Red fell back against the pillows and sighed. He was beginning to think he had some kind of fetish for unsuitable women. First there’d been Pippa, and now this disturbing interest in Chloe. It wasn’t attraction, exactly, couldn’t be, because Red had only ever been attracted to women he actually liked. No, this was something else. Something that whispered to him even now, heating his skin with memories of last night, swallowing up his good intentions and making his cock swell against his thigh. He took a breath, then another. He closed his eyes and drummed his fingers against the sheets. He resisted sudden, twisted temptation for as long as he could.

Which turned out to be about five seconds. Then he cracked like a perverted egg.

He was still wearing his uniform overalls, so it took one hand to pop open the buttons, reach past the waistband of his shorts, and palm his cock. When his mind helpfully produced the three-day-old memory of Chloe’s bare calves and gleaming collarbone, he was caught between self-disgust and relief. On the one hand, it was incredibly weird that those glimpses were enough to get him going. On the other, it was also pretty convenient, since he would never actually see her naked body.

He could imagine it, though. And he did. Inside his mind, Chloe Brown was in his bed because she belonged there. He had no idea why she belonged, and Dream Chloe was in no state to explain it to him, but she definitely did. He could feel her soft skin against his, her breath in his ear, her nails digging into his biceps. A phantom scent haunted him, salty like the ocean air on a seaside holiday—or like the sweat between the bodies of two people chasing sensation.

He squeezed the base of his shaft and felt an electric pulse of pleasure. His other hand moved to cup his heavy sac, full and firm and tight against his palm. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried by the realization that this wouldn’t take long. A minute, at most. He stroked himself hard, twisting his fist as he reached the swollen head, smoothing slick pre-come over sensitive skin with his thumb.

Sinking into her was tempting, but he moved down her naked body instead. Eyes shut against the truth of his own weakness, he breathed her in, bathed in her heat. Lowered his head. Swept his tongue over her, parting plump labia to tease her clit and taste the wet, scorching center of her cunt. In the real world, he shuddered, as if his body was overwhelmed. His next breath sounded more like a gasp. He stroked himself faster and thought about how she’d react, how her thighs would tighten around him and her hips would arch up toward him and that dangerous voice of hers would crack on his name—

Someone knocked at his front door.

Red shot out of bed and stared down at himself. His overalls gaped open in a helpful little window of perversion, displaying his jutting cock—also known as the undeniable evidence of what he’d almost done. But, he told himself feverishly, last night didn’t count since it had been a dream, and this didn’t count because he hadn’t actually come. It didn’t count. Everything was fine. He cleared his throat, shoved his traitorous dick out of sight, and headed for the bathroom. On his way, he called in the direction of the door, “Just a sec.”

The last voice he’d wanted to hear replied, “Please, don’t hurry on my account.” A crisp, deadpan tone that he now knew signified a joke.

Red froze, asked God what he’d ever done to deserve this, then remembered his activities of approximately sixty seconds ago and realized the answer. Hoping he was wrong, knowing he wasn’t, he choked out, “Chloe?”

“Very astute, Mr. Morgan.”

Shit.

“Just … hold on,” he ordered, jerking back to life. He rushed to the bathroom, his heart pounding. Hands were washed, uncomfortably warm cheeks were cooled with tap water and his overalls were buttoned up. Completely. To the very top. He had the strangest idea that his virtue wasn’t safe around her, which was the single weirdest thought he’d ever had. He pulled himself together—eventually—and went back to answer the door. And when he saw her, he understood why he hadn’t been able to get her off his mind.

His dreams couldn’t truly re-create her. Something about her was too striking to remember accurately, as if his brain didn’t have the right tools. She watched him with those endless eyes, folding her arms under her breasts—but he wouldn’t look at those—and arching her eyebrows. One, as always, winged higher than the other. Just like one corner of her lush mouth tilted a little higher, making her look as if she was smirking.

Actually, she was smirking. She cocked her head and asked, “What on earth has happened to you?”

Red looked down sharply, searching for whatever had given him away. The baggy cut of his clothes hid the fact that his cock was, for some reason, still hard. He stared at his own hands and found them unusually paint-free and, more important, come-free. Because he hadn’t actually come. Which was key information. He met her gaze and said, as calmly as he could manage, “What do you mean?”

She studied him suspiciously. “You’re all flushed. Your hair is a mess. And …” She leaned forward, squinting at his chest. “I think you’ve done your buttons incorrectly.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. She knew. Somehow—perhaps because she was a witch who haunted his dreams—she knew. And now she’d hold it over his head, use it as a weapon, because that’s what people like her did. He knew it. He’d learned it well. He—

“Redford Morgan,” she said severely, “have you been sleeping on the job?”

He was so relieved, he almost passed the fuck out. He clutched the door frame and released a heavy breath, his hair hanging around his face as his head fell forward. Then he remembered that he was trying to seem normal, unsuspicious, and not at all like a man who wanked over women—tenants—he barely knew. He straightened and cleared his throat in what could only be described as the guiltiest move of all time. Chloe was eyeing him with obvious confusion.

“I was,” he lied. “I was taking a nap.”

“Hmm. I expect you’re one of those people who doesn’t respect the power of ten hours a night.”

“I thought it was eight?”

“Rubbish. It’s definitely ten.”

The glint in her eye said she was prepared to argue. He decided not to push it and searched for another subject. His gaze landed on the sturdy black case hanging from her shoulder. “Got something for me?”

“In a way. It’s my laptop. I thought I’d call round and see if you were free for the consultation.” She stepped forward. There was so much authority in that single step that he automatically stepped back. All of a sudden, she was in his flat. How the fuck had that happened? And how the hell was he going to get her out again?

He opened his mouth to say, Please go away, then remembered that he wasn’t a rude prick and closed it. Fact was, he couldn’t stand men who treated women differently because they were desirable. And really, the dream wasn’t that big a deal. He just needed a good shag, and she was undeniably gorgeous, and his subconscious had slammed both facts together. That was all.

Red shut the door and said, “Yeah. Now’s good.”

“Wonderful.” Her smile was small and impossibly sunny. Her skirt swirled around her legs as she turned to face him. It was a floofy sort of vintage skirt, white with bright red poppies creeping up from the bottom. He liked it. But then, he liked all the prissy shit she wore. Despite himself, he let his gaze drift to her legs. He could see her calves again today, and her ankles, circled by the leather straps of her shiny shoes. He drank in every detail like some sexually deprived Victorian bloke.