“You did?” she asked, quirking her eyebrows in curiosity. “Why?”

  “It reminded me of home. It reminded me of the world beyond the battle. Even if I wasn’t one of the guys on the front lines, I was studying them. Helping our boys to understand them, to navigate what was going on.”

  “What were you working on? Or is that classified or something?”

  “We provided the intelligence support for some of the operations in Afghanistan and Iraq.”

  “I can’t even imagine what that’s like,” she said, shaking her head, perhaps in some kind of admiration. “Playing a role in something so big.”

  “It was our job to make sure they had the right information to act on. Sometimes, when I was studying the reports coming in, I would listen to Ravel or Brahms or Mozart. It helped me sort it out. I found it strangely calming.”

  “I can picture that,” she said, and this time she reached out, running her hand down his arm. “I can see how that would help.”

  He liked that they both had reasons for their ringtones that were deeper than just randomness of the universe. That it was about music, and the way music mattered to them both. It mattered differently, but it was equally important. A cigar wasn’t always a cigar.

  “Stay the night,” he said, trying again with her. He wanted more of her. He liked himself better when she was near.

  She shook her head.

  “Please. I like the way you feel next to me, even just like this.”

  “No. I need to be in my own bed.”

  “But you look so good on mine.”

  “I feel good in it. But I need to go home.”

  “First things first,” he said, then dropped his mouth to hers and kissed her deeply, the way she liked, the way that made her wriggle underneath him in seconds, and wrap her legs around his waist. The way that turned her on in a heartbeat. Made her wet and hot and needy for him. He’d learned her body quickly, studied her cues, and knew how to turn her on in record time. It was as if he alone possessed the secret code to unlock her desire.

  He pulled off her panties, rolled on a condom and entered her. Within seconds she was moaning, her head back, her arms wrapped tight around him, her legs gripping him. It was a quick fuck, a goodbye-and-see-you-tomorrow one. It was a promise that this wasn’t the last time, that there would be many more.

  And that they both just needed one more moment of connection before she left without staying the night.

  * * *

  from: justjack@gmail.com

  to: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  date: Sept 10, 10:32 AM

  subject: Your email address

  Been meaning to ask this—I take it there are no devilishly handsome CEOs of lingerie companies who have access to this email? That you set it up just for me?

  from: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  to: justjack@gmail.com

  date: Sept 10, 10:55 AM

  subject: Spotting it from across town

  You have a bit of a jealous streak, don’t you? And I assure you, there are no other devilishly handsome CEOs that I know at all, lingerie or otherwise, and they certainly wouldn’t be emailing me here, seeing as I just set it up for you. But I have often thought the handyman in my building is quite cute.

  from: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  to: justjack@gmail.com

  date: Sept 10, 10:56 AM

  subject: Couldn’t resist

  I’m just kidding. He’s not that cute. OK, maybe a tad cute.

  from: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  to: justjack@gmail.com

  date: Sept 10, 10:57 AM

  subject: Couldn’t resist either

  Not as cute as you though, when you’re jealous.

  from: justjack@gmail.com

  to: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  date: Sept 10, 11:01 AM

  subject: A mile wide

  My jealous streak knows no bounds. Especially not after this weekend. Not after the hallway. Not after the couch. Not after the shower. Hell, not after what you did to me on the Met Life Tower.

  from: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  to: justjack@gmail.com

  date: Sept 10, 11:03 AM

  subject: WHAT I DID TO YOU?

  I think it was the other way around.

  from: justjack@gmail.com

  to: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  date: Sept 10, 11:11 AM

  subject: YES

  No. It was not. What you did to me was make me want more of you. I have a large appetite when it comes to you.

  from: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  to: justjack@gmail.com

  date: Sept 10, 12:01 PM

  subject: I have to ask

  Why?

  from: justjack@gmail.com

  to: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  date: Sept 10, 12:18 PM

  subject: I have to answer

  Why do I want you? Because you are smart. Because you are beautiful. Because you make me laugh. Because you are sensual and passionate and the way you give me your body drives me absolutely fucking wild, and now I am rock-hard again for you. There. Satisfied?

  from: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  to: justjack@gmail.com

  date: Sept 10, 12:56 PM

  subject: With you? Always satisfied . . .

  Thank you. That was very nice of you.

  from: justjack@gmail.com

  to: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  date: Sept 10, 1:08 PM

  subject: Nice is a bad word

  It wasn’t nice. There was nothing nice about that. It was true, is what it was. Which is why I set up this email just for you. Why aren’t you here working in the same fucking building? I want you, Michelle.

  Because if she were in the same building she’d get nothing done. She’d keep popping up to his office to visit him. Better that he worked across town. Besides, she had a packed schedule, and another new client in ten minutes, so she clicked out of her email and skipped over to her patient notes from the office manager. Another scant set of details, as was expected. The only info she had on the man named Clark Davidson was two words long—marital challenges.

  She closed her eyes, took several deep breaths, and let her mind clear of Jack. The last thing she needed demanding space in her frontal lobe was that sexy, naughty, dangerously addictive man. She scoffed quietly to herself. Addictive. Funny that she’d used that term. She’d treated so many patients who had struggled with sex and love addiction; she’d helped them find their way to the other side. To peace. To sanity. To calm. To real love.

