I was spinning, like a small child, when I stumbled out of place and into the hard polish of his suit. His steps were moving, pausing only to right my steps before moving on. But my ankle turned in the stumble and I let out a small cry of pain that had his eyes meeting mine, concern thick in the blue glint of his irises. He stopped, gripping my arms, his stare intent on my face. “Are you all right?”

I winced, pushing against his chest and put some weight on my ankle, moving away from him and gripping the metal rod of a street sign. “I’m fine.” I glanced up, watching the erratic swirl of flakes, my mouth curving back into a smile. “It’s snowing.”

He dismissed the miracle of snow with one shrug of his suit. “Is your car close by?”

“It’s just a few blocks up.” I leaned against the pole, putting weight on my good foot. I held out my hand and watched as dots of white sprinkled its surface. I glanced over at him, my eyes distracted from the snow as I took in the gorgeous exterior that was this stranger. Custom suit stretched across a strong, tall build. Black hair, swept back and dotted with snow. Blue eyes staring at me with a mixture of impatience and concern. I smiled. “I’m good, really.”

He sighed, glancing around, then stepped closer, holding out his arm. “May I... please. Let me carry you inside. I can have a driver take you home.”

I laughed. “And not be able to get back to my car? That is thoughtful, but driving won’t be a problem, its my other foot.”

He stepped closer, his open hand brushing my side, and I started at the contact, the brush of touch electric. “Then I’ll carry you to your car. Please.” His eyes softened, the urgency in them gone, and I relaxed.

“If you insist.” I smiled, giggling when he scooped me up, cradling me to his chest, his intense eyes staring bemusedly down at me.

“This is funny?” he questioned, a flow of minty fresh air floating down on me.

“Quite romantic, actually.” His hands supported me easily, my weight not slipping and sliding through his arms. I leaned in, resting my head against the wool of his suit, the bump of our movement slightly rocky. “Take a right here. It might be a hair more than a few blocks.” I discreetly inhaled, a delicious blend of vanilla and forest hitting my nose, and I burrow my face farther into his chest.

“What’s your name?” The words vibrate through his chest and I lifted my head, stared at the strong muscles of his neck, and had the insane urge to lift my mouth to them, to trail playfully kisses up, till I reached the fine shadow of his jaw, over that strong feature and to those lips. I swallow.

“Madison. Decater.”

He stopped walking, the abrupt change causing instability, my arms gripping his shoulders for balance, then snaking around his neck. He looked down into my face, smiling, the bright flash of white teeth against the stubble of his five-o-clock shadow breathtaking. “Stewart Brand. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Same here.”

He then asked me where I lived, and what I did. We laughed over his lack of book knowledge and over his admission of no social life. We flirted, his hands tightened, and we walked two blocks past my car before I realized it and made him turn around.

We parted awkwardly, neither one of us wanting to step away, then his cell rang and he glanced at his watch, muttering a curse. He passed me a business card while stepping away, answering the phone and bringing it to his ear. “Call me.” He mouthed. “Please.” Then with a wink, he left, talking quickly, his steps turning into a jog as he headed back up the street. I hobbled into the car and watched his back disappear, waiting to see if he would glance back. But he didn’t, and I stuffed his card into my purse and left, my tender ankle almost causing my Suzuki to sideswipe an adjacent Mercedes.

I sat on the card for a week, occasionally pulling it out and running my fingers over the surface. Women shouldn’t call men. We should be pursued, should play the offhand, casual game until the men tackle us to the ground with flowers and affection. But his hurried exit, the urgency on his face when the phone rang, didn’t give us the customary time to find pen and paper, to exchange numbers. I bent the card slightly in my hand, considered tossing it the trash and ending this dilemma once and for all.

But I didn’t. Day Nine I called the number, an efficient female taking down my information in a manner that guaranteed no call back. Day Ten she called back, five times friendlier and set a lunch appointment for Stewart and I three weeks later. I repeated the date uncertainty, expecting for her to be mistaken, and her tone hardened slightly as she informed me that he was a very busy individual, and she had shifted an entire day to accommodate that time frame. I took the date. Twenty-eight months later, I don’t need her to shift schedules. I get my stolen time in the wee hours of the night, or during a business dinner, or if an appointment cancels and I am in the area to grab a quick bite or a f**k on his desk.

