He's kissing me, frenzied. He's whispering something I can't make it out. It's just one word, but I can't decipher anything. I just feel so free to feel him, to feel this.

And I let go. My orgasm is soft yet rocks me like the ocean can, the warm Atlantic Ocean at St. Croix where Anne took me less than a year after I'd run from my past—the water licked me and warmed me and made me feel so fucking alive.

Gabe growls through his kiss. He's buried deep inside me and begins to spasm. He thrusts again. His orgasm is intense. I feel it inside me. And I'm coming all over again. His lips are on mine and he's holding me so still, so connected.

After a few more twitches he releases the kiss and whispers, "Mine."

I look up at him, surprised.

It's what he'd been whispering while making love, I finally realize. And he says it one more time, "Mine."

What's he mean by that? Doesn't he notice we're not exactly alone?

# 15

I call Bethany later that afternoon when Gabe is cooking a huge frittata for all of us, and I think Chris is trying to help but he and Gabe are laughing a lot at whatever's he's doing. Paul is close to me on the sectional white sofa, reading a book. I hadn't noticed he'd brought it, paying too much attention to all the other goodies he'd brought, like condoms, lubricant, and coffee.

The book is thick with blue binding. Old. Smells like comfort on those sepia-colored pages. I know what Paul means about finding a sanctuary in books. I have my own Never Never Land in almost everything I read too.

As I wait for Bethany to pick up, I can't help but smile at every room around me. Chris and I had sex close to where I'm sitting. Paul and I had sex on the floor right after. Gabe and I...had sex everywhere else. I'm quite sore, and Paul's ordered a bath for me after I talk to Bethany. Never in my life did I think I'd follow a man's orders. Once I broke free from my past, I detested men who tried to tell me what to do. If a man even said an imperative sentence, like, "Hey, keep it simple, Jane," I'd reel in anger. Which I'd repress of course. It's not just the curse from a fanatic background, but I'm fairly certain there are millions of women who repress their righteous anger.

I have no idea what's happened, but I let Paul tell me and the other men to lay off sex for a while, until I have a bath and can relax. He's trying to take care of me. Lazily, he drifts a hand to my shoulder and rubs. Any stress that's left in my body, and after hours of sex there really isn't much left, is squeezed out by Paul's adroit hands. I lean toward him, arching my back for an awkward upside-down kiss to his chin. He smiles, looks like he might say something but then Bethany picks up.

"Aren't you supposed to be in bed with one of your little boyfriends?"

I laugh and straighten, resting against Paul. "No. I called to see who _you're_ in bed with."

She laughs. "Seriously? That's all you can think about? My sex life?"

"That's all I can think about. I'm a very perverse friend."

She laughs harder and it soothes me completely. I almost didn't want to call her, too scared I'd hear fear. Or she'd hear it in my voice. I'm so afraid of what's in her throat, of what needs to be diagnosed still.

Chris leans over the couch and places two beers on the coffee table. Before he actually sets the beverages down, he carefully shuffles my students' essays to the side. I love how considerate he is to do that, and I'm also in awe of how long he is to be able to push papers away while stretched over my couch. He's the most dressed out of us, besides me. I'm playing Victorian aloof in my long gray robe. Chris is wearing his t-shirt and boxers. Paul is wearing his boxer briefs, and I can't help but glance down at his crotch, hoping he'll grow hard for me to watch. Perverse girl that I am. And Gabe is wearing his jeans, revealing his wide expanse of a chest with the crisp black hairs I love to rub my nipples against.

Chris kisses my cheek, then Paul feigns he's insulted because he didn't get a kiss too. Chris laughs and walks back to the kitchen.

"At first I thought you were watching TV," Bethany says. "But you never watch TV, do you?"

"I do too. I watch TV all the time."

"No, you don't. Well, maybe you get addicted to one show, cry when you've watched every episode on Netflix, and then not watch anything again for months."

"I do not. I'm not at all predictable, lady. Sometimes I watch PBS cooking shows just for the hell of it."

She chuckles. "I love how you've deflected from answering the question."

"Did you ask a question?"

Bethany laughs even more. "Who's with you, Jane?"

"No way. It's you, missy, who has all the 'splaining to do."

"Me?"

"Yes."

_"Moi?"_

"Cut the crap, you Aussie."

"My goodness, Jane, you're so mean sometimes."

I giggle.

Bethany sniffs. "I—well, I do have something I need to ask you."

She's serious now. So I will be too.

"Sure. I'll do anything for you."

"Dr. Callahan called me back yesterday. They scheduled an appointment with that oncologist on Monday."

I straighten away from Paul and open my laptop, wanting to get to the calendar to adjust my schedule.

"Monday," I say. "What time?"

"It's when you have a class at 10:30."

The Wyoming university where I teach is small. I don't have graduate students to fill in for me when I'm gone. No TAs. But that doesn't matter. "I'll cancel class."

"I don't want you to cancel. Not again. I—" Then someone interrupts Bethany. Someone male. Authoritative. And I can't believe it, but I recognize his voice.

I gasp without meaning to.

"Did you hear that, Jane?" Bethany's voice is near panicked.

"I didn't hear what he said."

"But you heard him."

I gulp. "Yes." I heard _my dean_ , the very man who sometimes tells me to keep it simple, Jane.

Standing, I walk to my bedroom, wanting privacy to say what she already knows. "He's married," I hiss.

"I know." Now Bethany's defensive and I feel like shit.

"If he hurts you, I'll kill him." That's all I meant by the _He's married_ bit. But too late, I realize how judgmental I sounded. My glass house has three men who all had sex with me at the same time. So I'm not about to throw a rock from where I'm at.

I just...I don't care that he is my dean. I'll stab the man if he's planning to string Bethany on.

She sighs. "He's getting a divorce."

"If he hurts you...I'll slit his tires. I'll make sure he never files his paperwork properly ever again."

My beautiful friend laughs. I can also hear the phone rustling. I think she's walking somewhere more private too. "I am his secretary, you know. I can make work very difficult for him."

"How—how did this happen?"

She sighs again. "It's such a cliché, but that's how it happened. I'm his secretary. I know the man better than anyone else. I put up with his shit better than...Well, you know. He just came to me last week, told me he was getting a divorce because he realized he'd rather spend the rest of his life with someone who actually cared about him."

" _Do_ you care about him?"

It's hard for me to see the connection between wonderfully loud and vibrant Bethany and my bossy, old-fashioned dean. He's tweed while she's neon pink pencil skirts. He's pipes and talking about the tragedy of twenty-first century literature while she's loud pop music and saying fuck a lot.

"Yes," Bethany admits. "I—I haven't dated in the last year because I kind of had a crush on him the whole time."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"How long have you two been...?"

"Fucking?" She laughs.

"Yeah."

"We're not. Not yet. He wants to take things slow. But I almost had him come in his pants last night."

Ew. Just ew. Thinking about my dean in any kind of erotic sense might be even grosser than—well, it's gross.

"I—um, congratulations?"

Bethany giggles. "Thanks. And now that I'm alone, what about you, missy? Just who did you almost make come in his pants last night? Which fella did my skinny friend pick?"

"I didn't make anyone almost come in his pants last night. I was a nun."

"You're so boring. When are you going to fuck one of them?"

I have no idea what to tell her. I swallow, trying to decide if I want to spill the truth.

She sighs. "Making love, okay? When are you going to make love to one of them?"

I giggle at her attempt to appease me and that gives me the confidence to confess. "I, er, already have. This morning."

She squeals. Her delight that I'm finally having sex makes me laugh even more.

"Was it good? Which guy did you pick?"

"It was good. Really good. And I didn't pick."

"Oh, did a couple of them find out about the others then take a hike? Well, it's their loss, Jane. It's really their loss. You're a great woman, and any man who would walk away from you is an asshole."

Bethany's said things like this to me before. I don't know why, but my brain deflects these kinds of sentiments. I never know how to accept the kindness, the sweetness. But today, after three men have lavished me with affection and sex, I finally hear the words she says. They feel like manna to my soul.

"None of them walked away from me." My throat and mouth are so dry.

Bethany's quiet for a moment, trying to figure out what I'm not saying.

So I decide to finally admit to what I've done. "I fucked all three of them this morning."

She's very quiet now.

"God, you aren't choking again, are you?"

Bethany bursts out with a laugh. "No. But—god, you almost had me there. I almost believed you."

"I—I'm not kidding. I made love to them. They're still in my house. Cooking, I think. We're all really hungry. Hours of sex will do that."

If I thought Bethany had squealed before, it's nothing like now. She's screaming and laughing, and I hear my dean ask her if she's okay. She says yes and to leave her the hell alone for a moment while she talks to me.

After I hear a door close, she says, "You're _not_ kidding me?"

"Nope."

"Not even a little?"

"No."

"At once? You had them at once?"

"Yep."

"And it was good?"

" _So_ good."

"Are you going to do it again?"

"That does seem to be the plan."

"You fucking lucky bastard."

I laugh.

She screams again. "I love you. You're so full of surprises. Just like the Victorians. They always seemed so proper, but you know under all the stiff lace were bodies needing to come all over the place."

"I guess that is me."

"This is going to take a bit to wrap my head around."

"You and me both."

"You want to cancel your classes on Monday and take me to the appointment so you can tell me all the details?"

"I'm just going to tell you that it was good. But, yes, I'll be there."

"And Sherman wants to come too."

_Sherman?_ I know that's my dean's first name, but it's hard to picture him as anything other than Dean Whittaker.

"I'll be fine with the dean if he's fine with me."

"I'm going to try to make him not come along."

"Why?" I ask.

"So you can tell me every sordid detail. I want to know everything: dick sizes, colors of their heads, the way they came—"

"I'm not going to tell you any of that."

She giggles. "I'll make you."

"How?"

Then I'm scared I asked. I'm so afraid she'll remind me that cancer might be close by. And that I need to tell her everything because she has cancer now. She'll be joking, but I can't take a joke like that. I fucking hate cancer.

"I don't know how, but I'll think of something." Bethany laughs again. "So, see you Monday?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

She's quiet for a moment. "Thanks for putting up with my screaming. I love you."

I hate that she's gotten serious. She's scared, I know, because she's thinking of the appointment, of what might come.

"I love you too." I keep my voice calm, collected. "You want me to come over, hang out?"

"You kidding? I have to have sex with Sherman tonight. It's going to kill me if he doesn't fuck me soon." She laughs, but it comes out too hard. God, I wish I could hug her right now.

I try to laugh too. For her I do try.

"Okay, well," I stammer, "if you change your mind—"

"And ruin what's going on at your house? No way. I want you to have sex with those men until...until...well, I can't think of anything gross enough to make you gasp, but I will."

I, again, chuckle. I hope it doesn't sound dull.

"I'm going to get into Sherman's pants as soon as I get off the phone."

I groan.

"There's my girl." While I'm laughing once more, she says, "See you Monday, hon."

We hang up and I'm fearful for her. Maybe for me too, as selfish as that sounds. I hate not knowing.

# 16

Sex, sex, and more sex," I say, "that was my weekend."

That's all Bethany can get out of me after she talked _Sherman_ into getting us some soda pops while we're waiting for the doctor. She is, again, in that horrible getup that doctors force their patients to wear. This time she's cold, so she's wearing two tying contraptions while she's on the examination table, which is lined with paper that loudly crackles every time she breathes.

I don't tell her that Chris left early this morning before his shift. He'd slept in and was in a hurry, but we had a quickie by the door. Shortly after, Paul had to return to his apartment and get ready for his classes. We had sex with Gabe in the shower. Gabe left when I came here for Bethany's appointment. I also don't tell her that none of the men made plans with me. And I'm fairly certain I'll never see them again. Well, I'll see Paul on campus. But he'll probably duck from me.

"I had sex with Sherman," Bethany interrupts my depressing thoughts.

I have to bite my lip, trying not to laugh. This is my dean, her boss, we're talking about.

But Bethany doesn't notice and seems thrilled to share. "Get this. He's good. I mean really good. I came when he first entered me. I came during. I came after. I kept coming and coming."

Wrinkling my nose, because I really don't want to hear this about my dean, I wonder if Bethany had so many orgasms because Sherman is really that good. Or if she's more into him than I thought. I'm pretty sure it's the latter.

"I don't want to know more." I shake my head, palms out to her, pleading. "I'll start picturing _my dean_ having sex with you."

Bethany laughs, her maroon hair bouncing, her tight curls more joyous than usual. I don't get Sherman and Bethany. I can't see them together; although, I literally did right before Sherman went to get us some Cokes. Still, they're such opposites. But that doesn't matter, does it? Whatever it is my dean does for Bethany looks so damned good on her. She's glowing. He's doting and worried about her. Oh, and when we shook hands out in the parking lot, he grabbed me for a hug, instructing me to call him Sherman now that we're good friends, which I'm still not sure how to process.

"Jealous?" Bethany wags her dark brows, her blue eyes dancing.

I laugh and nod.

"The hell you are." She crosses her arms, pretending to look angrily at me. Her smile always gives her away. "I'm still a little shocked about what you did this weekend."

"Me too."

That's when Sherman walks in. Of course. He hands me a soda but not before one goes to his lady, Bethany. I like that he's so chivalrous to her. I like it a lot.

"What did you do this weekend that was shocking, Jane?" Sherman asks, sitting down in a stiff plastic chair close to me.

He's trying to be my friend. He's trying so hard to put me at ease. To put us all at ease during this terrible time while we wait for the doctor. But I know I freeze and it's showing on my face.

"Jane went to a wine tasting event without me." Bethany pretends to pout. "And she liked _three_ wines. Couldn't choose which one to buy, so she got all three."

"Excellent," Sherman pats me on my knee stiffly. "What did you get?"

"Three whole-bodied wines." Bethany's so quick with her wit I'm about to spit through my nose trying not to laugh.

"Good show." Sherman is an Anglophile. I'm slightly suspicious of him falling for Bethany because of her kick-ass accent, even if she is from Oz. But he's also a wannabe cowboy at heart, who hides his bronze statues of wind-swept horses and their rough riders amongst his books in his office. I know the statues might not mean much, but to me it symbolizes Sherman's desire for wild things. So maybe Bethany _is_ his soul mate.

"Thanks," I finally choke out. I'm blushing. From head to toe, I'm on fire, and Bethany is loving it.

"Maybe we'll come by, Bethany and I." Sherman nods. "And have a taste of the wines that stole your heart and purse."

I laugh. Too loud.

"Baby." Bethany's shaking her head. "I'm not sure you'd like the swing of her wines."

Sherman frowns. "I love wine. You know that, darling." He stiffens after he's called my friend his darling. Turning slightly to me, he smiles impishly. "I—I know our relationship is unorthodox." He's blushing more than I just did. Sweat is beading on his forehead too. "But we—I do feel—"

"She's cool, baby," Bethany explains.

I shrug. "You know, I understand...unorthodox relationships...Sherman."

Now Bethany is really laughing, and as usual she's very loud. But she's interrupted by a petite doctor who walks in. The doctor is smiling and looks like she's trying to impersonate a real oncologist with her white lab coat that's sized a bit too big on her tiny frame.

Dr. Gallagher introduces herself, shakes everyone's hands, and makes small talk while remembering our names. She might look young—maybe from her small frame or because she just is, but I can tell she's sharp. She thoroughly inspects Bethany, not making a single noise during, unlike that bastard, Dr. Callahan. And Dr. Gallagher periodically asks if Bethany could please lift her arms and if it would be all right to listen to her heart. She makes sure her stethoscope is warm before she touches Bethany. I love Dr. Gallagher.

She sits down on the rolling stool that all doctors seem to have and looks Bethany in the eyes. "You have a nodule in your throat that's atypical. I can't tell if it's always been there. Maybe it was something you were born with. Or maybe it developed."

"I smoked in my early twenties. I'm so sorry," Bethany says quickly, in a panic.

Dr. Gallagher nods and points to the chart in her lap. "I read that. But right now I don't know if smoking did anything to you."

"Then someone should get me a fucking smoke."

We all laugh at Bethany's joke. Even Dr. Gallagher. Bethany is terrified, and I know she's being funny to assuage her fear. And we'll all laugh. We'll laugh until we can't.

"So, Bethany," Dr. Gallagher says, "since I know so very little, I'd like to do a biopsy of your throat. I can schedule it for later this week."

Brave Bethany nods mechanically.

"The good news is," the doctor continues, "which I know sounds weird when I just asked if I could cut into your throat, is that your lymph nodes seem to be normal. In fact _you_ seem very normal, healthy. So this could be something you were born with."

"Or it could be something else." Bethany's voice is quiet, and it breaks my heart.

Dr. Gallagher nods. "Yes. We'll have to find out. So I'm going to have my nurse Ellen come in and schedule the appointment, but I'm pretty sure I have an opening this Friday."

"This Friday. Good." Sherman gets his phone out and opens his calendar to cross off the whole day. I just might love Sherman too.

Dr. Gallagher nods but keeps looking just at Bethany. "So Ellen will also explain to you a bit more about the procedure. It's outpatient. You'll need a ride."

"I'll take her in," Sherman says loudly then winces and looks at me.

I nod, stunned this is happening so fast. But it always happens so fast. Biopsy. Diagnosis. Chemo. Death.

"I can be here too." I'm not sure if I said that or if someone did it for me. God, I wonder if there's a fog around just me or everyone else in the room.

Sherman nods and we turn back to Dr. Gallagher.

"Good. I'm glad Bethany has so much help. She'll need to eat liquids for a few days afterwards, and Ellen will go over what she needs to do the day before. But it will be a small procedure, going in through the mouth so the only incision will be to the tumor."

"Tumor?" I ask. My voice is really weird now.

"Well, I don't know if it's benign or malignant. I don't know anything yet." Dr. Gallagher smiles at me then Bethany. "So, let's not worry until we know more, okay?"

But I'm already worrying. I'm already bracing myself.

I can't lose Bethany. She's all I have left in this world, this world that took Anne. It took Tim. I'm fairly certain there will be three men I'll never see again. And if this world takes Bethany...I don't know what I'll do.

# 17

I'm in a stupor as we leave Dr. Gallagher's office. Sherman asks if I want to have lunch with Bethany and him.

I try to cover my fear of what the hell is going on in Bethany's throat with a smile, a bright cheerful smile.

"Sure," I choke.

"No, Jane, you have to get back to school," Bethany protests. "You have your next class at two."

I shake my head, looking at a clock we're passing by in the labyrinth that is the hospital. "It's not even noon. I have time."

Bethany squeezes my arm, pulling me close. "Jane, honey, don't take this the wrong way," she whispers as we continue walking somewhere in the hospital, trying to find where the damned parking lot is. "But I want to be alone with Sherman. I want him to fuck my brains out. So I can calm the fuck down."

No margaritas with me? I want to ask. No watching movies we love while eating cookie dough? But what about me? I come so close to asking.

But none of this is about me. I know that. And I hate how selfish I am right now.

I smile again at my friend, detesting the sting in my eyes, pushing it far away. "God, yeah, you're right," I say. "I should get ready for my next class."

Bethany winks at me and latches her hand into the hook of Sherman's arm. He's made a place for her at his side, and she's taking it. They're walking slightly ahead of me and I'm so sad. I feel like I'm losing her. Fuck, why am I thinking of myself? I'm not the one getting the biopsy. I'm not the one with the threat of _malignant_ over my head. I need to get myself together.

Then I hear a laugh. It's deep and so very male. And familiar.

"I was just thinking about you."

I turn around and stare at Chris. He's with three other firemen, all in blue. He's so tall, so beautiful, so masculine. I want to race to him and have him hold me.

From my periphery, I notice Bethany and Sherman turn too. "Well, if it isn't the fireman," she says.

Chris smiles at her and walks closer in just two strides. Along the way he wraps his arm around me, holding me close while he extends a hand to Bethany and Sherman.

"I'm Chris Peters. I don't think we were introduced the last time I saw you." He shakes Bethany's hand and she's smiling up at him, a mischievous grin if I ever did see one on her face.

"No, I was purple and choking when you saw me last." She shakes his hand. "I'm Jane's best friend, Bethany Lazzarus. Jane's the greatest, sweetest woman alive, and if you hurt her—"

Chris holds one hand in the air in surrender, his other is still embracing me, now dangerously close to my ass. "I'd rather cut off my arm than hurt her."

"Promise to cut off your own dick before you hurt her and I'll let you date her."

Chris laughs. "Deal."

Bethany turns to Sherman, pointing with a wave of her hand. "This is my boyfriend, Sherman. He's also my boss and he's married right now."

Sherman's shaking Chris's hand, gasping and turning purple himself.

"Nice to meet you, Sherman," Chris says easily. He doesn't laugh. He just smiles.

"I—yes, pleasure to meet you, Chris. I'm assuming you're Jane's boyfriend?"

"I am now." Chris pulls me even closer alongside his body. And I'm a tad shocked. Again. Further, I can't help but remember that each time after Gabe came he whispered, "Mine," in my ear.

I'm worried what Gabe means and try my best to deny it means anything.

Chris glances over his shoulder and hollers, "This is the girl I was telling you about."

In a blur of a few minutes, the other firemen come and I'm introduced to them as Chris's girlfriend, while I wonder if Chris had talked about me as the woman who had sex with three men at once. But none of the firemen look at me with a wicked grin. They seem happy to meet me, saying how Chris is driving them crazy since he can't stop talking about me.

Through the buzz of men talking, Sherman trying his best to be manly with them, Bethany leans over. "You'll be okay if I leave now, right?"

I look at her. Really look at her. She's scared. I am too. But I want to make her comfortable. I want to make her feel secure and happy. So I put on another grin, a wide one, and hug her.

"Sure. You go fuck Sherman's brains out," I whisper.

"Love the potty mouth on you, hon."

"Learned it from the best."

"Aw, that's so sweet. I think I'm gonna cry."

We laugh and then she and Sherman leave. The firemen leave shortly after, and I'm standing there with Chris, who wraps his fingers between mine.

I tip up on my toes, clasping him behind his head with my hands, his soft short blond hair tickling my palms. Bringing his ear down to my mouth, I whisper, "Fuck me."

He clutches at my hips and glances left and right, looking worried someone might overhear. There's no one in the hallway. And at that minute, I don't care if someone is passing by. I just need him. I need to feel normal. No, I need to feel something other than this overwhelming panic. And I know Chris can make me feel so good it'll curl my toes.

"I'm on the job, baby."

"I'll make it fast."

He groans and sweeps down to kiss me. Lip to lip, touch to touch. My heart beats wildly. He pulls away too fast.

"I can make it fast," I promise again.

"I don't have a condom," he whispers in my ear then takes a nibble. I swear to god the man knows that's my weakest spot. He's teasing me. Only, I'm not in the mood. I need him to make me feel...only him. I can't stand feeling alone while Bethany has to wait for her biopsy, while she doesn't want me as much as she wants Sherman to make love to her. He probably would be a better comfort to her right now. I'm half crazed out of my skull, worrying about that fucking word: cancer.

"I'm on the pill," I whisper, hoping my meaning is clear.

He blinks down at me, his jawline kicks. "But what about the guys? They might be pissed I didn't use one."

I'm so surprised he's said as much that I know I don't conceal my emotions, and he sees them.

He shrugs. "They're good guys. They're my friends. I don't want to do anything—"

I nod. "They are good guys, Chris. But I need you. Right now."

While standing in the hallway, not caring about my dignity, I cup his crotch. He's hard. He's so beautifully hard. But he jumps away from me.

"Jane, baby—"

"Please." And I hate myself because my eyes prick from instant tears. The moisture falls before I can stop it.

He cradles me and whisks me down the hall, holding me close. Somehow he opens the door to the bathroom where we first kissed, and I cave in.

"Bethany has a tumor," I blurt. "She's having a biopsy done Friday."

Chris grabs me in a tight embrace, caressing my hair.

"But she doesn't want me," I sob into his firm chest. God, I loathe how I'm letting everything slide out of my mouth. "She wants Sherman instead of me. She doesn't want me."

"I'm sure she wants you too." Chris's voice is softer than I've ever heard it. Patient. Kind, like him. "She probably wants both you and Sherman to be there for her. I'm sorry she needs a biopsy. That's tough."

I sniff and look up at him. "Yeah."

He smiles down. "I'm sorry. You're having a tough day."

I sniff again. "What are you doing here?"

"We just came from a car crash. Not bad, but one of the ladies might have whiplash."

