Scorched

By Mary Nova

Nicoletta Clark is young and gorgeous, an up-and-coming photographer making her mark in the art world. To top it all off she meets Zavier, a sexy billionaire. Everything seems to be going her way.

But no one has it all, no matter how it seems.

Zavier Soto is a billionaire Internet entrepreneur and he’s a catch. In fact, he’s been caught many times - by all the wrong women. Determined to protect his heart, he plays the field with a love ‘em and leave ‘em recklessness; when the passion cools, so does he. When he meets Nicoletta, he’s drawn to her beauty and raw sexuality. Zavier wants her, badly, and pursues Nico, confident he’ll get what he wants...he always does.

But Zavier vastly underestimates Nicoletta.

Nicoletta Clark isn’t anyone’s usable toy. Despite her wild attraction to the steamy stranger, she’s had romantic troubles of her own, having picked her share of Mr. Wrongs. She’s done with the scorching-hot bad boys; the cheaters, and money-takers. She’s looking for a love that will last.

How can Nicoletta and Zavier find common ground? How can they find a compromise when he wants to keep it casual, refusing to open his heart, and she refuses to settle, wanting something real?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Nova
• Release date: Jun 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311243300

Mary Nova

Welcome to Mary Nova's Author page!MARY NOVA writes in a variety of genres.Romance: The Scorched Series.Women's Lit: Polly Ticks.Fantasy: The Bag: Believe. It wants to belong to you...Mary is a native Mid-Westerner, currently ensconced in Rochester, MN. She’s a die-hard, bleed-purple Vikings fan, and spends the untenable Minnesota winters watching football and playing Texas Hold ‘em...when she’s not writing.​But what really roots Mary in Minnesota are friends, family, and lively conversations with lots of laughter and a nice glass of wine.​Mary invites you to write her at [e-mail] because it’s you, whether a one-time-reader or a superfan, who keeps her going. It also warms her frigid winters!

Book preview

Other novels by

Mary Nova

Keep in touch and see what’s COMING SOON:

https://www.instagram.com/authormarynova/

https://www.facebook.com/marynova.author/

https://twitter.com/marynova17

Scorched is a work of fiction.  Names, character, places, products, corporations, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. 

All rights reserved.  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author and/or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property.  

This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please return to your favorite ebook retailer to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

Copyright 2013 by Mary Nova

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

Cover design: Mary Nova

This first Nicoletta Clark novel is dedicated to family and friends who support my odd choices, and my writing, even though some have been forbidden to read such racy writing from their loved one. Thank you for your blind support.

I must acknowledge two people individually. Gracias to Martha Frost for help with the Spanish translation. Any mistakes are mine. Thank you to Betty Gard for her suggestions, encouragement, and expertise. Finally, thanks to my readers and enthusiastic believers.

Scorched

CHAPTER ONE

I’m a professional photographer. My work is displayed in galleries, for God’s sake. Get it together, Nicoletta. I refocus the lens of the camera, zooming in on my subject.

Katy’s dressed exquisitely, wearing a cream-colored lace gown, which accentuates her skin tone. Her black hair is swept up on the sides, curls cascading down her back. On top of her head, she wears a small rhinestone-encrusted tiara.

Snap. Snap. Snap. Nope.

I set down my favorite DSLR camera and tilt my head. Something isn’t working and it has nothing to do with the Nikon.

Am I doing something wrong? Katy asks anxiously.

I smile and reassure her.

No, chica. You’re perfect. Relax a minute.

I don’t usually shoot portraits, but that’s exactly what I’m trying to do, and I’m struggling. I study Katy, trying to put my finger on it, but it has nothing to do with her, either. She’s exquisite.

I’m taking the portrait for her quinceañera, the traditional Latin celebration of a girl’s fifteenth birthday. And I’m blowing it. The pictures are flat despite the dewy glow of the young beauty before me. I walk to the window, berating myself. Get it together, Nic.

The girl’s mother joins me at the window, her face pinched with apprehension.

¿Todo bien?,she asks if everything is all right.

