Turning his phone off had been smart. It felt a bit surreal to not have his hip or his upper thigh, or wherever the phone rested, buzzing nearly nonstop. The flood of calls, texts, and email notifications that filled his life so readily, so palpably against his body, had halted, giving him the ability to focus solely on Lydia. If only he had had this awareness back at the office, there were so many ways he could have prevented it happening—and now, a sick feeling growing in the pit of his stomach, he realized that what he was doing with her was scrambling to get the last little bit of normalcy that he could possibly have.

Claiming a small amount of intimacy with her, carving it out of the remains of the day, would have to fulfill him for the rest of his life, because once she found out what he had done, there was no turning back. He had no way of explaining what had happened. Vicious scenario after vicious scenario whipped through his racing brain. This wasn’t going to be a surprise, for him at least, but for her, it could destroy her, and the idea that he could destroy the woman whom, he had to admit to himself, he was falling in love with, made him sick.

Taking a deep breath, he kept himself calm. Where was the focused, centered, unflappable Michael Bournham who had built an empire? He lay ruined in that office back there. Drained, and ridden, and driven out of his own mind by his love and lust for Lydia. Pressing his lips together, he suppressed a very sour smile, too many emotions churning inside him and bobbing up for brief glimpses from an ocean of emotion, whipped up by the perfect storm. Lydia would hate his guts in the morning.

Right now, though, she wanted him. She enjoyed him. The look on her face told him that she was enraptured by all this. Goddammit, so was he. Like a death row inmate, ready for his final meal, he turned the corner to what he assumed was her road, and she pointed to a small, nondescript building like plenty of others in Cambridge that housed multiple apartments. Parking was a bitch, but he finally found a place where he could nudge the rental in. Still playing the Matt Jones game, the junky little Toyota got him where he needed to go, and he parked it—inexpertly, but managed nonetheless.

They climbed out of the car and she reached for his hand, a bounce in her step that made her ass so much more appealing that he ever imagined a woman’s could be. Her whole body was fluid, and excited, and enticing in a way that he knew he had no choice but to relish. In the morning their relationship would be a clusterfuck of unimaginable proportions. While he didn’t have a crystal ball, he wasn’t stupid—he knew how this would play out.

For now, though, it wasn’t morning, and the warmth of her fingers entwined in his, the brush of her upper thigh against his leg, all of it was his final meal. Lydia would be the appetizer and the entree, and most importantly, the dessert. As they entered the apartment, all he could think was that he needed to bury himself in her, in her scent, in the touch of her soft skin, their bodies melting together so that he could drive the thrumming fear and pain out of him.

As Lydia flipped lights on in the small apartment, he noticed a Morris chair, a fine antique with a giant tie-dyed blanket that looked like something out of a Woodstock festival slung over it. She led him to the kitchen, which looked like something out of the Midwest, with rows of geese and a country feel to it. This was not your typical Cambridge apartment, where generally the decor ran from sleek Scandinavian down to a festive look at the past four decades of varying decorative styles, where the average seemed to be late ’70s to early ’80s, cheap Formica, and paneling.

“Have a seat,” Lydia said, as she pulled out a couple of bottles from the cabinet. He spotted tequila and then some sort of mixer, and then she reached into the refrigerator to pull out a jar of orange juice. “Something simple?” she asked and he nodded, admiring her body and her casualness. Something in her had moved closer to comfort and to the assumption that the two of them were together. He liked that. Watching the rhythm of her chest as it rose and fell through breath after breath, her hands competent and efficient in pouring the drinks. She turned, her cheeks pink and face bright and hopeful, and nodded back toward the living room. “Let’s sit in there,” she said.

He stood and took his glass from her. The first sip was a bit of a shock. It was tequila, sours, and orange juice. It was good, however, surprising him. “What is this?” he asked.

She grinned. “It’s nothing. Just something I make. No name to it.”

“I’ll call it the Lydia-tini.”

She chuckled, looking down at her body. “I’m anything but teeny.”

“You’re lush,” he said seriously, taking this as an invitation to begin touching her body once more, sliding his left hand around her waist, his hands covering the curves of her body, as if he were memorizing them to call upon them in the future, a map of her. His other hand was hampered by the drink, and so he drank it all down in one gulp, the sting of alcohol almost making him cough. He bent at the knees to set the drink down on an end table.

Her eyes were wide with surprise. “That good?”

“You’re that good.” Now that he had both hands available, he sank them into the soft flesh of her ass, grabbing her and pulling her close, a little rough, though she seemed to like it. Her lips touched his briefly, and then she imitated him, slinging back the drink like a coed at her first frat party. As she licked her lips he stopped her, the ferocity of his kiss mingling with the sweet taste of citrus. Tongues dancing and hands roaming, they stood in her barely lit living room, the air a bit stuffy, the room on fire. He gently turned her around and then sat on the multicolored Morris chair, pulling her into his lap. She hiked her skirt up and straddled him, just as they had in the office. He broke away from a sultry kiss. “Wait,” he said, “isn’t this déjà vu?”

