"s.e.x is very relaxing," she argued.

"I didn't want to jump on you again, Mercedes. I wanted to seduce you."

He lingered over the words, luring her into dangerous waters, much more tempting than the bath itself. She resisted his siren's call, and shifted to face him, straddling her legs over his. "I'm seduced. Tell me you already put on a condom."

"Yeah."

"So all that bit about not wanting to jump me?"

"Mercedes, I will always want to jump you."

She laughed and inched forward, until his c.o.c.k was brushing against her nether lips and Sam closed his eyes, breathing in deeply.

"Good?" she asked, her sanity returning.

"You're too much for me, Mercedes."

She moved again, impaling herself on him. Slowly she rose, a quiet splash of the water as she slid upwards, his c.o.c.k sliding out. As she moved, she watched his face, her gaze tracing the ever-changing colors of his eyes, the controlled line of his jaw, the rise and fall of his broad chest. She could feel the blood quickening through her veins, sharp and brilliant, her senses beginning to simmer once again.

She slid down, his thickness filling her. This is what she craved, letting the heat burn her. His hands rose to cup her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, his thumbs brushing against her nipples. Her gaze locked with his and she kept up her rhythm, moving up and down on him. For a good bit, he let her, but then his eyes grew sharper, as he felt the fire, too. The next time she lifted herself, he turned her, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s pressed against the edge of the tub, and roughly pushed inside her from behind. She had thought she had control, but no longer. Sam had taken over, and she could only follow his lead.

He cradled her body, and then reached beyond her, pressing a b.u.t.ton next to the tub. Jets whirled to life, sending water cascading in circles around them. He pressed a hand in the valley between her thighs, parting her thighs, parting her swollen lips, until the pulsing water swirled her.

It was like an explosion inside her. Sam filling her from behind, the water an added gentle pressure, and she couldn't think. His finger worked her over, and each time she moaned, he only thrust inside harder and faster.

Time stopped, the world spun, Mercedes heard her cries, and this time, Sam caught her before she fell.

5.

THEY LAY IN BED, SAM stroking her silky hair. He felt like a teenager again, his body sated yet energized. Mercedes curled up against him, where she belonged, her eyes drifting closed as she fought sleep.

Sam pressed a kiss against her forehead.

"If I die tonight, I think I should tell you where my important doc.u.ments are."

One eye opened and she looked at him. "Why are you telling me this? You aren't going to die. That's incredibly morbid."

"I'm older than you, Mercedes. It could happen." Especially if he kept making love to her like a fifteen-year-old.

"You're not that much older than me, Sam."

"Twenty years is a lot older."

She raised up on her elbow and looked at him. "You are the hottest forty-six-year-old man I've ever met."

He did the math, and then looked at her carefully. "You're twenty-six?"

"Yes. How old did you think I was?"

"Twenty-one. Eighteen. It didn't matter. You're too young."

"Oh, come on. You sound like it's perverted or something. I've been living on my own for eight years now. I understand the concepts of laundry and paying bills, and how to hold down a steady job, albeit not for very often. I can drink alcohol, and even vote."

He pushed a hand through his hair, considering these new facts before him. "Twenty-six?"

"Want to see my ID?"

"No. You're really twenty-six?"

"This is freaking you out, isn't it?"

"I don't act like this, Mercedes."

"Like what?"

"Like something out of your book."

"I thought you didn't read it."

"Maybe some."

She whapped him on the chest. "Sam Porter, you lied. You so read my stuff." Her mouth shifted into a frown. "Is that why we're here? Is it my writing or me?"

He swept a hand over her, contemplating the willowy curves of the twenty-six-year-old body. "You write hot stuff, yes, but you fired my engines way before I read your book."

"Why didn't you ask me out then?"

"You have a habit of putting personal liaisons into your blog for public consumption. That's not me. I like my private life private."

"You aren't nervous now?"

"Are you going to put anything out there?" he asked, careful to keep any emotion out of his voice. He didn't exactly trust her, but that barn door was open, and the cows were smoking post-coital cigarettes in somebody else's pasture.

"No."

"See? No problem there."

"You really read my book?"

"Yeah."

"Did you like it?"

"It certainly involved me physically."

"But did you like it?" she pressed.

Sam knew the verbal minefield she was laying before him. He was a master of the technique. "You'll only get mad if I answer this question."

"No, I won't."

"Yes, you will."

"No, I won't."

"Okay, it's not my thing. It's hot, very arousing, but I'm not into emotional reads."

"Fine," she said, sounding mad.

"You're mad."

"I'm not mad," she snapped.

"You're mad. I told you, you'd get mad."

"If you have no concept of the emotional and s.e.xual reaches of two people, then you have no taste, and I refuse to let someone who has no taste make me mad."

"Oh come on, Mercedes. I'm a guy. That stuff isn't for me."

"You're s.e.xist."

"No, biologically, men and woman are different. Our bodies, our minds. I didn't invent that."

"That's an incredibly old-fashioned att.i.tude."

"I'm an incredibly old-fashioned man."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Not that old-fashioned, honey. That wasn't the missionary position you were using back there."

"Man, tell me about it. I could've thrown out my back."

Mercedes smiled, and he forgot about his back.

"Tell me about you. I know all about how you feel about fiscal responsibility, prayer in public schools, and the governor of New Jersey, but I have no idea about your life." She paused. "You're not married, are you?"

"No. Divorced a long time ago."

"Back in the stone ages?"

"Stop."

"You asked for it. Tell me something else. What do you do when you're not working?"

"I like to fish. I have a cabin upstate I go to sometimes to relax. Take Max up there, listen to silence."

"Max?"

"Dog. Have you ever been fishing?"

"Nah. It's too slow for me. Too quiet. I'm used to the noise of the city. If the world gets quiet, then something is wrong. When it's loud, cars honking, music blaring, everything is safe."

"So that's why you became a writer. Because it's such a noisy occupation."

She looked at him, slightly bemused. "I don't know. When did you decide you wanted to be on TV?"

"I didn't. My agent did. I was a journalist in Pennsylvania, and I did some of the local news. The network saw my work and liked it."

"I think it's cool. Having that much attention, being in the spotlight."

"For fifteen minutes, maybe. But after that, it's like being the only goldfish in one of those tiny bowls. You really want fame, huh?"

"For at least fifteen minutes. Just to know. Andrew's famous in the financial circles, he hates it. Sheldon's famous in the tabloids, she hates it. I'd like to experience it, so I could decide, and possibly hate it, for myself."

"Be careful what you wish for, Mercedes. What does it matter if you're famous or not?"

"Everyone loves you when you're famous. It proves to the world that you're worthy. You're somebody."

"You're somebody already."

"Not to everybody."

"Who's everybody?"

"Are you trying to psychoa.n.a.lyze me?"

"No, I'm trying to understand what you're saying."

"I thought I was very clear."

"You were cryptic, not clear."

"That wasn't cryptic."

"Then who's everybody, Miss I'm Not Cryptic?"

"n.o.body."

"See? You proved my point. You're cryptic."

She pulled up the sheet, burrowed into the pillows, almost disappearing. "Did you know your father?" she asked in a tiny voice.

"Yeah. n.o.body's influenced me more."