I speak Spanish fluently, thanks to the teachings of a childhood friend. The friend moved away, but the beauty of the language stayed with me, and I continued studying it through high school and college.

Sí, sí. Todo bien. Tu hija es hermosa, I say. Yes, yes. Everything is good. Your daughter is beautiful.

She turns to beam at her daughter. Sí.

She leaves me to join her daughter, fussing with the lace gown.

I watch them with fondness. I want to make these pictures perfect for them, and it’s that added pressure that has me stymied. My eyes blur as my thoughts turn inward, searching desperately for inspiration.

I turn back to the window, staring, until my glazed eyes focus on the weedy field beyond the lawn. Seeing the weeds, I turn to the girl excitedly, smiling hugely.

We’re going outside!

My camera fires rapidly, whirring as I hold down the shutter button. Katy smiles brilliantly as she walks, twirls, and skips through a large field.

It’s early summer in Minnesota and the field is filled with dandelions in their fluffy white seeding stage. The fragile little, puffballs complement the delicate lace of the cream gown perfectly. At times, the puffballs and lace mesh perfectly and it’s hard to tell where the gown ends and the field begins, giving Katy an ethereal quality.

As Katy moves through the field disturbing the seedlings, they float around her in breezy white flecks. She tilts her head and laughs, her cheeks softly flushed.

I gasp at her beauty and shoot.

I’m in my element now, my confidence back. Directing Katy, I instruct her to whirl so the skirt of her gown bells, accentuating her narrow waist. Click, click, click.

I pick a fluffy dandelion and hand it to Katy, asking her to work with the prop while I get some close-ups. She puts it to her cheek, near her lips, beside her eye. Click, click, click. She blows on it, and I catch the delicate flecks of white, floating off the stem into the breeze beside her pursed lips.

A few yellow dandelions pepper the field for contrast and we exchange the fluffy-white dandelion for a yellow one. Click, click, click.

I ask Katy to sit amongst the weeds and I arrange her skirt to my satisfaction. I walk fully around her, telling her to turn only her face to the camera as I move full-circle. Click, click, click.

As the afternoon sun fades, I’ve gotten everything I need. I help Katy to her feet, and stow my camera. Impulsively, I kiss her cheek.

Behind Katy, her mother is beaming.

Bueno! she says.

I return to my downtown loft tired, but satisfied. I’ve left on the kitchen rope lights, creating a warm glow between the top of the cabinets and the ceiling, and even though it’s getting dark outside the apartment is welcoming. I take off my boots and pad in stocking feet across the hardwood floor to the kitchen, dropping my equipment bag by the computer.

I pour Riesling into a black-stemmed wine glass. Taking a drink of the sweet white wine, I savor it on my tongue as I wander to the bank of windows.

I plop myself on the window seat, and look out at the city. Lights are on everywhere, and traffic moves continuously below me. Inside the apartment, however, it’s completely silent.

The silence is enveloping, and before it stifles me with its oppressive emptiness, I shove open a window and look at the Mississippi River beyond the busy avenue. I hear traffic, and voices carried on a light breeze. I let out a deep breath unaware that I’d been holding it.

Lately, my apartment hasn’t been as comforting as usual, which is disappointing, because I worked hard decorating it, making it my haven.

The cream couches wrap around a marble fireplace, which holds a collection of elephants. The walls are warm brownish-red, gauzy curtains matching the walls precisely to create a monochromatic space. The recessed lights in the trey ceiling are dimmed low creating a glow more than actual light, reflecting off the maple wood floors.

It’s all meant to be comforting, and inviting. And it is, but there’s no one here to enjoy it but me.

I purposely turn my thoughts to other matters. Tomorrow I have one more portrait, and then I can return to my regular work. Portraits are not my vocation, but I was happy to do the quinceañera photos because Katy’s mom is a friend of my mother’s.

I’m not as thrilled about tomorrow’s job. I’m not excited to take a photo of some stuffy, self-satisfied billionaire, but I’ve been tapped by my Development Of The Arts charity to snap his portrait. He funded our photographic program, and he’s to be honored at a gallery event at the end of the week.

