LITMIR.BIZ

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and restless for three days, and had stared at the ceiling most nights reliving her eight hours with Jaiven in all of its excruciating and exquisite detail.

      Now that it was over she felt incredibly embarrassed by what she’d done. What kind of woman agreed to have sex in a hotel room with a stranger?

      Plenty of women, probably. Maybe most of her students. But she never had. She’d had exactly two sexual partners before Jaiven. Her husband, Jack, and then briefly a boyfriend five years ago, who had been the wrong person at the wrong time. She’d still been trying to get over the train wreck of her marriage, but she hadn’t been ready to trust or love. Maybe she never would be.

      And maybe she shouldn’t have thought she could handle a one-night stand. She’d wanted the oblivion of pleasure and she’d had that—for a night. But now? Now she felt a restless mix of want and guilt, unease and dissatisfaction. She still wanted Jaiven.

      Not that he was beating down her door, in any case. She doubted he’d spared her so much as a thought since she’d left the hotel suite. He’d probably moved on several times since her. It had been three nights, after all.

      Sighing impatiently, she turned back to the essay. Women’s individual resistance to pronatalist policies under Communist governments…

      Ugh. She had no space in her brain for this. Maybe she should get out, grab a coffee or go for a walk. Clear her head, restore her equilibrium. Anything to somehow appease this aching restlessness inside her.

      Unfortunately she had a feeling the only way to appease that would be another round with Jaiven, and she wasn’t willing to go there. He probably wasn’t, either.

      So she’d just have to deal with it the normal way: work and exercise. Eventually she’d forget him. Her body would, too.

      Restless, she checked her in-box before heading out for a coffee, surprised when an email popped in from someone named Nora Grant.

       Dear Ms. Jensen, I’m writing to you about a former student of yours, Harlow Spencer. I believe you were her advisor on her senior thesis. She went to London for a law internship and has been missing for several weeks. I wondered if I could talk to you at your earliest convenience? Sincerely, Nora Grant.

      Frowning, Louise recalled the young woman in question. Harlow Spencer. Tall, willowy, long chestnut hair, with a sharp mind and a surprising ambition. Louise had advised her on a thesis on sex trafficking last year, and then Harlow had left for London soon after graduation. And now she was missing? What did that mean, exactly?

      Her frown deepening, she clicked Reply. Dear Nora, I’m sorry to hear about your concerns with Harlow. I’m not sure how I could be of help, but I’m happy to meet—

      A quick rap on the door of her office surprised her and she looked up from her laptop.

      “Special delivery.”

      Department deliveries went to reception, not a hole-in-the-wall office on the second floor. “I’m not expecting a delivery,” she said as she opened the door, and then her jaw dropped because Jaiven was standing in the doorway, a parcel in his hands and a canary-eating grin on his face.

      “What…” She trailed off, unable to think. He wore the dark green button-down shirt and trousers of the JR Shipping delivery guys, and a pair of beat-up work boots.

      “Like I said, special delivery.” He sauntered past her into her office, which was the size of a shoe box and felt even smaller with Jaiven in it.

      Louise turned to face him, her arms folded. “Why do I think you don’t usually make deliveries for the company you’re CEO of?”

      “This is a special circumstance.”

      “I wasn’t aware of a special circumstance.” What she was aware of, Louise thought, was how amazing Jaiven looked even in a delivery uniform, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to expose his powerful, brown forearms. He’d placed the package on her desk and was now leaning against it, his arms folded in front of him. How anyone could think he was a mere delivery boy for even a moment was beyond Louise. He radiated both power and charisma.

      “The special circumstance,” he told her, “is that I’ve had this fantasy about sex with a certain college professor. In an office. With the door just a tiny bit open.”

      Louise’s mouth dried and she shook her head instinctively. Already she could feel the need rushing through her, weakening both her resolve and her knees. “Impossible.”

      “Actually, it’s not.” He straightened, walked slowly over to her and hooked a finger around her belt buckle, drew her forward a few unwilling inches. “And this outfit? Totally part of my fantasy.”

      She glanced down at her tailored trousers and crisp blouse. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

      “Just tell me you’re wearing that armored underwear again.”

      She let out a huff of laughter. “Tell me you don’t actually like control-top granny pants.”

      “They are seriously sexy.” Already Jaiven was unbuttoning her blouse, and she wasn’t doing a thing to stop him. The feel of his fingers against her skin felt like water when she was dying of thirst. A few drops dribbled on her lips and she wanted more. Needed more.

      As he slid the last button from its hole and parted her blouse, she saw, with a blaze of shock and even excitement, that the door was more than a tiny bit open. Anyone could walk by… Anyone could see…

      And somehow that just upped her desire. She never did stuff like this. And maybe she wanted to. Just once, anyway. She wanted to be reckless and wild and wanted.

      “Red lace, Louise?” Jaiven glanced down at the skimpy red lace bra she’d bought in a moment of reckless shopping and never wore. “Did you know I was coming?”

      “Actually, I just need to do my laundry.”

      He started on her belt buckle. “Tell me you’re wearing matching pants.”

      “Actually, a thong,” she said with a shaky laugh. She was incredibly embarrassed and yet also impossibly turned on. Jaiven stopped undoing her trousers to glance up at her, his eyes alight with wicked amusement.

      “Seriously? You’re going to kill me here.”

      “At least you’ll die happy,” she shot back, and he grinned.

      “That I will.” He popped the button on her trousers and somehow she found the will to stay his hand. “Jaiven, you can’t be serious. I’m at work.”

      He stuck out one foot and pushed the door so it was almost, but not quite, closed. “So?”

      He tugged down the zip of her trousers and Louise groaned aloud. “So, it’s unprofessional. I could be fired. Or on the news. Or something.” Except none of that seemed to matter as Jaiven hoisted her easily in his arms and sat her down on her own desk. On top of the pile of essays she’d just been about to mark, her laptop pushed to the side.

      And she knew then her protests had been tokens; she wanted this. Wanted to feel reckless and a little bit wicked. He stood between her legs and slid his hands into her hair.

      “And you put your hair up. Plus you’re wearing your glasses. I’m going crazy,” he muttered, and then he kissed her.

      Kissing him again felt, bizarrely and perhaps stupidly, like coming home. She remembered these lips, knew how good they made her feel. And the last of her protests scattered along with her inhibition as he slid his tongue into her mouth and his hand into her pants.

      Louise rocked against him, overwhelmed by sensation. “Secretly,” Jaiven murmured as he kissed her, “you’ve always had a fantasy about getting it on in your office with a delivery boy.”

      “Maybe,” Louise muttered. She couldn’t manage more than that. Jaiven was pressing against her and all she could think about was how good he had felt

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