Naked. Megan Hart

In a bottle even, not from a box.”

      He made an impressed face. “Fancy. But no, thanks.”

      “Do you mind if I have some?”

      My question seemed to surprise him. “No, of course not. It’s your house.”

      He’d been gracious enough not to push me on the religion issue; I gave him the same treatment about the drinking. We piled slices of pizza on our plates and ate in front of the television while the Transformers blew up a lot of stuff and Harold fell in love with Maude. We laughed a lot and talked over the movies. We sat at opposite ends of the couch, but our feet met in the middle, nudging every so often.

      It was the nicest night I’d had in a long time, and I told him so.

      “Get out of here.” Alex flipped a hand at me.

      “I’m serious!”

      “Well. Good. I’m glad.”

      A few glasses of red wine had left me mellow and languid. “It’s nice, just hanging out with you, Alex. No pressure. None of that stupid back and forth stuff.”

      He was silent for a few seconds as the credits rolled. “Thanks. It’s nice hanging out with you, too.”

      I yawned under cover of my hand. “But it’s late, and I have to get up early tomorrow.”

      “Work?”

      “Yeah. Think of me while you’re still snuggled down under the blankets in the morning.”

      He laughed and got up, held out a hand to help me up, too. “Oh. I’m sure I will.”

      Our fingers had linked, but now he let me go. I watched as he popped open the DVD player to take out the disc, and slipped it into the paper rental sleeve. He caught me looking as he turned.

      “We should do this again,” I said. “It was fun.”

      I wasn’t drunk, but I was tired and more than a bit fuzzy. I couldn’t quite read his smile or the expression in his eyes—something was there that looked like amusement. Something beneath that, too deep to decipher.

      “Yeah. I’d like that. Good night, Olivia.” Alex didn’t move toward the door.

      This was the point of the night where, with another man, I’d have been tipping my face up for a kiss. Hell, this was the part of the night where I’d already have decided if he was going to spend the night or be kicked out. Instead, we both laughed at the same time. Alex stepped away. Whatever tension I’d imagined—and it had to be imagined—faded.

      “Good night, Olivia. See you.”

      “Night,” I called after him as he let himself out the door. “Catch you later.”

      The door clicked shut behind him. I gathered the trash and put the leftover pizza in the fridge, then padded into my bathroom for a hot shower so I wouldn’t have to wake up so early the next morning. Usually the steam and water relax me enough so that I’m boneless by the time I come out, ready immediately for sleep, but not this night.

      My soap-slick hands slid over my skin. Nipples tight. An ache between my legs. I wasn’t making myself come with Alex’s face in mind, his long, lean body…the sound of his moan. I wasn’t sliding my hands over my breasts and thighs and belly pretending they belonged to him. I was absolutely not lying in darkness on my bed with my legs spread, a finger in my cunt and another on my clit, working my body into ecstasy while I pretended it was him.

      All right, so I was. It was impossible not to. He was beautiful and sexy and the closest I’d had to a date in months. That was by choice, since plenty of men asked me out but very few impressed me. And he wasn’t into women. I’d seen evidence of that with my own eyes, even if Patrick hadn’t warned me off him.

      Yet my body gave it up for him, my mind swirling with thoughts of how wrong it was. How stupid and useless. My mind knew better, but my pussy didn’t care. I slid fingers deep inside my hot, slick flesh and felt the clamp and grip of my internal muscles as I spasmed. My clit throbbed, pressure building while I tapped a fingertip in a slow beating rhythm on top. Teasing. Holding off.

      Until at last I thought once more of his voice, my memory conveniently merging the sound of his groan with my name, and the way he said “fuck me.” In my head it had become a command, not an exclamation of surprise. And as I surged up and over and down into the spiral of heat and pleasure, I wished he would say it to me for real.

      Chapter Four

      “I haven’t seen you in forever.” Patrick frowned. “You never return my calls and I sent you about four dozen pings at Connex and you ignored me there, too.”

      I fiddled with my camera settings and took a few shots of nothing just to test them. “I’ve been busy with work. I haven’t even logged in to Connex lately. What sorts of pings?”

      “I invited you to our New Year’s party. Teddy thinks I’m crazy for having another party so soon after the last one. But what can I say? I like parties. Besides, I don’t want to go out anyplace around here for New Year’s Eve and nobody invited us anywhere.” Patrick shrugged. “You’ll come.”

      “What if I have plans? Turn to the left a little. Hold up the cup. Look like, c’mon, Patrick, look like you’re enjoying it.” I peered through my lens to frame the shot I was supposed to use in an ad for a local café. “I’ve seen you look more enthused about watching Lawrence Welk reruns.”

      “What do you want me to do, look like I’m getting ready to fuck the mug?” Patrick frowned and lifted the cup higher and forced an entirely false grin onto his handsome mouth. “Is this better? How’s this, Olivia? Ooh, coffee, I’m so horny for you…”

      I snapped a couple of shots just to annoy him with later, when he saw how ridiculous he looked. “Quit being a jerk. C’mon, I need this for tomorrow.”

      “Nothing like running behind schedule.” Patrick licked the mug.

      I snapped another shot and thought I might frame that one as a gift. “It’s a last-minute job, and I can’t afford to turn them down.”

      He shot me a glance, then put his pout into place. “How’s this?”

      “A little less constipated, but yes. Good.” Finally I got something that would work. It wasn’t art, but it would do. Patrick put the mug down while I transferred the pictures to my computer.

      “You’ll come, right? And dinner on Friday. You haven’t been over since the party.” He flipped through the large album of photos I’d chosen as my best, to show off to potential clients. “Oh, I like this one. Why don’t you do more of these, Livvy? They’re so good.”

      I glanced at the picture, a nude I’d taken at a photography workshop I’d gone to the year before. “Because I’m not an erotic photographer and I don’t have much use for nudes.”

      “She’s pretty.”

      I gave him a look. “Yes. She is. She’s a model.”

      He flipped a few more pages. “I like this one, too.”

      A landscape. Nothing special. I could add text to it and play with the dimensions to use in brochures or Web sites. I shrugged.

      “You don’t take compliments very well.”

      I laughed and began toying with the pictures I’d taken of him. “I want to make my living doing this, Patrick. I don’t have any grand ideas of becoming a famous artiste. The work’s good. Yes. I get it. I’m not setting up shop at the street fair to sell my prints, okay?”

      “You could have a gallery show. Your work is good, as good as some of the stuff I’ve seen hanging up downtown. You know I have a friend of a friend—”

      “Stop,” I told him firmly. “Patrick, I love you, but I’m not having a gallery show. And besides,