"You've been paying attention," he says as he leads me out of the elevator on the top floor. I catch a glimpse of the view outside the building-it's amazing.

"Of course, this fascinates me."

You fascinate me.

"How does it work?" I ask, genuinely interested.

"With radio frequency identification technology, tenants can use a pa.s.s card to call an elevator before they even leave their suite," he explains as we walk toward his suite door. "This results in fewer stops, shorter wait times, lower energy use. It's good for the environment and everyone's happy," he adds as he swipes his card. "The use of LED lighting and sleep mode saves energy as well."

He is such a nerd. But definitively the s.e.xiest nerd I've ever met.

We walk into a suite, and it's mindboggling-I get the sensation I've walked into the future.

"Welcome to the penthouse at The Onyx," he says, his striking green eyes more brilliant than ever.

I stand there, motionless, speechless.

"Come in," he urges. "Make yourself comfortable."

Despite the contemporary design, the s.p.a.ce manages to look cozy, accentuated with warm tones and textures. The streamlined white sectional looks inviting with its myriad of throw cushions, some furry.

But I don't dare sit-I want to explore. This is my first time here, and I can see his essence in this s.p.a.ce. A collection of artsy black and white photographs of buildings elegantly set in contemporary white frames hang over the sofa. And to the left side of the room, there's a large aquarium filled with colorful coral and tropical fish.

"Do you spend a lot of time here?"

"No, not really," he admits.

"Who takes care of your fish?" I ask, concerned, although they look plenty healthy and cared for.

"I have a service. I also have a cleaning service, which is why the place looks spotless."

"You have a lot of services, I bet."

"I do," he admits. "I do employ a lot of people to keep my life running smoothly."

"Honestly, your life gives me a headache just thinking about it."

He laughs and wraps his arms around my waist. His touch sizzles, and my breath catches. I sometimes wish he would suddenly lose all his power over me. I know it would certainly make my life a lot simpler.

"I've missed you," he tells me, his lips searching for mine. He kisses me softly and tears himself away, leaving me hanging. "Do you want a tour?"

"No. I want you to finish what you've started. You just can't kiss a woman like that and walk away," I almost snap.

He laughs at me again. "Good things come to those who wait. I've got something planned for us."

My ears perk up-I want to know all about it. But he doesn't tell me. He walks over to the kitchen-all smooth white and stainless steel surfaces, a cool industrial-style light fixture emitting a soft warm glow. He slides his finger over the refrigerator door, and a screen pops up, just like the one on the coffee table in the lobby.

"Wow," I say. "Is everything interactive in this building?"

"Yes, state of the art. The best in gla.s.s technology."

I can't quite see what he's looking at on the screen. He opens the door and grabs some grapes.

"Would you like a gla.s.s of water or an iced tea? Or perhaps a gla.s.s of wine?"

I'm pleased-he's been paying attention too. "Red wine is fine...thanks."

He presses a digital b.u.t.ton on the refrigerator. Coldplay's "Till Kingdom Come" fills the room. It's one of the songs I included on the mixed CD I made him.

For some reason, I'm on edge. Maybe it's the foreign surroundings or him looking so delectable. He's perfection in every way.

He washes the grapes. "That mixed CD you gave me...quite the eclectic mix."

"I know, right? They're all songs I love." I don't tell him it's all about the lyrics-lyrics that make me think of him-that Coldplay song says it all.

He walks over to the wine fridge and pulls out a bottle of Shiraz. "Everything from the Cure to Beyonce."

"Well, I couldn't make you a mixed CD without a little Beyonce, could I? I love her."

He laughs. "I've noticed. I've heard your ringtone."

"Have you listened to all the songs?"

He fetches a dish from the cupboard. "Of course...I love them. Thank you."

"You're welcome," I say with a shy smile-I know it wasn't much.

He plops the grapes on an ultra-cool serving dish. "That Melissa Etheridge song...quite clever."

I smile. "I thought it was fitting. 'Your Little Secret'...that's what I am, aren't I?"

He looks down at me. "I wish you weren't. In another life, I'd introduce you to everyone I know."

My breath catches at his words-my heart caught like a fish on a hook.

Me too.

He opens the Shiraz in a matter of seconds with some cool looking, ultra-modern bottle opener.

"You like gadgets, don't you?"

He fetches two wine gla.s.ses. "I do. I love them."

"What else do you love?" I ask. I want to know everything about him. I just don't know enough.

He seems taken aback and takes a few seconds to contemplate my question as he pours me a gla.s.s. "I love my children," he confesses with a huge smile. "I love my work. I love architecture and technology." He looks around the room. "I love the sea. I love quiet...I love spending time with you," he finally adds, his words soft.

