“You’re so gorgeous. So stunning. I couldn’t stop thinking of you today.”

  “What were you thinking?” she asked, her breath shallow as his hands moved down to her legs, mapping her thighs, both soft and strong.

  “Everything. How much I love being with you. How beautiful you are. How much I’m looking forward to taking you to the symphony. Your ass. Your tits. Your belly. Your lips. How much I missed you, even though I knew I’d see you soon,” he whispered, as he dropped down to his knees. “I find myself looking forward to the time with you and then missing you when you’re not here.”

  She laughed softly. “You are dirty, and you are sophisticated at the same time. I’ve never known a man to say tits and ass and symphony in the same sentence,” she said, and then he heard a sharp intake of breath as he pressed a kiss to her new underwear. He could smell her through the fabric, even through the layers. He wanted to bury his face in her, his lips, his tongue, his cock. He wanted to inhale her scent, to taste her arousal, to feel her flood his tongue. He kissed her harder through her panties, and in seconds her hands were in his hair, gripping strands. Her legs shook. Her nails cut into his skull. He groaned as he kissed her panties a final time, biting her gently through the material, drawing out a sharp gasp from her. Somehow he found the strength to stand up. He pressed his hands against the dressing room wall, caging her in. “Obviously, I’m getting these for you.”

  “Obviously.”

  “You’re killing me,” he said, as he looped a finger into the waistband, tracing his fingertips across her. “You’re fucking killing me, and I love it.”

  “Me too,” she said, her voice feathery and barely there. But he heard every sound in it. The sound of her desire that matched his.

  “You’ve become a habit,” he said as he moved to her neck, leaving a soft kiss against the hollow of her throat. He could feel her heart beating fast under her skin. As fast as his. “One I don’t want to break.”

  “I don’t want to either,” she said, and he pulled back to look her in the eyes. They were vulnerable, so open to him, like the rest of her. It was so hard for him to hold back. So hard to protect her from him when he wanted her this much. He refocused on the sex. The part of them that was undeniable.

  He turned her around so she was looking in the mirror, then looped his arm around her belly, and dipped his hand inside her panties. Her chest rose and fell and her eyes went hazy. “You have no idea how much I want to fuck you with my fingers right now,” he said roughly in her ear, nibbling on her earlobe with his teeth as he glided his fingers across her wet pussy. “I want to slide my fingers inside you and watch your reflection as you come in this dressing room.”

  She met his gaze in the mirror, her lips parting on a muffled moan.

  Then he stopped, removing his hand from her panties, a task that felt monumental given the way his dick was dying to break free. “But I want to wait. I want to see you at Lincoln Center in a fancy dress, knowing you have on this underwear, and I want to be tortured all night being next to you, thinking about how much I want to be making you come, so by the time I finally do it will be the only thing either of us wants in the world.”

  “It’s all I want now already,” she said.

  He turned her around and devoured her lips, as he unhooked her bra, slid off the peach panties, and then told her he’d meet her at the front of the store.

  He left the dressing room, but before the door closed, he pushed it open wider. “Oh, and Michelle?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t touch yourself right now. I know you want to, but just don’t.”

  She nodded. “I won’t.”

  “Don’t when you go home to change either,” he told her, his voice firm. “Promise me you won’t.”

  “I won’t.”

  “And don’t when you put on the gift I left for you with your doorman.”

  Her eyes widened. “You left a gift for me?”

  “Yes. Wear it tonight.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Misbehave

  The car waited at the curb outside her building.

  In a crisp black suit and a matching cap, the driver held open the door. She slid into the backseat alone. The car was cool, the air-conditioning whirring softly. She needed the chill because of the warm September evening, and because she was sure she’d be burning up soon enough. Good thing she was meeting Jack at Lincoln Center. If he were in the car with her right now, she’d surely be pushing the partition button, rolling it up, and causing all sorts of trouble.

  As delicious as that sounded, she wanted to arrive calm and still put together, rather than already in a fevered frenzy. Especially given what she was wearing. Under her cranberry-red dress, a silky number that hugged her curves, she wore the peach lingerie and Jack’s gift.

