God, I love it when you say dirty things. Do dirty things. Spread your legs for me right now, and tell me what you’d say to me if I had walked into your office.

  from: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  to: justjack@gmail.com

  date: Sept 19, 12:16 PM

  subject: This.

  Fuck me with your tongue.

  from: justjack@gmail.com

  to: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  date: Sept 19, 12:18 PM

  subject: I want that.

  I need to be drenched in your pussy tonight. I need to eat you and fuck you and lick you all over. I need to have my fingers in you.

  from: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  to: justjack@gmail.com

  date: Sept 19, 12:19 PM

  subject: All of that and more

  You should test some of your new toys on me. I’m very willing to be your research project.

  from: justjack@gmail.com

  to: michellewithtwols@gmail.com

  date: Sept 19, 12:21 PM

  subject: I am a very thorough researcher

  I am going to research the fuck out of your beautiful body. Prepare to be ravaged tonight. That is a promise. I have to go into a meeting. This is going to be the most painful meeting of my life. Where can I meet you when it’s over? I need to see you.

  Tugging at his white button-down shirt, as if that would sap the heat from his body, Jack powered down his phone a few blocks from his destination. Michelle was still on his mind, and the effect of even that one email exchange was abundantly evident in his body right now. He didn’t need an erection this demanding knocking on his fly at a lunch meeting, so he tried to force his brain to let go of the images tearing through his skull. Potent pictures of all that had transpired over the last two weeks wouldn’t leave his head; the time on his couch; the time in his shower; the time in the hallway; the time in front of the window. Each time was better than the last.

  And then there were the images of all the times he intended to have with her. The things he wanted to do to her. The adventures he wanted to have with her willing mind and body. She was such a passionate lover, such a sensual woman, whose body responded to his every touch. She gave herself freely; he could only imagine the paths they could continue to explore.

  He stopped at the red light on the corner of Fifth Avenue. A mannequin in the window of a lingerie shop down the street beckoned to him, her barely-there lacy pink bra and panties like a goddamn magnetic force calling out to him.

  “Fuck,” he seethed as the September sun beat down. These images were not helping the case one bit, nor was that strategically placed shop. As if it were there to tempt him. Taunt him. He needed to think of baseball players or bunnies, not of how enticing Michelle would look in that bra and panty set. Because of course she would. That was a given.

  Focus, Jack. Get your mind out of the gutter.

  He grappled at topics that were boner killers.

  The Yankees were playing tonight. They were down by a game and a half, which meant they’d need to win tonight and then again tomorrow. Jack computed batting averages and RBIs and statistical likelihoods of no-hitters, given that there had already been two so far this season. By the time he reached the next block, weaving around a bicycle deliveryman riding on the sidewalk, Jack was a man on a mission.

  Today’s mission? Politics. Henry had called this meeting with his brother-in-law, the city council candidate they were throwing gobs of support behind. Jack hated politics and was still outraged that Henry's brother-in-law was being attacked because Henry and Marquita owned BDSM clubs. Jack would be surprised if Paul Denkler had ever been to a BDSM club. He seemed to be straight-laced, and trying to do some good things for the city.

  He reached McCoy’s in mid-town, a favorite spot for late afternoon power lunches. A shot of air-conditioning blasted him as he opened the door. The cooler inside air was a relief. He joined Henry, Marquita, Paul Denkler and Casey at a plush red booth in the back, cloth linen napkins spread across laps, silver utensils gleaming.

  After orders were placed, Henry clasped his hands together. “We have a problem.”

  Jack nodded. “I figured as much. Unplanned lunch meetings usually stem from problems.”

  Paul cleared his throat and opened his tablet, clicking open a news article from a prominent NY blog site. Conroy Blasts Denkler for East Side Fire.

  Casey’s jaw twitched and her eyes burned. “Now you’re responsible for a fire?” she said, narrowing her eyes as she bent closer to Denkler to read the post.

