Valentine's Fantasy. Janice Sims

      “What are you going to do with that bat?”

      He’d almost asked “what bat?” when he became cognizant of what he must look like. “I think better with it.” He placed the bat next to a crystal vase on the foyer table. “As much as I want to kill you, I’m not interested in doing the time.”

      As soon as he spoke those magic words, Chanté pushed the door open farther and entered the house.

      Despite his anger, Matthew’s gaze traveled up his wife’s long, toned legs and black, mid-thigh skirt. Boy, she always did know how to wear the hell out of a skirt—or anything else for that matter. Just months away from the big 4-0, Chanté labored to maintain her Tyra Banks-like figure and there wasn’t a man who’d crossed her path that didn’t take a moment to appreciate all her hard work—including him.

      His eyes continued their journey over her every luscious curve until they reached her thin, delicate neck. He sighed as he envisioned wrapping his hands around it.

      “You’re still up,” she stated the obvious as she closed the door.

      “Was there any doubt?” He drew another deep breath in hopes to cool his temper. “How was work tonight?”

      Chanté set her briefcase down next to his baseball bat. “It was all right.” She shrugged as she pulled the pins from her hair.

      Matthew’s heart squeezed at the sight of her long, thick, currently dyed auburn hair spilling down her back. Sidetracked, he struggled to remember the last time he ran his fingers through the soft strands—or tugged it during the throes of passion.

      Five months.

      She headed toward him and had almost passed by when Matthew broke through his reverie and jutted his arm across the threshold to block her escape.

      “Surely it was more than just ‘all right’?”

      Chanté swept her dark, angry glare over him.

      Heat flared anew within Matthew, but it had nothing to do with anger. Standing this close, staring into her fiery eyes, and smelling the soft fragrance in her hair, he was delirious with lust.

      This made no sense. He couldn’t stand her.

      Five months.

      “Move out of my way,” she hissed.

      “I want to talk more about your evening,” he hissed back, and then added a smile. “Isn’t that what all loving couples do—communicate?”

      “We’re not a loving couple so let’s just skip the bull.” She ducked under his arm and stormed to the bar. “And if you want to talk about that little comment I made about you on the air tonight...” She stopped and flashed him a smile. “It was a joke.”

      His anger returned. “A joke my ass. You did that to get back at me. Admit it.”

      Chanté folded her arms across her chest. “And what if I did? What are you going to do about it—divorce me?”

      “Don’t tempt me!”

      Frustrated, Chanté stomped her foot and glanced around the room to throw something—anything. She grabbed a nearby statue, but was stunned when the damn thing wouldn’t move.

      “What the—?”

      “Superglue,” Matthew replied with a smug smile. “Your screaming tirades have gotten a little on the expensive side.”

      Big, bright patches of red flashed before her eyes and she reached for something else, only to discover it, too, had been glued down.

      Her husband laughed, plunging deeper under her skin. In a last desperate act, she pulled off a shoe and hurled it at him.

      Matthew ducked. “Hey!”

      She launched the second shoe and it nailed the side of his head.

      “Ouch!” He rubbed his bruise and then took off running toward her. “You’ve lost your mind.”

      Chanté squealed as she lunged from him. “Get away. Leave me alone.” She bounded up on the sofa and rushed across its cushions.

      “I’m going to make you pay for that.”

      “Don’t you dare touch me!” She jumped down, slid on her stocking feet, then raced in the opposite direction.

      Matthew crashed into a bookcase and yelped in pain when a few hardcovers landed on his head. “Damn it!”

      Chanté glanced over her shoulder as she exited the living room. To her surprise, her husband was right on her tail. She’d crossed the foyer and was just inches away from the staircase, when his strong fingers bit into her shoulders.

      “Gotcha!”

      Chanté swung as she pivoted.

      Matthew ducked, lost his balance, and fell backward—taking her down with him. He landed with a hard thump and had no time to register the pain before his wife knocked what little air he had left out of his lungs.

      In no time, her hands and legs flailed out in attack.

      “Will you stop it?” He wrestled with her, trying to catch hold of her.

      “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”

      He latched on to one arm, but failed to catch the other one before it landed a hard blow against the same spot her flying shoe had hit. “Ouch!”

      Matthew captured the other hand. He rolled on top and pinned her beneath him.

      Even then Chanté kicked and squirmed.

      “Be still,” Matthew demanded.

      “Go to hell,” she spat.

      “What? This isn’t 666 Hell’s Drive?”

      “Very funny.” She gave a last futile tug, and then went limp beneath him.

      “Give up?”

      “Never.”

      Her chest heaved while she dragged in deep breaths. It, consequently, drew her husband’s lustful gaze. It was crazy, but she felt good lying beneath him—her curvy body soft but pulsing with raw energy. He was turned on—and she knew it.

      Five months.

      “What are you doing?” she asked in alarm.

      He leaned down close until their faces were just inches apart. He filled his senses with her floral-scented hair and the faint hint of Chanel No. 5.

      “What will you do if I kiss you right now?”

      “What?”

      “I want to kiss you.”

      Chanté renewed her escape efforts, but the wild bucking and squirming only succeeded in turning them both on more.

      When his lips landed on hers with surprising gentleness, Chanté’s mutinous body melted as though cold water had been splashed onto a fire.

      Their tongues danced, caressed, and sent small shock waves of pleasure clear down to her toes. She wanted him, and judging by the hard bulge in his pants, he wanted her, too.

      She could give in just this once. After all, it had been five long months. What was the harm? God knew she still loved him—probably always will.

      “Tell me you want me,” he commanded softly. “We don’t even have to go upstairs. We can do it right here. Right now, but I want to hear you say it.”

      I want you. Chanté panted and tried to gain control of herself.

      “Tell me.”

      She met her husband’s fevered gaze while the war continued to rage inside of her. Bend—be flexible. But giving in to him wouldn’t magically erase their problems.

      “Who knows, tonight might be the