Snow. Falling snow is what brought us together. That and his hurried life which collided us in the first place.

VENICE BEACH, CA

HARPOONING: [verb] Copping wood while surfing.

I am woken in the night, a hand on my shoulder, shaking me gently. “Maddy. ” Soft lips brush my neck, the rough scruff of unshaven skin tickling my cheek.

I roll, pulling up on the sheet, the cool night air cold on my bare chest. “Stop,” I mumble.

“Come on,” Paul whispers, sliding under the sheet, the warm heat of his skin settling over mine, his weight gently held by knees and arms. His kisses drift over my body, the hot nip of his lips traveling up my stomach, over my breasts, and settle on my

lips.

“I’m sleeping,” I whisper between long kisses, his body settling deeper, pining me to the bed, my legs spreading and wrapping around him.

“No you’re not.” He grins at me, pulling the blanket over both of our heads, his face close in the darkness.

“Yes,” I reply firmly. “I am.” I reach between our bodies, adjusting his c**k so that it lies against his stomach, in a position to better stimulate me when it hardens. He grinds slightly against me, my hand gripping him firmly, feeling the reaction in his cock, the thickening of skin underneath my fingers.

“I like you when you sleep.” He leans down, taking a long taste of my mouth and slowly thrusts his pelvis, my hand releasing him, the firm friction right there against my cl*tas it should be. “Waves are at six feet,” he says against my mouth, a flash of teeth shining in the darkness.

“So ride them.”

“I’d rather ride something else right now.”

“Me too.”

I don’t need to move his cock. His h*ps take care of that, a small downward shift and hard c**k making the transition easy, my wet entrance more than ready for fulfillment. Then he resumes his strokes, slow and perfectly inside of me, the air under the blanket getting hot with passion. And when I yank the blanket off his head, the cool air is needed, as we both arch our bodies into the darkness of oblivion.

I dress, slipping on bikini bottoms and a surf shirt, linking my hands through his and jogging down the garage steps. We grab our boards and move, quiet through dark streets, nodding to familiar faces, the homeless and beggars who never sleep, discomfort or addiction keeping them awake. When our feet hit the sand we run, eager to fly, the shock of cold water taking me the final step into wide awake. We paddle until my arms ache, we ride until the waves calm, and then we lay back on salty boards and watch the sun rise, reflecting sparks of fire across the tops of ripples.

You don’t understand the true awesomeness of nature until you watch the sun rise on water that stretches across half the world. Or until you lay back on the board in the pitch black of night and listen to the world sleep. Until you feel the tug of water and know that you are dancing with a partner that could dip you into death should it feel the need. It is intoxicating, the heartbeat of the ocean. It flows through my blood, it sucks at my heart and pumps breath through my lungs.

I hear Paul’s call and turn, realizing that he has paddled halfway in and is waiting. The crowds will soon come, the hordes of tourists who have traveled across the country to play in our backyard. Now is the time to return, and let the strangers borrow a piece of our life. I roll to my stomach, and paddle after Paul, the rising sun prickling warm on my bare legs.

HOLLYWOOD, CA

SPEEDBUMP: [noun] Someone

who stand in the way of a good ride.

DANA

Some might call my behavior stalking. My opinion is, if you love the person, it gives you some justifiable leeway. My behavior this evening...leeway doesn’t really excuse it. It’s borderline creepy. I sicced my assistant on Stewart. Told her I’d give her two hundred dollars for each event that she could reasonably predict his presence at. It took her three weeks, but she found one. His business partner’s birthday party, at Livello, on Friday night. She called the restaurant, verified that the reservations were at nine o’clock that evening, and we discussed the chances of him being present. A hundred percent chance of him being invited, and we were thinking a twenty-five percent chance of attendance. I was grasping that narrow percentage with the tenacity of a drowning woman.