  After a fire broke out last night on 88th and Madison in the basement of an apartment building that had been hosting a sex-themed bondage party, former litigator and city councilman candidate Jared Conroy called anew for closures of all the BDSM private clubs that have sprung up on the Upper East Side.

  While the small blaze was quickly snuffed by the local fire department, a few attendees suffered smoke inhalation. “This is a classic example of why we need to shut down these establishments. Not only do they bring an untoward element to our neighborhoods, they are clearly dangerous. I shudder at the thought of the type of damage the fire could have wrought had the fire department not been nearby,” Casey said, reading on, the frustration deep in her voice.

  Jack blew out a long stream of air after she’d finished.

  “What are we going to do about this? This is a whole new wrinkle. How are you going to finesse this?” Jack said to Henry.

  “We don’t have to finesse it,” he said. “Because the facts are wrong. This isn’t one of our clubs.”

  Casey’s eyes lit up. “This is perfect. This shows exactly why it’s better to have regulated clubs run in a reputable fashion.”

  Jack beamed at his sister. “Look at you. Already toeing the party line.”

  Denkler laughed. “We’ll send her to Nevada next. Talk up keeping prostitution legal.”

  “Well,” Casey said insistently as she turned to Henry, “that’s the point, right? You don’t have any problems at your club like this. You have regular inspections. You adhere to the fire code. You have a liquor license. You follow laws.”

  “Exactly,” Henry said with a nod, and Marquita dropped a hand over his, a look of pride on her face as her husband spoke. “We afford a safe place for these activities. If the regulated clubs are shut down, there will be more incidents like this.”

  “The question is, how hard do you want to hit this message?” Jack asked, turning to Denkler. “How bad is this killing you in the polls?”

  “It’s pretty bad. No one wants to hear about schools and safe streets anymore, now that Conroy has made everyone think the clubs are bringing down the neighborhood,” Denkler admitted, his voice that of a man nearing the end of his rope, as he pushed a hand through his hair. He seemed like a classic heart-of-gold guy. He’d clearly gotten involved in politics because he wanted to make a change for the better, but his platform had been turned upside down by a bastard who went for the jugular.

  “You need to get preemptive,” Jack said firmly, reflecting back on his days with the army. “You don’t let the enemy walk all over you. You have to understand the enemy. Understand the problem. Act on it.”

  Denkler nodded enthusiastically. “We’ve tried refocusing back to the core message, but my PR manager doesn’t think that will work until we explain openly why we’re not opposed to the clubs, like Conroy is. He thinks we need to talk about why the neighborhood doesn’t need a Times Square style sweep of the clubs. Come at it from an education point of view.”

  Henry jumped in. “We should be more vocal in our support too. I think we need to talk more to the press about why Eden and the clubs support Paul, and not simply because he’s my lovely wife’s brother,” he said, squeezing his wife’s hand.

  “And by extension, why Joy Delivered does too?” Casey asked.

  Henry nodded.

  Jack sighed, but didn’t say no. “I don’t know, guys. A lot of people from all walks of life and political persuasions like a little assistance in the bedroom. I don’t want to be a company that takes sides.”

  “We don’t have to take sides,” Casey said, piping in. “We just have to explain the facts.”

  “We’re backing Paul. We’re already taking sides,” he pointed out.

  “But the side we’re on is the side we’re already on. We promote pleasure. That’s our side,” she said insistently. “Besides, it’s okay for us to take sides. We sell sex products. We’re not teachers. We’re not cops. We want consenting adults to be free to do what they want so long as they’re safe. And no one runs a safer club than Henry. Safe for the people who go, but also for those who don’t go.”

  Paul’s eyes lit up, and he snapped a finger. “Exactly.”

  Jack leaned back in his chair as the waitress brought over iced teas and waters. “There’s your slogan. Safe for those who go, and those who don’t.”

  The politician nodded and smiled broadly, as if all the problems had been solved. “That is indeed a great slogan.”

  Jack gestured to his sister. “She needs to be more involved. She’s the idea woman. She’d be a great strategist on this.”