  When she’d opened the pretty black shopping bag at her apartment she wasn’t surprised to find a white box with the silver J embossed on it. Still, the possibilities of what it might be thrilled her. She’d held the bag close in the elevator, holding onto her naughty secret, then tighter still as she walked down her hall until she reached 7E, where she lived. Once inside, she’d opened it with eager fingers, so damn curious and admittedly, already turned on, to see what he’d given her.

  After showering, blow-drying her hair, and applying make-up, she’d put on the gift underneath her panties.

  She’d never felt so sexy in her life, knowing he wanted her to wear it on their date.

  Now, anticipation threaded through her, like a plume of smoke from a genie’s lamp. A promise of wishes coming true. Of pleasure enveloping her. The driver pulled up at Lincoln Center and her gaze landed on the gorgeous fountain in the middle of the plaza, water shooting up in arcs, lit up like fireworks as the sprays cascaded. She’d been here many times for shows and events, but the fountain always awed her with its beauty.

  The driver opened her door, and she grabbed her clutch purse, then she thanked him before he drove off. She gathered a bit of fabric from the dress in her hand so she could walk up the steps more easily, even as the toy rubbed against her from inside her panties. Her Louboutins clicked against the stones as she joined the sea of art lovers—men in tuxes and suits, women in formal dresses and gowns, milling about on a warm evening, waiting to see the ballet, to watch a play, to listen to the New York Philharmonic play a Brahms symphony.

  She scanned the crowds for Jack, hunting out his dark hair, his chiseled jawline, his dark blue eyes, and his strong body. She’d know him anywhere, the feel of him, the shape of him, the cut of his shoulders, the trim lines of his waist. How his suits and shirts and pants hung on him so well. But he was nowhere to be seen. She turned in a circle, laughing to herself because her twirl was timed to a string quartet playing several feet away. An older couple ambled past her, the woman with her hand clasped around the man’s forearm. Across the plaza, couples and families made their way into the Vivian Beaumont Theater to see a Sondheim revival. On the other side of the fountain, a young woman in a form-fitting dress sat with a man in a suit who was making her laugh.

  Michelle looked once more for Jack, checking her watch. He said to meet her at 7:50 at the fountain, and it was 7:51. Jack was an on-time kind of guy. Most military, active or not, were pretty damn punctual, so she was surprised.

  Then her breath hitched, and she clasped her hands over her belly, as if that would somehow hide her reaction. She did her best to stay still even as the silent vibrations sped up ever so briefly between her legs. Holy hell, this wearable butterfly was stronger than she’d expected.

  As quickly as it started, the sensation stopped, fading away in an instant.

  Michelle surveyed the plaza again, making a quick lap around the fountain, but Jack was still not in sight. She wanted to see him and wanted him to know that one quick burst of pleasure from the remote control was already working, ratcheting up her longing for him. But she could only wait until he appeared or did it again. She walked through the crowds to the middle of the plaza, weaving through the throngs of people when the rattling began anew. She nearly stopped in her tracks because the pleasure was so intense, the quick hit of buzzing on her most sensitive spot from the butterfly inside her panties.

  A flurry of tingles ignited in her belly, spreading rapidly through her chest.

  The buzzing grew stronger, and the intensity of the vibration was centered completely on her clitoris. She drew another sharp, silent breath, swallowed and turned around, coming face to face with a wickedly grinning Jack Sullivan. The man was beautiful—so stunning in a tailored suit that fit him like a dream, a crisp white shirt, and a thin black tie that she wanted to grab, and use to tug him close to her. But she didn’t dare move. He was a man who cherished control, and since he did so many amazing things to her with it, she’d let him keep having it. That was the bargain, and it was a fair trade, because she trusted him with her pleasure. He loved to give it, but he also loved to control it. She could handle her half of that deal.

  He held up his right hand, pressed on something with his thumb and flashed a satisfied smile. As soon as he hit the device in his hand, the buzzing stopped. She missed it; she wanted to grab hold of the remote, and bring that feeling back before it escaped her.