I get up and top off my glass of wine, taking it to the computer. I debate Googling tomorrow’s subject to see what I’ll be working with, but decide to get going on today’s photos instead. I’m excited to see the shots I took.

I take my digital camera out and hook it up, downloading the pictures to my software program. I smile with glee.

Damn, I’m good.

Katy smiles gloriously amid the dandelions. Her cheeks are flushed and her chocolate brown eyes sparkle. Her long, black hair shimmers in stark relief against the lacy gown and downy weeds. In picture after picture, she dazzles. She turns this way and that, and I caught her from every angle with deft perfection.

I get to work on the few photos that need retouching, and I play with the background contrast in others to give the family plenty of shots from which to choose. I outdid myself. They are going to have a very tough time deciding.

Halfway through my photo editing I get up to close the window against a slight chill and the unwelcome hush returns to my loft.

I pass the evening enjoyably enough, but somewhere in the depths of me, I feel something building. I’m not even sure what it is. Melancholy? No, that sounds so dramatic. Loneliness, I guess, though I’m loath to admit it. The word seems so pitiful.

But, there it is. My last boyfriend was many months ago, and after his dismal treatment of me, I thought I was fine being alone.

Lonely. Geez, 26 years old and already feeling like a sorry old spinster.

I put on some music while I finish the last of my project. Admittedly, the music I choose leans toward the manically cheerful. I grin at myself. That’s the spirit!

I finish work and shut everything off, walking through the bedroom to the master bath. I strip down, releasing my hair from its messy bun, letting the long, wavy-blonde locks fall free, tickling the length of my back.

After washing up, I get into bed naked, the soft, satiny sheets sliding across my bare skin. The caress is delicious, even though it’s just fabric. I sigh with the sensation and drift to sleep.

I wake and glance at the bedside clock. Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap! I bolt out of bed and hustle into the bathroom. No time for a shower, so I pump a couple spritzes of jasmine perfume in the air, and sashay through it. I wash my face, and swish on a coat of mascara and some tinted lip balm.

No time for my hair either. I twist it up into a knot and call it styled. I grab several things out of the closet, tossing them on the bed. I decide on a dove-gray fitted shirt and black pants. Can’t go wrong with gray and black.

I stuff my bare feet into black flats and high tail it to the home studio. As I flick on the studio lights I hear a knock at the door, and I rush to open it with a welcoming smile.

My breath catches in a silent gasp. This is not a stuffy old man. This guy is freaking gorgeous. My photographer eyes are already snapping away, and I almost hear the whirring of a camera as I capture him possessively.

His skin is tawny brown, his black hair thick and wavy, dark-brown eyes with startling flecks of gold, strong jaw. I’m taking delicious stock of this man as he waits patiently in my doorway.

He raises an eyebrow and smiles.

Oh, my God. What a smile, his mouth, his lips. I’m captivated momentarily, until I jolt myself. For God’s sake, invite the man in!

Hi, come on in. I stand aside and gesture. I’m Nicoletta. Nicoletta Clark, but you can call me Nic.

No chance, he says.

Excuse me?

I would never call you that. He regards me intently and my stomach flips. Nico, maybe, he says, pronouncing it Neeko, But never Nic.

Nico. No one has ever called me that, I murmur.

He stands absolutely still, staring at me with an intensity that makes me think he’s deciding something about me.

I feel so female in his gaze. My body reacts with an aching twinge between my legs. I’m lightly panting, and it’s not from running around the apartment. He’s unnerving me, which I’m wholly unused to. I’m usually quite self-assured, yet something about him, besides his obvious beauty, causes my heart to pound. We face each other, completely still for a moment.

In that suspended moment I’m aware that something special is happening, maybe something life-changing. Thrill scampers through my veins.

I’m Zavier Soto, he says.

Whatever he was thinking, he’s decided. He extends his hand and I brace myself. Somehow I know that when I touch this man, there’ll be a physical response. I grasp his hand and shake it briefly, feeling heat crackle through my body.