  Casey smiled, and waved a hand as if to say this was all nothing.

  “You have great ideas,” Paul said.

  “She does,” Jack added.

  The problem hadn’t been solved though. Jack knew why Denkler was swimming upstream. His opponent fought dirty, but he didn’t know how to get muddy. Denkler was a good guy, but he was too good.

  “Listen,” Jack began, his tone commanding, the same one he’d used when he talked to his men back in Europe on how to proceed. “I get that politics is a battleground, and you’re losing right now, Paul. You’ve got a sneaky opponent who knows how to twist some serious shit.” He parked his elbows on the table. “But you need to get on the offensive. You’re standing here like a goddamn punching bag, taking his blows. You need to get a handle on what you’re up against. Why do you not have some dirt on Conroy?”

  “We’ve been looking into him,” Paul said, but the red flush on his cheeks made it clear they’d found nothing.

  “Yeah?” Jack raised an eyebrow in question. “What have you found?”

  “We’re still looking.”

  Jack nodded. Held up a hand. “You need to run some serious counterintelligence on him. Everyone has skeletons in the closet. Every single person has something they don’t want the opposition to know. My job in the military was to find that out. Everything was findable. Everything was obtainable. You need to get your intelligence men working harder, and figure out what Conroy has in his closet so you can fight this battle.”

  Paul gulped and nodded, and Jack couldn’t deny it felt good to give some kind of order again.

  * * *

  Jack walked back to the office with his sister, unknotting his tie on the way.

  “I hate having to tell a good guy like that to dig up dirt,” he muttered, as he dropped his shades over his eyes to block out the afternoon sun.

  “I bet I could find something on Conroy,” Casey mused, and Jack shot his baby sister an inquisitive look.

  “I know I could. Since when are you a spy?”

  “I grew up with you. I learned how to find things out,” she said with an impish grin as they walked past a group of construction workers whose heads all turned to stare at his sister. Instinct kicked in, and he turned to the crew, his eyes flared with anger. That was enough for them to focus on their jobs.

  “Look at you. Running a little espionage.”

  “I just don’t want someone messing with our business. I love Joy Delivered. I’ll fight for it,” she said as they walked past a Duane Reade on the corner, bustling with mid-day shoppers. What would he fight for? He’d fight for this company, and he did every day, especially now, with the Conroy onslaught. He’d fight for his sister, of course. But beyond that? What did he love madly? He’d like to know because he hadn’t loved his fiancée enough. That had been the big fucking problem.

  “Speaking of fighting, you were ornery at lunch. Was it only over the campaign?” she asked, stopping in her tracks when they reached the red light at Madison. She parked her hands on her hips and stared at him, her blue eyes refusing to let him get away with anything. She’d always been like this. Firm, strong, passionate. Take no prisoners. This was one of the reasons he was so close with his sister—she was fiery and full of emotion, and yet their parents were so . . . dispassionate. They rarely held hands with each other, and hardly ever kissed, even a peck on the cheek. That lack of affection had extended far and wide. Jack could remember riding his bike in the summers as a kid, then running inside, sweaty, but wanting to give his mom a hug. She’d always refuse, saying it was too hot for hugging. That was her modus operandi. There was often a distance with her, as if she didn’t want to get too close.

  Maybe that was his problem. Maybe he’d inherited it like a congenital disease—a lack of the ability to love. If he couldn’t love Aubrey, what the hell was wrong with him? That’s what he’d really like to figure out. He bet Michelle would know. He was sure Michelle would have all the answers as to what ailed him.

  But it wasn’t as if he could ask her those questions. Not now. Not for so many reasons.

  “I just saw the shrink,” he said in answer to the ornery question.

  “Ah. Then all that talking has got you pissed off.”

  “Hardly any talking from me. More like the questions she asked.”

  “So how is it going?”

  He heaved a sigh as the light changed, and the cars squealed to their stops at the red. Casey started to walk, but a cab careened by, not bothering to stop. Grabbing her quickly at the waist, he tugged her back.