  “I’m so sorry to have made you wait,” he murmured, dusting her cheek with his lips. He barely left an imprint; it was the softest, faintest kiss he’d ever given her and it made her crave so much more. It was a teaser kiss, a hint of what was to come.

  “I didn’t mind waiting,” she said, raising an eyebrow, letting him know she could play along.

  “Good. The philharmonic is going to start soon, but they have this great string quartet that plays rock songs in the plaza before the symphony begins. Dance with me.”

  “Of course,” she said, placing her hands on his shoulders as he brought her in close. His right hand was curled in a fist over her shoulder. The string quartet began playing “We Are Young” by Fun, and the upbeat anthem was in stark contrast to how she felt inside—like a torch-song was being sung by her body. A song of longing.

  “You look stunning. Are you wearing the peach panties?”

  “Yes.

  “Anything else?”

  “What do you think?” she countered, her blood still racing with the anticipation of when he’d hit the remote again and send a fresh rush of hot, fast vibration between her legs. He gave new meaning to the term “having the keys to her body.”

  “What do you think about this September weather we’re having?” he asked, and it began again. The humming was faint this time. A low pulse, a flickering against her, like a teasing promise.

  The pop song grew louder, nearing the chorus. She was grateful for the background noise. Perhaps it masked all she felt in her body. “It is quite hot for late September,” she said, and they weren’t talking about the weather.

  “Fall is one of my favorite times of year in Manhattan,” he said, in a casual, offhand voice, as if he were musing on the vagaries of the sun and moon and stars.

  “Me too,” she said, keeping her voice as steady as she possibly could, even as the pressure increased. She hadn’t realized he’d turned it up, so subtle was his touch against the tiny remote in his hand.

  “And fall colors? The red, and gold and oranges,” he said, as he spun her in a circle, holding only her right hand. She felt terribly vulnerable, as if the world around her, the fancy crowds, the rich patrons, and the glitterati of Manhattan knew what he was doing to her. But they couldn’t, could they? She kept her face stony even as she wanted to unleash a guttural moan of primal pleasure. “They’ll be coming soon,” he added, returning her to his arms.

  “Will they?” she asked in a ragged voice. Her bones felt liquid. Her body was electric as the vibrator thrummed against her wet, hot center. She wasn’t far off now. She was dying to throw her arms around him, to rub up against him, to yank him into a dark corner and let him have his way completely.

  “Or maybe they won’t. Maybe they’ll come later,” he said, a devilish glint in his eyes, as he pressed down in his hand.

  The vibrations stopped, and she nearly stumbled into him. Michelle wanted to curse him. She’d been so close. She was hovering now, but she wasn’t going over the edge.

  She grabbed his jacket. “You cruel bastard,” she said, through narrowed eyes. She didn’t mean it as an insult.

  He reached for her hand, threaded his fingers through hers, and guided her inside Avery Fisher Hall, the bells inside sounding that it was time for audience to find their seats.

  “Did you enjoy ‘We are Young’?” Jack asked, as he led her to the balcony seats on the right side of the expansive auditorium. The hall was a rich, warm brown with soft lights that cast an inviting feel across the seats, almost creating an afternoon glow. What sounded like Mozart piped overhead as patrons took their places.

  “I did. Very clever to play pop songs like that.”

  As she sat down, Jack planted a kiss on her cheek. “I’m terribly cruel, I know,” he whispered, addressing her earlier comment.

  “You are the worst.”

  “You’re not going to leave me, are you?” he said, flashing his winning smile.

  Eventually, she wanted to say. Isn’t that the plan after thirty nights? To leave each other? Instead, she kept up the game. “Not yet.”

  His expression turned serious as he ran his finger down her cheek, as if he was unable to resist touching her. “By the way, I wanted to let you know you were mentioned on Page Six with me,” he said, and she shot him a curious look. He dug his phone from his pocket and showed her an item from the tabloid, citing her by name. She read it, taking her time as she let the commentary about their “intimate pleasures” sink in. It was oddly surreal, and a bit disconnected. But then, that made perfect sense—she was being written about without being truly known.