"Oh." I rub the back of my hand along my right nostril; although, thank god, I don't have a runny nose. "I'm sorry about your whiplash lady. I hope she's okay."

His grin widens. "I think she's faking, you want to know the truth."

I smile at him. We quietly laugh.

"You want to fuck me now?"

He laughs louder and points over my shoulder. I glance in the direction he's pointing. There, a shiny condom dispenser sparkles at me.

I turn back and smile at him. "No excuses now."

He cups both my cheeks, his smile so...happy. "I like you, Jane."

"Even though I sound like a rapist? I'm sorry I'm so needy."

He softly chuckles. "I—do you like me?"

I frown. "Of course, I do."

"I mean—god, I'm going to sound like a girl. Sorry." He blinks, looking truly apologetic about the girl remark. "But do you like me for more than just sex? I know you have more in common with Paul. I'm just a simple guy, maybe simple headed. And you and Gabe seem to be connected in a way...in a way I'm jealous of. But—"

I reach up and kiss him. I know that's not an answer, but I hope it will add to my argument that I'm so glad it was _him_ I saw after the bomb detonated about Bethany's upcoming biopsy and her traipsing off with my boss. I want only him. I don't want Gabe or Paul like I want Chris right now. Because I know, somehow, Chris will comfort me the way I need. Because I know he cares. About me. And I care so much for him.

"I want you," I whisper. "I only want you right now. I love how kind you are, how sweet you are to me. I love how—I don't have to worry that you might think less of me for crying, for being a mess."

"I never would." He caresses my cheeks. "You're having a seriously bad day. Dealing with a biopsy and all that comes with it, as well as your best friend seems like she's choosing her boyfriend—"

"But I don't blame her for that." I sniff once more, knowing the tears are going to come back. Only, I don't worry this time. Chris will catch them as they fall. So I continue. "I—my husband died from lymphoma."

He gently kisses my eyes. "I'm so sorry, baby."

"And I lost my f—my mother to cancer. Uterine cancer."

He kisses my cheeks. "I'm sorry. That had to be—so bad."

"I hate cancer, Chris. I hate it. I hate it in an irrational way. And Bethany—" I suck in a breath.

"And the tumor might be malignant." His voice is so warm and tender.

I nod, allowing myself to cry on him, the big beautiful man that he is.

He holds me close. I can hear his heartbeat. I say into his chest, "I don't want anyone but you. You're the one I want. I'm sorry I'm so needy. So sorry."

He tips my head up to look at him. "I'm not. I'm glad I can help you right now."

"Why?" I don't know where this question comes from, but some dam broke and more insecurity pours out. "Why do you like me?"

"You're funny."

I roll my eyes.

He softly chuckles. "And got a stubborn streak I really like."

I shake my head.

"And I like your heart." His voice—oh, it's both soft and masculine, caressing me with his tender words. God, I love his voice right now. "I like your spirit. I knew it when I held you back from when we were trying to take care of Bethany. You fought me so hard. You seemed so...fierce. I felt like I was holding a little wild bird when I held you. Every time I touch you, I feel honored, like you're—I don't know—like you're an angel or something that's letting me hold you, caress you."

I lunge for his lips. What woman wouldn't after he'd said that?

"You're not simple minded," I whisper between our kisses. "You're the most beautiful man I've ever seen, ever known. And if you ever call yourself simple minded again, I will kick your ass."

He smiles. "There's my girl."

Then I feel it. I'm connected to him. He possesses me like I possess him. He's mine. And he wants me to be his. He reminds me of Bethany with what he's just said, but it's his heart that makes me wonder if he might become my friend. Not just my lover, but soon he might become as close a friend as what Bethany is to me. I worry I might be falling for him.

Or maybe I shouldn't worry because I'm fairly certain I've already fallen.

He's holding my waist, but I pull him with me as I shuffle toward the condom dispenser. We laugh as we lock the door to the bathroom and buy three foiled wrappers and choose the black for him. He jokes that it could be slimming. I tell him only a well-endowed man would ever dare make that joke.

"Too big?" he asks as his thick, thick blunt tip edges into my opening.

He's holding me against a wall with my pants down around one of my ankles. His pants are exposing not nearly enough of him, but I did somehow get his t-shirt off. My blouse is unbuttoned, my bra pushed up and over my breasts.

"No." I smile as he pushes so gently into me. "I love your beautiful cock. Just right." He stretches me and we're both smiling at each other.

He's slow. Gentle.

"Ah, so good," he huffs. "I don't want to stop."

"When do you get off?"

"Thanks to my job, I have to come in the next five minutes. Bah-dum-dum."

I laugh at his corny joke and the drum roll that accompanied it, even as he's still thrusting into me.

"I get off work tomorrow morning," he answers more seriously. "Twenty-four hour shift." He's circling his hips around, making me close my eyes from the ecstasy of this minute.

"Will you come to my house when you're done?" I'm surprised I ask this from him. I never want to be needy, greedy, ask too much. But I want him. I want him all the time.

"I'll be sleepy and grouchy." His circling is getting faster.

"I don't care. I want to feed you and fuck you and put you to bed." I've gotten rather fond of this fuck word.

He groans. "That sounds so perfect."

"Yes."

"I'll come to your house only if you rub your clit right now."

I reach between us and almost come when I slide my finger over the course dark blond hair he has down around his cock. I almost come from feeling him.

"God, you're so tight, baby."

"Am I? Do I feel good to you because you feel so good to me?"

"Yeah, baby. So good. So goddamn good." He's getting faster, harder. "I love being inside you."

"I love it too."

"I love—" he swallows, looking me in the eye warily.

I think I know what he was going to say before he cut himself off. And there's a part of me that doesn't believe him. It's too soon. Too soon for a man. They need reassurances that I'm perfect before they say something like that. So, on second thought, I don't know what he was going to say.

I smile at him, pretending my heart isn't pulled in opposite directions and that I don't hurt. I don't know why I'm hurting. Maybe because I want him to tell me he loves me. But he doesn't.

"I love fucking you too," I say.

He smiles. It's a tad forced. "Are we fucking?" He slows down, the clang of his belt buckle hitting the wall an erotic noise.

I shake my head, too honest. I wanted to fuck Chris. I really did. But we're not. "I love making love to you, Chris, Christian Michael Peters."

He smiles, hopefully liking his full name on my lips.

"I love making love to you, Jane, beautiful Jane Elizabeth Emory."

We kiss and instead of rubbing my clit, I touch him, right where we're joined. I have to feel him, the very base of him, as he's inside me. I have to touch his pubic hair that's a few shades darker than mine. I have to try to cup his balls. My arms aren't long enough, but everything I do makes him hurry his pace. He's harder now too.

"Going to make me come, Jane, baby."

But I do first. I don't care how loud I am. I've never come like this before. He's so far inside me. He's everywhere. He's taken my very heart and he's got to know it. I feel my orgasm from my core into my heart. Every part of me squeezes for him.

With a grunt he follows, thrusting deeper, coming inside me. I can feel his cock pulsing. And a part of me wishes he hadn't used the condom. I wish I could feel his hot seed pumping inside me.

We kiss even more, shaking, smiling, laughing, caressing. Somehow, we disentangle ourselves from each other. The whole time we're chuckling and we can't seem to keep our hands from each other. Something happened in this bathroom. Something happened twice in this bathroom, where I'm convinced my life is forever altered. There's magic here.

I know it sounds odd. After all, I'm talking about a public restroom.

But then I realize it's not the place that's magical. It's him; it's Chris.

"Will you call me, if you can, while you're working?" I kiss him while I button my pants.

He's tucking in his t-shirt and looks at me. "You want me to?"

"Only if you have time. I don't want to bother you."

He leans down and feathers his lips against mine. "You'd never be a bother, baby."

I'm scared I will be, because I want him so much.

Something crosses through his eyes, and I have to ask. "What is it?"

"This is good, isn't it?" He points from his chest to mine.

I nod. "So good."

"It's not just sex, is it?"

I tilt my head. "Although, that's really good too."

He smiles. I love his grin. It's so easy. It makes me wonder if the world ever gave him a bad day. I'm sure it did. It's the world after all. But you wouldn't think that by looking at him. And I, greedily, want what he has. I want to smile like him.

I point at my chest then his. "It's not just good sex, Chris, baby."

He smiles more when I mimic his pet name. "I don't want to be a bother to you either."

I kiss him. "You could never be a bother."

Now he chuckles. "Seriously, I—I know we all left things up in the air when we left your house, and I don't want to piss off the guys, but I—I want to be with you."

"I want to be with you too."

He smiles and nods. "Good, I'll call the guys. Let them know."

"What? Why?"

"So they can be at your house too."

# 18

I teach my class in a weird blur—half too joyful to make any sense, half too terrified of the future. I know I can't stop what's happening with Bethany, and like I said to Chris, I know I might not be the most helpful or comforting right now. If I were in her shoes, I'd want my brains fucked out too. I'd want to only feel good, so good I couldn't allow anything else to enter in my head.

What I hadn't expected was this bliss after seeing Chris. I'd wanted, like Bethany, to numb myself from my terror by having pure sex. I'd wanted that so much. But I didn't get that. There's something happening between Chris and I. Something beautiful.

Having watched chicks crack free from their eggs, I feel something similar is happening to my heart. I know I put guards around it to protect myself from surviving my past. There's even stronger barricades when I discovered Tim was cheating on me. And I reinforced them when he died. But even with those reinforced steel guards, Chris is cracking through. No, he's already inside me. He's breaking the shell interiorly.

I know it's too soon. I know I need to get to know him better. Yet, I can't help but wonder if I've somehow fallen in love with him. Well, who wouldn't? It's not his size or rugged handsomeness that has me falling. Although, I won't complain about that. But really, it's his warmth. It's his kindness and thoughtfulness. It's his appreciation of me that has me wondering about these love thoughts.

It's silly, isn't it? Falling in love with a man who's seen me have sex with two others? I'm being ridiculous.

So while I'm teaching my class, I keep leading myself on tangents about love in historical societies. Romans and Greeks defined the different loves: platonic, patriotic, romantic, erotic, familial, etcetera. It's odd that in English we only have one word for love. It seems too simple. But maybe love is just that. I don't know. Oh, yes, I felt it from Anne and Bethany. But it's hard to allow myself to feel it. I worry I don't deserve love.

In my deepest, darkest thoughts, I wonder if I deserved Tim's infidelities and the constant worry that he never loved me. On good days, I realize in Tim's narcissistic way he did love me. On bad days, I think I can't possibly be worthy of love. I'm too odd. Too different. Too broken. So of course Tim cheated on me. I had emotional garbage escorting me through life, making it so I couldn't sleep with a light off until I was twenty-six years old. I couldn't sleep alone. I was too needy, and Tim sought the company of other women because I was just...too much.

But I don't feel like I'm too much for Chris. Then again I haven't told him many details about myself, so maybe my feelings are all a fantasy. Ah, but I can't help but want to cling to whatever this feeling is—fantasy or not. Beautiful Chris is inside me because of the way he looks at me. I think he adores me. I feel adored. I know I adore him.

But do I deserve that? How can I—the woman who wants to have sex with more than one man at once—deserve him?

I finish class by talking about the Britons. The Romans wrote about those wild tribes and their wild love, polyamorous love. I pose the question to my unsuspecting students: can there be love with more than one partner? Or are we monogamous as our laws want us to be?

A smart girl with blue hair who sits in the front row bravely answers cerebrally, how we're primates and there have been few recorded cases of monogamous primates. Another girl, third row with a brutal bun at the nape of her neck, vehemently protests. We might be considered primates, but we have higher brain capacities.

For using tools, a boy in the back row chimes in, like dildos, he says.

The class laughs, but I die down the chuckles so Megan, the third-row girl, can continue. She makes the point that we can choose to be monogamous. And many people are very content to do just that. A man, a few years older than most of my students and I'd guess a former soldier by the look of him, says that some people are content, but take a look at America's divorce statistics.

Wendy, a new grandmother and the knitter of my class, speaks up softly, asking if the Romans or the Greeks ever defined happy love, unconditional love. While knitting, sometimes peeking up to look at me as I lean against my desk, she says she's been married twice. The first time she didn't know what she was doing. She was young and probably in love. She was giddy about the boy. But she grew up. And sometime, while growing up, she fell out of love with her husband. She knows he did too. Rather than reconnect, they grew bitter and resentful of each other. The divorce was a dismal affair. But with her second husband she'd learned so much—how to be giving, how to truly listen, how to not think she could change another person. She met her second husband and liked him for him. Not because of what she wanted him to be.

Wendy thinks too many young people commit to each other without realizing they can't change a person. They have to love that person for exactly who they are and how that person treats them. Not how they wish that person would treat them.

Class is quiet and still after Wendy's speech. She's so brave and I wish I could tell her as much. I hide behind my academia, never saying anything so personal. But I'd probably embarrass her if I said how much I admire her. I glance at the clock. We've run five minutes over. But the class is silent, thinking. I tell them they can leave. Then they scramble toward the door as if they can't stand the heaviness of the classroom.

When most of the students have left, I approach Wendy, thanking her for sharing so much.

She smiles and glances at the young, warm bodies making a beeline out the door. "I wish I knew when I was their age what I know now."

"Thanks to you, they'll learn."

She laughs. "No, they won't."

I wander into my office bewildered. No office hours today, thank god. I doubt I have the brain capacity to be of any help to anyone.

Will I learn what love is? Will I learn how to give it? Will I always wonder if I'm good enough? I despise the idea of hair shirts and self-flagellation. Punishing oneself for love, at least that's what it seems like to me. And I can't help but wonder how long I'm going to punish myself for being born from a fanatic man who killed my mother, for not being able to save her, for running, for running to Anne who loved me for me. I worry I never spent much time getting to know the kind of man Tim was, instead, just committing to him, because I secretly knew he wouldn't love me the way I craved.

But do any of us deserve to be loved the way we desire?

"Hey."

I pivot my head at the velvety voice of Paul. He walks into my office and closes the door. Once he locks it, I'm in his arms before I can think. He's holding me, holding me so tight. I realize then I'm shaking.

"Chris called, said you had a bad day."

I nod against his shoulder. I fit differently against Paul than I do with Chris. I can lean my head down on Paul's neck.

"Bethany needs a biopsy." My voice is reedy. Maybe needy too. I cling to him, telling myself I shouldn't.

He holds me tighter.

Paul has been teaching here for the last two years. I met him not too soon after Tim died. I think I was wearing black and looked the part of a widow. I remember overhearing someone say to him, in a hushed tone, that Tim had recently passed away. I remember the look on Paul's face. He gave me a genuine smile. It was small and it seemed to say, "I know. It hurts, doesn't it?" I liked him from that day forward.

When he asked me out, I thought he meant just as colleagues. So I talked about classes and the university. He smiled patiently. After our dates and the coffee together, I concluded he didn't want me. So I began to feel indifferent about him. Almost cold, even though I was considering him as my lover.

It was a defense—to feel cool about him, protecting me from the fact that, similar to Tim, I thought I liked Paul more than he liked me. I was more attracted to him than I cared to be. I was uncomfortable with my feelings because I thought, again like Tim, what he did feel wasn't as much as what I felt.

But right now, in my office, he's growing hard against me. I'm sure he acts aloof because he's scared too. I know this, because I do the same thing.

I look up at him, his brown eyes darkening into exotic pools I'd like to dive into.

He's wincing. "Sorry." He tries to pull his lower half away from me, but I grab him by the waist, pulling him near.

"It's just...oh," he moans. "I remember your body, what we did. But I'm trying to be a good friend." He, again, leans away from me.

I pull him back. Looking up at him, I ask, "Do you like me, Paul?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

He smiles down, now comfortable to press his erection against me. "Your mind attracted me first. I know that sounds like a cliché, but it's true. When I moved here, I sat in the back of one of your 101 classes. It was a huge class. One of the most popular on campus. And I realized why. You were bright, funny, irreverent in a way that made no one uncomfortable, and I loved your clever mind. I liked the way you thought, how insightful you were."

I grin. "You really did sit in on one of my classes?"

"Not one. I got addicted to you. You're hell to break free from."

"I didn't see you once."

"I can be clever too."

I laugh. "But you stopped coming to my classes?"

He slowly inhales. "I knew you were a widow. I didn't want to make a move until...until it was right."

"You waited two years for me?"

He blinks and doesn't look at me.

I cup his face, loving the coarse whiskers along his sunken cheeks and sharp jawline. "That's the most romantic thing I've ever heard."

He shrugs. "I still make it to a class of yours from time to time."

I smile then confess. "After you asked me to dinner, I stood outside your Shakespearean class."

He softly chuckles. "Stalker."

"Yes." I kiss him briefly. "I loved the way you recited love sonnets. I thought you were funny and brilliant, but, oh, how I wanted you to recite something like that to me."

"Really? You don't think that too over-the-top?"

"Of course I do, but I want that anyway." I tilt my head. "Do you think me silly? Childish?"

He shakes his head slowly. "I'm embarrassed how...I am." What he's telling me is the truth. He's authentically being himself. He's showing me his very soul. He's so honest it crushes my heart. Even though everything under my ribs feels like pulp, he continues. "I'm ashamed of how much I want to...read someone my own poetry. I'm ashamed of how much I want...someone to love it, even though I know it's crap, and to love me."

I'm so honored, so enchanted by his words, by the dark sizzle in his gaze, by him, I lunge for his lips. I don't know if I kissed him first or if it was him. We just kiss. And kiss. I'm tunneling my fingers into his thick dark hair. It's surprisingly soft. I thought he'd wear a lot of hair product for the slightly crazy style he's got going on. But he naturally looks like a nineteenth-century poet. I love caressing his hair. I love touching it when he's sleeping.

Reminding myself of this weekend with him, I moan, feeling the apex of my legs grow tingly with need. I'm with Paul in my office where I exposed my glistening sex to him. My pussy is wet.

I clutch and claw at him until we're somehow on the floor of my tiny office. There's hardly enough space for him to lie down, but I'm on top of him, grinding myself against his erection. We're still clothed and how I wish for Ericka Jong's zipless fuck. I wish my clothes would melt away so he could already be inside me.

"Jane," he whispers, then maneuvers his hand to rub my clit.

"Oh, Paul."

His other hand rips at my shirt and buttons fly. I don't care. I do the same with his plain white oxford. We smile at each other when his chest is exposed. Leaning down, I touch him, skin to skin. He removes his hand from me and cups my cheeks, deepening the kiss. We have to roll around to remove our clothes. Somehow I don't have my pants on, but my heels are still on my feet, and he rips my panties from me. Again.

"I think you like doing that," I whisper in his ear then bite his lobe.

He softly caresses my folds. "You have no idea what it does to me."

I rub against cock. "I might have an inkling of an idea."

He smiles, kisses me, then adjusts me again. I'm sitting on his face, looking down at his contracting stomach, his erection tenting his pants, and then he licks me. He tastes my opening and plunges in. It's a shock to be penetrated. I'm not sure why my body feels so surprised, why I feel so new to this. I just had sex with Chris. This last weekend Paul was inside me for hours at a time. Still, this feels so different. So thrilling.

His tongue is both soft and hard, relenting and soothing. And I'm frantic by the time he starts licking my clitoris.

I tear into his pants, unbuckling, unbuttoning, unzipping. And I find him. I extract his lovely cock then stroke him. His stomach muscles contract even more. He's making me think I might orgasm just from looking at him. I know I will when he's in my mouth. He's making me go wild with his tongue and he's inserting his fingers in me, but it's him that's going to make me tip over the edge.

I touch the black hair at the base of his cock. His balls are tight. He wants to come and I see the proof at the tip of him. A little pearl of moisture beads. The fact that he wants me this much, that I'm barely touching him and he still wants me, has me so close to the edge.

I lick around his head and he moans.

I can't help it. I'm too indulgent. I can't wait. Opening wide, I suck him in and I come.

He moans again, and I love feeling his cock in my mouth, I love the pulse of him, how hard he is.

My orgasm is making me clumsy and lethargic. I'm not doing enough for him. He's rocking into my mouth and I don't mind. I like that too.

But he stops and has me rolling on the floor again, readjusting so his head meets mine.

"I'm sorry," I pant as he's hovering over me.

"For what?" He rears back and fishes through his pants pockets. Extracting a condom, he smiles up at me.

"For coming so soon," I moan. "I ruined it. It's just, I like you in my mouth."

After he rolls on the condom hurriedly, he opens my legs with his thigh, then hovers over me again. "No, honey, you made it so perfect."

He's at my sex—the tip of his cock to my opening. I'm so excited another wave of my orgasm crashes over me. I roll my hips forward and push him in.

He shutters his lids closed.

I do it again and again until he's all the way inside me.

"Fuck, you're still coming."

"I'm sorry," I moan.

"No, honey, you're really stoking my ego right now. I love that you're still coming."

He thrusts and thrusts as I can't seem to stop my orgasm. It's almost too much. I can't quite breathe. I can't open my eyes. I can't seem to shut up either. I know I'm moaning and making embarrassing noises. Finding my shredded panties, I stuff what I can into my mouth.

"Jesus, that's hot," he whispers and kisses my ear, then down my throat.

He keeps thrusting into me, and I'm shaking and lifting my knees up around him, but I'm not sure I can handle much more. My orgasm is cusping into too many sensations. I'm afraid I might...I don't know what...explode, even though I already am.

He makes this growling masculine noise, his thrusts getting faster, harder. I can feel he'll come soon. I know it. And my orgasm rips me apart.

As I hear him make his final grunt-groan when he thrusts deeply into me, coming, I black out. I don't know how long I'm unconscious, but the next thing I know is Paul looking down at me, worried.

His arms are around me, and he sags from his shoulders, sighing. "Jesus, I was worried you'd suffocated from your panties."

"I think I passed out."

He smiles. "Seriously, honey, you don't need to stoke my ego like this. I know I'm not the biggest man. Or the most experienced—"

I cover his lips. "You're perfect to me. This was so perfect, but I might orgasm again with you still inside me."

He pushes his hips just a tiny bit more, and I do come again.

Honestly, I've never been like this. Oh, I liked sex before my three men happened into my life. I liked it a lot. But I'd never felt...free like this. To play, to have fun, to just feel. I've always felt an overwhelming pressure to...to be prettier than whoever it was Tim was fucking around with. To be sexier than whoever she was. I wanted to be the ultimate. So I could be safe from Tim ever choosing a lover over me.

There is no safe, is there?

But as Paul softly thrusts inside me again, I wonder why I feel so safe with him. I wonder if I'm setting myself up for heartache.

The way I feel about Paul is vastly different from the way I feel about Chris. I want Chris's smile, I want his warmth, I want to feel that life is that easy. But with Paul, he knows my soul without ever telling him. He knows me. He acts like me. He does the same tricks. And he wants the same things I do: to be loved.

We're both so terrified of it. We've both been so burned. I know there's more to Paul than just his junkie of a mother, stealing from him. I'm fairly certain there were other women in his life that broke his heart, perhaps broke him too. And when we're looking into each other's eyes as he's pumping into me, our hearts are healing. Well, mine is.

I caress his whiskered jaw, loving the scrape against my palm.

Finally, my orgasm is subsiding.

"I'm going to come again," he whispers.

When he does, somehow I do too. We clutch at each other the way survivors do, we cling and I'm not sure, but I think I'm crying.

He knows me and doesn't judge me. At least that's how I feel in his arms. The warmth I feel from Chris is always threatened when I think of my past. The connection I feel with Gabe is also ominous when I think of the fourteen year-old girl who ran away from a murderer who used God as a weapon. I worry they wouldn't understand. I worry they would pity me.

But I don't think Paul would.

But I could be wrong.

# 19

I hang up my cell phone, disconnecting after I left a message on Bethany's voicemail. I've never gotten her voicemail before. She's always answered. Always. I hate to admit how I feel abandoned by my friend. That's idiotic for me to feel. However, what might not be so foolish is this overwhelming sense of confusion about the men in my life.

I want to know how the men feel about me.

But I'm too much a coward to ask.

I want to know how _I_ feel about them.

But...I did mention I'm a coward, right? I'm too afraid to examine my own emotions.

It's snowing. The first snow of the year. It's one of those light storms, more like a dusting of dry teeny white flakes, looking like sparkling sugar falling from the sky with the late-afternoon pink-lemonade sun popping out from the puffy clouds hanging low.

I love this kind of snow. Sure, it's cold. But the dryness of the flakes, the dazzle from the peek-a-boo sun—it's just fun. So I decide to go for a run. While suiting up, I hope someone will call my cell before I go out. But no one does.