I knew it. I wonder if he felt that? I glance at his face. Maybe it’s my imagination, but he seems slightly less composed than he was a moment ago.

The studio is this way, I say, leading him through the living room.

You have a beautiful home.

Thank you.

He stops at a wall featuring some of my newest work. They’re mostly small children, alone, in a setting amongst nature. Some are in full color, while others are black-and-white. It’s the ‘One With Nature’ series I’m working on currently.

Are these yours? he asks.

I nod.

You aren’t a portrait photographer, are you?

Not really, but you’re in good hands.

His lip twitches, but he doesn’t make a comment. I’m grateful for his discretion. He could’ve made a cheap remark at my unfortunate phrasing. Instead he says, Is this more in keeping with what you do as an artist?

Yes. These are part of a series I’m working on for a gallery. I’ve sold a few things, and I’m hoping to build on that success.

If this is an example of your work, I think your chances are excellent.

Thank you.

He contemplates the photos, and I watch his eyes thoroughly inspect my work. There’s something deeply personal about his perusal, as if he’s inspecting me. His golden-chocolate gaze finally turns to me. It’s disconcerting how he looks at me, as if he’s seen me fully stripped and naked. His eyes pierce me, probing deeply.

The studio’s here, I say, turning the corner to escape his probing.

He lingers with my photos another minute, and I have a chance to compose myself. When he enters the studio I guide him in front of the lights and assess him once again…with a little more professionalism, thank God.

He’s wearing a devastatingly cut dark gray suit, and a tie with olive and orange stripes. I look him up and down, contemplating angles, and then meet his eyes once again. Wow. They devour me. I realize I’m nervously twirling my hair.

Zavier’s fixated on my fingers as they curl through the tendrils that have come loose from the knot.

I’ve been in this position before, with a man watching me hungrily, and usually this kind of scrutiny is irritating. At this point, I usually put a guy out of his misery and let him know he’s barking up the wrong tree. Instead, I’m standing here like a startled doe. There’s something tensely coiled inside him that has me mesmerized.

I’m supposed to be doing a job, and my professionalism is important to me, but I acknowledge there’s some kind of weird connection here. Trying to mitigate the weirdness, I smile a little before turning away to assess possible backdrops and props.

As I turn away, I hear Zavier sigh.

Va a ser un problema, he mutters to himself. She is going to be trouble.

He doesn’t realize I’m fluent in Spanish. My smile broadens. I’m affecting him, too. I decide to keep my bi-lingual status to myself.

I turn toward him once again. He’s delicious. I picture him stripped out of his impeccable suit, standing gloriously naked before me while I snap from every angle. Unfortunately, this is supposed to be a conservative portrait.

Do you want me on this stool or did you want full body? Zavier asks.

Huh? He’s playing into my nasty thoughts.

On the stool or standing? He looks at me a moment, and a slow smile brews.

It jolts me out of my thoughts. It’s like he’s reading my mind. That’s no fun. I switch to professional mode, considering his stature and the cut of his suit.

I think standing would be a good start. We’ll get full-body, and I can just come in for close-ups.

I choose a conservative, old-school backdrop at first. It’s just the right shade of swirly olive-brown.

I turn to Zavier and clear my throat. I approach him tentatively, placing my hands on his upper arms. Again, the electric jolt, but I focus on posing him, arranging his shoulders and arms, feeling the solid strength of him through his suit.

The contact is very intimate. I’m taking control of his body, and I brace myself for the next part. I move closer to him, our bodies almost touching, and reach up to his face. I lightly take his chin, turning his face to the side and tilting it up.

Zavier breathes deeply. The tension in his body makes it difficult for me to arrange him the way I want, and I get the sense that he isn’t interested in standing properly for photos any more.

I’m satisfied with his pose in the nick of time. I tell him to hold still and I back quickly away. For a moment, I think he’s going to break his pose and pursue me, enfolding me in his arms, his hands moving feverishly, caressing my body, his lips capturing mine.

I grab up my camera, retreating behind its flimsy safety, and snap a few shots, snapping myself out of my little fantasy.