  “Wow. I think the only other time I’ve been in the papers is when I attended the Tonys with my brother a few years ago,” she said, still a bit shell-shocked to be thrust into the limelight like this.

  “I’m sorry. I hate that they made some sort of insinuation,” he said, seeming contrite.

  She flashed back to her conversation at her consulting group with Carla, who’d been spotted seeing It’s Raining Men, then to her own comments about having a life. “Look, it’s not as if we were caught on-camera fucking,” Michelle said in a whisper.

  He laughed. “And there were plenty of chances to catch that.”

  “We just need to be careful,” she added. She wanted to believe that she was allowed to have a life, to date, to even be seen out and about with a man in the public eye. She was a human being. She couldn’t live in a bubble, and it made no sense to pretend she had no life. “I’m not a nun. I’m simply a shrink. It’s fine. I’m allowed to date. Besides, we aren’t a secret. Our affair might be private, but we were never sneaking around. We’ve always gone to dinner and to bars and for walks. We’re adults, living in Manhattan. Remember the first night we had dinner?”

  “Yes.”

  “A picture showed up on Twitter a few days later. My friend Sutton noticed it.”

  “When you said I had fans?”

  “Yes. I guess the fact is there are a lot of women in this city who want to fuck you, Jack Sullivan,” she said with a wink, tugging on his tie and pulling him closer.

  “But there’s only one who is. And there’s only one I want to fuck,” he said, his voice low and husky in her ear.

  “Good. I like it that way.”

  “That’s the only way for me,” he said, then pulled back to look her in the eyes. “Are you sure it doesn’t bother you?” he asked, serious once more.

  She shrugged. “It’s not that bad a piece. We were only at dinner, and the rest is the columnist making a joke. So truly, I can’t let it get to me.” If she stopped buying cereal at Trader Joe’s, or going out to dinner, or skipping the theater, she’d be less human. And to do her job—which was her passion, her love, her soul—she needed and wanted to be fully involved in the world around her. To be a part of it. To live. To love. To feel.

  He smiled and fingered a strand of her hair. “Do you have any idea how nice it is to be involved with a shrink? You don’t overreact to things.”

  She laughed. “I still have emotions, Jack. Being a psychologist doesn’t mean I’m devoid of them, or that I can manage them properly all the time. Sometimes, I can misbehave horribly.”

  Just then the lights flashed, and the orchestra took the stage, the virtuoso musicians settling into their chairs, ready to launch into Brahms Fourth Symphony.

  “I can misbehave too,” he said, mischief skipping across his blue eyes.

  She drew a sharp breath, expecting him to brandish his remote and send pleasure shooting straight into her core.

  But he didn’t. Instead, he took her hand, and turned his attention to the stage to watch, and listen. She enjoyed the music too, feeling it wrap its way around her, slink into her mind and body as the sound of the flutes soared through the cavernous hall. But she was waiting, too, tense, hoping to feel that pleasure again.

  As the violinists picked up their bows, her eyes widened, and she gripped the arm of her chair. He’d turned it back on, and he’d turned it to high. She held her breath as she let herself adjust to the intensity of the vibrations between her legs, but soon he lowered the pressure, letting it buzz against her at the lowest level, a faint but still-present sensation, as if he were gently rubbing his fingertip against her clit. Like they were lying on her couch, watching a movie, and he’d decided to dip a hand inside her panties and absently stroke her while staring at the screen.

  That was how it felt. Enough pleasure to send her body into a heightened awareness, a craving for more. But not enough to satiate her. Not enough at all. She wanted more, and as the bassoons joined in she was about to beg for it, to tap him on the shoulder and ask him to turn it up and get her all the way off. But this man could read her perfectly. He glanced over, and she was sure he was taking in her expression as she tried valiantly to not show the world that she wanted him to make her come in her panties at Avery Fisher Hall.