“I think we’ve been here before.”

“Not here,” he said, looking around her living room.

“No, but in this position.”

“How about we try a different position?” he asked seriously, catching her eye in what little light emanated into the room.

Standing, slowly unfolding her body from his, she reached back with one soft hand and beckoned to him. Fighting within against the pounding, screaming conscience that told him he was taking advantage, that he had gone too far already, that he shouldn't compound the inevitable pain by drawing this out, he followed her into a neat, gray and lilac room that was starkly furnished, so different from the country kitsch of the kitchen.

This was Lydia's room, and it reflected her. Any other day and he would scan the room, practically inhaling the details so he could learn more about her. Time was precious, though, and instead he viewed this as a swan song of sorts, a bittersweet night of passion and expression that would have to last him the rest of his life.

Once she knew what had happened with the camera there would be no way to explain the truth. How could anyone believe that Michael Bournham, of all people, had lost his head and fallen so deeply that he’d forgotten his own plan?

Even he wouldn't believe it, and it was his fault.

For one split second he nearly stopped, his own ethics swaying him just enough to believe that it was better to end this as her hands wandered to his waist band, beginning to unbutton and unleash him. Her face carried the hooded look of a woman going into a layer of arousal and wanton desire, and his body responded accordingly, erection quick and ready at the thought of being in her again, except this time without cameras or the interference of clothing. All night long with his passion unbound and this woman before him? In a bed with no boundaries, no rules, no pre-conceived notions…

And no future?

Her legs bent and she kissed his belly as she pulled his shirt up and pants down, the aggressive move driving all thought from him. Were her lips about to follow the hand that now gripped him at the base?

Indeed, they were.

Mike lost all tendrils of linear ethical thought and succumbed.

Bold. She liked being bold. Wrapping her lips around him and feeling the vibration of his reaction—the deep, gravelly moan that accompanied her touch—sent a shock through her, the thrill of power. As Matt's knees bent and he wavered, she pushed him gently back onto the bed, reveling in what she could do to him in seconds, using only one hand and her mouth.

Oh, the pleasure of making his flesh grow simply with a move of the lips, an encasing, then a sweep of the tongue. Her own desire swelled inside as his swelled on the outside. Lydia slid his pants off and he made quick work of pulling off his shirt, soon leaving him completely nude as she worked his body from above, fully clothed. The disparity turned her on even more, the scratch of cloth against her nipples and the brazen feel of his naked skin against her clothed form. Knowing he was so vulnerable and she was in charge made each rush of skin against cloth like a sigh, each flick of her tongue like an order, every stroke of her palm a prayer of supplication.

His. Not hers.

Without warning, she found herself hauled on top of him, lips crushed against her teeth, his tongue now in full command of her, hands peeling away her clothes, her skirt pulled down, legs bare to the world, her shirt over her head and his mouth against the fabric of her brassiere, wetting the nipples through cloth and making her groan. No longer dominating him, it was Matt who took her now, her own eager flesh ready to submit.

Naked in seconds, his hands roamed her flesh in a less-than-gentle manner that made her wet, craving whatever he would give her. They had hours, a large bed, and so much more to give and take after a rushed, frantic session back at the office. Loose with an unbridled curiosity, Lydia's self-conscious nature, which normally would interfere right about now and whisper in her ear that her body should be covered, shut off like a circuit breaker snapping off.

Hands on her full thigh, he sought her center, the red flesh slick with her juices and all too aware of his fingers, his touch practiced and divine. This was a man who knew exactly, with pinpoint precision, how to make her body hum. As his mouth pulled back and his tongue looped over one rock-hard nipple, she arched up, hips and shoulders curving like a gymnast’s in an extended floor exercise, except this time the floor she pounded her body against was Matt.

Strong arms reached under her ass and pulled her sharply to the right, centering her on the bed. With eyes wide open she watched his cut torso, so tight and perfect, like a fitness model’s. Fingers reached out to stroke the little cutaway divots above his hips, such a contrast to her own soft, plump flesh in the same spot. He smiled, hovering above her.

“Touch it all, Lydia. Touch whatever you want. This is about you. All of it.”

Speechless, she caught his eyes, the green intensity otherworldly once more. A blooming sensation filled her, giving hope to a long-held wish that maybe there really was a man out there who could make her feel so worshiped, so complete, so desirable that her mere presence was enough. Now on her back, Lydia relinquished herself as Matt pulled a pillow from beneath the tucked bedspread and slid it under her hips, the brutal yet sensitive friction of the cotton against her ass, the cold shiver that ran through her, all mixing together to make the room large and small, and time just an idea that someone else possessed.