Turn your head to the left…a little more.

He complies.

Good. Hold there.

I snap rapidly.

Now, turn directly to the camera.

He does so, eyes boring into the lens.

Oh, yes. That’s it, I practically moan. I clear my throat and modify my tone. That’s good. Hold there.

I hold the shutter, knowing I’ve already gotten a good shot. I come in close to get some head shots. His eyes are alive, magnetic…predatory.

I’m snapping him up. I get closer to him, his face filling the lens, and I hold the shutter release, the camera whirring, capturing his intensity. I feel the power of his sensuality…and I want him.

I moisten in response to my desire for him, startled by this primitive reaction. Sexual electricity flows from him and I’m tingling in his current. I realize with a panic that I’m very close to losing all professionalism, and I’ve got to get him out of here or…

I could put down the camera. With nothing in between us I could take the half-stride to him, take his face in my hands and capture his full lips with mine. I could kiss him with the ravenous hunger my loneliness has wrought. I’d peel off his jacket, his tie, his shirt as my tongue played with his.

As his shirt hit the floor, I’d run my hands down his arms, up his stomach to his chest. My appetite whetted, I’d rip off his belt. I imagine my hands fumbling in their urgency to unbutton his pants, lower the zipper, and free his manhood. I visualize what I’d uncover, thick flesh, throbbing to stiffness.

I’m jolted from my startling thoughts. What am I doing? I’m not doing this. I’m not allowing this to happen!

I’m done, I say, abruptly backing away from Zavier. I turn, walking quickly to my workbench, lowering the camera when there’s distance between us.

What? Zavier blinks with surprise. That went quicker than I thought.

Well, you’re an excellent subject, and I’ve already gotten everything I need. You’ve gotten everything you need?

Shouldn’t we try some other backdrops? Zavier suggests.

No, there’s no need. I can switch things considerably with computer programs, from the way you’re dressed, to the background. Anyway, I’ve gotten some good raw material to work with.

Raw material? he sounds slightly insulted.

"Um, well…you. It didn’t take long to capture great photos of you. You’re a natural model." I’m so lame.

Well, it’s good to know I have something to fall back on if this computer-thing doesn’t work out.

I laugh, relaxing a little.

Is that what you do? I ask.

Yes. I design software.

Well, that explains your age.

He tilts his head, looking at me questioningly.

No, I say. It’s just, I was expecting a stuffy old man.

He smiles, caught off guard by my tactless phrase.

Well, I say, flustered and babbling. I just know you’re busy and I don’t want to take up a lot of your time. I really did get great shots of you, though. You won’t be disappointed with the portrait. I promise to do you justice.

Well, thank you.

I take a deep breath, wanting to wind this up with as much dignity as I can salvage.

I’ll email you the proofs and you can choose from those, I say.

You choose, Nico. I trust you.

The way he says Nico is a caress.

Okay, I murmur.

I turn in a daze, and lead him out of the studio to the front door.

I understand you’re a volunteer for the charity, Zavier says. Will you be at the gallery?

He’s referring to the event where they’ll be honoring him. I’d been planning to attend. One of my photos is on display in the gallery. However, knowing he’s going to be there, I’m not sure it’s such a great idea. I decide, definitively, I should avoid this man.

Yes. I’ll be there, I say, startled by my contrary response.

Alright. I’ll see you. He gives me one of those looks of his. It’s clear he intends to see all of me.

For a horrifying moment I think he’s going to grab me, and kiss me. Horrifying because I’d melt right into him, giving myself whole-heartedly. Instead, he offers his hand.

He says, Thank you again. I thoroughly enjoyed this.

As I take his hand, he brings it toward his lips.

How charming he is. I didn’t think anyone did that any more. As my hand reaches his lips he turns it over and plants a lingering kiss on my palm.

His eyes turn upward to my face.

See you soon, Nico.

He opens the door and walks out without another word.

I turn my palm up to see the burn mark, but nothing’s there. Unbelievable. It felt scorched from his kiss.