I just had sex with two great guys. That should be enough. That really should. I shouldn't want more. I shouldn't want one of the guys to call. And I _really_ shouldn't want Bethany to call. I shouldn't be this needy.

Leaving my cell behind, I'm angry at myself because I've turned into a prima donna, needing attention every moment of the day.

I don't give myself the usual warm-up but just sprint down my street, then turn and race down other sidewalks. Laramie is a small town. I know where to jog when dusk is settling in, like it is now. I know where I'll be safe. Winding between alleys and roads, I find myself close to a family park that's desolate, except for the sunset, which is pure pink. It's such a sweet pink with the frosting of snow. I stop, panting, and look at the sun's blushing rays, smiling.

Maybe pink is the color of love. I've always thought crackling orange ambers were. But I could be wrong. This sunset is so gorgeous it enters my heart. My eyes sting from the beauty. I'm sweating and my anger is assuaged. I might be okay alone. Actually, I'm good at being alone. After all, I've been alone for a long time.

There's a loud booping noise behind me. And I jump, really jump, and spin around. A cop car turns its blue and red lights on. I smile, so damned happy to see that handsome cop of mine.

Gabe picks up his car's radio. "Do you know how fast you were going, ma'am?" His voice is loud, mechanical, and sounds so much like a...like a cop's.

I laugh.

"Do you have the proper license and registration for wearing those little pants?"

I cover my mouth and look around the deserted area, making sure no one can hear my naughty police officer.

"That's it," he says, his voice a growl. "Put your hands behind your head, ma'am."

Oh, this could be the funnest game of all. I'm not into submissive play. But he is a cop. He's got the authority. He's got handcuffs too. However, I think I'm the perfect thief to steal them away and use everything against him.

I can't help but keep smiling as I place my gloved hands behind my head. My hair's too short for a ponytail, per se, but I am trying to wear one near the top of my head. I feel idiotic, especially with my ear protectors on, but I hope he likes my black running pants enough to overlook what's going on with my head.

"Get down on your knees, ma'am."

Slowly, I do with my hands still behind my head. I really like this game. I love playing with Gabe. I don't know how he knew I'd like this. But I do.

He opens his car door and comes around to me. He's wearing a black winter skull cap with the Laramie Police logo on the front. He's in all black-blue, and padded with his bullet-proof vest. And I'm wet by the time he stands in front of me.

"I went by your house and saw your little tracks in the snow." His voice is still growling. God, I love it.

I'm craning my head back, and my nipples are so hard I wonder if they're poking through the down vest I'm wearing. "I'm on a run."

"I see that." He stands closer, his crotch near my head. His nostrils flare. "If this weren't a residential area..."

I lick my lips. "I want your cock in my mouth."

"Fuck," he groans and looks over his shoulder. "There're houses just over there. They might already be looking at us."

"I want it so bad, Gabe."

He caresses my cheek. "I want that too. Let's get you inside my car."

And then we are. I've never seen the inside of a cop car and am mesmerized the way an eight-year-old boy would be. There's gadgets and radios and a computer and a huge console between Gabe and I.

Gabe's smiling when he looks at me. "This is where I spend twelve hours of my day, dicking off."

"Do you masturbate in here?"

He groans again and reaches across the console to caress my cheek like he did in the snow. "How do you look so damned innocent then ask if I masturbate in my car? Do you have any idea how wickedly tempting you are?"

I bite my lip. "You didn't answer me."

He moans once more and does this thing that drives me crazy. He stretches his masculine hands over his hard thighs and pushes his pants down while he rocks his hips, giving his now bulging cock more room, I presume. I don't know what it is about that movement, but it's pushing all of my buttons. It feels like when he rolled his hips, he triggered something within my clit. God, I want him.

"I came damned close today." He smiles at me. "To masturbating, I mean. I was thinking about you."

"I thought about you today too."

"Did you?" He arches a dark brow.

I nod. And I did. Through Chris and Paul and my worries, I thought about Gabe's whiskers, how he doesn't smile enough, but when he does it always knocks me off kilter. My breath hitches and my heart stops then beats too fast.

"Chris tells me he ran into you today." At the mention of Chris, Gabe's voice is a tad less warm than just a second ago. "That you had a bad day."

"He did?"

Gabe nods and reaches over the console again, taking my vest's zipper and pulling it down. I watch his hand, my heart beating faster every escalating second, as he reveals my black thermal running shirt.

"I—yeah," It's hard to concentrate, but I do for him. "Bethany, my best friend...we found out she needs a biopsy."

He looks up into my eyes, his gaze intense, and not just because he was inspecting my breasts. "I'm sorry. That sucks."

"It does."

"You want to talk about it?"

I look at him, gauging if he really means it. He's pulling apart my down vest, glancing at my bound breasts in my running bra. I have uniboob going on, which I doubt is very sexy. But it takes a few seconds for Gabe's gaze to return to mine.

"I'll quit undressing you, if you want to talk. I promise."

The thing is, I'm talked out. I just want to feel. "I don't want to talk. I don't want you to stop."

He gives me that smile of his. "What's under that black shirt of yours?"

"My running bra."

"Can you take all of it off?"

I look around again. There are happy houses fencing the park. Not a lot of homes, but just enough to feel like we have an audience. However, the way he's parked his car, now with the lights off, I feel relatively safe from exposing myself. I wonder if that was his thought as he parked.

There's static on the radio, and a female voice cuts in, saying something about a possible nine-two-two in process.

"What's a nine-two-two?"

Gabe rolls his eyes. "That's code for Brown, Sam Brown, another patrol officer who works this shift, going to the bathroom again."

I smile. "Really?"

"Yeah. He goes a lot."

"Do you think he masturbates or actually goes to the bathroom?"

Gabe narrows his eyes. "I really don't want to think about that. What's up with all the masturbation talk, anyway?"

I shrug. "I can't stop thinking about you, in here, doing it."

He reaches over the console for a quick kiss. "I love your dirty mind."

I sigh.

He stretches, narrowing his eyes again. "You weren't really going to give me a blow job in the park, were you?"

"I wanted to."

"You don't now?"

"I want everything from you." Whoops. Well, that slipped from my lips faster than I could have stopped it.

His blue eyes darken. Almost blacken. He reaches and, with his help, I'm launched over the console, straddling his hips, his steering wheel digging into my back. His armor hurts my breasts, but I like the pain. It's slight and I wouldn't be hurting if I weren't so tender, sensitive, and raw everywhere. The tiny edge of pain reminds me of what we've done together, what I hope we will keep doing.

It's hard to sit on him. He's got his gun which kind of scares me, I hate to admit, and other cop paraphernalia around a belt. Actually, he's wearing two belts and all of it is overwhelming when thinking of how to get to him.

And I feel...too needy. I'm scared the men have opened a dam inside me, one where I'm flooding with lust, need, and desire. But worse, I'm scared I'll be flooded with hope, craving to be loved. It was so much better when I was alone. I could handle the alone times. Now, I annoy myself with how much I want...everything.

Gabe reaches under my skin-tight thermal shirt. His hand is cool and calloused, and I sip in a breath at his touch.

"Sorry, I forgot how cold I was," he whispers. He stops his adventure under my shirt. "I forgot what I was doing. I'm working, Jane. I shouldn't be doing this."

I look down. There's no space between us, but I'm sure he'd like some. "I'm sorry."

He tips my chin to look at him. "It's not your fault I feel...insatiable concerning you. I was the one who got you on my lap."

With his confession, I feel embolden. Maybe he feels just a small amount of what I do. Because right now, I know I'm holding myself back. I always hold back. But this weekend, with him, with the other men, I didn't. I let go over and over again. I gave in to this whirling pool of...emotions and wants and needs. And it felt good. As good as the sex itself.

His hand is on my thigh, and I take it and smooth it up and under my shirt again. "Tell me to stop and I will," I promise. Then I smile and lean forward. "Or if you want, I can handcuff you, so you could say you had no choice in the matter. You could let me have my way with you."

He opens his mouth slightly, and I plunge into it. I'm kissing him like a mad woman. I can't help it. He reaches up and cups my bound breast. But it doesn't feel good with my running bra on. I lift the hem of my shirt, exposing my belly while I'm still kissing him then unzip my bra.

"It's a zipper?"

I nod.

He hefts my shirt up more, all the way to my neck and widens my bra, revealing my puckering pink nipples. I thought it was warm in his car, but with my breasts exposed I realize now it's a little cool. But we're warming it up fast.

"Why is your car cold? Do you sit in it this cold?"

He takes one of my breasts in his mouth, suckling, kissing, licking. The scrub-scrub feel from his three-day-long whiskers drives me insane with desire.

"I just came from a patrol stop. Drunk driver." He switches to my other breast, giving it the same attention.

I moan but manage to ask, "A drunk driver? At this time of the day?"

He looks up. "They're at all times of the day. It's a small town. Most of my calls are drunk drivers or domestics."

His blue eyes reflect the calls he's gone on. Those mesmerizing orbs of his are older than they should be, because he has to ask people, probably daily, to prove their sobriety. He has to walk into someone's house and see a person who's been beaten. That's his job. He sees the worst of humanity, and he tries to make sure we never hurt ourselves too much. He's so fucking gorgeous, his intentions are so good, I can't help but kiss him again wildly.

Both his hands are on my breasts and I try to grind against him, but his gun is in the way. I look down, frustrated by his sidepiece. I don't want to kneel on it, but I don't know what else to do.

He unbuckles his belt, looking at me while he does it.

I feel ashamed of my need for him. "You can stop me whenever you want."

"I don't want to. I know you had a hell of a bad day, but mine wasn't great either. I couldn't wait to see you again. I was thinking of just talking, but—"

"But I jumped you."

He smiles and leans forward, removing the thick belt that has his gun and—oh!—handcuffs. "Something like that." He puts the belt on the console. "I'm pretty sure I jumped you though. Seeing your little ass standing there in those black stretchy pants...yeah, I'm pretty sure I jumped you."

"I liked the bit about my proper license and registration."

He rolls his eyes. "I was being corny. Stupid."

He reminds me of Chris, saying how he was being corny. And I feel so happy. I kiss Gabe, pushing my tongue in his mouth and just as fast leave. "No. Never."

He smiles once more and my heart bursts. "Now let's see about these stretchy pants of yours."

I watch him pull my waistband and easily stretch the fabric down to my pubic hair.

He groans. "Why, Jane, sweetie, you're not wearing any underwear." He pulls farther down, exposing more of my sex.

"I don't wear underwear when I'm running. Not usually."

He looks up, his eyes intensely dark and blue, a trickle of pink coloring the hollows of his cheeks through his black whiskers. With the sun tilting the way it is, casting its last pink rays into the sky, I notice he has red in his beard. A little blond too.

"So that night," he says, "that first night I met you, when I came over, you were wearing underwear."

"Yes."

"But you don't usually?"

"Right."

He moans and touches between my folds. "Did you put them on for me? As a kind of protection against me?"

I shake my head, closing my eyes because he keeps strumming my clitoris. "No—I—no, I wore them because I thought you might like them."

He rubs against my clit more and I arch back, pushing my breasts closer to him.

"What a delicious little bad girl I have." He inserts a finger deep into me and I moan. Taking that finger, he moves it to his mouth, sucking it in. "Yep, delicious."

I kiss him again. I think he knows I'll kiss him like the fool I am when he says things like that. I'm fairly certain he's pushing me to do more and more. He doesn't need to. I'm scared I'm too needy anyhow.

He might have removed his belt with his gun, but he's got another one that's just as much a hindrance. But I don't bother with it. Instead, I find his zipper and roll it down. Reaching in, I fist his warm hard cock and begin to stroke as he circles my clit again. We're rubbing and grinding and moaning. Then I inch closer to him. And closer.

"Do you have a condom?"

"No," he growls.

"If you hop to the other seat, I'll kneel on the floor and suck you off."

"Jesus, I love that mouth of yours. You look—"

"Do I really look innocent? Are you disappointed I'm not?"

He looks up at me, especially as I stop stroking him. "Disappointed? No. I—yeah, you do look innocent. Like a girl in a fairy tale, like a medieval damsel in distress or just damsel. I want to take care of you."

I don't know what this means. Do I look weak? I know I wear my surprise on my face because he looks desperate to find the words to explain himself.

"Not that you need me to take care of you. I just..." He stops rubbing me, but his finger slides closer to my opening. "You don't feel like you come from the world I know, where people are drunk at three in the fucking afternoon. Hell, they're drunk all the time. You don't look like you come from a place where men and women beat each other and call each other the worse names possible, where people hurt each other more than they love. It's like you live in a different world, even though I know you don't. Even though I'm pretty sure you've seen the same shit I have. But you're not as affected."

"I might be. Maybe I just hide it better."

He shakes his head, circling around my opening, making concentrating on this conversation difficult. "No, I—it's like something in you has reflected all the shit from this world, and it's made you pure. Like nothing you do or see will ever change that. You're pure. And I want that. I want to touch you and be inside you—" he gently pushes his finger inside me then, "—and talk with you and laugh with you all the fucking time, Jane. I want that purity. I want to protect you from the world, even though you may not need it. Even though you're strong enough to take whatever this world dishes out and still be so pure, I still want to protect you. I want you to be mine so I can do that."

And I thought I was frantic for him earlier. After his speech, I can't have him fast enough. I'm scrambling, panting, sweating, and I worry faintly he might not want what I do. Maybe he did want me to suck him off in the passenger seat. But, while still straddling him, I'm already on the tip of his cock, ushering him inside before either of us say a word.

I'm stretching my pants to a breaking point, and I don't care. I just need him inside me. He's not wearing a condom and I don't care. I just need.

I sit down on him, and we don't say a word. We just look into each other's eyes. I cling to the bars behind his head, sectioning the criminals from the police. Then I begin the down-up that's as old as time. We stare at each other. I'm fascinated by him, enamored, in love. Maybe I'm in love with those words of his. I don't know. But I want to believe him so much.

Of course there is a nagging thought buzzing in the back of my brain, telling me he wouldn't think I was pure if he knew where I came from. That reporter asked me over and over again if my uncle molested me. He kissed me inappropriately. Once. After I accepted his proposal, he pushed his tongue in my mouth and I gasped and pulled away. He'd already told me that's what married people did. He also said he'd waited long enough for me to kiss him like that. He couldn't wait one more second. One day soon, he promised me, he'd show me all the ways married people loved each other. He had me sit on his lap then. I wasn't astride him. But I sat on him as a child would because I was only fourteen, after all. He scooted me back until I felt his erection on my hip.

I didn't kiss or touch a boy for years when I was free. I was much too timid. Anne worried I was molested. I could tell she did. But I didn't want to be reminded of my uncle.

Then I fell in love with Tim. I really did. He was sweet and patient and actually a good lover. It took a year for him to coax a stiff orgasm from me. It wasn't my first. I'd touched myself before. But I told him it was. I was a liar and so scared when I was married. I really can't blame Tim for all the sins of our marriage. I was too scared to reveal myself to him.

But I'm letting go of all of that with Gabe.

As I slide up and down his cock, I'm showing him more of me than I ever have to anyone before. I'm wild and free. And it scares me. But I like the feeling too much to stop. I like fucking him too much to stop.

We're kissing and he's cradling my face, sometimes my breasts. I keep clutching at the cage behind him, wondering if I might rip it from its holdings. I feel too strong. Too vibrant. There's too much light inside me. I'm too happy. I'm too filled with joy. I'm so completely filled with him.

He holds the back of my neck tightly, forcing me to kiss him. His other hand is on my hip, pushing the rhythm faster and faster. I feel his body tensing, even through his thick layers, even through his armor, I feel his orgasm coming. And it urges me closer too.

Then he releases the deep kiss to look me in the eye, and he crests over, holding my cheek so our gazes meet. I feel his cock's spasms then the gush of him, his liquid.

I orgasm, my hips undulating. We kiss and hold each other tightly. It's over too soon and the intense light inside me wanes. I feel human again. I felt like a goddess, but not now. I'm back to where I'm uncertain if Gabe means anything he says.

I hate that I interpret people this way. I hate that I'm always doubting them. I don't mean to. I just...when raised in a house of lies, it's very difficult to know the truth from anything else. I don't mean to think people lie to me all the time. But at one point they did. My father, my mother, my uncle, all the people I loved lied to me.

Gabe drives me back to my house, holding my hand. He's so sweet I wonder if I'll cry. He walks me to my door, checks inside as I stand in my foyer. I'm so taken by his actions, the strong protector. He's a knight. I'm his damsel. I want that so much. I want to be pure like he thinks of me.

Oh god, I want that so much.

I want to love him, I realize. I want to fall in love and have him love me in return.

But I'm scared I'll never see him again. We broke an unspoken rule. Well, I broke it. I had sex with him without a condom. He smells like sex. I probably do too. I'm ashamed.

He reaches down and sweeps a kiss against my cheek. "See you in the morning, right?"

"What?" My voice sounds far-off, where I've gone.

He gives me one of his smiles, the kind that makes me want to lean against the wall for support. "I'll see you in the morning, princess." Another kiss to my cheek, then he leaves.

Will I see him? Will I ever stop doubting?

# 20

I sleep alone that night. It's one of those nights where tossing and turning doesn't do any good. My brain is fixated, and sleep evades me.

Before Paul, Chris, and Gabe, I'd been alone for two-and-a-half years. The first time I'd had to face nights by myself was when I was married to Tim, when he was out gallivanting with other women. I thought being by myself made me tougher. I thought I was less needy because of it.

But I miss my men—my cop, my fireman, and my poet. I'm lonely without them. The loneliness is like an ill-fitting gown—too tight around my chest for me to breathe, too loose around my shoulders, making me worry it might fall off and expose me.

In the early gray dawn, I finally surrender to rest, knowing I'm going be a zombie for the day. But many of my students are half asleep. Or drunk. Or high. Maybe if I show up one time like them, they won't hold it against me.

But suddenly I'm inhaling deeply, fully awake, after something loud erupts in my house. It's two minutes before my alarm clock is going to chime, and I'm not sure if the noise was from outside my house or inside. Then I hear something soft hitting the floor on the other side my bedroom door. The noise is indistinct yet heavy, like bolts of fabric tumbling onto the floor. Clutching my covers to my chest, my heart thundering, I watch and wait to scream as my bedroom door opens.

Only, I gasp.

It's Chris.

"Hey, baby. Man, are you a sight for sore eyes." He walks into my bedroom like he owns it. He's still wearing royal blue, but it's wrinkled. There's faint purple etchings of half-moons under his eyes. He looks desperately tired, smiling at the bedding as much as he is at me.

He sits down on the corner of the bed, taking off one of his boots, when I fling myself around him, holding him.

"You scared me."

He softly caresses one of my arms. "Sorry." Looking over one of his mighty shoulders, he says, "We said we'd meet in the morning. I got that right, didn't I?"

I'm so relieved. He had said he'd come, but I'm not used to people—okay, men—keeping their promises. I'm shaking I'm so excited and happy. "Yes." I have to clear my throat. "Yes, you got that perfectly right. Did you get any sleep last night? Do you get any sleep during your long shifts?"

He shrugs and leans down for his other boot, taking me with him. "Sometimes. I got a few winks between three and five this morning, but then we had a call." His voice sounds funny.

"What happened?"

He carefully places both his boots beside the bed. I've been holding him this whole time, but now he turns in my grasp. He easily pushes me back onto my bed, where we're on our sides. He snuggles close, holding my waist against his. I wrap a leg around his hip, my arms around his neck. He nuzzles against my cheek then my throat.

"Heart attack." His voice is both soft and gravelly. "The guy died. I—we did CPR for twenty minutes, but I couldn't get him back."

I hold him tighter. "I'm so sorry."

"Sometimes, I hate what I do. Like this morning. The wife, she watched the whole thing, and I kept pumping at his chest, worrying about her. I wanted to bring her husband back to her, but I couldn't. I feel like shit."

I hold him tighter. He's a hero. In my bed. He's like a hero the Greeks wrote about, only his heart is golden. All the Greek heroes had to journey to the ends of the earth, do horrific duties for the gods before their hearts were like Chris's. He's so beautiful. So clean.

We kiss. It's slow and sweet. And I want to make him feel good. I wish I could cradle his heart in my hands and make him feel renewed. I wish he knew how much I adore him. But I worry he'll think it too much.

He's on top of me and I open my legs, feeling his growing erection against my core. He stops and lifts his head, looking down at me.

"I get it now." His voice is pure gravel. "I should have just fucked you in the bathroom."

I'm unsure what he means.

"After the heart attack call," he explains, "I want to fuck you, but I'm worried you'll think less of me."

I shake my head. "No, I just want to make you feel better."

He smiles. "Now, I'm _really_ worried about fucking you." He kisses down my neck. "Jane, Jane, Jane..."

He's tired and wants to sleep. He's had a hell of a bad morning, and he wants to feel good for a few seconds before he rests. I can give him that. I'm happy to give him that, because he's already given me so much.

I lift my arms, holding my wrists together. "Hold my wrists down on the bed."

He looks confused.

"Just trust me." I lift my legs higher along his sides. I'm hoping he'll like the surprise that I'm not wearing any underwear under my nightgown that's currently hiked up to my hips.

One of his huge hands manacles my wrists to the bed. Just that little thing made his cock jerk against me. Then he's kissing me in a frenzy. He's clumsy and fumbling for his pants, and I love it. I can hardly keep the smile off my face. My pussy is aching for him. He accidentally rubs against my clit with his efforts to unzip his fly. And he's inside me.

He's usually such a considerate lover, holding still when he first enters me, so I can adjust to his girth. But now he just thrusts and thrusts. He's grunting and holding me down and biting my neck. And I come when he finds my clit with his free hand. My wrists ache from his power. I can barely breathe from his body's weight, and he's stretching me almost to the point of pain. But I come anyway.

He swears then comes too. After his tremors calm, he leans his head beside mine, releasing his hold of my wrists.

Still catching his breath, he asks, "Was I too rough?"

"No, just right, baby. Just right."

He jerks. "I forgot a condom."

"I'm on the pill." I sooth him with my arms and legs.

He huffs. "I think I want to get you pregnant, though."

Then my front door slams and Gabe's voice shouts, "Man, it's cold out there. Where's all the snow we were promised?"

My thorough shock at what Chris has just said is postponed while he extracts his body from mine and we straighten up.

"I have to use the bathroom," I say, hoping I'm conveying how I'd like Chris to greet Gabe, how I'd like a minute to myself to freak out. _Want to get me pregnant?_ What am I supposed to think about that? And why is Gabe here?

Chris is already zipped up and looks a tad perkier than when he'd walked into my bedroom. He's smiling. "Yeah, I don't want you to get a UTI. Take care of that gorgeous little body I love so much."

In a complete stupor, I roam into the bathroom. I'm in such a daze I wonder if some weird invisible, silent bomb had been detonated. After doing what Chris prescribed to combat a UTI, I wash my hands and face and look at my pale complexion in the mirror. I don't have a lot of color. Whatever I do possess after summer is easily washed away by late September. I'm a sheet of white. Only, I don't think it's just because of my fair skin.

I don't understand what's going on. Chris wants to get me pregnant? Gabe is in my house? And yesterday I worried I'd never see the men ever again. So, I'm overwhelmed, having no clue what to think.

Shakily, I emerge from my bedroom. Gabe and Chris are laughing in my kitchen. Gabe sees me and my heart stops as he smiles and walks over to me.

"Chris talked me into cooking breakfast. I was going to make a huge omelet with cheese, because that's about all you have in that 'fridge of yours." He kisses me. Just lip-to-lip locking, but it's long and promising. He leans his forehead against mine. "You need groceries. I can get them for you while you're at work. That okay with you?"

My front door slams again. "It might blizzard," Paul shouts before he's entered my house. "It smells like a blizzard." He walks in and smiles at everyone as he unzips his rugged forest-green parka. "Damn cold out there."

"That's what I was saying," Gabe laughs as he walks back into the kitchen, gathering a chunk of cheese and grating with an efficiency I wish I had. "You seriously think it'll finally snow? I mean that thing it did yesterday with the tiny dusting of flakes was pathetic. I want real snow."

Paul kisses me on my cheek. His lips are cold and I'm startled. We hold hands while he's looking down at me in my nightgown.

"You look beautiful this morning."

My heart stumbles all the more at Paul's compliment.

He leans his head down. "You okay?"