It’s ten, and I am huddled in the back corner of the lobby, nursing a bottled water, an Elle magazine held open before me. My mission is simple. If he is alone, approach him. And if he is with someone, scope her out. I’m giving myself till eleven, then I’m going to bail. Toss Belinda her two hundred bucks and go soak my feet in Epsom salts. I curse the three inch heels I put on this morning. Next stakeout, I’ll wear flats.

The door opens, and in a burst of cool air and perfume, they enter.

God, three years hasn’t changed him. He is smiling, and that is the first thing I notice. Holding the door open for her, his hand moves to cup her waist when she moves through the door in front of him. Their cheeks are flushed, her giggle reaching back into the dark corner that I sit, a curl of jealousy snaking through me at the sound. I sink in my seat, watching them closely, noticing everything, the brush of his hand against her ass, the look in his eyes when she grabs the fabric of his skirt and presses into his chest, his head dipping down for a kiss. They are quickly escorted into the restaurant, away from my eyes, and I strain for a final glimpse of him, but only see the back of the maitre’d.

I exhale, setting down the magazine and leaning back in my seat, lifting my purse off the ground and setting in on my lap with a heavy sigh. There was no point in staying to see them leave. I saw everything I needed in that brief moment. The look in his eyes... she is not a fling. Not an escort that he hires for events. That was the look of love.

My hands tighten around my purse.

TWO YEARS EARLIER

MADISON

It didn’t take long for Stewart and I to fuck. The sweet circumstance of our meeting turned to heat quickly, chemistry sizzling across the linen tablecloths of our first date. For the second date, two weeks later, I told his icy secretary I’d meet him at his place, intent on putting the little time she had penciled in to good use. She extended the appointment, giving me a full two hours, which I took to be a good sign. Two weeks later, I handed my keys to a freckle-face valet, signed in with the security desk at Stewart’s condo, and was yanked inside the moment he opened the door.

He crab walked me backwards, my hands reaching for his face, pulling it to mine, our first kiss frantic. “Tell me if I’m reading this wrong.” He rushed out, between kisses. “Is this too fast?”

I bit back a laugh, unbuttoning the front of my shirtdress and dropping the material to the floor, nothing but bare skin underneath. “You tell me, is it?” I stepped away, watched his eyes eat me, his expression turning dark, his hand running rough through his hair.

Then his mouth and his hands were on me, and we didn’t have the breath to utter words for a full hour. We started there, against the wall, with kisses and touches, my own hands pulling at his clothes, till he was na**d before me, and my breath caught at his build, his body a tight coil of muscles that all seemed to center and point on a package that would have made my first boyfriend duck his head in shame. He lifted me, my legs wrapping around his waist, and carried me to a bedroom.

I didn’t notice the heated floors or the custom blinds or the six thousand dollar rug. I only noticed the heat of our bodies, the perfect fit, the exact blend of control and fury that took my body from above, from behind, and from below.

Forty-five minutes after setting foot in his condo, he straddled me. Breathing hard, his face tight in concentration, his hands running over the skin of my breasts, he leant forward and kissing me, pushing away my hands when I reached for him. His c**k bobbed between us, brushing my stomach, a plastic slap of latex against my skin. “Don’t.” he groaned. “I’m too close. Give me a moment.”

But I wanted it, was high on orgasm and his fucks, and anxious to see the result of our work. I smiled at him, reaching down with a firm hand and sliding the condom off, his slick head exposed, my hand working up and down and I looked up into his face.

He squeezed his eyes tight, his breath coming out in short spurts. “Madison, I can’t, you’re-“ He bucked his hips, groaning my name, my hand hard and fast on his shaft, watching in excitement as he came, multiple shots on my chest, his head dropping back as he finished, a long sigh coming out. He collapsed to the side, his limbs heavy on the bed, his eyes closed, a smile on his face.

I rolled, unmindful of the sheets, resting my head on his bicep, closing my eyes and relaxing, my body relaxed from an hour of orgasms and pounding.

Minutes passed, no sound other than our breaths and the whip of the fan, no need to speak, no need for compliments or unnecessary conversation.

Then he moved, rolling to his side, our faces close, his eyes studying mine. “How are you single?”