"You said I could talk. The jeans you wore yesterday, they were huge, baggy. You were wearing a man's shirt. Why, Cal? Why were you hiding yourself?"

"I want men to desire me for my brain."

I laughed, I couldn't help myself. I tried to think of a less controversial question and said, "Do you think Maggie is sleeping with Rob Morrison?"

Her charcoal stopped cold in mid-stroke. She stared at me, her lips pursed. "He's so beautiful he could sleep with any woman he wanted. Why not Maggie?" She began sketching again, more quickly now, her strokes deep and fast, rather like really good sex, I thought.

She stopped suddenly, the charcoal pencil poised over the paper, and she stared at me. She was breathing hard. Her hands were shaking, her lips slightly parted.

"Done?" I asked, looking at her hands.

She didn't say anything, just set down the charcoal and the pad and flipped off the lamp.

"Mac," she said, in a voice low and harsh, and she jumped me.

I tried for about three and a half seconds to pull her off me, then a good wallop of lust changed my mind and I gave it up. She kissed me all over my face, ran her hands over my chest, then down, unzipping my slacks, and then her hands were inside my shorts. I nearly lost it when her fingers went around me. I felt a wildness in her, a frenzy, and in her fingers. Dear God, it had been too long and I was a mess. I pulled on her clothes, ripping her blouse, but she didn't seem to care. She pushed me down onto the carpet, climbed on top of me, and straightened over me. I could see her outline, her head thrown back, her throat white and smooth. I could hear her breathing-like someone running a race-hard and deep, jerking with effort.

"Cal," I said, trying to hold her still for just a moment. "Cal, listen to me. I don't have any condoms."

"Don't worry about it. I'm healthy. You're an FBI agent. I'm on the pill."

In the next instant, she'd pulled down her panties, kicked off her ballet slippers, and spread her legs. She straddled me, and brought me up and into her. I went in high and deep and I could feel her, every slick bit of her, and I groaned with the effort of not coming right then. "No," I said, "no." I lifted her off me, nearly throwing her onto her back. I watched her raise her hand, jerk off her glasses, and toss them across the room. She stopped cold then, just staring up at me. "I don't understand," she said.

"You don't have to," I said, and brought her up to my mouth. I wondered a few seconds later why the entire household didn't come rushing into the room, she screamed so loudly. I managed to fit my hand over her mouth, felt her hot breath lacing through my fingers, felt her cries nearly liquid against my skin. When she collapsed, all boneless, I came into her, wild and hard. I didn't stay long, I couldn't.

It always takes me a while to get my brain back together. I didn't really want to this time; I didn't want to think about any consequences. I just wanted to keep floating free, not thinking, just mellowing, drifting away. Eventually she moved and then I did. She was wide awake, looking up at me in the shadowy light. "You came down on me," she said, unexpectedly.

I still tasted her, a lingering scent of dark promises and bone-deep lust. It was amazing, that taste of hers, and it made me hard again. "Yes," I said, and managed to slide off to her side. I leaned down on my elbow, and kissed her mouth. I kissed her several times, lazy kisses, and I said against her lips, "You draw a picture and it makes you horny?"

"Not usually," she said, kissing me back, all the while stroking her fingers over my jaw and back into my hair. It was like she was drawing me all over again. "But you, Mac, you were different. I sketched your mouth, then your jaw, and it was all over for me." She sighed and curled onto her side facing me. "That was very nice, Mac. Come into me again."

"All right," I said. This time didn't last much longer than the first time, and I was ready this time to muffle her cries when she climaxed. I knew her scent, the taste of her, would stay with me for a while. I'd learned two very important things about Cal Tarcher: She really liked making love, and she had long thin legs that fit nicely around my neck.

I found out she wasn't much for conversation either, which I appreciated since I didn't have a thing to say. She kissed me once more, patted my cheek, and rose. I watched her blot herself with kleenex, watched her dress and slide her glasses up her nose. She left the small room first to go upstairs and straighten herself up, she told me. I moved more slowly. I finished my beer, now warm, and tossed it in the wastebasket beside the desk. I zipped up my pants, found a bathroom just down the hall, and tried to wipe the just-fucked look off my face. It was difficult because it had felt so good, still felt good. So good if she'd been there I would have asked for more.