But before I can respond—and, honestly, I'm a bit too shocked at whatever it is that's going on to form words—Paul's gaze is snagged by something on the floor outside my bedroom.

Two black duffle bags, huge things, the kind of bags I can easily climb into, are lined up beside the wall.

"What the hell is this?" Paul asks. He doesn't sound incensed. Just mildly amused. "You two planning on moving in?"

Gabe chuckles. "I know. Chris and I laughed at that too."

Chris rubs the back of his head. "After I sleep a little, I can get some of your things for you, Paul. I'm sure you'd like your books over here. I just need some sleep first. But before that, I need to eat. Hurry it up, Gabe."

Gabe pushes Chris away from the stove in a feigning aggressive move men and boys do. They play so different from girls and women. Maybe we woman should push each other around and punch each other, call each other fuckers. I really don't know. But it seems to work with the three men in my house. They have an easy camaraderie I don't understand.

Chris had said Gabe and Paul were his friends. And I hadn't thought much of it. But they are. They're buddies in on some secret I don't know. My eyes begin to sting. I'm so confused. I don't understand the duffle bags, this friendship between my lovers, what they're doing in my house. I'd been miserable to be alone last night, and now I'm so bewildered that they're here. Together.

I'd expected each of them to run from me. To think me a slut and walk away, disgust in their eyes. But they aren't—disgusted or running from me. And my heart...my heart might burst. Chris might need to give me CPR because something's hurting so much inside my chest.

Paul tugs on my hand. "You okay, honey?"

Paul's voice is serious and both Gabe and Chris look at me. My idiotic eyes brim over with tears. I want to hide. I hate that I'm crying and pull my hand away from Paul to cover my face.

"Did any of you assholes ask if moving in with Jane was okay with _her_?" Paul's voice is steely.

There's a very long pause, then Gabe and Chris are walking to me, saying something. I can't tell since all of them are talking at once. Trying to back away, because I really don't want them to see me like this, I trip on one of the duffle bags and land on my ass, in a heap by my bedroom door.

"I'm so sorry, baby. I can take my stuff back to my apartment. I just..."

"It was presumptive to think I could bring my stuff. I'm sorry. But I..."

"Just what were you two thinking?"

"No," I finally blurt, interrupting everyone from talking. They're surrounding me, kneeling, trying to help.

"Just give me a second, please." God, my voice is wobbly and soft.

The men seem to hold their breath.

"I just...I don't understand what's happening."

They're still quiet.

"I don't understand any of this." I wish I sounded just a tiny iota stronger. "Are we, as in all of us—what are we to each other? What—what's going on?"

Paul sighs and sits in front of me. I'm leaning against the wall and partially on a duffel bag. It smells like Chris, clean and male. I like that it's here.

"Okay." Paul nods. "You're right. We need to talk."

Gabe winces like Paul asked him for a tooth, root and all.

"I can only speak for myself," Paul says. "But I think we're taking our relationship with you to the next level. I mean, we like you, we want to keep seeing you." He looks to Chris and Gabe. "Right?"

Chris smiles. "Yeah. I want to keep seeing you. I'm sorry about the duffel. I can take it back to my apartment. I didn't mean it as a sign of—I just wanted my stuff around. But maybe I'm moving too fast."

Gabe shuffles around all of us, behind me. He slides down and I'm trapped between him and a duffel bag. Paul and Chris have effectively closed off any other exits. Not that I'm thinking of leaving them, of leaving this moment. But I'm used to looking for exits. I always need to know how to get out. I need to know how best to run.

Only, I can't.

And I don't want to.

It's an odd time to think of my husband, but I do. I didn't run from him. I think I stayed because he was the only man who ran faster than me. He ran from commitment, from our vows, from me and my love. When he needed me, he didn't run. But what choice did he have? It was either me who loved him, his mother who was abrasive, or strangers in a hospice.

I didn't run from taking care of my dying husband. I lived every single agonizing yet fantastic second. He lost fifty pounds, lost his hair, and still the man could make me laugh. God, I miss him. He'd think three men surrounding me, doting on me...he'd think it was funny. Not in a joke kind of way. He'd think, as he told me when he was dying, I should be waited on hand and foot. Like a queen.

I rolled my eyes as the beep of his heart monitor reassured me he was still alive for that moment.

Tim looked at me with his devilish smile and said, "After the shit I put you through, you deserve a fucking country, Jane. And when I die, I'll make sure to give it to you. I'll haunt your ass. You'll see. I'll make men, so many men, fall in love with you. Good men."

I worried he was going to say, "Good men who aren't like me." He looked like he was going to say that. But he smiled and told me he loved me. I whispered it back.

After he died, that's when the anger started. I hated him for cheating on me. I hated him for not loving me the way I wanted him to. I hated him for dying. I hated him so fucking much because it just hurt too much to be without him, because I loved him with my whole heart. And so I clung to my husband by being angry.

But I have these three men trapping me. And I don't mind.

I can't feel my companion, my anger at Tim.

I can only feel...oh, I don't know what. But I think I just might be falling in love.

Gabe cradles me. "You need a definition of what's going on? Well, the best I got is this is weird as fuck."

I laugh.

"I don't get it, Jane," he keeps whispering, soothing me. "But maybe there's nothing to get. I mean, when I first saw Paul—sorry Paul—I thought, yeah, I could get rid of him. I could compete with him and win you over."

"Gee, thanks." Paul frowns, but it's a playful gesture, and I can feel Gabe laughing against my back.

"But when I saw Chris walk through the door, the way he looked at you..." Gabe sniffs. "I knew I was fucked."

"What's that mean?" Chris asks.

Gabe sighs. "Chris, dude, you're the nicest man alive. Seriously, no one is nicer than you. Not even Jane. Sorry, Jane."

I giggle and watch Chris. He's not sure how to handle what Gabe is saying, but he doesn't look offended.

"And then we got drunk," Gabe keeps talking, "and I realized I liked Paul. He's a good guy. So maybe I couldn't compete with him. And you and Paul are both doctorates and understand the whole university-snob thing—"

I turn and look up at Gabe. "You think I'm a snob?"

He smiles down at me. "No, but I'm not a smarty pants like you."

"That's not true. You—"

Gabe puts his hand over my mouth. "I don't talk a lot, Jane, but for you, right now, I'm making an exception. Maybe just listen for a second then you can argue with me."

Under his palm, I say, "Okay, but this is the only time you get to use that as an excuse for shutting me up by putting your hand over my mouth. And you're very much a smarty pants, by the way. Oh, on second thought, I might ask you to put your hand over my mouth in bed."

He silently chuckles then slowly shakes his head. "Funny girl. Anyway, I don't know what it is. But that night, the night where we all met and got drunk, I realized I didn't want to compete. Sure, I'm a greedy guy and would love to have you be just mine. But...Chris and Paul are great too. And I don't know how, but we get along. And this just works. I don't get it. But it is what it is. I think I can speak for Paul and Chris and let you know we want you to be in our lives. We have no clue what that will look like. But we're doing this."

He removes his hand but then hurriedly puts it back over my mouth. "Oh, and we're guys. We're idiots. We thought you'd know what we're thinking and just go along with it. I didn't mean it as an intention of moving in. But I do want my stuff here. Whatever that means. Anyway, because there's more of us, guys, than you, the one woman in our group, I guess, we'll have to work on the communication stuff. Or tell Paul what we're thinking, so he can tell you."

Paul grunts. "Why me? You think I'm some—"

"You're an English professor," Chris interrupts. "You've got to be able to communicate better than us." Then he glances at me. "But I'll work on my communication, Jane."

"Kiss ass," Gabe muffles under his breath.

Chris smiles. "Yeah, I love that ass of hers."

Gabe softly laughs again and finally removes his hand. "So now comes the scary part for men. When we've been overbearing assholes and need to know you're okay. We don't need to move in or anything—"

"I have a huge closet," I say quickly. "I—I don't have many clothes, so there's lots of room."

"You're not overwhelmed?" Paul asks, taking my hand and rubbing it. "I thought...then why were you crying?"

Tears threaten again and I place my free hand over my eyes. "Because...I'm happy."

Paul removes my hand, looking at me. "Sure?"

"I have a bookcase I've never used before. We could have all of your books here. And—something's burning."

"Shit." Gabe races away and removes the smoking-hot frying pan from my no-longer-virgin stove.

Then I'm on my feet, Paul and Chris kissing my cheeks. Paul says something about his class, and I have to get ready for mine. Chris complains about how hungry he is, but then insists he can help me in the shower.

And I'm not too sure, but I think three men are moving in with me.

I'm in bliss.

But like all the myths, I know something horrible will befall. No mere mortal shall live in bliss. The shoe will drop at any moment, because that's real life. This isn't some fucking fairy tale.

# 21

Is it possible to not breathe for four days?

I kept waiting for a shoe to drop. A bomb to detonate. For the men to wake up one morning and look at me with an edge of disgust in their eyes. Or apathy.

Four days of not breathing meant the days went by in a blur. The blizzard turned out to be a small storm. The snow melted by the next day. And somehow, through a lot of communication, which the men make a point of mentioning how well they were doing at it, we seemed to be in a domestic situation. All of us. Together.

Gabe was right. It was weird as fuck.

Living with one man and getting used to his whiskers in the sink is one thing. But try living with three men who all shave. Three men who all sleep with me. My once huge and lonely bed is now swamped with limbs and snoring and someone always touching me.

During those four days, I would go to school, wondering if when I returned home the spell would be broken. The men would be gone. But last night I came home to Paul explaining the rules of rugby to Gabe and Chris and ESPN was on in the background. Loudly.

My once pristine home, too big for just me, is crowded and messy. It has a different smell. Food smells that I'd never created—garlic sauce and apple pie and chocolate cake. I'm fairly certain Gabe is trying to not just fatten me up but Paul too.

When I go on my runs, sometimes Gabe comes with me. I tried to go alone the first night after the guys "moved in." But Gabe tackled me in a neighbor's yard, where we ended up making out and nearly embarrassing ourselves before we hurried home.

We're still not calling our domestic situation anything. We haven't admitted anyone's moved in. The men just want their stuff at my house since they're over all the time. We're not committing to anything. We haven't said anything that can't be taken back. And as much as we communicate sexual positions and our schedules and what we're going to eat and sharing tidbits about ourselves, we're not talking about what we're actually doing.

Maybe we all have a fear of joy. The lessons from the Greek gods are they might strike us dead from lightning because humans aren't supposed to be this happy. Ever.

Deep in my heart, I know I'm not supposed to be this ecstatic. My life has been brutal. I've seen my uncle shot through the eyes. I ran for three days before I collapsed on a highway. I was in the hospital for more than a month, recovering from my marathon, from the shock. Then my beautiful angel of a foster mother died when I was only twenty-four. My husband died a few days after I turned twenty-nine.

It's in my bones. Misery. I know joy will not be here for long.

And I worry as I sit in the oncology department of the hospital, waiting for news about Bethany's biopsy, that something horrible has happened to her. I know if she has cancer it has nothing to do with me. But it's the way humans explain things to themselves, isn't it? If we can't blame a scapegoat, we blame ourselves.

In the waiting room with Sherman pacing and drinking cold coffee and huge Chris sitting next to me, I think about scapegoats. When I was a child, I cried when I'd read about the Hebrews and the goat they blamed for their sins, casting it out into the desert. I argued with my uncle about how the goat would die, surely, in those conditions. And wouldn't it be even more a sin to cause suffering to an innocent animal?

He gently caressed my cheek. "Mary" —That was my birth name.— "you are such a sweet girl, always worried about fairness and decency. Justice. Such a good girl born with too much smarts to know what to do with."

"You want a coke, Jane?"

Chris startles me from my thoughts and I blink up at him. I'm worried out of my head. My friend is having a surgeon cut into her throat and check a lump of tissue for cancer. Sherman is taking my place as my best friend's friend. And I am happier with three men in my house, making messes with their whiskers in the sink, than I've ever been before.

Wrapping my arms around Chris, out comes words I hardly recognize as my own. "Don't leave me."

"I won't, Jane. I promise." He's holding onto me too, whispering. "I'm here. I'll try to explain anything the doctor says that you don't understand, but I think you're underestimating yourself."

He thinks I'm asking him to stay in the waiting room. I asked him to be with me because I knew he had today off, and he speaks medical jargon. And if a shoe drops, I know he'll catch me. I'm fairly certain Paul and Gabe would too. But it's Chris who I _know_ will catch me, no questions asked.

I lean away and notice Sherman smiling at Chris and me. Swallowing, I try to push away my panic and think of what he's going through. Apparently, his wife received the papers for the divorce, because he came to work one morning in a rental car, confessing that his wife spray painted a giant penis on his Audi. Looks like the beginning of an ugly divorce.

But Sherman seems happy with Bethany. Really happy.

"Why don't you ask if Sherman wants something to drink?" I ask Chris.

He smiles and stands, all billions of feet of him, and amiably walks closer to my dean, talking to him. I know he thinks Chris is my boyfriend. My _only_ boyfriend. I wonder if Sherman would fire me if he knew two other men took a shower with me this morning, giving me two orgasms while I shampooed and repeated.

I wonder if he'd fire Paul if he finds out.

Neither Paul nor I are tenured. I'm hoping to be tenured next year. Paul might be eligible in two more years. So, since we are mere employees of the university, we could easily get fired.

I never thought about that until now. Just what the hell am I doing with three men at once?

"Going to get some sodas." Chris smiles. He leans over and kisses the top of my head. "I'll be right back. I promise."

I nod and he leaves much too fast.

"He's a good man," Sherman says.

I nod again. "Yes, he is." Then my phone chirps. "I'm sorry." I forgot to turn my phone off, and I usually never answer it when conversing with someone. But when I see who's calling, I jump at the chance to talk.

"Hey! Jane, it's your sister."

I silently choke. It's Deidra. My former sister in-law. She called me her sister when I married her brother. When I left the commune, I left behind twelve half-sisters who were strangers to me, since my mother and I were secluded from my father's other wives. I never knew what having a sister would be like. But thanks to Deidra's huge heart, I kind of know.

"Deidra, hello. Where are you?" I'm fascinated by my former sister-in-law. She's a photojournalist. She's been to Africa, Antarctica, all the A countries and so many more. She was almost never around during my marriage to Tim, except for these whirlwind weeks when she would show up, take me out to have beers with her, go shopping, and tell me about the countries she'd visited. Then she'd leave again.

When she visited, I felt so close to Tim. I think Tim felt that way too. He'd hold me, and we'd laugh together. At night, we'd make love like we used to when we were honeymooners. I think having her around reminded him of me when I was new and pretty.

"I'm in London now. Next Kenya," Deidra says. "But I'll be home around Christmas time. I want to visit with you. Catch up. Can we meet, have a few beers?"

"Of course!" I almost squeal. In a hospital.

God, I miss her. I haven't seen her since Tim's funeral. Oh, she's called a few times in the last two years, but I thought she'd written me off. And I don't blame her. I'm merely Tim's wife. Her dead brother's surviving wife, I should say.

So the fact that she's calling me, asking for time to talk, makes me even more elated.

Deidra tells me she'll call again soon, makes a few jokes about London's weather, then we hang up, my heart crushing itself with joy.

"Sounds like that was a good friend," Sherman says, reminding me of my friend who's getting cut apart at that second.

I nod. "My f—sister-in-law."

He smiles. "Is it serious between you two? I mean between you and Chris?"

I swallow.

"Sorry. I—that's personal. I—I'm not sure what to do, Jane. Waiting like this. I hate that Bethany's getting a biopsy. Don't I sound like a melodramatic idiot?"

I lick my lips, not knowing what to do either, not sure what to say to comfort him.

"I've been in love with Bethany for six years now." He nods and looks at the muted TV in the corner of the muted-colored waiting room. "Six. Six long years. I knew I shouldn't have hired her. I knew I was attracted to her. But I couldn't...not hire her. Good god, I'm using double negative sentences now."

I softly giggle. "I think it's okay to use double negative sentences in a hospital waiting room."

He smiles and sits right in front of me, so we look each other in the eye. "She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, Jane. Is it all right if I call you Jane?"

"Yes. I'd like that."

"Is it completely unprofessional what I've done?"

"Who am I to judge?" I shake my head.

He sighs. "You're right. I shouldn't ask you. I should ask the chancellor."

"Why? Why is it any of her business?"

Sherman's quiet for a moment. He blinks slowly. "I love her. Bethany, not the—you know." After a long sigh with his lips twisted in a miserable smile, he says, "I'd do anything for her. I know you would too. Are you angry at me for taking so much of her time away from you?"

The way Sherman is talking without any breath between subjects, the way he's asking such personal questions has me off balance. I find myself liking him through it all.

"Yes," I confess.

"Very angry?"

I smile. "I—I'm jealous. I want to be there for her. But I'm also so glad you're here. I—I may not be the best comfort to her regarding...regarding her throat."

Sherman nods. He knows my husband died from cancer. He gave me a card and flowers. He was there at the funeral, surprising me. He even gave me a hug, and I was relatively new at the university. It touched me that he had come, but I did wonder if he was forced to, for professional reasons.

He clears his throat. "I hope it's all right that Bethany told me your mother passed away from cancer as well as your husband."

I wince. I don't mean to, but I do. However, the last thing I want to do is make him uncomfortable, so I nod.

"I'm so sorry, Jane." Sherman's sympathy is unnerving me. I'm not sure if I'll scream and run away or just cry as he continues to talk. "And Bethany doesn't want you to...to be affected by any of this. She wants to shield you from—"

"But she can't." I shake my head. "She can't. I'm going to be there for her no matter what. And, yes, I was angry and sad she has you now. I want to be there for her. But—but that doesn't mean I'm not also over the moon for the both of you, because I am. I'm so glad she found you. I'm so happy for the both of you. And I'm so relieved too that she has you to help her through this. But just know I can handle anything that happens. I _will_ handle it and I'll be her best friend, come what may."

Sherman blinks, and I probably need to too. I'm close to tears, but everything I said was the truth. God, it would truly be horrific for Bethany if she has cancer, but I will not let what happened to me, what happened to my loved ones, interfere with loving and taking care of my friend. I've been selfish enough, shrouding myself with pity. Enough of it. Just enough.

Sherman reaches out and takes my hands. "She truly is lucky to have you."

"Thank god, I found you." Gabe marches into the waiting room. He's wearing his uniform and looks so handsome it makes my heart stop. Or is that because my dean is staring at him while he sits where Chris was and kisses my cheek?

"Have you heard anything?" Gabe asks, then he glances at Sherman and gives a small smile.

I'm fairly certain my heart is now in my throat. My stomach, though, might be closer to my toes.

I shake my head. "Gabriel, this is _my boss_ , my dean, Dr. Sherman Whittaker."

Gabe reaches over and they shake. "Call me Gabe."

I'm relieved that's all Gabe's said. I'm terrified he'll say, "Call me Gabe, Jane's other lover." I know he won't say that, but I'm still scared he'll say something to tip off my dean.

"Sherman," my dean says, his dark brows arched.

Gabe puts an arm around me. "You okay? Can I get anything for either of you? Oh, and I should warn you, I can't stay for long. But dispatch gave me a few minutes to be here with you."

"Thank you." My voice is unsteady. Gabe being here is huge on a personal level. He's showing me he cares.

But of all the times.

I smile stiffly at Sherman.

"Hey, man." Chris's voice is warm and welcoming as he returns. He sits on the opposite side of me, handing me a soda, then one to Sherman. He's smiling at Gabe. "If I knew you were coming, I'd have gotten you a soda or water."

Gabe gives Chris a genuine grin. "Yeah, I said how important it was for me to have a few minutes with Jane, to find out if her friend's okay. Dispatch gave me fifteen. And I'll steal from Jane's soda if I get thirsty, but thanks."

They look at each other the way buddies do. Nothing weird. Nothing going on at all.

Then Chris puts his hand on my thigh, and I know Sherman is watching with a skeptical eye.

My breathing is shaky. Or am I breathing?

"There you are." And Paul, of course, walks through the door that minute. "Chris, man, I've been calling your cell, trying to find where you and Jane are. Hey, Gabe, you made it too?"

Paul then sees Sherman. He stalls for a nanosecond, but he smiles and walks forward.

"Dean Whittaker, what a nice surprise to see you here."

Sherman rises and shakes Paul's hand. "Dr. Reddick, this is a surprise. Indeed."

"I'm here for Jane. Although, Bethany really is the best secretary I've ever worked with."

"Isn't she, though?" My dean looks down at me while Paul claps Gabe's shoulder, then sits next to Chris.

"Sorry," Chris says to Paul. "I forgot my phone at home. But you found us. We still haven't heard anything about Bethany."

Paul nods, looks at me, glances at Sherman sitting back where he was, then gives me this goofy grin like we're teenagers and he's been caught making out with me by my dad. I almost laugh, but I'm pretty sure my heart up and went to Canada, giving out once I saw Paul.

Sherman takes a deep breath, placing both his palms on his knees. "So...Jane, you have wonderful _friends_ for being here for you."

"Yes, I do."

He smiles and looks from Gabe, who's now digging his fingers into my shoulder with a little too much force, to Chris, who I'm pretty sure isn't breathing either, to Paul, who seems to be handling this better than anyone. He's grinning and comfortably leaning back in his chair.

"Jane Emory and Sherman Whittaker?"

I stand. No, it was more like I jumped from my seat, finding the voice calling out for me. It's Dr. Gallagher herself, looking adorable in surgeon's scrubs a size too big for her.

She smiles and glances at Sherman not too far behind me. When Sherman catches up, she says, "We did the lab tests right away and found the tumor to be benign."

I sag. I can barely stand up. I'm so relieved.

"Of course," she continues, "I'd like to keep an eye on it. It was a strange place to grow a tumor. But right now we have nothing further to worry over. She's going to need to be taken care of for the rest of the day. She probably won't want to talk. But by tomorrow, she'll be feeling like her old self."

I'm completely shocked when I feel Sherman's surprisingly strong arm reach around me, encase me in a tight hug. "She's okay. She's okay."

I'm crying and nodding and smiling and so grateful.

My heart, that must have heard the news and returned from Canada, is beating happily in my chest once more. My breathing is still shaky but now it's because I'm so joyful.

I look deeply into the eyes of the man who could fire me. He's crying too. He really does love Bethany. And for that I love him too. He'll take good care of her. And I will too.

But if Bethany tells him who my _friends_ are in the waiting room he could fire me. For misconduct. Conduct unbecoming a professor. And I wonder if Sherman is the shoe that will drop.

# 22

I roll my head back as Gabe thrusts into me. My fantasy is fulfilled: we're in his cop car and I have him handcuffed. I'm sitting astride him. He's in uniform. Just looking at him, the cop in cuffs, has me near an orgasm. I've manacled him to the door. He has one hand that's free, clutching at my hip, holding me still as he rocks his hips up and up.

I'm meeting with my former sister-in-law today at the mall. Gabe just happened to be in the parking lot when I arrived. We were merely going to talk for a bit, but we parked his cop car at the back of the public structure and before too long tore my leggings off to have sex. Usually we'd be safe from scrutinizing eyes, but it's close to Christmas. That special time of the year when everyone and their cousin are out shopping.

I had no clue I was a bit of an exhibitionist. I mean, Gabe and I tried to park where people couldn't see us. But honestly, I don't care. The sex is so good I just can't stop.

After a couple months of almost constant sex, you'd think I wouldn't want it so much. But one look at Gabe or Chris or Paul and I'm nearly begging. With three men, one of them is always up for it. Further, we're getting really good at it now. I've learned how to turn them on in mere seconds. Gabe and I just look at each other and there's fire between us. He was here with other uniforms, regarding a shoplifting case. And after one look his way, he was ushering me in his car, swearing, and telling me I'd get him fired.

In the warmth of his automobile, Gabe's rhythm is driving me insane. I kiss him so I don't say the words on the tip of my tongue. _I love you,_ I want to tell him. Chris and I have admitted it to each other. We don't say it aloud in front of Gabe or Paul yet. And I've also told Chris that I love the other men too. A flash of something crossed his eyes, but he smiled and nodded, saying he understood.

Do the men feel I'm cheating them of my full attention?

I've asked. I may be a coward more often than I'd like to be, but I'll be damned if I mistreat someone. I have full control over that, and it would kill me if I ever hurt one of the beautiful men in my life.

Gabe once said he'd like me all to himself, and after I asked Chris if it bothered him I loved Gabe and Paul, he shook his head. But he was quiet for a long moment.