My body warms at his words.

"I love spending time with you too."

And we stand there, looking at each other-the energy between us seems to heat up.

"I want to show you the master," he says with a playful smile, "but I fear you might just pounce on me when we get there."

I laugh. "Don't flatter yourself."

"Admit it," he presses, "you can hardly wait to tear my clothes off."

He's so arrogant. But he's so right.

"Guilty," I finally admit, slightly embarra.s.sed, "but I promise I'll be good."

"Good," he says as he takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom.

He was right-as soon as we step into his bedroom, all thoughts turn to s.e.x-his naked body on mine, mine on his. Now. The room is so sensual-tufted velvet soft brown headboard, crisp white linens, colorful retro looking pillows, and a few of those soft, white furry cushions. The whole room has a retro seventies vibe. I spot the sleek black music player in the corner.

"Do you like The Doors?" I ask him, "The band, I mean."

"I do actually. I have the greatest hits on my iPod."

A smile curves on my lips. "Why don't you put that on and make love to me on that deliciously comfy looking bed."

"You are a temptress, Mirella," he proclaims, his eyes dark. "I told you I wanted to wait. You promised you'd be good, remember?"

"You're driving me crazy, Weston. You are the king of delayed gratification."

He laughs his delectable laugh. "I've never thought about myself that way, but that's quite accurate, actually."

"It's maddening, is what it is," I almost scream.

"Sit down on the bed," he urges. And I do, thinking this could lead somewhere.

He takes a seat on one of the retro, white leather, egg-shaped chairs.

He stares at me, his gaze intense. He seems to want to tell me something. So I don't utter a word, and I wait for him to talk.

"Have you ever experimented with tantric s.e.x?" he asks.

I bite my lip, not quite able to catch my words.

"Or the Kama Sutra?"

G.o.d, he's full of surprises. "Um...no," I say. "Why do you ask?"

"Do you know anything about it?" he asks me, his gaze serious.

"Not much," I admit. The truth is...I know nothing.

"Is it something you could see yourself doing?"

"Uh...maybe," I stammer a little. Where is he going with this? "Why? Is this something you're interested in?"

"Yes, very much so," he confesses, not a hint of humor in his expression.

I suddenly find myself very aroused by the conversation and the way he's looking at me.

I'm not sure if it's the conversation, the sensual room, or how delectably s.e.xy he looks in his snug-fitting plaid shirt, but I find myself in serious want.

"Tell me about it," I say, my words soft and raspy. "I want to know more."

From the way he's looking at me, I can tell he knows I'm turned on. And he is too. There's no denying it-it's palpable.

"Well, it's all about bringing awareness into the s.e.xual act, a consciousness, a certain level of intimacy between lovers."

"Interesting..."

"It's about being in the moment, breathing it in, and appreciating each other. There are many s.e.xual positions which foster intimacy."

"I see," I say, "and you've done this...with Bridget?"

His smile is barely discernable. "Well, Bridget's not really into it. We've dabbled. But I've always wanted to explore it deeper."

"I see." And I can't help but play the devil's advocate. "But you mention it's about increasing intimacy...isn't that exactly what you and I should be avoiding?" I'm quick to add, "Isn't this arrangement between us supposed to be purely physical?"

He looks slightly offended and takes a deep breath. "What I'm talking about is physical intimacy, not emotional intimacy."

"But doesn't physical intimacy translate into emotional intimacy?" I ask, confused.

"d.a.m.n it, Mirella," he snaps as he stands to his feet.

I stare down at the bed linens. "I'm sorry."

He kneels in front of me and tilts my chin to face him, straight in the eye. He's so beautiful. "Are you afraid of me?"

"Yes," I confess. But I don't tell him I'm already falling for him and that making love to him might just throw me over the edge. I don't tell him I don't want to jeopardize the most important thing in my life-my family. And I don't tell him I don't quite trust myself to not go down that road. "You are a man of contradictions, Weston. One minute, you tell me to back away, keep my distance, to not be jealous. And the next, you kiss me with such emotion, whisper sweet nothings, and talk about fostering deeper physical intimacy."

He stares down at the floor, speechless.

"I'm serious, Weston. You're so mercurial. Make up your mind, already."

He looks up at me again. "I know," he says. "But...we are allowed a certain level of physical intimacy."

"Be careful what you wish for, Weston. I don't mean to sound cliche, but we're walking on thin ice, you and me, don't you think?"

He looks down at the floor, not able to face me. "Perhaps," he says matter-of-factly.

There's an uncomfortable silence between us, and I'm desperate to fill it and end this conversation.