  “Careful,” he said, his heart galloping.

  She looked up at him with wide, fearful eyes. “They’re crazy here.”

  “Everyone’s crazy. Just watch out, Case.”

  “Anyway, so how is Dr. Milo?”

  “Here’s the thing,” he said in a clipped voice. While his sister didn’t need to know he was sleeping with his almost-shrink, he didn’t like lying to her. He could skirt the details. “It didn’t work out with her so I’m seeing someone else. A few floors down.”

  “Oh,” she said, sounding surprised. “Is the new one good?”

  He shrugged.

  “Jack,” she said, like a plea.

  “I’m trying, but I don’t know that anything is going to make a difference. It happened. I said what I said to Aubrey and she’s dead, and there’s nothing that I can ever say or do to unwind things.”

  She grabbed his shirt collar and shot him a rueful look. “Don’t say that. Besides, you need to work on this. You need to fix your head. We have a business to run and a big charity event coming up soon,” she said, her words a reminder of the gala they were supporting to fund breast cancer research. “I got a call from a reporter at the New York Press. She does lifestyle pieces, and she wants to do one on you, a year later.”

  Jack rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to do a piece on me a year later.”

  “I know. But it would be good for business. The press loves you. And this isn’t Page Six. New York Press does classy pieces. I think it would be good for business, and good for you. You're the Soldier-Turned-Sex-Toy-Mogul, and one of NYC's most eligible bachelors, so get your butt in gear and stop all this self-loathing.”

  “I don’t hate myself,” he said, then tapped his breastbone as they neared their office building. “Something in here doesn’t work properly. No shrink is ever going fix it.”

  Besides, everyone was better off if he didn’t try again. If he didn’t get close to anyone, he wouldn’t have the power to wound her. If he didn’t love a woman, he would never hurt that woman by breaking her heart.

  She rolled her eyes. “You are going to fix yourself. Because it’s time to move on.”

  His phone buzzed with a text from Michelle.

  M: I’m going shopping right now.

  J: For?

  He tucked his phone away, but was eager for her answer.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Disguises

  She was surrounded by fake schlongs.

  “Explain this to me,” her friend said in her crisp, British accent. “How large does a vagina need to be to accommodate this?” Sutton’s eyes sparkled as she held a monster-sized vibrator that might have been as long as her arm.

  “You need a jumbo size vagina for that,” Michelle answered, tapping a fingernail against the fleshy dildo that could likely double as a truck.

  Sutton set the toy that neither woman would be buying back on its shelf. “Seriously, I do not want to feel as if I’m fucking a truck when Reeve is away on shoots,” Sutton said. She had freely admitted to spending more time with her toys while her actor husband was shooting a new movie in Canada. “Anyway, we’re not here for me. We’re here for you.”

  They wandered away from the alien-size dildos at Eden on the Upper East Side to a classier section of the still-quite-classy shop. Michelle had scanned the sidewalk up and down before they’d entered the store, then had been careful to survey the shop itself to make sure the coast was clear. Sure, a patient could walk in at any given moment, but she was taking her chances anyway because she didn’t want to wait for an online delivery.

  A flurry of tingles rushed down Michelle’s spine as she spotted The One. Jack hadn’t used that toy on her, but still, just knowing that he’d played a role in its creation excited her. Then again, most things he did thrilled her. Their first two weeks together had been nothing short of spectacular. It was everything he’d promised when he’d made his most unusual proposition. Nights of bliss. Nights of pleasure. Nights with him were that and only that. They’d laughed, and teased, and flirted, and then they’d fucked. Every time, she’d felt as if he were fucking the hurt and the longing away. The ache inside of her from the last several unwanted years was being erased. Jack Sullivan was a crash course in learning to heal.

  She had something in mind for him. He’d had a busy week, so she wanted to surprise him with a treat. She and Sutton perused a section of the store with smaller toys.