The moment Zavier leaves I start editing his film. His departure was necessarily abrupt, but it left me wanting more. I click through his shots on the computer.

Wow. The way he looks at the camera, at me, in most of the photos won’t be appropriate. I giggle a little and thrill at the images I’ve captured. He looks ready to leap off the screen and make love to me. I tremble a little at the thought.

For a moment, I’m irritated with myself. Am I that lonely that the first attractive man I come in contact with sends me trembling? I study his photos. No. There’s something about him. It resonates with me even through the flat images on the screen.

I try to sort it out. I’ve never reacted so quickly and instinctively toward a man before. I struggle for a word to describe it, but extraordinary is all I come up with. What is this? Love at first sight? Chemistry, pheromones? I don’t know, but something happened between us.

I stare at his photo and feel a burning flutter between my thighs. I’ve been longing for someone to unleash the passion inside of me. I sense this is the man to do it. I’ve been waiting for him.

I return to the photos and pick a great shot of him. It’s one of the full-body shots. Everything I got at close range was too raw and sexual. I make a couple of airbrush corrections and save the picture.

I pull up a close-up that captures his sensuality, his eyes piercing. I juxtapose the two photos on my screen, side by side. He’s stunning.

My heart races as I think about seeing him again. I look at the calendar on my computer. The event is five days away. Five days until I see him again…and then what? Will the sparks fly between us again, or was today a fluke? Five more days until I see him…

Oh my gosh! I need a dress.

Nothing I have will stun him like I intend. I immediately pick up my cell and phone my best friend, Cassie. We’ve been like sisters since the fifth grade. She can help me pick out a killer dress while I tell her about Zavier Soto. She knows me better than anyone. When I tell her about my reaction to this guy, she’s going to crack up.

When she answers, I jump right in.

Cassie, I need a shopping spree. The full works; dress, shoes, bag, accessories, and whatever else we can come up with.

Uh, oh.

Yep, this girl knows me.

His name is Zavier, I confess.

Zavier? He sounds exotic, Cassie says.

Erotic?

"I said, Exotic. Uh, oh," she says.

I just giggle.

Oh geez. I can come later this afternoon. Hold it together, Cassie says.

Will do. But hurry, I say

Will do.

When Cassie shows up, I hug her at the door and usher her in.

How much time do you have? I ask her.

I’m all yours. My hubby won’t be home until tomorrow, she says plopping herself on my couch. He’s still in Miami.

How’s work going for Gary?

Good, he’s really flourishing. I can’t get over it, she says, shaking her head. Could you see him as a marketing exec when we were in high school?

Not at all. A bullshit exec, maybe.

I guess it’s the same thing, she says.

That’s sort of true.

He’s bringing me home a coconut elephant, she says.

Coconut? I don’t have a coconut one.

Yeah, it’s made out of coconut shell. Cool, huh? she says. I can’t wait to add it to my collection.

Shouldn’t that have been a surprise? I ask.

Heeheehee, she chortles, theatrically. I got it out of him. Now, he’ll have to get me another present as a surprise.

Clever girl, I say, approvingly. You want a glass of wine? We could take a cab and do some drinking and shopping.

That sounds like a plan.

I grab a bottle and a couple glasses, taking them into the living room, pouring.

You want to see trouble? I ask Cass.

You mean, the ‘uh oh’? You have pictures? She lowers her voice, admonishing. Are we already stalking?

No! He came in for a portrait. You know the stuffy old guy I was supposed to photograph for the arts event this weekend?

She nods and takes a gulp of wine.

Well… I grab my computer and show her the two photos of Zavier.

"Oh. My. GOD."

She takes another gulp of wine, and I join her as she stares at the photos.

This guy was here? In this apartment? Today? she continues gawking.

Yep, I say.

Does he really look like this or are you that good?

Both, I laugh.

Uh oh, she mutters. Oh God, uh oh,

Stop saying, ‘Uh, oh’, I say. I know it’s uh oh. I’m in real trouble here, Cass. You see the look in his eyes? I rap the screen with my knuckle. You should’ve been here in person. I felt like I was a side of hanging meat, waiting to be devoured. And I tell you, I was ready to douse myself in dipping sauce.