  Here she was, using that word as if it were a good thing that Jack was addictive.

  Addictions were bad. Addictions were trouble. If Jack felt addicting, that could only mean one thing—it was damn good their relationship had an expiration date. They’d spent three nights together now, and each time she’d left around midnight. “I turn into a pumpkin,” she’d say, then tell him how busy she was the next day. That was all true—well, perhaps not the pumpkin part. But the busy part. There was another side to the coin though, and that was the side where sleepovers unfurled into intimacy. They translated into vulnerability. Closeness. Cuddling and snuggling while deep in REM, then waking up next to someone in the broad light of day with the hope that the person would still like you was too risky. That’s why she preferred to meet at his place. If he came to hers too often, then he might fall asleep there. It was easier to be the one to leave than to kick someone else out. Meeting at his apartment gave her a small semblance of control.

  She didn’t need Jack to have any questions about her. He viewed her as a sexual creature, a sensuous woman, and that’s all he needed to see of her. Any more would ruin the point of them. To help each other move on.

  Right?

  Right.

  Once more, she pushed Jack from her brain. No. That was wrong. She gave him a massive shove, then kicked him under the carpet, because she needed to focus. Soon, she opened the door for her new patient, and said hello to the dark-haired Clark Davidson. He had deep brown eyes, a square jaw and a close-cropped cut.

  “Good to meet you,” he said, and shook her hand. He was unusually confident for a first-time patient. Interesting.

  “And you as well. Please, come in,” she said, holding open the door.

  “Thank you,” he said, and his eyes lingered on her a tad longer than she would have liked.

  Fifty minutes later, she had the oddest feeling that he’d been studying her the entire time. That even as he unspooled bits and pieces of his challenges with his wife, he was cataloging her.

  From her hair to her lips to her breasts to her shoes.

  She wished he’d look her in the eyes.

  * * *

  The next evening, she mentioned the session to the consultation group of other therapists that she met with every week to share best practices. There were five of them, all other women who specialized in intimate relationship psychotherapy. Carla Kimberly led the group; she was Michelle’s mentor and the president of the New York chapter of the Association of Intimate Relationship Psychologists.

  “I had a strange appointment today,” Michelle began, then gave a brief overview of the session, and how his behavior and wandering eyes had made her uncomfortable. “Am I reading too much into things?”

  Carla adjusted the gauzy blue scarf around her neck. “Only you know if you’re picking up on a vibe. But the key is always to refocus the patient, if this becomes an issue,” she said in her warm and friendly voice. She was a pro. She’d been doing this for many years, and Michelle was lucky for her support and her insight.

  “Right. Of course,” Michelle said, since she certainly understood how to handle matters if a patient were ever attracted to her. Refocus the patient on the inner emotional experience and the therapy work. That was the rule of thumb. “It just seemed that something else was at play,” she added.

  “Maybe he recognized you,” Jennifer said with a smile. She was a newer therapist to the group.

  Michelle cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe he’s seen you out and about around town? Do you ever think about that?” Jennifer asked the crew.

  Carla nodded, tucking a strand of her dark brown hair neatly behind her ear. “I do. You could run into anyone anywhere. I think it’s strange for patients to bump into their therapists in a public setting, but it’s inevitable. It’s happened to me a few times at the grocery store or movies, and then all of a sudden, the person you are trying to treat knows you buy Trader Joe’s Vanilla Almond Crunch cereal.”

  “Well, that’s just a good cereal,” Michelle said with a smile.

  “Or they know you went to see It’s Raining Men,” Carla added, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

  Michelle’s eyes widened. “No way. Did you run into a patient at the stripper movie?”

  Carla nodded sheepishly, and covered her face with her fingers. “I did. It was so embarrassing. It’s as if we’re not supposed to have a life outside our offices, but I did love that movie.”

  Michelle laughed, and this was one of the many reasons why she adored Carla. The woman could shift from stripper movies to serious talk in the snap of a finger.

  Jennifer jumped in. “I agree. So how do we find the balance between going to see a stripper movie and being able to guide a patient through their challenges with love?”

  “I think it’s fine for a therapist to behave like a human being. To kiss your husband in public; to pick up a celebrity magazine at the store. To see a sexy movie. You just have to know the lines not to cross,” Michelle said. Lines like getting involved with a patient, and she’d made damn sure that hadn’t happened.

  At the end of their meeting, Carla pulled her aside. “Your talk last week at The Pierson was well-received,” she said, and Michelle was filled with an odd cocktail of feelings—professional pride chased with the slightest dash of cat-who-ate-the-canary syndrome. That talk on new treatment strategies for love and sex addiction had set her on a collision course with Jack Sullivan and the best sex of her life. If she’d only slept with him one time, she’d still consider herself a lucky bitch. As it was, she’d had more than a baker’s dozen of times with Jack in the last several days, each one better than the last. “We’ve gotten a lot of great feedback from attendees,” Carla added.