Finally, he told me he never thought he'd fall in love with a woman who had two other men. He did have the idea he'd be the only husband—yes, that's the word he used. But he liked Paul and Gabe. He and Gabe were like lost buddies reunited, and I initially worried Paul felt pushed aside, but then I noticed Chris being just as good of a friend to him too. They all started playing quidditch together—Paul admitted how he got into rugby from quidditch. God, I love getting to know Paul better. I had no idea under that brooding visage was a nerd. And I love him for it.

Chris is often underestimated. Probably thought of as not exactly smart. But I know better. He's a sage. And after he talked about being my husband and Paul and Gabe, he said, "Well, this relationship isn't what I expected. But that's life, huh? You have all these ideas of what life will be, what it'll look like, but if you just go with a good flow, then it always turns out better than you thought."

Gabe kisses me and he's growling, which is sure to make me come. He's hefting me up and down faster and faster. He's going to orgasm soon too.

God, I want to whisper it to him. _I love you. I love you. I love you._

I whispered it last night to Paul. After we'd had sex in my office for the thousandth time, he held me close, so close. And while still panting, I blurted it out. He stilled. I know he heard me. But he didn't say it back. Maybe because the way I'd said it was cowardly.

And it will be cowardly now if I say it to Gabe. People say all sorts of things when orgasming or after. Gabe says things like, "Fuck, that was so good. Fuck. Damn. Fuck. I love having sex with you. You feel so good. That was so good. I loved that." And so on.

He stops kissing me then stops thrusting into me. He pulls his head back, cradling my cheek.

"What's wrong?" I ask, my orgasm inside me, begging to be released with just one more thrust.

His huge chest is moving up and down quickly and he's sweating. His blue, blue eyes bore into mine.

He's panting when he asks, "Why does it feel so right when we have sex? Why does everything we do feel right?"

I'm not sure, but I think he's carefully broaching the subject of having two other men as my lovers. Then again, I could be wrong. This communication thing between four people is tough. But in one way it's easier. If there's ever the threat of a disagreement, someone is there to interfere and make sure all sides are listened to. Though sometimes it's even more difficult because, it seems, none of us wants to hurt anyone else. So we tread carefully, maybe too carefully around the subject of "what the hell are we doing together."

I smile. "It does feel right, doesn't it?"

He kisses me and in so doing, maneuvers my body just so and I orgasm. I feel him smile against my lips.

"Did I make you come, princess?"

"Yes." I roll my head back again. "Yes. God, yes."

"I feel you squeezing me. You're going to make me come."

"Yes. God. Oh." I look down at him as I'm bucking into him, seeing where we're joined. "Come for me, Gabe. I want you to."

His one hand slides up the side of me. "You want me to?"

"Yes. God, yes."

"What will you give me if I do?"

He's playing a game. I know he's close to coming. And there's a trick I can do with my hands that will make him. But he's playing and I love it when he does.

"Anything." I'm still bucking and getting even more wild with the low velvety words of his.

"Anything?"

"God, yes."

He fists my hair that's now a little past my chin, and pulls me down so he can whisper in my ear. "I want to meet your sister-in-law. I want you to introduce me as your boyfriend. Tell her you're mine."

I have no clue where his request came from. It's so far from what I expected I'm wordless. Even my body isn't sure if I should finish my orgasm.

"O-okay," I whisper.

Then he grips my hip again and strokes his cock into me. Once, twice, and he buries himself inside, coming. My body responds with another orgasm, even as I shudder from anxiety.

# 23

Deidra Emory looks the opposite of her brother, and for that I'm always grateful. Her hair is as dark as could be—that color of black that's almost blue. And her complexion is as fair as mine. If there were a Snow White, she would be her. She is also the fairest in the land, in that I've never met a more beautiful woman. Inside and out.

Her brother was tan. Always. I marveled at his skin, how in the dead of winter he'd still have his golden glow, except where he wore his shorts. From mid-thigh to under his bellybutton, he had this creamy skin that I loved to touch when we were newlyweds. I felt like an explorer when I touched his skin there, like he had never let another caress him in that place. I was wrong, but now I'm grateful Tim let me think as much. I was so naive, and I'm thankful he didn't make me feel like a fool for exploring his body as I did.

And Tim was blond. Almost like Chris. People thought Tim and I were brother and sister. No one has ever thought that of Chris and me. Chris is too big. And the way he looks at me lets everyone know his thoughts. I love that about him. I never worry if he finds me attractive or not. He lets me know by his hot gaze.

I'm to meet Deidra at a coffee shop in the mall. She said something about needing to get some shopping done, and I'm hopeful she won't ask me to help her. Lord, I hate shopping, which all the men in my life find amusing. Well, I like grocery shopping with Gabe. He makes it fun and tells me what he's getting and what he'll use it for and how he'd like to lick something off me. Yes, I do like grocery shopping now.

Gabe's holding my hand, our fingers entwined, and he looks like a man on a mission as we enter the mall. It's actually called a plaza. Laramie, Wyoming isn't the kind of town with a giant, multi-floored mall. It's just a few red brick buildings all clinging to each other, and this time of the year it's crowded with Christmas joy and anxiety over what to get loved ones. People are in a frenzy and absent-minded. But they cut a path for Gabe, the cop.

He's wearing his winter police gear, but it's obvious what he is, even through his blue-black parka. And I'm a little in love with the way people do double takes of us but then avoid eye contact with Gabe. I'm a little in love with _him_.

No, I'm a lot in love.

Have you ever met someone and you don't know what it is about them, but they get you? And you think you get them? Gabe and I don't have a lot in common. But that doesn't matter. We match. For instance, take his cooking and my not cooking. It's like we're a strange set of traits where together we make each other better. Alone, I'm a bad cook. With him, I'm learning and savoring things like risotto, pineapple cheesecake, and even simple things like fruit salad made more delicious because of Gabe. Everything is more wonderful with him.

Why does he want me to tell my former sister-in-law I'm his? Doesn't he know I am? Does he want me to make a statement like this to Paul and Chris? Is he forcing me to make a decision? To choose which man I want?

Making it to the coffee shop in record time, because Gabe can divide the crowds like Moses and the Red Sea, I see the dark, dark gloss of my sister—former sister-in-law's tresses. I want to keep calling her my sister. I want that so much. But I'm not sure if it's right. I'm not sure if Deidra really wants to call me her sister or if she's just being nice. I'm so unsure of everything. Everyone.

Then I stop in my tracks, Gabe tugging on me. Sitting beside Deidra is the other most beautiful woman I've ever seen, my former mother-in-law. She is like Tim. She's golden and beautiful and pristine in a creamy cashmere sweater and pearls strung effortlessly around her thin neck. She's truly chic in a town that tries to mix urban with rustic. She's lovely like an ice sculpture. And I'm terrified.

While Deidra barely lets me get a word in edgewise, because she's so humorous and happy, Margaret is unbearably quiet. Like me. We make for horrible conversations that usually ends up with me feeling as small as a dust mite and her leaving in a huff.

"What is it? Is she here?" Gabe's tracking my gaze, trying to figure out why I've stopped.

I swallow. "She's with my mother-in-law."

My only rule with Gabe, Chris, and Paul is that I don't talk about my childhood. But they know all about Tim and his family. I couldn't talk enough about how excited I was at seeing jet-setting Deidra. She's in a green sweater that's fashionably torn and worn and looking every bit the famous photojournalist she is. However, the tendons in her neck are standing out. Her shoulders are a little more hiked than normal. She's stressed and she takes a slitted glance at her mother.

I know Deidra and her mother don't get along. But I'm not sure who gets along with Margaret. I hate to say that of the woman. However, as beautiful as she is, she's also the most emotionally closed-off person I've ever met. And I thought I won that title. Until I met her. She's also...well, she's cold and that combination makes her fiercely intimidating.

Gabe turns to me. "You okay?"

I look at him. I want to tell Margaret all about Gabe—how we just made love in his car, how I handcuffed him, how he makes me come, and how sex with my beautiful policeman is not like Tim. I actually give myself to Gabe. I've given him my heart too, although I haven't told him that. I want to tell her because, god help me, anger fires through my veins at seeing Margaret. I don't know why I'm mad. I just am.

She knows very well of Tim's indiscretions, as she calls his fucking around. She hired a detective to find the woman who stole our savings, retrieving only ten thousand dollars of the hundred thousand we had saved. But the next day, when I checked my savings, there was close to two hundred thousand dollars in the account. I tried to talk to her about giving me so much money. I tried to refuse it. She wouldn't let me. Not much later, I tried to explain to her that I was getting a small apartment after Tim died. But the very next hour, a realtor called, asked if I wanted to see a house, which is now the home I love so much. The realtor, after I walked into the kitchen, gave me the keys, begging me to take it, because Margaret was a powerful woman and could ruin her career if I didn't.

I'll never understand Margaret—cold, distant, giving to a fault. Was she handing me the money and house because she thought me a charity case? Or was she paying me off for taking care of her son? Or...she never explained anything. Perhaps I shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, as they say. But when a woman is supposed to be your mother, you can't help but wonder how she could be so giving but act as if talking to me were as repulsive as getting herpes.

She sees me then. She's elegantly holding the handle of a teacup and blinks, looking away. She talks to Deidra who turns to gaze in my direction.

"Jane!" Deidra runs to me as if we're longtime friends reunited. She hugs me that way too, and I want to cry.

Deidra holds my arms, but releases me enough to look at me. Her eyes are rimmed red, extra moisture pooling in those green depths.

"It's so good to see you."

I nod. "So good to see you. I want to hear about all the places you've been to, all the pictures you've taken. I found some in Nat Geo, but I know you do more political stuff too. I want to know everything."

She giggles. "No, I want to know everything about you." Then she pointedly looks at Gabe. "Hello, strange man acting possessive of my sister."

My heart soars at her words. "This is Gabe, Gabriel Thompson." And then I remember the deal I made; although, by then I think it was rather manipulative of Gabe to make a deal like that in the throes of my orgasm. Still, I say the words. "My boyfriend."

Deidra squeals again. "Boyfriend?" Then she's hugging Gabe. He's very surprised by her reaction and stands with his arms glued to his sides for a few seconds. But then he's laughing and patting her back.

Deidra steps away and lets a tear fall. I reach out, but she shakes her head, her smile beaming. "I'm so happy for you, Jane. So happy."

During one of the long phone conversations where Deidra called me from Chile drunk, she said she worried I'd never get over her brother. Tim was lovable. As much as he was fallible, he was completely lovable, she said. And she begged me to download dating apps.

"Thank you." Heat is blazing across my cheeks, but I love telling her that Gabe's mine. And I'm his.

Deidra smacks Gabe on the arm, not at all afraid of his authority. "And you, Mr. Gabe, you'd better be nice to my Jane. She's the sweetest woman alive. And if you hurt her—"

"I'll do everything in my power to never hurt her, to always protect her, to give her everything she wants and needs."

I can hardly believe Gabe's said this. God, I love him. I just love Gabriel Michael Thompson. I love him so much.

Deidra smacks him again. "Aw, now, that's as sweet as Jane. I can't help but like you."

Gabe softly laughs. "I hope so. Jane says wonderful things about you."

Deidra takes my hand. "Mom's here." Her whisper is low, her voice a tad shaky.

I shouldn't have doubted Deidra. Her spirit is a lot like Chris's where it seems like nothing has touched her. There's no bitterness or resentment. She might not be golden like Tim and her mother, but her heart is. She shines like the sun, and I'm the luckiest woman alive to have her still want to be my sister. At this point, it is a choice for her. And she called her mother, _my_ mother. Deidra is inclusive and so fucking beautiful.

I nod, trying not to cry because I'm so moved by everything about Deidra. "I noticed."

"She wants to talk to you."

I inhale. Perhaps too sharply?

"But can I please introduce your Gabe to Mom?" Deidra looks as bouncy as a puppy, a puppy who knows it's going to get into trouble but it's just too much fun to do otherwise.

I try to breathe again then nod.

Deidra tugs on the both of us, and we take the thirty or a million steps to get to Margaret. It seems to take us an eternity, and I stare at my former mother-in-law, assessing her piercing blue eyes, so similar to Tim's.

One reason why it's difficult to talk to Margaret is because she looks so like her son. Her eyes are the same hue. On Sunday mornings, after Tim and I were married, we'd lie in bed and read, and often I'd watch him more than anything that was in a book. God, I loved him, how fast his gaze moved across the page, how his pupils would dilate when he'd look at me. I loved the way he'd smile and say something glib, tease me, then roll on top of me. I loved the weight of him.

This is the first time, since Tim's death, I have memories about my husband where I think of the days filled with love. And what's sad is that my memory is making Tim fuzzy. I can't see the details any more. I don't remember how much he weighed. I remember I loved it. But I don't remember him as well. There's a softening to my memories, like sepia photos. And I've started to remember Tim in kinder ways. It's made it so I can finally let him go.

And when I look at Margaret, the pain of what Tim did while we were married is at bay. Usually when I look at her, that's all I see—my fall from grace from her point of view, how stupid I was to trust Tim, how I should have known better. But I don't see that now. I just feel Gabe's warm hand through my thick gray sweater, the sweater is one of Paul's.

I feel...loved. Adored. I feel so new when I look at Margaret. Perhaps, I can't help but wonder, she's been quiet with me because she could see my pain. And at that second as she looks me over, when I usually feel like I should have worn better clothes, should have better taste, I feel redeemed.

I wonder if it's because Gabe is beside me. And I wonder when he'll lose interest and go away. I wonder when he'll be disgusted that I lust after two other men and him. But at least I have him at this second when I need him.

"Mother," Deidra says, her voice sounding small and soft. God, her mother changes her so much. "This is Officer Gabriel Thompson with our Jane. He's her boyfriend."

Deidra swallows. Audibly. I hold her hand, hoping to give her strength. She's fun and mischievous, but around her mother she wilts into a shadow of herself. And I hate that.

Margaret's inspection of Gabe is short. Perfunctory as ever. "Officer Thompson, nice to meet you." She doesn't hold out a hand to shake. She doesn't get up.

Gabe takes a big inhalation.

"Gabe." Deidra's voice is even softer. "This is my mother, Margaret Emory."

"Pleasure," Gabe says and does the bold thing of sticking his hand out. He waits for nearly three seconds while none of us breathe, then Margaret slowing takes his hand, shaking it slightly.

"I haven't known Jane for long. We've been dating for a little over two months now," Gabe says, like he's talking to his sergeant at work. "But I know her mother passed away a while ago, and you and Deidra are the closest thing she's got to family."

"She _is_ family," Deidra protests, even though her voice is a fraction of what it was without her mother's presence. "Jane is my sister. And no one will tell me otherwise." She looks at Margaret.

I don't know what this means. Was Margaret telling Deidra to forget me? She'd paid me off and I shouldn't be a part of the family now?

Gabe smiles at Deidra then looks pointedly at Margaret. "So I wanted to let you know, as I've let Deidra know, that I only have good intentions regarding Jane. I never want to hurt her. I'll protect her from all harm. I'll do my best to be a good man to her for as long as she wants me."

I glance at Gabe. He's taken me by surprise in so many different ways. He makes my heart thump and hurt and feel too good all at once. I want to wrap my arms around Gabe and I almost do, but Margaret speaks up first.

"That's very gentlemanlike of you to say, officer."

"Gabe, please call me Gabe, ma'am."

She blinks rapidly for a moment. "Then please call me Mags."

_Mags?_ I've never heard anyone call Margaret anything other than Mrs. Emory or Mother or nothing at all. No one, not even the realtor who was scared she'd lose her job, would dare call Margaret a bitch. Margaret's that intimidating, where she doesn't even get called swearwords for her less than civil behavior.

Gabe smiles. Deidra looks baffled and I'm sure I do too.

Margaret laughs. "The look on you girls' faces."

I've only ever seen Margaret laugh when Tim was alive. He could get her to giggle like a school girl. He had this magical power that I was in awe of where a fortress of a woman like Margaret would melt into a puddle of goo. It wasn't just that Tim liked to laugh himself, but he liked it best when everyone was happy.

I wonder if he hurt when he knew he was hurting me. Honestly, I thought him too selfish to care, but I could be wrong.

However, that's the problem with having an issue with the dead. There's no discussion. No confrontation. No validation. There's only my wandering thoughts. But since having the men in my life, my issue seems to have taken a nap, rested. I don't hurt as much as I used to. I'm not angry anymore. I do get sad, because without that bitter anger, it means I'm letting go of Tim. I'm letting go of wanting Margaret to love me. I'm letting go of everything.

Margaret looks at me. "Well, I like Gabe, Jane. Well done."

"Th-thank you?" I don't mean to make it a question, but it sounds like one.

Margaret glances at her daughter. "Deidra, sit, so our guests feel comfortable to do the same."

Deidra sits, looking at me like she's pretty sure she's sitting next to the antichrist.

"I can't stay...Mags," Gabe says. "But thank you for the invite."

"Certainly, Gabe." Margaret says Gabe's name like there's cotton on her tongue, like she's uncomfortable saying it, but she's going to try.

Gabe kisses my cheek and scoots me into the chair next to Deidra. With Gabe's big hand on my back, Margaret clears her voice delicately.

"Gabe, I—I've wanted to talk to Jane—I should let you know—"

Never before have I heard Margaret struggle for words, and I worry I'm staring at her, at the woman who's always been stonily quiet, but the few words she's chosen were always to the point and painful.

Deidra shakes her head. "Mother, please, don't."

Margaret thrusts her chin up. "You should know, Gabe, that I never want to hurt Jane either. But I know I do. I don't mean to. Or maybe I do. I don't know. I hurt every time I see her. I can't help but think of my son who afflicted so much pain..." She stops herself on a sad note.

Looking into her teacup, something twists her perfect pink lips. I can't tell, but I think she's smiling as she continues. "You should have met my Timothy. He was—" she chuckles, "—he was beautiful and light and humorous. But not kind. My poor boy hurt Jane in so many ways. Has she told you?"

Gabe nods but then glances at me. His blue eyes seem to look into my very heart. Then he clears his throat and says, "I knew your son, Mags."

I stare at Gabe. Was there an earthquake? Some catastrophe? Because I'm in a weird state of shock where I want to duck under the table and scream.

He won't look at me but only at Margaret. "I was the patrol officer who arrested him four years ago."

Arrested? Tim was arrested? I look at Deidra who looks confused too.

Margaret, though, is gazing at her teacup once more. "Tim had just been diagnosed with lymphoma. Stage four they told him." She looks at me. "Well, you remember, Jane. They told him to think about a will, to get things in place. They told him surgery wouldn't help. Chemo would make him too sick, yet they were willing to try it. Oh, and he needed to get his things ready, like he was flying to Japan or something. Why do doctors say such terrible things like that?"

We're all quiet. Too quiet.

Margaret gives me another flickering glance before she says, "Tim was drunk, driving, and—I didn't want to hurt you, Jane. I didn't want you to know—about the girl he was arrested with. I took care of everything, made it so it almost never happened. So you'd never know. I told him to go back to you, told him what a wonderful wife you were, told him he'd never find anyone better than you."

I can't help but clutch over my heart. It hurts so much. And yet, Margaret is saying such beautiful things about me.

I peek up at Gabe. He sits in the chair beside me, holding my hand. But I want to snatch my hand away.

"I couldn't tell you." His voice is pleading.

I nod. I understand. Gabe's job requires him to not babble on and on about the people he's arrested. I get it. But I still feel angry he hadn't told me. It's irrational, and I know it, so I do my best to assuage my feelings. Wait, why has he said anything about it now? Why did he admit as much to Margaret?

Through my internal questions, I can't help but wonder, "Did you know I was Tim's wife when we met?"

He winces.

The feeling of an impending catastrophe or maybe one that's already happened crashes over me again. "You knew who I was?"

Slowly, he nods.

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. I'm about to say something, though I don't know what when Gabe beats me to it.

"Maybe I should have said I knew who you were, but I figured you'd...you'd get uncomfortable. But, yeah, after I met Tim, after I found out about his cancer, I—there were a few more run-ins with your husband. None of us blamed him. Hell, I'd get drunk too if I found out my life was about to end."

"More run-ins?" Margaret deftly asks. "How many more times did my son get pulled over?"

Gabe shrugs. "A few."

"But you didn't arrest him again?"

Gabe shakes his head. "The force knew who he was by then. We'd just drive him home."

Then Gabe's radio blasts something, and I've memorized enough of the code to know that dispatch is asking for his location.

"Copy," he says into his radio. "I'll be at my car, still at the front of the Plaza, in five. Out."

He looks at me, seeming to beg for something. But I'm not sure I know who he is any longer. He's the man who was just inside me, who made me orgasm and fall in love with him. But he's so much more. He has secrets too. He knew Tim. He knew Tim had cheated on me before I'd ever gotten the chance to tell him.

Does he pity me? The poor idiotic wife?

He's still wincing. "I gotta go."

I nod.

"We'll talk later?"

For a second I don't nod. I just want to run, run from this different Margaret, run from the cacophony of the mall, run from everything I know and love. But I do nod since I know it's rational to talk things out. I know it. But I still want to run.

He says his goodbyes to Deidra and Margaret, kisses me on my cheek, and I'm not sure but I think he whispered that he loved me in my ear. No, he couldn't have.

And he's gone.

"Deidra, dear, get Jane something to drink."

I turn to Deidra. I've seen a picture of her after she's been about a hundred yards away from an IED explosion in Afghanistan. She was dirty and bloody from her nose and ear. She looked shocked and so beautiful. She looks like that right now. And through my own rude awakening, I reach out and hold her hand.

My sister.

I smile at her.

I'll always be hurt by the things Tim did. But now the hurt isn't so bad. Why I'm in any sort of pain at the moment is because I wish Gabe had told me he knew of me, even if he couldn't. And I don't know who Margaret is and I wish she loved me like I love her. Oh, yes, I love her. I would do anything for her. And not because she's Tim's mother. But because I just love her.

I stroke Deidra's hand. It must be so hard for her. She loved her big brother so much. I know she knew of the things he'd done. She'd been the one to call him a dick while he was alive. But she loved him fiercely. We all did.

"Are you okay?" I whisper.

She nods, her eyes smart. "I'm fine. Fine. You?"

I smile even wider. "Yes."

"Deidra, please get Jane a drink." Margaret's voice is edged with frost.

I'm fairly certain she wants to talk to me alone. Looking at Deidra, I'm guessing she's having an internal fight over whether to leave me alone with her mother or not.

Margaret gives her a glance that could scare the devil, and I'm alone with my former mother-in-law, Deidra looking over her shoulder like she'd been given thirty pieces of silver and kissed my cheeks. She didn't betray me. I know the force that is Margaret.

She takes a very long sigh. Her nostrils flare, her cheeks have a slight pink hue. "I was talking to Deidra about no longer calling you."

"Why?" I whine. I hate that I've whined, but I can't help it.

Margaret won't look at me. "Because it seems all my family does is hurt you."

"That's not true."

Margaret's lips thin. "Then maybe only my son and I do that."

"You haven't hurt me." But it's a lie. However, Margaret only hurt me because I wish...I wish she'd show me she loves me. However, she bought me a big house, didn't she? She reimbursed me after my savings were lost. She gave me twice what was taken. I've been a buffoon hoping for Margaret's love, not noticing it was there the whole time. Granted, it doesn't feel like love. But not everyone can offer the kind of love that doesn't sting.

Margaret finally looks at me. Her eyes scorch into my soul. Tim's eyes. Tim when he was angry at me for leaving my shoes in the hallway for him to trip over. He'd roar about shoes having a place, then say how he sounded like his mother, and tell me to leave my shoes wherever I wanted, kissing me with apologies.

I might sound like a doormat, but I don't regret loving Tim. He'd make me laugh when I thought this world had it out for me. He made me feel...safe. I know that's an odd choice of words, especially considering the man fucked more women then I'd ever like to know. But I never worried if he might ridicule my intelligence and knowledge. I never worried if he might belittle _me_. He belittled our marriage and vows, but he never did that to me, his friend.

I reach out and touch Margaret's hand. I've never touched her. But I do this daring feat because suddenly I'm filled with love for Tim, for her, and I don't care if Tim broke his vows. Okay, I do. But I also don't. As a woman who came from a background where everything about who I was I secreted away, like my very soul was too foul for others to see, to have Tim's acceptance and dysfunctional love saved me.

Margaret saved me from financial woes. She gave me such a big beautiful house that I'm currently sharing with three men. I love her and everything she's done for me.

