Once upon a time, Chloe remembered, she had absolutely loved sex.

“So, it’s like that,” he murmured, the words almost tender, sinking into her skin.

“No.” Her voice was a ragged whisper, broken by sharp inhalations. She was drinking down his presence before he could take it away.

He laughed softly, each puff of air a kiss to her sensitive throat. “You are such a shitty liar.”

“True.” She closed her eyes. The way he drew her in, from his smile to his confidence to his honest charm … this attraction was forceful and unexpected, a riptide lying in wait beneath the smooth surface of her own mind. Now she’d sunk a bit too deep and been snatched under.

She wasn’t sure which way was up anymore.

He found the fingers she’d tangled up in fleecy fabric and eased them gently apart, which was a relief, because she’d been in danger of clenching her fists hard enough to hurt herself. It took her a second to realize that he was holding her hand. She could feel his cool, dry palm against her clammy one, right up to the point where her wrist supports covered her skin. He was holding her hand. He was lacing their fingers together carefully, as if to connect them. Why?

She didn’t know how to ask, and since she liked it, asking seemed silly anyway. He might come to his senses and let go. She might come to her senses and pull away. Far better to keep quiet.

He kissed her jaw. Softly, so softly, but she still whimpered.

He’d been so slow and languid, but at the sound of that whimper, everything about him tensed. He murmured roughly, “I like that,” and brushed his lips over her skin again, as if to tease out more sound. Her nipples tightened, but she swallowed her breathy sigh. So he tried harder, though it felt lighter. His tongue flicked her earlobe, traced the shell of her ear. She moaned. He made a low, raw noise of satisfaction and held her hand tighter, as if he were sinking, too, and he needed something to cling to.

She was dissolving like sugar in hot tea. Her breaths were shallow, her temperature was rocketing in a way that had nothing to do with her outfit, and her desire was a drumbeat pulse pounding between her legs. Her pussy was so swollen it felt like a fist clenched between her thighs. She was coming apart at the seams. Thank her lucky stars that all he’d done so far was tease, because if he really bit into her the way she wanted him to, she might faint dead away.

If he really bit into her the way she wanted him to, she might bite back.

And then what? Would he strip her naked, shag her senseless, and see her on Saturday night to continue the list? She didn’t know. She didn’t know. What did it mean, when a man you made deals with and sent slightly flirtatious emails to licked your ear and held your hand? What did it mean? It certainly wasn’t professional, or transactional, or simple. Not in her case, anyway. She was quite sure of that.

He slid a hand over the back of her neck, warm and solid and deliciously firm. Sensation spiked between her legs. “Chloe,” he said, his voice like gravel. “I want to kiss you. Can I kiss you?”

He turned her on so badly she felt dizzy. She couldn’t look at him, because she knew what she’d see: living, breathing sex, a man who could so easily make a mess of her. She was melting for him and they barely knew each other. She wanted to sob out her pleasure and he’d barely done anything to cause it. She. Was. Losing. Control.

She made herself whisper, “Stop.”

He obeyed her the same way he did everything: calm, easy, as though it had been his idea. His mouth left her skin before she’d even finished speaking the word. The warmth of his proximity faded and she knew he’d pulled back. He squeezed her hand once before he let go.

His expression was unreadable—but his cheeks were flushed. Her mind fixated on that because it seemed so impossibly vulnerable. Impossible full stop. Why would he be flushed? He was cool and confident and probably made women wet with a bit of hyper-sexy hand-holding a few times a week, just to keep himself sharp. Except, according to the kiss of crimson painting his high cheekbones, maybe he didn’t.

The sight of that flush—of the slightly glassy look in his eyes, of his soft, parted lips—filled her with reckless regret. She wanted to grab him by the hair and drag him back. She wanted to twine their fingers together again and ground herself in him. It was on her list, after all—meaningless sex. But some wise and protective instinct, hidden deep in the prehistoric part of her brain, warned her that nothing would be meaningless with someone like Red. And if it wasn’t meaningless, she didn’t want it. When it came to feelings, to relationships, to more, Chloe was off men.

He shut his eyes for one long moment, and when they opened again he looked a little more like himself and a little less like a creature sent from Planet Lust to sex her to death. Which was good. Very, very good.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, clearly concerned. “Did I … ?”

Gosh, he was sweet. She needed to get him out of here before she cracked completely.

“I’m fine,” she said brightly. Possibly a touch too brightly, but it was too late now; she was committed. “I’ll see you on Saturday, to continue with the list.” She sounded like a chipmunk on helium.

He hesitated, then said quietly, “Do you still want to do that? With me, I mean? It’s okay if you don’t.”

Oh, I want to do a lot with you.

She was going to have to start tapping herself on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper. Her mind was out of control and needed training.

“Yes, I still want to do that. With you. I promise, everything’s fine.” She stood up and made vague, shooing motions in his direction. “Off you go, then.”

He stood, too, smiling now. “I wrote the details in your little book. I know you like plans.”

“Wonderful. Fabulous. Much appreciated.” She shoved him bodily out of the room.

His smile widened. “I take it you don’t want to talk about—?”

“Good-bye, Redford!” She herded him toward the hall.

“—about me kissing your—”

“Ah, ah!” She strode past him to unlock the front door, holding it open. “No more talk. I am a poor, disabled woman who is not to be harassed with unnecessary conversation.”

He burst out laughing.

She pushed him out of the door.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Saturday evening had never been so fraught.

Two days—and a few too many flushed, forbidden daydreams—after that Very Professional Meeting with Red, Chloe sat with her laptop perched on her knees and her sparkly blue notebook in one hand. He had indeed written out the details for her, right down to the bars and nightclubs they would visit. And, as she passed the time until his arrival by researching those establishments online, she couldn’t help but notice that they were all very close together.

Close enough that walking from building to building probably wouldn’t tire her out.

She closed her browser window with a tut, still not sure if she was pleased by that discovery or if she found Red’s behavior presumptuous. She had a feeling it was the former, but she so wanted to believe the latter. It would make it considerably easier to resist feeling mushy things toward him. And, since escaping his intoxicating presence and remembering that men possessed less loyalty than the average flea and caused more emotional trouble than they were worth, Chloe had decided she must indeed resist.