  “I’m so happy to hear that. It was an honor to have been asked.”

  “I hope it’ll be an honor when I ask you for something else too,” Carla said, flashing a quick smile.

  “Anything.”

  “We have a workshop with other psychotherapists coming up on learning to love again. It will look at love after infidelity, grief, divorce and so on. And, I was hoping you could lead it.”

  Michelle’s answer was instant. “Of course. I’d love to. Just let me know the details.”

  “Absolutely. I’ll email them to you this weekend. I also have a referral to send your way. Are you still taking new patients?”

  She glanced away briefly to hide her smirk. “Yes. I have an opening on Fridays at two.”

  * * *

  from: justjack@gmail.com

  to: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  date: Sept 12, 6:18 PM

  subject: Therapy

  Looking forward to another “therapy” session with you this evening.

  from: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  to: justjack@gmail.com

  date: Sept 12, 6:20 PM

  subject: Healing aids?

  Will you be bringing any battery-operated friends?

  from: justjack@gmail.com

  to: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  date: Sept 12, 6:23 PM

  subject: Therapy

  I have many toys slated for our time slot. Though I should warn you—I need more than the standard fifty minutes. Much more.

  from: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  to: justjack@gmail.com

  date: Sept 12, 6:27 PM

  subject: A few hours works for me

  I look forward to being in your hands.

  from: justjack@gmail.com

  to: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  date: Sept 12, 6:32 PM

  subject: Soon . . .

  By the way, I told the doorman I’d be expecting someone at nine p.m.

  from: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  to: justjack@gmail.com

  date: Sept 12, 6:46 PM

  subject: Very soon . . .

  So you want me out of there by 9?

  from: justjack@gmail.com

  to: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  date: Sept 12, 6:52 PM

  subject: Open invitation to spend the night

  No, beautiful. It’s you, I’m expecting.

  from: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  to: justjack@gmail.com

  date: Sept 12, 7:03 PM

  subject: Maybe someday

  Presumptuous.

  from: justjack@gmail.com

  to: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  date: Sept 12, 7:09 PM

  subject: Someday very soon

  Ravenous.

  from: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  to: justjack@gmail.com

  date: Sept 12, 7:32 PM

  subject: After last night

  I can barely walk today.

  from: justjack@gmail.com

  to: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  date: Sept 12, 7:46 PM

  subject: That’s what I like to hear

  I should feel bad about that, but I can’t find it in me.

  from: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  to: justjack@gmail.com

  date: Sept 12, 7:55 PM

  subject: No guilt needed

  Beating your chest instead?

  from: justjack@gmail.com

  to: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  date: Sept 12, 8:02 PM

  subject: Like a caveman

  Yes. Fucking you senseless has a way of making me feel damn good about myself. I’d like to see you bent over my kitchen counter in about an hour.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Services

  The next several nights passed in a haze of sex, food, and conversation. In a fantastic blur of 69s, and town cars, and swank bathroom stalls at shi-shi restaurants—including a new sushi spot near the Chrysler Building—and Chinese food ordered in. In late-night chats curled up on his couch, talking about college, or his time in the army, or her days in grad school, and the crazy role-playing she’d had to do with other shrinks as a part of her training. He’d lie back on a pillow, an arm wrapped around her, and listen to her stories, her hair fanned out across his chest as he ran his fingers absently through it. Or they’d find their way to her place in Murray Hill, and after a hard and fast session in the shower, or a long and lingering one on her ottoman, or an endlessly wet one—pun intended—in the bathtub, she’d be the one listening to his reminisces about the early days of Joy Delivered with his sister, and how they’d run the company out of a windowless one-room office in Queens before they hit it big.

  She was easy to talk to. No surprise, though, given what she did for a living. Maybe what was so surprising, if he only studied the surface, was how that openness extended to the bedroom. She didn’t hold back in bed. She turned over her body to him every night, and every time he had her he found himself wanting more of her. Wanting that sexy vulnerability he saw in her eyes. That gorgeous desperation he felt in her body. That dirty mouth that begged for him to fuck her to yet another release.

  During the day, they’d text and email. He looked forward to her notes in between work and meetings and product launches, and the damn updates on Denkler’s campaign that was still struggling. At the end of a long day, there was her. She was his letting go.

  But every night ended the same. With a goodnight kiss at her door, at a town car, at the curb.

  Like a shopkeeper slamming down the gates after midnight. That was Michelle. She had a closing time, and he understood why. Protecting her heart, and all.

  She’d erected the sturdiest walls, but he wanted to knock them down.

  * * *

  Ten nights of Jack Sullivan was like some kind of voodoo magic. If the first third of these thirty nights was anything to go on, she’d be living in a bubble of bliss for the rest of the month of September and on into October. Her body seemed to be 100 percent okay with that kind of cocoon. Her mind seemed amenable, too. Because Jack was stimulating on all fronts. She’d just finished updating him on the details of her Paris trip later next week. Her flight had been booked, her hotel reserved, and the conference organizers had even sent her a box of French chocolate to say thank you. She’d brought them over to share, and she popped a raspberry-filled dark chocolate square in her mouth.