"Don't push me out of your life, Margaret. Please." I clear my throat since it's tight and raw. "I love you. I want to talk to you—so much. I want to know how you're doing."

Margaret's eyes instantly fill with tears. "Why? I've been—I—I know I'm not the sort of woman that's easy to—Why?"

"Because I love you so much. And I'd miss you if you didn't talk to me."

"I don't talk."

"Well, I don't either. Usually. But we can change that."

Margaret barely touches my little finger with her thumb. "You've changed."

"I think you have too."

She glances at me, chin up. "I took a lover twenty years my junior."

"Wow." I laugh. Her husband died long before I met Tim. In all that time, she'd never dated. Tim got her a t-shirt that read, _I've raised my children alone and all I got was this hair shirt_. Apparently, she liked to use the fact that she was alone in her guilt trips for her children. And that makes me laugh even more. "Congratulations."

She rolls her eyes. "It's a stupid affair."

"Why?"

"He's too young for me."

I shrug. "The heart wants what the heart wants."

Now she really rolls her eyes, but then smiles and looks down at our hands. She's holding one of my fingers. "You sounded like Timothy just then."

I sigh. "He was so good at those tautological arguments."

She laughs. Actually laughs. It's soft but it's bubbly and spirited. "He was." She glances over her shoulder at her daughter, who's looking at us like we might be kidnapped at any second. And she's finally at the register, having battled a Christmas line for eggnog lattes.

Margaret looks back at me. "Gabe seems like a good man."

I glance down. I'm great talking about other people. But me? Especially now that I'm in a relationship with three other men...I'd rather talk about the weather.

I nod.

"Do you love him?"

I nod again.

"He's in love with you."

"I found you," says a desperate voice, one I know intimately.

I look up and try not to cringe when I see Paul.

# 24

Paul races toward me, taking my free hand and sitting where Deidra had been.

"I called Gabe and he told me you were here. I just—" He swallows. "I had to tell you..." But he trails off and looks at Margaret.

"Hi, sorry," Paul says. "Usually, I'm not so rude, but I have to say something to Jane."

"By all means," Margaret says, her voice cool. She arches a blonde brow.

"Hi!" Deidra of course returns then and hands me one of the yuletide lattes sprinkled with nutmeg and heavy with whipped cream. "I'm Jane's sister-in-law, Deidra. Er, Dee, if you don't mind." She sits on the only available chair at the table and looks at Paul with a playful smile on her face.

For a moment, I concentrate on my sister-in-law. _Dee?_ She's never asked me to call her Dee. Then again, Margaret usually calls her Deidra Alexandra. And Tim called her Dorkbutt. One word like that. She called him Cheesenerd. But later, after she found out about his indiscretions, he was Cheesedick. They made me laugh with their sibling names. I wonder how much Deidra must miss her brother.

Paul briefly shakes his head, scrubs his whiskered jaw with his long fingers, which makes a hushing noise I love, bringing me back to him, to this moment.

He sighs. "Hi, forgive me for being so rude, interrupting—"

"No, it's fine," Margaret says. She has a teeny smile on her face. It's very small, but it's almost identical to the one on Deidra's. "Please continue, Mr.—?"

"This is Dr. Paul Riddick. He's an English professor where I teach." I talk to my lap, not sure if I can look at Margaret or Deidra. What on earth are they thinking? First, Gabe comes in and says such beautiful, romantic things, and now Paul's clutching at me, looking feverishly like Heathcliff from _Wuthering Heights._ God, just let him say something about school. Please.

Paul shakes hands with Deidra and Margaret as I introduce them. He smiles.

"You were saying, Dr. Riddick?" I've never heard Margaret's voice like it is now. It sounds girlish and pretty. She's having fun at my expense, and the thing is, I don't mind. I mean, sure, I wish I wasn't such a huge target for ridicule, but I love the slight twinkle in Margaret's blue eyes.

Paul nods and frowns at me. "I didn't think about saying it in front of an audience, especially an audience of your in-laws."

"Oh, don't mind my daughter and me."

Deidra stifles a giggle.

Paul glances around the table, then swoops off his chair, kneeling beside me, holding my hand over his heart. "Screw it, I'm going to say it. I love you too, Jane. I love you so much. I wish I had the poetic words to make you swoon, and I could steal the words from other poets. But I just have me—gritty, moody me. And I love you so fucking much."

Paul's dark eyes aren't just assessing mine—I see fear there too. And as much as I want to hide from Margaret and Deidra, I know what Paul is saying is a gift. He probably doesn't love easily, but he's offering his heart to me.

I take his face between my hands and kiss him, soft and gentle. Pulling away, I place my forehead against his. "You lovely man. I love you, you moody poet. I love you so fucking much too."

He smiles. "I'm sorry I didn't say it last night. I'm sorry I was a coward."

"I don't think you're a coward."

"I am. I couldn't say it to you because I was too afraid, but then...today...One of my classes is reading Poe's poems and quotes. And someone picked out one of my favorites to read aloud. 'There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion.' And I haven't been reckless in so long, too wrapped up in my fears. But when you said it—after we'd—I realized what a coward I'd been not telling you, not telling you the second you'd said it, that I love you too. You, my beautiful Jane, your emotions touched my heart, broke through the chains of my fear, and I love you, Jane. I really do."

He kisses me and it's not soft and gentle. He's a tad pushy and his tongue is in my mouth. Yes, Paul's tongue is in my mouth in front of my mother-in-law. Could things be any weirder?

But, like Chris says, that's life, isn't it? We roll along and think we've got it all figured out. We have expectations. We know what life is supposed to look like, what love is supposed to look like. Only, it never turns out the way we think. It's usually better than our wildest dreams. If we let it be.

Paul pulls away, his lids are hooded. He looks like sex on a stick, as they say. Well, I say. God, maybe I should just leave with him now. This meeting with Margaret was lovely, but I want to be with Paul, the man I love. One of the men I love. Is that as ridiculous as I think it sounds?

He caresses my cheek. "Well," he takes in a breath, "my work is done." He smiles like the cheeky guy he is. "Coming home later?"

I nod.

"Ladies," he extends his hand to Deidra and Margaret. "It's been a pleasure. Again, terribly sorry for the interruption. Had to get that off my chest. I hope to see you again."

And with that Paul is gone, and I'm left to face my in-laws.

Margaret's stony face stares at me. Deidra is covering her mouth with her hands, gleefully. Then my mother-in-law starts laughing so loud and obnoxiously people stare. She starts crying she's laughing so hard, and Deidra joins with her own chuckles.

"Two men, Jane?" Margaret asks.

I sigh. I've never bothered with lies. I might not tell people of my upbringing, but I never lie. And I'm not about to start now; although, it might not be the smart thing to do. "Actually, there's three."

Margaret hoots, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

"Three?" Deidra asks.

I nod miserably.

"H-how?" Margaret can barely speak between her guffaws. "How are you pulling that off?"

I shrug. "They know about each other."

Deidra's mouth's agape. Margaret sobers slightly.

"They know about each other?" Deidra asks.

I nod and look down to the tons of whipped cream on my coffee. "Yes. I wouldn't cheat on them." And I cringe as soon as I've said it. I didn't mean to sound like the antithesis to Tim. But I have.

Margaret's laughter is done. There isn't even a smile on her face, but she leans forward. I try not to wince as she pulls a few tresses of my hair away from my cheek and tucks it behind my ear.

"Of course, you wouldn't, darling girl."

Deidra's mouth is now seriously open like her jaw is unhinged. She snaps it closed, but I'm sure she's never seen her mother so affectionate. I never have.

"Three men." Margaret returns to smiling and looking devastatingly beautiful. "I think I'm jealous."

"You have a lover who's twenty years younger than you," I retort. I'm only teasing, but then I notice Deidra's mouth again is agape.

"You what?" Deidra nearly hollers.

I wince then. "I'm sorry. I thought she knew."

Margaret shakes her head, but then shrugs. "Cat's out of the bag, my dear Deidra Alexandra. I have a lover who's younger than me. A lot younger."

Deidra smiles, takes a sip of a breath then says, "I think I'm pregnant."

We both turn to her. Now she's looking at her coffee for refuge, but her eyes instantly fill with tears, spilling down her cheeks.

"I—I'm not sure, but I think I'm pregnant, and the father of my maybe baby is dead. I had a one night stand with a mercenary in Kenya, and I just got the news that he's dead. Can you believe that? Any of that? Because I can't believe it. And my mom is having sex with a guy my age."

Margaret wraps Deidra in a bear hug. "My baby is having a baby."

We talk for hours and plan how we're going to stay in touch. We arrange our schedules to include each other. I'm going to go with Deidra to her doctor's appointment to find out for sure if she's pregnant. And between Margaret and me, she'll never be alone.

It's odd to make plans like that. I haven't done it with anyone except Tim, plan our future together. It feels official and white, like a wedding. And I love Tim all over again. But I'm saying goodbye to him too.

Goodbye, my sweet love.

Hello to...what? Can I really fall in love with three men at once? Is this right?

# 25

I don't get home from my coffee date with Margaret and Deidra until almost nine. Anymore, that's late for me because Chris and Gabe work such long shifts. Paul's adjusted his schedule too, so we wake early, hence having to sleep early too. Yes, we've gotten into a schedule, one that resembles an old married couple, even if there are four of us.

Chris has just gotten off his twenty-four-hour shift, and Gabe is adjusting to his new twelve-hour shift. I know they're both home. They should have been home for about two hours by now. Usually we eat together, have sex, then Chris and Gabe are off to bed, while Paul and I discuss our classes and help each other get ready for the next day.

There's a hodgepodge of automobiles in my driveway, and I'm a happy girl.

Paul admitted that he loved me today. And Chris and I have already whispered our confessions of love too.

Margaret was kind and actually sweet.

Deidra is going to have a baby who I'll dote on.

And I'm coming home to go to sleep between three male bodies.

Yes, I'm a deliriously happy girl, thinking about becoming an aunt and of old married couples' schedules.

I open the door to my house and smile at Gabe. He's walking toward me in the foyer, his expression grim.

"Are you mad at me?"

I shake my head and just about wrap my arms around his neck when he says, "Come on, Jane. You gotta be mad. I knew about Tim."

And then I remember. I'd been shocked Gabe had said he'd known Tim, known I was his wife. I'm not sure what this means, though. "Oh, yeah."

"Yeah," Gabe says. He gets closer, crossing his arms. His brows are furrowed, like he's angry with me. "You know, I thought _I_ would be a big problem in our relationship, because I'm not the best at communicating. But with our weird group dynamic, we _have_ to communicate. And I think I'm getting pretty damned good at it. But you never open up, do you?"

I blink. His voice is raised. I feel like burrowing into the corner of the entrance room.

Wasn't he just asking me if _I_ was mad? Why is he the one who gets to be angry?

Paul saunters close. "What's going on?"

Gabe only looks at me, his eyes dark, still so very angry. "Tell him."

Chris now ambles into the foyer too, and I feel trapped between the men and the wall. I have the door behind me, and I'm thinking of jumping through it. Just a second ago I was happy. So fucking happy. Now...I want to run because that's all I'm good at.

Okay, I'll admit I'm good at teaching at the university level because I'm confident when I have the floor, when I have everyone's attention. Further, I can supersede my shyness and talk one-on-one. And in the last two months I've learned how to have a voice with three opinionated, loud, and aggressive men. So, yeah, I think I'm getting pretty damned good at communication too. But if there's a threat of conflict, I'm paralyzed or I literally run. Flight or freeze are my responses to friction, which reminds me of a deer. I'm a freaking deer.

"Tell me what?" Paul asks. "Is this about today? At the mall?"

Gabe finally looks at him. "What about the mall? I told you where she was, but you didn't say you would go there."

Paul narrows his eyes. "Why else would I wonder where she was?"

"To make sure she's safe."

"What's this weird thing you have with keeping Jane safe, protecting her?"

"Weird thing?" Gabe's beginning to get even louder.

"Don't ask, man." Chris lightly claps Paul on the shoulder.

Paul shakes his head. "Okay. None of my business, I guess. Anyway, yeah, I found Jane and I told her...okay, I may as well admit it here too. I told Jane I love her."

Chris smiles. "Nice." He high-fives Paul.

Gabe's even angrier. "You told her—you were at the mall too?"

Paul nods. "Yeah, with her in-laws. That's where I confessed that I love her."

"You said that already." Gabe's cheeks are darkening. Then he turns to me. "Have you noticed our girl here hasn't said a word yet?"

"Well, she's probably overwhelmed." Chris smiles at me. "We are crowding her. How was your day, baby?"

I blink. I _am_ overwhelmed. Deer-in-the-headlights overwhelmed. Good lord.

"She found out—well, I told her I knew about Tim." Gabe returns to crossing his arms and fuming at me.

"Oh." Chris nods. "Sorry about that."

Something internally snaps. I'm no longer a fucking deer. "You knew too?"

"Knew what about Tim?" Paul asks.

I point a finger at Paul. "Did you know too? Did the whole fucking town know my husband was fucking around on me?" I'm screaming and I've never heard my voice like this. I'm shaking and so is my voice. I don't sound strong when I'm angry like this. I sound scared and I hate it.

Paul takes a step back, shaking his head. "I—no, I didn't know."

I'm nearly panting when I look at Chris. I don't know why I'm so mad, why it took this long, but now I'm a raving lunatic. "How long did you know that my husband was cheating on me?"

"Most of the emergency responders knew," Gabe says quietly. I'm fairly certain he got what he wanted: me, angry. And now he's calm and I want to...well, I've never hit another person. I promised myself after all the whippings I took, I'd never do the same. Ever. But I want to say mean things. I want the men around me to suffer like I am right now.

I'm humiliated all over again at my marriage, how I wasn't good enough for Tim to keep his dick in his pants, how I wasn't pretty enough, how I was...god, who knows what he thought was so wrong with me, with us, to resort to fucking around. Fucking around so much all the emergency responders in our little town knew about him.

"He was dying," Chris says with a shrug. "We felt bad for him. So we'd take him home and—"

"And what did you do with his little girlfriends, hmm?" My hands are everywhere, up at the ceiling, circling in the air. I've become so animated I don't recognize myself. "What did you do with the women Tim was fucking around with?"

Chris looks down. "I didn't know he was married...until he died."

I point my finger at Gabe now. "Did you know he was married? Did you know it was me getting screwed over by my dear dying husband? That I know I'm clean because I had to get checked after I found out Tim was fucking around? How humiliating that was?" I'm not sure what I'm saying at the moment.

Gabe takes a step closer to me.

But I back into the door. "Don't," is all I can say.

Gabe winces. "I—I followed him home once. From a bar. I didn't know if he was drunk or not. He was driving pretty well and he came to your house, where you used to live. I saw you answer the door for him."

I close my eyes, wishing I didn't know he knew. God, it's so ironic, isn't it? We're always grasping to know everything. But sometimes ignorance is bliss. I hate that Gabe knew me as the wife of a cheating husband, a charismatic man who laughed at our vows. And I internalized everything Tim had done.

"I fell in love with you that night."

I look up, not sure what Gabe really said.

"After I saw you, I hated your husband, Jane." Gabe's voice is raw. "I hated him for doing that to you."

I shake my head, hoping for the quiet staccato hum from my feet as they're fleeing.

"I wanted to punish him, Jane." Gabe keeps talking, even though I'm not sure anyone is breathing. "I wanted to hurt him. But—I feel like shit now for being like that because of how he—the way he passed away. God, that had to be tough on you, taking care of him. And I knew I loved you then, for the way you loved and cared for him.

"I feel like a fucking stalker because for two years I followed you from time to time. I knew about your new house. I learned your schedule. Fuck, I am a stalker."

"That's kind of fucked up," Paul says.

I keep shaking my head. I'm crying now, but I'm covering my face with my hands.

"Hey," Gabe says defensively. "At least I never went to his funeral."

Gabe glares at Chris.

My mouth is open as I glance at Chris too. He's such a huge man, but he looks like he'd like to crawl into a tiny space when our gazes meet.

He frowns at Gabe. "Thanks for throwing me under the bus, man. Really fucking nice."

"You were _there_?" I ask. "At my husband's funeral?"

Chris slowly nods. "I—yeah, I was there."

"You saw me?"

"Yeah."

"So, what is this to the two of you?" I wave my hand at all three of them, actually. I'm so angry and hurt and humiliated. I glare even more at Chris. "You think you love me because you feel sorry for the poor widow? You feel sorry for me so you pity fuck me?"

"No!" Chris argues.

"I don't pity you," Gabe says.

I squint at him. "It sure as hell sounds that way." I take a step closer to Gabe, clenching my fists. "You're saying you fell in love with an idea—the poor wife whose husband is fucking around. You fell in love with a one-dimensional idea, not me. And the reason why you fell in love is—and Paul is right about this—because you have a weird notion about always protecting me, keeping me safe. Was I the perfect victim for you to save? Was that it? Do you even see me? Do you have the faintest clue that I'm a real person? Oh, and I knew my husband was fucking around. I knew before he died. I wasn't the little victim you think I was. I never was. You don't know me. You don't want to know me. You want a victim."

Gabe's shaking his head, that dark color in his cheeks returning. "I know you. Why else am I sure about the way I feel about you? I know you, Jane."

Oh, but he will know me. There's one sure way he'll learn about me that will make him run from me. I'm going to tell him everything. No, even better. I'm going to _show_ him everything.

# 26

I'm not thinking. I'm a blur of emotions. I know I'm going to regret what I'm doing. There's a buzzing, nagging thought trying to stop me, but I march past the men in my foyer, crowding me. Going to my bedroom then the closet, I find the one drawer I keep locked. It's a hidden drawer, inside where I keep my socks. And soon, I have the clear plastic case, the silver disk inside.

Paul's followed me, but I can sense Chris and Gabe are close. They're whispering to each other in low guttural sounds. Chris sounds like he's pleading. Gabe sounds miserable.

"What are you doing?" Paul asks as I leave my huge walk-in closet, stuffed full of men's clothing and mine too. Our clothes are making love, intertwined at all hours. I almost can't stand the sight of it.

"Going to show them. Show all of you." I stand beside the bed where I've made love to Paul and Chris and Gabe so many times I've lost count. I know their bodies. And they know mine.

"Show us what?" Paul's voice is calm, but his face is blanched. He looks incredibly tired, and I almost stop myself. I want to wrap my arms around him. I want to play his damsel in distress from Gabe and Chris and my philandering husband.

Is that all I am to them? Some idea of a sad woman they can play knight in shining armor with? I liked that idea too, sadly. I liked it a lot.

But I also loathe it because the word victim shrouds me with its label. I've done my best to shy away from it. But it's always there. The word victim, the shame of it, _that's_ the monster who cages me. Even with me thrashing against the bars for my freedom, I never find it. I only find more pain.

The problem with the knight in shining armor is when the damsel is no longer in distress. Those knights go gallivanting around the countryside, looking for the next suffering wench they can rescue. Chris and Gabe think they've fallen in love with me, but really they want the _idea_ of me. That's all.

I knew they couldn't want me. Not the real me. Tim didn't. So why would any other man?

I wonder if Paul does, though. He didn't know of my past with Tim. He's looking at me with concern, like I've turned into one of those wild women who emerge from the mountainside and talk to themselves and vanish as quickly as they are sighted.

All the anger is sieved from me while I look at Paul.

"What does it mean to love another?" I ask him, my voice sounding child-like and scared.

"Are you asking me as a fellow academic? Or as a fellow human being? Or as Jane, the woman I love."

God, I love Paul's mind. I love how clever he is.

My chin does this terrible thing where it quivers as tears spring into my eyes. "I don't know what I'm asking."

Paul takes a tentative step closer, and I let him.

Then Chris and Gabe walk into my room. I stiffen and take a step back, running into my bed.

"I'm sorry," Chris says, looking at me then the disk in my hands. "I'm so sorry, Jane. I—I should have told you that I kind of knew you. I mean, I saw you at the funeral. I should have told you. But I didn't know how. I didn't want to bring up your husband because..."

"Because you never talk about him," Gabe finishes for Chris.

"Why?" I ask, my voice too loud. "Why do I have to talk about him? Why do I have to talk so fucking much? He cheated on me. I knew. I loved him anyway. I mean, I didn't love the cheating. But I was the sorry sap who loved my beautiful husband even though he didn't love me anymore, went out and found other women who were prettier, who could keep his attention."

"You think he didn't love you?" Paul quietly asks.

"Why else do men go fucking around? Of course, he didn't love me. I have no idea if he _ever_ loved me." I said it. I just told them one of my worst fears, one of my biggest secrets. It's odd, but in the last few days I thought I'd forgiven Tim. I thought I'd moved past. But this one secret haunts me.

Then I drily laugh. "I just realized I've become a weird antithesis of my husband."

"What do you mean?" Paul's voice is still quiet but has a slight tone of rigidness to it.

"I'm fucking around like Tim was, only instead of keeping secrets and being secretive, I've managed to somehow be open about it."

"You're just fucking around with me?" Paul's dark brows furrow.

I laugh even more, feeling crazy and stupid. "No, that's the ridiculous thing. I fell in love with each and every one of you. I fell madly in love. I love Paul for being just Paul. I love Gabe for Gabe. Chris for Chris. But you—" I point with the disk I'm holding at Gabe, "—you never fell in love with me, did you? You want a princess you can save."

"Don't put words in my mouth, Jane." Gabe's mouth is firm, deep lines carve around his lips.

"I'm not. You told me yourself you feel like I'm some damsel in distress."

"Didn't you hear everything else I said?" Gabe folds his arms across his chest.

"You want to see a real damsel in distress?"

And I'm doing it. I'm walking to the TV in my bedroom, the one we've watched on the rare weekend mornings when we're all together. I've even watched ESPN from this TV, while I rolled my eyes at Paul and he smiled at me sympathetically.

It takes a few seconds to put the disk in the player. Less than half a second to press play. I shouldn't do this. I'm not prepared for the consequences. I'm exposing myself to them. I'm stripping down—no clothes, no skin, no bones, no tissue to hold me up. I'm just a fourteen-year-old girl who knows how to run.

The music blares, the reporter's nasal tone is voiced over images from America's heartland. She says something about seeing America no matter what walk of life. Then the report begins with scenes of the FBI and the local police's automobiles, lights on, and parked outside the commune I knew as my home. The reporter talks about my father being the second in charge, under my uncle. How she thinks my father was power hungry and wanted to lead the commune himself. How there were rumors of abuse, but little the authorities could do until one fateful night.

There's crime scenes floating through the screen, blurred out images of my mother and the blood pooled around her, under her. Next, there's an image of my uncle shot—again, blurred out are the details, like the blood, and his hands were flung out as if trying to shield himself from the bullet. There's more images of people I vaguely knew from the commune, a half-sister, a cousin of mine. Fourteen dead before a deputy shot and killed my father.

Then the reporter focuses on me, my story, how I ran for three days. There's a little girl on the TV, in shadow, my voice is distorted as I talk about how I had finished my chores for the day when I heard the shots. Somehow, I had a loaf of bread with me when I found my uncle, and then I ran. I tell the camera how I remember resting from time to time, eating that bread, but how I just ran. The reporter talks of how I was found then hospitalized, and how Anne fostered me. The harrowing tale, the reporter finishes, of a girl in America. Pray for her. And then the show ends. The DVD stops. The screen darkens.

What have I done?

"Was that you?" Paul softly asks.

I can't look at the men in my room, but I nod. "Real fucking damsel in distress, isn't she?"

No one talks. For eons no one says a word.

Well, this is what I wanted. I wanted to show them...what was my point? How much a victim I am? How I hate my past? How I can't even talk about my past without referring to myself in the third-person? I've pushed that little girl to the very far reaches of my mind, trying so hard to ignore her, who she was. I didn't want to be a victim, so I took on any other identity.

But she's always there, that scared girl. _She's_ my biggest secret. My therapist told me I never had to talk about it if I didn't want to. And I never have before. I didn't with Tim. I haven't with Bethany. But with Gabe and Chris, especially with Gabe, I worry they fell in love with a caricature of me. And I wanted to augment the caricature, shove it in their face how much of a damsel in distress I truly was. Am.

But I'm not.

As much as I'm that scared little girl, I'm also a woman who can save myself. I just...I'm half out of my mind because I wanted so much to prove that I could save myself. That I'm a real person, not just the wife who was cheated on, not just the girl who ran, not just a victim.