Cassie laughs.

I’m not kidding! I whine.

I can see that. Look, Nic…

Nico, I interrupt.

What?

I blink, startled I said that. I mutter self-consciously, He called me Nico…or Nicoletta. He said he would never call me Nic.

Uh, oh, she laughs. He’s already got a pet name.

That calls for another gulp of wine.

Cassie continues. What I was going to say is that you can trust yourself. If you fall all willy-nilly over this guy, go with it. You’ve never gone crazy over a guy. This might be something…

Extraordinary, I finish for her.

Her eyes widen, scrutinizing me. After a moment she says, Yes. Let’s drink up and get you outfitted, before you over-think this.

I make a face at her, but do as instructed, upending my glass.

Cassie and I return to my place in the evening. We shopped and drank, had dinner and drank. We’re a little tipsy.

Loaded down with bags, we drop everything in the living room, simultaneously kicking off our shoes. I drape a long gown bag carefully over the couch, and head immediately to the kitchen.

More wine! I yell.

Cassie groans.

Don’t even act like you don’t want some, I say.

Wine me! she yells.

We rummage through our bags pulling out this and that until I come across a pair of daring thigh-high boots with killer heels. Ah. My fuck-me boots.

Cassie laughs. You’re never going to wear those.

Watch me. Maybe I’m turning over a whole new leaf. I pull the boots on over my leggings and strut around the living room. I’m going to be wanton and slutty, I say, swinging my hips.

Right, she says doubtfully.

All right, probably not, I turn my feet this way and that, admiring how the boots hug the whole length of leg to the thigh. But wouldn’t it be great?

What, to be a slut?

Yeah. To have that in you. I pick up my glass.

Oh, sweetie. We all have that in us, Cassie says with a little smirk.

I consider her private smile, and cock my head. "Really? How’s it going with Gare?" I tease.

It’s actually more sweet, than slutty. Comfortable married sex, but God, I can’t wait for Gary to get home tomorrow. I miss him when he’s gone.

I know, Cass. I’m glad he doesn’t have to travel a lot. And he always brings you presents when he returns.

"There is that."

And this time, you have a present for him. Where’s the nighty you picked out? I ask.

She pulls out the nighty, the metallic satin flowing out of the bag like molten silver. The color against her dark brunette hair and perfect cream skin is a knockout.

Ah. I think we found the slut in you, I say.

CHAPTER TWO

I wake up feeling fantastic. I cross to the settee where I’ve laid out all my purchases. There’s nothing like shopping with your bestie to make a girl happy.

I select a stretchy red top and grab some skirts and leggings from my closet, tossing them on the bed. From the pile, I select a micro-mini skirt, pairing it with the fuck-me boots, and turn to the mirror. Oh boy. Cass was right. I’m not sure I’ll have the nerve.

There’s a knock at the door.

Oh crap. I’m dressed like a streetwalker. I bend over and struggle to pull off the boots, hopping awkwardly.

More knocking. Oh, what the hell. I strut to the door and open it with a flourish. Might as well own it.

A delivery guy stands there with an enormous bouquet of flowers. He looks me up and down, and tries to limit his reaction by clamping his lips tightly, but can’t help the gleeful twinkle in his eyes.

I can’t blame him. In fact, I give him kudos for professionalism.

Delivery for Miss Clark, he says, lowering his eyes deliberately to the bouquet.

I’m Miss Clark, I say.

Sign for them, please. He hands me an electronic clipboard and I scratch my name. We exchange the clipboard for the flowers.

Thank you, Miss. Have a nice day.

Wait a moment.

His eyes snap up to meet mine, erotic hope sparking in their depths, his face flushing.

I disappoint him immediately, saying, Let me get you a tip.

I rush to my purse, setting down the flowers, and grab five bucks. Thank you, I say, handing him the tip.

Thank you, he says with no leer at all.

Keeping it classy, I silently commend him,