Jill Shalvis: Her Perfect Stranger

"Looksy there," one said, slurring his words as he nudged the man next to him. "Now that's the way to pass the time, matey." The drunk leered at Mike and gave an exaggerated wink. "Don't need to tell you to keep warm, huh? You've got your heating blankie right there with you."

Both men laughed uproariously, and as they did, slipped down a few stairs, to fall together in a heap. It made them laugh even harder.

"Feeling no pain, I see." Mike stepped over them and helped her do the same.

The next flight of stairs began the same way, but then they heard a strange, heated moaning, then rapid panting. Mike didn't know what he expected to find. A fight, maybe. Someone stabbed or shot, someone in labor…he couldn't tell from the frightening sounds. He was prepared for anything, though, and tried to keep the woman behind him to protect her.

But she refused to be kept there, even for her own good. She evaded his hands and stayed stubbornly by his side.

The sounds came from a couple, and it wasn't a fight or severe wounds, as he'd feared, but a wild mating. Clothes were half torn off both of them. They were writhing together against the wall, and given the scream of pleasure that tore from the woman's lips, they were also deep in the throes of orgasm.

Mike looked at "Lola," but she didn't close her eyes or seem embarrassed. She just stared at the couple in front of them, as if mesmerized.

They had a perfect view. The woman was wedged up against the wall; the man could touch and grab at will, which he was doing. Her breasts were bare, and bouncing wildly in the man's face, which elicited plenty of encouraging groans from both of them. His hands snaked up her skirt, where he held her hips so that he could thrust into her, time and time again.

"Now! Now!" she shrieked. "Oh, Billy, now!"

"Yeah," said Billy as he pounded into her. "Yeah, baby."

"Ohh." Breasts jiggled. Her bottom bounced. Skin slapped against skin. "Oh, Billy, I'm going to come again!"

"Yeah, baby. Me, too."

Together they let out more shrieks and cries, and then moaning gutturally, they slumped together.

The woman standing next to Mike let out a strangled sound of her own. "Can we get past them, do you think?"

She sounded…breathless, and her palm in his had gotten warm. Almost sweaty.

Mike knew the feeling. He had never considered himself voyeuristic, but witnessing this couple, with Lola beside him, his desire kicked up a degree. He was so hot, so hard and so unbelievably ready he could hardly nod. "Game on," he muttered, and together the two of them started running.

Up the fifth flight, then the sixth.

At the top, Mike stopped, certain he'd gone too fast this time.

"If you ask me if I need to rest," she said seriously, "I will smack you."

She wasn't even winded. Neither was he, but hell, they'd come a long way up.

"And if you marvel about what good shape I'm in," she continued, "when you're obviously in just as good a shape, I'll-"

"I know," he said. "Smack me. Don't worry, I'll restrain myself and admire your strength later. Come on."

They made it to his door. No one was around, and the hallway was pitch-black except for the light from his trusty flashlight.

Taking out his key card, he looked down into her face. She was watching him with an unreadable expression. Slowly he reached out and stroked a finger over her cheek, her jaw. "Are you sure?"

"Already sorry you asked me?"

"Are you kidding?"

"Well then, I'm not sorry I'm here." She lifted a hand, too, and touched his face, ran her finger over his lower lip, over his jaw so that his day-old growth of beard rasped loudly in the silent hall. When she rimmed his ear, he sucked in a harsh breath, every muscle tight and tense.

"Are we going to stand out here all night?" she asked. "Or go in and…"

"And?" he pressed, stepping closer and running his fingers down her neck now, delighting in the shiver that wracked her. He stroked his thumb over the pulse dancing wildly at the base of her throat.

"And finish this," she whispered, her eyes closing, her head falling back slightly to give him more room. "Let's finish what we started the moment we looked into each other's eyes. Okay?"

"Oh yeah. It's more than okay." And with his body-and heart-buzzing, he put his key card in the slot.

The room seemed darker than the hallway. Dark but warm, and somehow inviting.

Definitely their safe haven from the storm.

Corrine stepped into the room and moved silently to the window. Pulling back the shades didn't let more light into the room. The blurry window was streaming with rain and sleet, but this high up, with the windows sealed, the night and the storm were eerily silent. She could barely make out the city below, and it was easy to believe they were anywhere, anywhere in the world, all alone.

He came up behind her, not touching, just…there. "I'm not married," he said. "Or attached." When she craned her neck and looked at him, he gave a little smile. "I know, you don't want to talk about yourself, and you don't want to talk about me, either, but I just wanted you to know that."

She had a hard time imagining this man without companionship. "You're unattached?"

He shrugged. "I see women. Nothing serious has come my way. Not yet, anyway."

She was selfishly relieved. She'd never been married, and hadn't been attached in so long she'd almost forgotten what it was like. Oddly enough, given such a lack of romance, Corrine's life was made up of men. But even being with men on a daily basis, she'd never been more aware of one in her life than she was right now. She felt surrounded by him, her perfect stranger, and she shivered again, though it had nothing to do with fear or intimidation or cold, everything to do with stark, demanding need.

If that need hadn't been so strong, so undeniable, so utterly reciprocated, she would have died of embarrassment, because Corrine Atkinson didn't need anyone, never had. But it was strong, it was undeniable and it was most definitely reciprocated. "I'm not married or attached, either," she said, turning toward him. "If nothing else, you deserve to know that."

His smile was slow and nearly stopped her heart. "Good," he said.

More lightning flashed, but the thunder was muted, almost as if it was happening in another time and place.

"I love to watch a storm," she said, suddenly nervous enough to let him in, just a little. "Especially at night."

"It's different at night," he agreed. "More intense. When you can't see, the other senses kick in, so you feel it more."

Exactly. He understood.

Which caused even more nervousness. "My mother hates this weather. It messes with her hair." Where had that come from? Corrine never shared herself, any part, including her family. To share meant opening up, and that wasn't her way.

Before she could cover up that slip with a light joke, he stroked her hair. "It only makes yours all the more beautiful."

Uncomfortable with compliments, she lifted a hand to the long, tangled mess, which had gone wild the moment she'd stepped out of the cab.

"I love the curls," he said, and stroked it again.

She felt the touch to the tips of her toes. "I usually keep it confined." Another personal fact, damn it. Her hair was one of those things about herself that she'd change if she could, like webbed feet or short, fat fingers. "I leave it long because I can pin it back. If I cut it short I look like a mop."

He laughed.

Good Lord, who'd given her tongue permission to run off with her mouth?

"It's so soft." He tucked a particularly wayward curl behind her ear, his fingers tracing down along her jaw.

She could no longer breathe.

His hand danced down her throat to the lapels of his jacket, which he drew more tightly together.