"I—I do this thing, Jane," Paul's voice is soft, almost timid. "My mom...god, I can't explain all the ways I'm fucked up because...I just couldn't love. I kept trying, but I always worried whoever I might love would abandon me, rob me, then leave me, like my own mother did."

I finally look up at him. He runs a hand through his wild hair.

"I think I might have fallen in love three other times before you." Paul nods at the floor. "But each time...I know it's a defense. I know it's not right, but I abandoned three other women before you, Jane. That's why I've never married before. I don't leave a letter, nothing. I just move away. I came here because I'd gotten engaged to a woman. She was nice. Sue. You would have liked her, liked Sue. She got married last year, I heard. And I'm glad. I'm glad."

He walks to the bed and sits on the corner, continuing to look down at the white carpet. "I just left her. I couldn't take it. I got the job here and left without a word."

"Are you going to do that to me?" I ask, bracing myself for his answer. "Are you warning me?"

He doesn't look at me, but at Chris and Gabe. "I thought this time would work, because of those two assholes. They keep me...from freaking out. I mean, I know it's—we're—all of us together are weird as fuck, as we keep saying. But with them here, with me, I feel I can just love you and see where the future goes. Maybe we'll get married. And the thing is, I'm okay with thinking about the future now. Because I know Chris or Gabe will keep me grounded. I know I don't have to leave you before you leave me. I...maybe it doesn't make sense. But for once in my adult life, I felt like I could love someone, you. And I do love you."

"But you're going to leave me because Chris and Gabe will." I take a step away from the men.

"Who says I'm leaving?" Gabe yells.

"No," is all Chris says, looking like he's going to come closer to me, but I hold my hand out.

"You saw her?" I point to the dark TV screen. "That's me. Only, it's not me. I was a victim, but I'm not any longer. Don't you get it? I'm a person. I'm not just a victim. I'm a person."

"Of course you are," Chris says and almost steps forward, but the glare on my face has him repelling and standing slightly behind Gabe.

Gabe takes a big breath. "My fiancé and I met when we were kids. Sixteen. She had a hard childhood, I knew. But we found each other, and we were inseparable after. I thought that counted." Gabe shakes his head and sits on the floor, looking like someone stabbed him through the gut. "She'd have these times when she'd be really sad." He wryly laughs. "I told her to stop being sad. I'm such a fuckup. I actually said shit like that. I didn't know."

He sways and leans forward as if he might fall even farther onto the floor. "We were engaged and planning the wedding and I knew she was sad again. I was new to being a cop and we were getting training on signs of depression, and other mental..." He rolls his hand in the air, not finishing. "Why do they call it mental disease or other labels like that? I mean, the people who suffer from...they have enough to deal with, you know? They don't need any fucking labels put on them too."

He looks at me and sighs. "I fell in love with your spirit, Jane. Jesus, what man wouldn't? I saw what kind of a fighter you were. How dignified you were with your husband. And I just wanted to fucking touch that, be near you to see a woman fight so fiercely. And, man, did you ever fight for your husband. You didn't give up on him. My Jenny gave up. I didn't see the signs. I was getting training to see the signs, but I didn't see them. I found her, blue and cold in our bathroom. She'd overdosed and slit her wrists. I did CPR for two hours, they told me."

Chris nods.

I want to hold Gabe, the man looks so bulled over. I kneel on the floor, but he keeps talking.

"I know you're not Jenny. That's one of the reasons why I fell, I think. And I fell so fucking hard. I know you won't give up." He pointed to the TV. "That's a girl who fought, fought so hard—"

"I ran. I didn't fight. And I didn't—"

"Jane, come on. You gotta quit being so hard on yourself." Gabe shakes his head again. "You know that night I pulled you over and we finally met? I swear to god I heard Jenny tell me to finally just do it. You were driving all over the road, but usually I would have let it go. I would have followed you home, made sure you were okay, and that would have been the end of it. But I heard Jenny tell me to talk to you. I know I sound crazy, but...I think she pointed you out to me because she knew you wouldn't be like her. Because I couldn't go through that again. There's good men out there who can, and there's nothing wrong with the people like Jenny. Nothing wrong with them. And I'll always love her. But I couldn't go through that again. I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry, but I'm just not strong enough. And as much as I know you won't be like her, I still worry I'm going to lose you because I never saw the signs."

There's tears in his eyes and I'm crying. I think Paul and Chris are too.

Gabe points with his head at the TV once more. "I don't see a victim, Jane. I never have. And I never will. I see a strong, powerful woman. I see a fighter. A fierce fighter. That's who I saw open the door for your husband. That's who I saw on the show with that idiotic reporter talking about you. That's who I see right now. And I want to be near your fierceness, your fierce grace. I didn't fall in love with an idea. I fell in love with your heart. Then, after getting to know you, I fell in love with _you_."

# 27

I see myself from Gabe's eyes. I no longer feel the caging shame when I think of the three days of running away from death and my past. I see a little girl who knew how to save herself. And it might sound odd, but I wouldn't trade my time with Tim for anything. Tim's actions did hurt me terribly. However, I was already burned with horrible thoughts about myself. I augmented those thoughts when Tim was cheating. _I_ did that. Not Tim. Granted, if I had it to do over again, I'd ask him for a divorce, but I'd want to be one of those couples who still loves each other after their marriage ended. Because the fact is, I loved Tim so much that I loved him even when he was doing his worst. I loved him through it.

It's hard to see myself with much dignity when Tim was cheating on me. But I do see how much I loved Tim, and how I powered-through the tough times because of it. My love is strong. It is fierce.

And I hope the men surrounding me know I have enough for all of them.

I roll on my knees, tucking them under me as I lift to my hands, crawling toward Gabe. He looks defeated.

"I'm sorry," I whisper as I near.

He shrugs, watching me with his blue, blue eyes. "I—I never talk about Jenny because I still love her. I'm mad as fuck at her for...what she did. But I'm also mad I didn't do more."

I'm closer now, a foot away from him, and I nod. "Is it okay if I love her too?"

At that his face twists. The tears in his eyes pool, threaten to brink over the edge.

"I can't help but love a woman who loved you." I caress his face, coming even closer.

He slowly nods. A tear falls from one of his blue eyes, and I lick it, then kiss where the moisture had been. I forgot I'd put on lipstick until I see the dark pink on him.

"I'm sorry," I whisper and try to wipe away the cherry color. "I'm wearing lipstick...you—"

He catches me by my nape and pulls me in for a rough kiss. His tongue is in my mouth and my body instantly ignites for him. My pussy cries out for a touch. My breasts are heavy with the need to be caressed. All along my spine I feel gold bubbles tickling me, making me feel so, so happy. And turned on.

He pulls away, smiling with my lipstick all over his mouth. "God, I love you."

"I love you." I'm shaking and giddy and only want more of this feeling. "I want my lipstick around your cock."

He closes his eyes, growling. "Jesus, woman, you drive me nearly insane."

I almost pull away, not sure what he means, but he's holding me still.

"You're going to make me come in my pants if you keep talking like that."

"Oh, but I want you to come in my mouth." I take my time and slowly cup his sex. He's magnificently hard.

"Fu—"

I cut him off. "Take off your shirt and pants."

Then I feel huge hands at my hips, caressing, playing. Chris is behind me making me burn for him.

Adroit fingers run over one of my nipples. Paul is deftly adding fuel to the fire by rolling over my sensitive bud.

Gabe reaches behind his neck, pulling his t-shirt up and over his head. And while Chris and Paul wander around my body, I'm doing the same with Gabe. He tries to kiss me, but I won't let him. I really do want to see my lipstick around his perfect member. I want to see my mark on him.

Paul nibbles my neck, nipping my earlobe, whispering, "I'm going to take off your shirt."

It's said as a statement, but I know he's asking for permission. Gentleman that he is, he always does.

I nod as he finds my sweater's buttons. Oh, the buttons he finds...

At one point, I have to lean back, away from Gabe, as Paul caresses one of my breasts. Gabe takes the other in his hand, squeezing, sending me even higher. Chris is behind me, the back of my head rubbing against his chest. My ass is against his hard erection. I have to move from time to time, to get my sweater and bra off, but I'm back on my hands and knees soon enough. Chris is behind me, grinding against my jean-clad butt, Paul kissing my arm and neck and fondling my breasts, and Gabe finally unzips his jeans.

I can't wait. The second I see him spring from his pants, I open my mouth, taking him in. One of Chris's hands moves from my hip to between my legs, rubbing my throbbing clit.

God, everything feels so good. I never knew until I met Chris and Gabe and Paul how much I love giving head. I love feeling a penis in my mouth. I love giving so much pleasure and seeing a man come unhinged because of what I'm doing.

And I love Gabe in my mouth, glancing up at him as his stomach clenches, as he makes fists with his hands, his jaw clenches, and he's trying so hard not to come, even though I'm doing everything in my power to make him.

"Take off her clothes," Gabe says. Again, it might sound like a command, but I know I can say no. However, I never want to.

Paul and Chris peel off my jeans, and I have to stop sucking Gabe to take my pants all the way off. My panties are gone too. I reach out for Gabe's cock, but he blocks my hand and smiles.

"You want everyone naked, Jane?" Gabe asks.

God, he knows me and what I want. That ratchets up my desire. "Yes. Yes, please."

Paul growls. Turning my head to his, he kisses me. Next, he takes one of my hands and has me feel his staff while he pulls off his shirt. Gabe's caressing my breasts while I stroke Paul. Then I reach behind me, to pull Chris even closer. My fireman kisses my neck, clutching at my bare thighs. He reaches between my kneeling legs and I groan and flex against his hand.

"So wet," Chris whispers in my ear.

Chris is also trying to remove his pants, which isn't easy with me against him, but we manage to slip and slide and somehow I land on prone Chris, his chest to my back and we're still on the floor. I look down my body. His cock is between my legs, the head of him peeking over. God, I ache to have him inside me. To think at one time his size intimidated me. Now, all I want is to feel him move inside my pussy. I want it so bad I wiggle against him.

"Do you really love me, Jane?" Chris asks on a whisper.

I try to turn my head to look at him, but he's less than an inch from my face. "Yes. God, Chris, I love—"

"I don't have a story to share." His voice is quiet. "Nothing happened to me. I had a boring-as-hell childhood. I've never fallen in love. Until you."

At that I do turn and brace myself with one hand close to his head.

But it's Paul who says, "Fuck, man. Jane, Gabe, and I need someone normal like you."

"You balance us out," Gabe adds.

I lean down and push my nose against Chris's briefly. "I—I just love you. I'm so lucky to have you. I'm honored. You're so—I love you so much."

He kisses me, but it's a tad uncomfortable since I have to do a yoga twist in order for our lips to lock. He gently pulls me away, and back on his body.

"I've never done it this way," Chris says, taking my waist and sliding me up and down his thick length.

"I haven't either," I moan as his cock settles close to my opening, then he moves me so my clit bumps against his straining purple head.

I have no idea what to do with my legs. They're just kind of open, my feet on the floor. But I bend my knees and Chris's cock is that much closer to where I want him to be.

Then there's a gold foil wrapper in my hands and Paul is kneeling between Chris's and my legs. There's an unspoken rule to wear a condom when we're altogether having sex. I'm fine with that since someone found these incredible condoms that actually feel good.

I'm not sure what Paul's doing, but he opens the wrapper for me.

"Put it on Chris and sit on him."

I bite my lip and smile, sitting up on Chris's stomach. I do as Paul's told me—first unrolling the condom over Chris's giant cock. Then, on my knees, I lift up so his tip is just inside me. Both Chris and I moan at the contact. Gabe rolls one of my nipples, and I close my eyes and savor the feeling. But something shocks me.

I look down to see Paul kissing my clit. I make a gasping, odd noise. We haven't tried this, where someone licks me while someone else is in my pussy. It's what I wanted, but I didn't know how to ask.

The one thing I understand about my men is they are a bit of voyeurs, sure, and a bit of exhibitionists, yes. But they are also heterosexual. They never touch each other during our encounters. Granted, there's a little of accidental touching here and there, but—and this is why having sex with them is such a turn on—this is all about me.

What woman wouldn't be swept away by that?

And now Paul is suckling in my clitoris, which makes me slide down on Chris's cock in one fast move. He's stretching me. There's a slight edge of pain, but Paul is licking it away. I buck, my hips out of control.

Then Gabe's huge hand eases between my breasts. "Let us take over." His voice is a half-growl, half-whisper.

He has me lie again on Chris, his jaw on the top of my head, his ridged chest and stomach against my back, his huge penis inside me while Paul licks me senseless.

Chris grabs my waist and pulls me up and down his body. "This good?"

Sure, Chris is asking me, but he's also making sure Paul is comfortable. Paul and I both moan our approval.

And I can only lie there as Chris is pulling himself in and out of me in this odd position where Paul is suckling me to orgasm.

"In my mouth," I beg, looking over at Gabe. "Please, I want you in my mouth again."

Chris keeps pulling me up and down his body, Paul is making it so my eyes roll back into my head, and then Gabe comes forward.

"Sure?" God, I love it when his voice is full of sex, the promise of it, the want, the desire. It's animalistic, a growl of need.

"Please."

He smiles.

It's awkward, where Gabe has to lean over Chris and me, but then he's inside my mouth, and the roaring train of my orgasm breaks through. I can only moan.

Chris pulls me up and down faster. "Fuck, I love it when you come."

I love orgasming too. I love the pulsing release. But this isn't a release. Something else is building as Chris moves me, as Paul licks me, as Gabe's rocking his cock in and out of my mouth. I'm just nerves and this building sensation.

Chris is moaning and pulling and pushing me even more, and I feel his stomach contract. I have my hands around Gabe's cock, but I lift one and try to caress Chris's whiskered cheek behind me.

"It's so good," Chris growls. "You're still coming."

I am. My orgasm isn't subsiding but just keeps cresting over and over again.

"Going to make me—" Chris grunts and pushes me hard down on him. He's inside me all the way. I never thought I'd have him so deep, but he is.

Chris is coming and clutching onto me. He's cutting into the skin at my waist and hips. I might have bruises tomorrow, but I like the slight pain. I love being held like this, so tight, so endearing.

After a few moments, I feel an emptiness. Chris is leaving me, but somehow I'm floating. Paul takes my legs, wraps them around his shoulders and lifts my hips and most of my back off the floor. Gabe pulls himself from my mouth, looking down at me.

Chris rolls to his side looking at Paul and me. I'm rigid from coming, from Paul's tongue constantly giving me pleasure, and we must look like an erotic circus act with only my head and shoulders on the floor. I glance down and around and see Paul stroking himself with one hand, the other is holding my pelvis high off the floor.

"That's hot," Chris says.

"Touch your breasts, Jane," Gabe adds.

I do and I can hear Paul's stroking is getting faster. I have to close my eyes, my orgasm so intense, but from time to time I open them and watch Gabe stroking his cock. Even Chris who just came is stroking himself, watching as Paul's mouth is attached to my sex and my only connection to this earth is my head.

I love the sound of a man touching himself. I love that slapping-sliding noise, his grunts and growls. I love it that Paul is going to make himself come. He's so close; I'm nearly delirious. I wish I could do something that could make him...

He grunts. I know that sound from him. He's coming and pulls the apex of my legs even closer to his mouth, but he stops licking me.

"God, Jane, you taste like honey," Paul says into my sex. "You taste like fucking honey. Your taste makes me come."

And I'm floating again. Not just on the wings of my orgasm that never seems to stop, but my body is moving. I'm back on the ground. My legs are adjusted. They're wide open and my pussy is cold without anyone touching it. My orgasm finally wanes.

Two giant arms hike up my thighs. I look down to see Gabe positioning me, my legs are held by his forearms, and he's angling his hips over mine, his cock pointing right at my opening.

"You still coming, princess?" he asks.

I shake my head.

Gabe puts his condom-wrapped head against my channel.

I arch my head back, moaning, as my pussy squeezes and releases all over again.

"Sure about that?" Gabe cockily asks, pushing just the tip of his length into me.

"You're making me...again," I moan.

"Good." Then he's inside me.

I look up at him, shocked at how I feel like every time with him is new, like it's the first time. With Gabe it's as if we're meeting all over again. And not just our bodies. I see inside his eyes. I see into his heart and I think he sees mine. Our hearts fell in love first. Then we got to know each other and fell in love completely.

He pistons his hips. My legs are spread so wide, so high, I can't feel them. I just feel Gabe. He kisses me, keeping his torso away from mine so we only meet at our lips and our sexes. But soon he lowers himself. The slap of him against my body makes me dig my fingers into his huge arms. I love hanging onto his arms while he pumps away. I can't wrap my hand around him. I'm not sure if both of my hands can wrap around his one arm.

We're kissing and smiling and fucking and smiling even more. My orgasm takes me to a place I've never known before. It's dark and safe and beautiful. These men make me feel like that. Maybe this is heaven.

Gabe's thrusts build, grow hurried, harder. His kiss is frantic. Our teeth bump into each other's. Our breath becomes one. And then he comes with me. He shouts, twitches, spasms, and I feel his cock contracting inside me.

After a moment, he falls completely on me, finally releasing his hold on my legs. I wrap around him like a cocoon.

Or maybe the men are my cocoon, because I've never felt so transformed. I'm beautiful. I'm safe. They accept me as I am. Not as a victim. Not with any kind of label. Just me. Just Jane.

Gabe chuckles slightly and rolls away from me. My poor pussy weeps without company. But I'm somewhat relieved to no longer be coming.

Gabe pulls me against him, so I'm on my side and see Chris and Paul. They're both hard again and looking at me.

"Have it in you to go a few more rounds?" Gabe asks, still softly laughing.

I giggle. "Goodie."

# 28

Jane, baby," Chris says as my head is on his lap, and he's gently caressing my hair from my face. We're on the sectional couch. It's Christmas morning and we've already opened our presents for each other. Gabe is by the tree, still admiring the set of knives I got him. Paul's head is between my legs, clad in the new pajamas Chris got me. I worry the bump of my pubic bone might bother the nape of his neck, but he seems to like it there.

We've all taken turns saying we need to get ready soon. My in-laws will be over in a couple hours for the huge lunch that Gabe's been cooking and baking for all week. Bethany and Sherman, who promised not to fire me, will be here too. Bethany swore she hasn't said a word about how I'm with three men at once. But my dean came into my office unannounced, rubbing the back of his head nervously, and saying something about glass houses and how my secret is safe with him.

Chris continues, "So you got to pick your name, right? I mean, after Anne became your foster mother, she let you pick your name, yeah?"

I nod. The pain of being reminded of my past doesn't hurt as much as it used to. It's softened, the way grief can.

"Why Jane then?"

Gabe looks up, holding a butcher knife, looking interested in my answer. Paul turns around so he can look up at me, his face crammed into my sex. And I can only roll my eyes.

"Okay, well," I begin, talking with my hands rolling in the space around me. "Anne thought, since I had never seen a movie, to start with some of the older classics. She said the thirties were a good decade for movies, and one of the first ones I watched was of Tarzan. God, I thought he was beautiful."

Chris chuckles.

"I loved those movies because I understood him, Tarzan." I smile. "I understood what acclimating to a new world felt like. That I understood too well. I felt like a weirdo. I'm so lucky to have been fostered by Anne who homeschooled me. I really don't know if I would have survived public school. University was hard enough."

"You weren't and aren't a weirdo." Paul plays with my inner thigh. My poet smiles up at me, after rubbing his nose against my clit. "You're a wild thing. You're rare. Being with you is like touching a robin's wing. I feel charged just being close. And when you let me touch you..." He rubs his nose over my sensitive flesh again, making me moan. "You're a wild thing, my precious, my beauty, my love. You're wild."

I almost reach down to grab Paul, but Chris holds onto my wrists.

"Nah-ah." Chris shakes his head. "Let her answer. Besides, Paul can't take all the credit for his impromptu poem. Granted, he said it best just now, but Gabe and I have said something similar. Maybe with a few more grunts in there, but..." He laughs at his own joke, which makes me love him all the more. "So tell us about your name, baby."

I look up at Chris with a feigning frown. He smiles down at me.

I sigh, submitting. "Okay, I asked Anne if I could be called Tarzan—"

"Seriously?" Gabe asks.

"Well, I didn't know that would be odd. I thought Tarzan was like me, or I was like him."

"So you settled for Jane, instead?" Chris loosens his grip of my wrists and I tunnel my fingers through his blond hair.

"Actually—" I cut myself off with a giggle. But I go ahead and tell them. "Okay, I was a girl, a teenage girl. So I had an insane crush on Tarzan. I was in love with him. And there's this scene in one of his movies, where he takes Jane by the ankle and pulls her out of the treehouse to wake her. And—god, this is embarrassing—I thought that scene was so erotic, and I wanted to grow up and have someone pull me around by my ankle."

Then, of course, there's a mad dash for said ankle. Gabe wins and pulls me off the couch and onto the floor, but everyone is down with me. We're all wrestling, laughing, and I'm so very much in love. There's orange ambers in the fireplace behind me, the pink sunrise reflected and augmented by the two-feet of snow on the ground outside, and for once I allow myself to feel loved.

Paul kisses me. Chris is pulling down my pajama pants, and Gabe is still tugging my ankle.

Chris stops and looks very serious, gazing at Paul who's looking at him now too, then at Gabe. The big, blond, beautiful man grins mysteriously.

"Let's have Jane stop taking birth control and get her pregnant."

I'm beyond shocked as both Paul and Gabe smile like that's a brilliant idea.

And all I can do is swallow.

* * *

THE END

# Want to read more by Red L. Jameson?

Here's an steamy excerpt from _Fly,_ Book 2 of the Wild Love Series, where you find out how Deidra, Jane's sister-in-law, finds her way with two Navy SEALs...

**1**

This is a complete invasion of my privacy," I shriek into my cell phone at my mother as I walk across an icy, dung-colored, snow-drifted parking lot in Ennis, Montana. Thank god no one is close enough to hear me or see me. This is pathetic. I'm an adult woman whining at my mother like a petulant teenager.

My mother's quiet for far too long. I'm about to grind my teeth into ashes when she says in a cool tone, "Deidra Alexandra, that's precisely why I invaded your privacy. That's why I went through your phone, found where you were running away to, and booked the lodge instead of the little cabin you had reserved. You need a big bath. You need a big bed. You need these things for that baby. Don't you understand the responsibility you're carrying now?"

That's why I'm acting like a sulky child. My mother has a knack for forgetting I'm twenty-seven. You'd think I was a toddler from the way she speaks to me. And apparently I forget I'm an adult too. However, before I made this trip, I had called the local OB/GYN, to ensure that if anything happens, I would have help.

Here's the thing: I have ridden along with Green Berets in Afghanistan, an IED blowing apart the road only a thousand feet from me. I've taken pictures of heroin manufacturers, survivors of hurricanes, and, twice now, the dead from genocide. Although I don't have a job now, I was a finalist for the Pulitzer for photography when I was twenty-five. But my mother reduces me to a puddle of a human being, complete with runny nose, tear-stung eyes, and my belly so upset I'm not sure if I'll vomit in my mouth.

My brother, Tim, had affectionately called our mother The Ice Queen. And, yes, it was affectionately, because she, the great and mighty heiress, Margaret Emory, widow to my father, a Wyoming senator, is much colder than ice.

Angling into my Wrangler, I'm thankful some of my Jeep's heat remained while I'd been inside discovering my mother changed my reservations at The West, the sprawling estate where I was trying to take a vacation from said mother. "I suppose you want me to thank you for renting the gigantic lodge?"

"Well, a little gratitude would be appreciated." My mother's voice is short. Curt. And I have to shudder even though I am warm in my Jeep. "It wasn't easy figuring out the code to get into your phone, finding your reservations, and changing them to accommodate my grandchild. Honestly, Deidra, if you're going to run away, the least you can do is take care of that baby."

I want to scream. She insists on calling me by my full name when I've asked her repeatedly to call me Dee. She's insulting me by making it seem like I'm not taking care of my pregnancy. And to boot, she's not merely insinuating but telling me that I'm running away.

There's no point to arguing with her, my brother would say after he'd ruffle my hair. I can picture my beautiful brother, the golden boy, smiling and shrugging, telling me how arguing with our mother is as effective as yelling at an iceberg. God, I miss him. Tim was my best friend until he died two and-a-half years ago. I've been lost since his death, mindlessly roaming the globe as if that might help me find him again.

"What the hell am I doing that's so terrible?" I shout. I'm not sure where this moxie is coming from because I've never really argued with my mother. She'll always win. She's more cruel than I could ever imagine, more belittling, and if I fight her, I know I'll end up bleeding in a million different places. Maybe I should blame my hormones, because for once I'm yelling at her. "I'm taking a small vacation—"

"You're running away."

I grit my teeth and continue as if she hadn't said anything. "—Near Yellowstone Park. I just need a little time to be alone. To think. I have a lot to think about."

"Are you going to abort my grandchild?"

My heart clenches and I can't help but look down at my stomach. I've actually lost seven pounds in the last two months and my belly has never been flatter. Oh, I'm not one of those thin girls. Never was. But thanks to being pregnant and needing to vomit continually, I'm at an all-time low, weight-wise. But that's going to change. Soon. My doctor said to watch the weight loss. One more pound and I might have to be put on bed rest. Already, I'd do anything for this baby, hence taking this vacation to try to relax and regain some weight.

However, I don't want to tell my mother that I'd never think of an abortion. Granted, having this baby now isn't the best of times. Not when the man who helped me make this child is dead, and I have had a rung of bad luck concerning my career, so I'm essentially making no money right now. But I can't help but want this baby, even if I am constantly sick. And tired. And moody. And crazy. And, god, my boobs hurt so much I wonder if someone's taken a meat tenderizer to them.

Still, I want this baby.

But I'm not going to tell my mother that.

Idiotically childish to keep that from my mother?

Probably.

But when it comes to her, I never think straight. I hate looking at myself from her point of view. I always come up short. I'll never be good enough. And, yeah, I'm sure she's ashamed of the way I ended up pregnant from a one-night stand with a mercenary I never planned to see again, who died, not while on his job, but by getting drunk and driving when he returned from Africa to his Kansas home.

"Look, Mother." I try to breathe in the hopes that the frigid air of the Montana mountains might give me some kind of clarity. I'm not a child. I'm not a child. I just act like one around my mother. "I need some time. I'm not running away."

"You're almost two months pregnant, Deidra. I'm not sure this is good for the baby, all this thinking. Unless you're planning on killing my grandchild."

I hate myself for it, but I'm envious of my baby. My mother has never wanted me as much as she wants this child.

I swallow down my bitterness, tasting copper and resentment. I might vomit again. God, I've become a professional vomiter.

"I just need a week or so," I say, hoping the extra saliva in my mouth will subside.

She's quiet for an eternity again, and I put my Jeep in reverse, foot still on the brake. I'm not sure, but I feel eyes on me. It could be the clerk who checked me in to my lodge, showing me pictures of the humongous cabin. She seemed nice, the clerk, but I'd hate for anyone to catch sight of me in the grips of my mother.

My cheeks heat and my constantly tearing eyes finally spill over. I angrily wipe at my face but then realize what I've done.

Unfolding the vanity mirror from my Wrangler's roof, I check my face. I'm white. But there are two splotches of red, exposed from where my tears washed away my makeup. In those splotches are my freckles which I expertly conceal every day. I started covering my freckles when I was twelve. In an attempt to look more like my mother—flawlessly ageless, she could be Michele Pfeiffer's twin—I hoped the makeup would make me look more like my mother's daughter. I have black hair to her blonde, freckles to her porcelain, hazel eyes that look like mud compared to her piercing light blue ones. I am not my mother's daughter.

It might seem odd to wear so much makeup and be a professional photographer. There's this thought that I'm rugged and outdoorsy. I am. But I always need my makeup mask to cover my face. I need it as much as I need air. I can't explain it well, because I know it means there's something intrinsically fucked up about me. I suppose it spells out that I'm still trying to be acceptable, to be like my mother, to be liked by my mother.

I dab and smooth my cheeks until my skin is back to what I know—creamy whiteness. It's fake, my complexion. I'd like to think of myself as an authentic person, but my mask makes me wonder if I'm actually a liar. However, I can't help but wonder if everyone else is a liar too. We all lie about something.

I back away from the parking lot and begin to find my way to the lodge my mother paid for.

"Deidra." My mother's voice surprises me since she's been quiet for so long. "I—I understand, I think, why you'd want to run away from me."

"I'm not running away, Mother." I shouldn't drive while talking on my cell. I can easily switch to Bluetooth, but I don't. I'm too wrapped up in whatever my mother will say next, hoping I can shield myself from the pain of what might come.

"Oh, of course you are." Her voice is so hard, like a palm against my cheek when slapped. "You're acting like a child. A spoiled child, I might add."

I am spoiled, and I know it. My mother's family is rich beyond measure. Only, I didn't understand that growing up. I knew my father's family always mentioned something about how easy it must be for my mother, how easy it must be for me. I didn't understand what they meant until I was a teenager. I had a beautiful and gigantic house throughout my childhood. I had a great education; my mother insisted upon boarding academies and an Ivy League University. I had the finest clothes.

When I realized how vastly different my upbringing was compared to others, I wanted to apologize for it. I still do. I've given away most of my money, ashamed I had it in the first place. Even the money I earned from my photography, I just pissed or gave away.

But with all that money and the pretty things, I'm not sure if I ever felt the warmth of love. I know I've never felt acceptance.

Poor little rich girl, right? I shouldn't feel sorry for myself. So I do my best to swallow that down too.

"Thank you for renting the lodge for me," I say weakly, feeling defeated and more tears form in my eyes, blurring my vision. I'm following the map the clerk gave me and as I turn a corner on the snow and ice-packed road, I see the two-story log cabin, complete with a vaulted ceiling and wrap-around porch with little fairy lights along the railing, making the expansive house look like a welcoming home.

It's a beautiful humongous cabin. Too nice and way too big for just me. I'm scared I'll cry more, ruining my makeup.

My mother doesn't speak again. I'm used to the cold shoulder.

Then I realize there's static on my phone, and joy spreads through me as I realize I'm losing reception.

"—lo? Hello?" My mother's voice sounds as warm as a sword. "Deidra, are you still there?"

I'm always paralyzed when it comes to my mother. I just sit and take whatever she dishes out, maybe wincing for my defense. But the phone is cutting in and out, and I do the crazy thing of just hanging up on her.

I stare at my phone, amazed at what I've done, and that's when I lose control of my Jeep. Flinging the phone away, I clutch at the steering wheel as I spin sidewise toward the front of the huge cabin. Shit. Braking as hard as I can, I chide myself. I needed to pay attention to the road, where I was driving. Instead, I was transfixed to my mother's voice. Like a moth to a flame.

I was already driving slow. And I'm aiming to make impact into a snowdrift beside the cabin's porch. There are a million thoughts that filter through while I'm skidding: Thank god the drift is there. Please let the crash be small. I need my baby to be all right. Shit. I can't keep listening to my mother. She's going to kill me.

Then the tail end of my car softly thumps into the eight-foot drift. The impact is slight, but I'm clutching the steering wheel, trying not to cry, not sure if I'm breathing, and hoping the crash didn't hurt my baby. Please, please, let my baby be okay.

My Wrangler's door is suddenly yanked open. A bearded man wearing black puffy snow gear is staring at me. For a second, I'm mesmerized by his eyes. They're the color of the sky on a summer day—so intense, so blue. Not like my mother's which reminds me of ice on the Antarctic Ocean, but his are the color of heaven.

He doesn't say a word. His beard is dark, but there's red and blond mixed in. With such a heavy beard I can't quite guess his age, but he wears a few lines around his eyes. He might be older than me. I don't know. He just stares at me, his dark brows furrowed.

I swallow. "I'm okay." I don't know why I say this. I'm not sure if I am.

He reaches around me, his face inches from mine. He smells like snow and pine trees. He's big and wild. Or maybe his beard is making me think he's some wild man. With a click, he undoes my seatbelt then puts his arms under me. In a second, I'm out of my Jeep and in his arms.

"Jesus, is she okay?"

In a daze, I look in the direction of the deep voice who said that. There's another bearded man, also wearing a black parka and black snow pants, jogging closer. The other man is darker, black beard, eyes so dark they look black too. His brows make the same pucker marks on his face as his friend's.

The man holding me doesn't say anything as his companion nears. He looks down at me, glances at the Wrangler, then looks at me again.

"I'm okay," I parrot myself from earlier, looking from one man to the other, stunned I'm being held.

The darker man is close now. He's bigger than the man holding me, and he's glancing at me from head to toe.

"Did you get hurt?"

I shake my head.

"Did it look like she got hurt?" asks the taller man to his friend.

I'm a little frustrated I'm no longer being talked to, but the man holding me hefts my body higher on his chest, cradling me closer. He shakes his head after he stares at me a long time.

The taller man sighs. "Are you staying in this cabin?" His voice is nice. Reassuring. Smooth and baritone. He waves his arm at the lodge my mother rented for me.

I nod.

He nods too and looks at his friend. "Put her inside. Warm her up. I'll get her Jeep free from the drift."

Without a word, the man holding me turns and does as directed.

I should be afraid. After all, two wild Montana mountain men are...what are they doing?

Rescuing me.

Maybe because I'm spent from the conversation with my mother, but for some odd reason I relax against the man carrying me.

Just for two more seconds, I'll relax. Then I'll be scared. Or anxious. Or whatever it is I _should_ be feeling when a strange mountain man has a hold of me. But for two more luxurious seconds, I'll give in and let go.

**You can find out more about FLY** **HERE!**

Or perhaps you'd like to read an exciting time-travel series from Red L. Jameson. Here's an excerpt from Enemy of Mine, Book 1...

**Prologue**

* * *

**T** he poor girl is so exhausted, she's sleeping through your rummaging around in her underwear drawer. Or wait, is that a herd of buffalo stomping through Erva's things?" Clio snaked a dark red brow high at her sister, Erato.

Erato, clad like Clio in a golden toga also with burgundy-colored hair and smelling of Mediterranean lavenders, pulled out a purple thong. "Girl? I think not. She's a woman. Looky here."

Clio giggled, but then sucked in her mirth with a bite of her lip. "Stop it. You always get me into trouble."

"Well, what are you doing here anyway? I thought we'd planned to go to that male stripper club." Erato looked around the dark and bland bedroom. Even cheap hotel rooms had more character. The only human element to it was the piled books and papers strewed about the nondescript floor. "Instead I find you here in this God-awful mess." Then, Erato snorted. "Get it? God-awful?"

Clio rolled her eyes. "We're muses, not gods, love. And I'm not convinced _I'm_ awful."

"Nice. Insult your own sister, why don't you?"

With a smirk Clio sat close to Minerva Ferguson, Erva, on her beige bed. While Erva slept soundly, Clio pulled back a few strands of long blonde hair from her creamy complexion, sighed, and smiled at her sister. "We're here because...because..."

"Oh God, not again."

Clio cleared her throat. "She's so deserving, Sister. I've been watching Erva for quite a while now. She finished her dissertation two years ago, but her supervisor won't let her argue it, won't let her graduate. She should have been a professor by now. Instead, she works like a dog for her supervisor, a Dr. Peabody. Can you believe that name? Anyhow, Erva has been working tirelessly for a place at her university; she is one of the most knowledgeable in her area of expertise; she's being held back by evil Dr. Peabody; and—oh!—she's had one hades of a bad day today. The dean observed her classes—all of them—and in her last class one of her students accidentally poured water down her front. She looked like she was going to enter a wet t-shirt contest. In front of her dean! She was mortified."

Erato leaned over her sister to stare down at the human in pink flannel pajamas. "She's got great boobs, that's why the little accident happened. Are those even real?"

Clio growled and turned quickly, making Erato fall on Erva in a lump of giggles.

As Erva stirred, Erato scurried off her to sit closer to her sister. Erva curled in a ball on her side, fists tucked under her chin.

"Did you drug her?" Erato asked.

Clio shook her head. "She did that herself. She drank a whole bottle of Moscato wine before bed."

Erato sighed. "She's been beat up by the world. What else is new, Clio? Why do you always do this? You think you can save everyone?"

"I don't think I can save _everyone_."

"Just historians?"

"Well, why not? I am their muse, after all."

"You don't see me saving every romance writer, do you?"

"Um, yeah." Clio crossed her arms. "The rise in romance writing is monumental. Further, many romance writers are finally making good money too. You can't tell me you didn't have something to do with that."

Erato bit her bottom lip playfully.

"I knew it!"

Erato pressed a finger against her full lips. "Shh, Sissy. You'll wake your new project."

"So you're agreeing with me? You think I should give Erva a _glimpse_?"

Erato shrugged. "Why not? Where is she heading?"

Clio couldn't help but chuckle again as she scooted even closer to her sister. "That's the fun part! Minerva's doctorate pertains to the American Revolution, but get this. This little all-American, blonde, doe-eyed girl is in love with a British officer of years afore. Her dissertation defends one of the youngest English generals to serve during the war."

Erato arched a brow. "So she's in love with her former enemy?"

Clio smiled appreciatively.

"I love complications."

"Oh, I do too, Erato." Clio took a large inhalation, then gently shook Erva's shoulder, while Erato pulled more blonde hair from the mortal's face. "Waky, waky, little historian."

Erva moaned, but didn't open her eyes.

Erato leaned forward until she was a couple inches from Erva's face, then screamed, "Oy! Wake up!"

Erva sat up with a start, fists swinging, her eyes hardly open enough to see.

"Oh, I like her. She's a fighter," Erato said.

"I know. She's quite deserving of this."

Erva looked from one muse to the other in blurry-eyed wonder. "I'm dreaming."

Clio chuckled while she shook her head. "No, dear girl. I'm afraid you're not."

"Are you going to rob me then? In togas?"

Erato giggled. "The only thing I like that you own are all those thongs. You're a bit of a randy girl underneath the nerdy historian exterior, aren't you?"

"You know what kind of underwear I wear? Are you Homeland Security? Please don't waterboard me."

Erato turned to her sister. "She's funny too. I really like her."

Clio nodded and found Erva's slender hands. After placing them in hers, she said, "Sweet girl, you're still drunk and think you're dreaming. But you're not. You're going to wake in a different century, in a different town too. I hope you like New York City in 1776."

"What's her boyfriend's name?" Erato asked.

"General William Hill."

Erva flinched. "What? Why are you talking about him?"

Erato snickered. "Look. She's defensive. She's so cute about him!"

Erva tried to retract from Clio, but Clio was much too strong. She held the human in place. "I've arranged for everything. You will be staying with him. You can ask him anything you want to know. You will have a _glimpse_ of what life was like for him. You will then return here, back to Boston in your time, and write about it. You're the only one who has done him justice. But I need you to write more and get it out to the world. He was a hero, but is only known as a villain. Or lazy, at best. He was neither, as you well know. You will become his champion."

Erva swallowed and shook her head. "I don't—"

But then Clio released one of her hands, and with a snap Erva instantly fell back asleep.

Both Clio and Erato stood and watched the human.

"When she wakes," Erato said, "she'll have one hades of a headache."

Clio smiled. "She'll have much more than that."

* * *

**Chapter One**

* * *

_I n fact it is Brooklyn, 12th day of September in the year of the Lord 1776_

**A** scream rent through the manor, much the way a musket shot could whiz by. It was beyond startling. It crawled into General Lord William Hill's skin and settled there, forcing him to repress a grimace, while he raced to his chamber's door. Unlatching it with a jerk, he rushed into the elaborately decorated yet stark white hallway, to be met by two maids and his own man of business racing toward him.

"Sir, I—" Paul, Will's personal man, stammered.

Muffled sounds emerged from the closed door across from his own. Surely Paul hadn't put the visiting lady so close to him? For some odd reason her letter of introduction and even her entrance into his rented house seemed beyond his recollection. He knew she was to stay with him, but much more than that he couldn't remember.

Will stared at the door as he heard a husky woman's voice repeat, "No, no, no...oh no."

When had she arrived? At the dead of night?

It didn't matter. His guest was obviously in need of something.

He looked down to the eldest of the maids. "Mrs. Jacobs, would you please see to our visitor. I will gladly assist in any way." Formalities being what they were, he couldn't barge into the strange woman's chamber. Although he wanted to. The frantic way her silky voice kept repeating the word "no" made him want to run to her.

Mrs. Jacobs nodded, quietly knocked, then quickly entered the chamber, closing the door behind her.

Will heard a gasp, before Mrs. Jacobs's hushed Irish brogue. "Lady Ferguson, is everything all right?"

Silence.

"Dear me, you look affright, ma'am. Where is your maid? I might seek her for your—"

"I don't have a maid. At least—I don't think I have a maid."

That was odd. Why didn't the lady bring her own maidservants? In fact, Will thought the younger of the maids, the one standing beside him still, belonged to the lady. He didn't recognize the tall woman who seemed not at all perturbed by the lady's distress.

Lady Ferguson's lowered voice asked, "What—what's the date?"

Silence again.

Will was about to yell through the door when he heard Mrs. Jacobs finally tell her. The lady gasped again.

He couldn't stand idly by while the lady was obviously upset. But he couldn't break down the door either. Or could he? Finally, he relented to just shouting through the damned thing.

"Does the lady need my assistance?"

"Does the lady need my lord's assistance?" Mrs. Jacobs almost parroted.

Silence once more.

That was it! Although Will by nature was a taciturn man, he would never let a woman wait for help if he was close by. He didn't think, but burst through the door, forgetting the latch and all.

Wood splintered around him, which made him momentarily distracted by his tactless efforts. But the goddess standing in the early morning's sun, letting dandelion beams bounce off her long, loose, light blonde hair, took him aback. He didn't see her bed, the floor, the windows, nothing, other than the vision before him. She had fashioned a bed sheet into an odd toga around her thin frame and was most decidedly uncovered. Will easily made out one of her ankles, a thoroughly feminine calf, one shoulder, and just the slightest wisp of a waist. The sight of her made him realize why the Greeks and Romans worshiped female deities. He'd bow low to her.

If he weren't thoroughly humiliated by his antics, that is.

She, for her part, didn't seem affronted that he stared at her in her Greek garb but gazed upon him with the tiniest trace of a smile on her full pink lips, as if surprised, but happily so.

"It's you," she whispered.

He swallowed and looked at the floor. Ah, there was a floor in her room, and it was a dark oak. Staring at a notch in the wood, he forced his eyes to stay there. "I beg your pardon, my lady. I—I fear my anxiety at knowing what disturbed you got the better of me."

Slowly he tried to walk backwards from the wholly lovely image, from her.

"Were you reading your correspondence? It's the morning. Isn't that what you do first thing?"

He halted, wondering about the odd question. Not being able to help himself, he stole another look at her. She bit her lower lip, as if confused or mayhap humiliated.

"Yes," he said slowly. His voice rasped. He realized then that many people read their letters in the morning, and she was perhaps trying to make small talk. But of all the bloody times, when he'd like to step closer to her, only a foot away to behold her better. Nay, perhaps six inches. Two?

Will swallowed again.

"Heavens, just look what you've done to this door, my lord," Mrs. Jacobs reproached.

He turned and saw the damage. The lady would never be able to close her door. He looked at Paul still in the hallway. "Please see to a carpenter immediately. The lady needs this fixed."

Paul blinked, his dark brows cast down for a second, then he bowed. "Yes, my lord," and left before Will could say anything further. That was why he preferred Paul. His man of business seemed to understand him better than most. But that look Paul had given him a moment before he'd left...it was just on the cusp of incredulous.

Indeed, Will surmised, he was acting like an idiot, breaking through doors for a lady. Who did he think he was? Some knight in shining armor, come to rescue the damsel? No, he told himself, he'd never amount to something so virtuous, not after all he'd done. Or didn't do, in his case.

Mrs. Jacobs moved beside him, offering her unflappable calm. "My lord, seeing as how the lady's not...attired, perhaps you could visit later? I think her fine now." Mrs. Jacobs's spirited eyes danced as she leaned even closer, then whispered conspiratorially, "Just your presence appeased the lady. I will dress her and have her ready for you soon."

Will blinked and nodded, unsure what to make of Mrs. Jacobs, of that comment, as if she were presenting their guest to him like a...like she was a...Lord, what was happening with his staff—and him!—this day?

He'd have to leave. After all, the lady was naked. Damnation.

He wouldn't turn back to her, but said to the broken door, "I hope all is well with you, my lady. When...after...perhaps in a few...minutes...an hour, we may eat? Breakfast?" God, he hated how he stammered when nervous.

"Yes, I'd like—oh! But I don't have anything to wear."

He spun back toward her. It hadn't been a good idea, for there she was, beautiful creature, bedecked with the sun, looking even more radiant than just moments before. Her cheeks took on the heat of spring's cherry blossoms, and he wanted nothing more than to touch her visage.

Mrs. Jacobs opened a bureau. Silks of varying colors and woman's linens were stacked or neatly hung.

Lady Ferguson blinked at the dresses. "Are those mine?"

Mrs. Jacobs nodded. "I would think so, my lady. My lord doesn't wear this kind of finery."

The lady giggled and drew delicate fingertips to her chest.

From the feminine chuckle to the toga, images floated behind Will's eyes, making him feel too hot. His solar plexus exploded with aching pleasure. Lord, he was already infatuated. That was so like him to be attracted to a woman, a glorious one at that, who more than likely would never look at him as he did at her. She was divine. He was an old army hand, scarred in so many ways. At only thirty-four, he felt his age well beyond his years. Not necessarily from warring, but because love had never been kind to him.

It was this thought that gave him fortitude. He could finally turn from the vixen and trudge his way to the door. There, he said, "At your leisure, my lady. We will have breakfast whenever it suits you. Take your time."

He didn't wait for an answer, but found a nearby book and placed it on the inside of her door. With the weight of the novel wedged against the broken wood, the door hinged as shut as it ever would be. In the hallway he glanced at the maid before him, the one he didn't recognize.

He tried to brush past but could have sworn he'd heard her say, "The lady is quite fetching, eh?"

"Pardon?" he asked incensed.

"The curdled cream, would you like me to fetch it for breakfast?"

He sighed and nodded. "Thank you."

The maid left with a wide grin, and he could have sworn he'd smelled lavenders in her wake. Mediterranean lavenders.

Award-winning, _Enemy of Mine_ is FREE! Simply click HERE!

# Also by R. L. Jameson

### R. L. Jameson is Red's pen name for her steamy erotic romance

_T he Wild Love Ménage Series_

Shine, Book 1

Fly, Book 2

Awake, Book 3

* * *

_T he Wild Love Series_

Bad Medicine, Book 1

Bad Neighbors, Book 2

Bad Friends, Book 3

* * *

_T he Glimpse Time Travel _Series

Enemy of Mine, Book 1

Highlander of Mine, Book 2

Cowboy of Mine, Book 3

Duchess of Mine, Book 4

* * *

_W ith These Wings _Series

Wing These Wings, Book 1

With These Wings, Book 2 that's included in the Cimmerian Shade boxed set

* * *

_S tand Alone Books_

The Sacrifice, a contemporary romance novella

* * *

Anthology

Finder of Lost Loves

Coming in Hot

Crimmerian Shade

Steamy & Dreamy

* * *

**T itles by Red L. Jameson written as L. B. Joramo**

_The Immortal American Series_

The Immortal American

The Bones of War

# Acknowledgments

Thank you to Obsidian Dawn and Deviant Art!

All things Apple®

Edgar Allan Poe

Shakespeare

_Wuthering Heights_

_Great Expectations_ and _Oliver Twist_

_The Big Bang Theory_

Metallica

_Game of Thrones_

Dr.C. Adrian Heidenreich for all things anthropological

* * *

Thank you to Lana Williams, Jennifer Oliver, Elaine Bedigian, Mira Noire, Carol Eastman, Jennifer Brady, Jamie Reynolds, and my supportive friends and family!

# About the Author

R. L. Jameson is the pen name for Red L. Jameson. R. L. was invented so Red could feel free to let her hair loose and write as passionately as she wants.

Red L. Jameson is an award-winning and multi-published author. She writes in many genres. Her pen name, L. B. Joramo, includes the odd combination of historical and paranormal for the Immortal American Series. However, it is under her "Red" name, her nickname too, where all her stories are strongly laced with love, including contemporary, historical, time-travel, paranormal, and erotic romance. Red lives in the wilds of Montana with her family and a few too many animals, and is currently working on her next novel that she hopes will make her readers laugh, cry, think, and fall in love.

Please feel free to sign up for her email list, where she shares her latest releases or rambles about other books HERE

You can also contact Red at...

* * *

www.redljameson.com

redl.jameson@gmail.com

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For Lana...

Without your continual encouragement and support, I'd still be writing only for myself. And probably writing in a cave too.
