Page 133 of The Fixer

“That’s why they call it fantasy. And fantasies are hot. Wanna know one of my favorite scenes?”

“Um, maybe?” She suddenly looked flustered, which only emboldened him. He loved when she let her vulnerable side show.

“It’s in book two, and they’re at a party, and she’s wearing this tight white skirt and heels up to here, and he takes her out onto this tiny balcony. They’re thirty stories up, people are drinking and yakking behind them with only a wall of glass separating them, and he leans her over the rail, unbuttons the top of her blouse, and somehow pushes her bra out of the way so he can feel her up while he lifts her skirt and yanks off her panties. Like, he rips them off her and tosses them over the rail to the street below. Who does that? And imagine the person’s surprise who’s out walking their dog and finds them on the ground—or has them land on his head.

“Anyway, our main character proceeds to unzip himself and starts driving into her from behind, hands on her bare tits, while she’s bent over this rail with only air below her, and people all around. The partiers might be watching from inside. Or they might even step out onto the same balcony for a breath of fresh air—not to mention an eyeful—while bystanders are sneaking peeks from surrounding balconies and buildings with their binocs and telescopes.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Our boy might be a smooth operator—he’s definitely a litterbug, which loses him points in my book—but I’m not sure how he manages all that logistically, which is why I’d like to try it out. Experiment. The part I’m especially interested in is whether he can really make her come with three—or was it four?—Michael Jackson thrusts.”

“You’re ridiculous!”

“I’m not the one who wrote it. And I’d like to add that you have an intriguingly dirty mind. Know what else? We’re only twenty stories up here, but I checked out your balconies, and I think we have ourselves an opportunity. Got a tight white skirt in one of those closets? You can skip the panties.”

“Writing is one thing, but doing—” Her face flushed an alluring shade of pink, and his mind clicked into one solitary track. “You think my writing’s ridiculous, don’t you? Go on, let’s get it over with.”

Oh hell no. “Would you stop trying to read my mind already? You’re really bad at it.”

Her brows drew so close together they left no daylight. “Then whatdoyou think? Not that I really want to know.” She murmured the last part so low he barely heard.

He reached out and caressed her upper arm. “What I think is that it’s really … How do I put this?Fucking hot. Reallyfucking hot.My first impression of you was officially dismantled the first time I peeked at your journal in the bar.”

“So youdidpeek. And that’s not an answer to my question.”

He held up his hand. “I confess, I peeked. But seriously, I’m a little humbled, a lot awed. You’re very creative, Joy Holiday. And I’m not talking about the sexy stuff. I mean the whole story. How do you spin that? I don’t know where you come up with the pictures in your mind or how you’re able to translate them so other people can see them, but it blows me away.”

Her blush deepened. She wasn’t good with compliments, which was a shame. She was a woman who should hear compliments every hour of every day.

“You mean the same way you take a picture in your mind and draw it on a menu? Or create a logo?”

“Nah, that’s different. And again, I’m not talking strictly about your erotic stuff. Although now that we’re back onthatsubject—”

“I thinkyou’reback on that subject all by yourself.”

“Because it’s one of my favorites.” He flashed her what he hoped was a disarming grin. “How’s this? If we can’t do the scene from book two—which I admit presents more danger than two people under the influence should indulge in, plus I’m not in favor of the voyeurs because this is private stuff—then I want to re-enact that scene in the fourth book where your characters—”

“You know that’s not from my own experiences, right? Though since you and I have gotten together, I have excellent real-life material to work with.”

He smirked. “I don’t know, don’t care where your ideas spring from, baby. I just want to find out if it’s as hot as it sounds. And afterthatscene, there’s another one we need to try—where she’s naked and bent over the barstool with her wrists and ankles tied to the legs with velvet curtain ties. God, I’m hard just saying that out loud.” He made an exaggerated appraisal of her barstools. “Yeah, they’ll hold.”

She burst out with a laugh.

“Okay. No balconies or barstools.” He sent her a wink. “How about you take me on a tour of your bed instead?”

Wordlessly, she took his hand in hers, switched off the kitchen lights, and led him down the hallway.

He lost track oftime, of the ground beneath him. All he knew was the taste of her skin, the earthy smell of the two of them together infusing her sheets, and the heavenly heat cradling him when he slid in and out of her body. Their coupling hadn’t been of the frantic, strenuous sort, but rather a languid lovemaking that was soul-deep and so, so sweet—the kind that connected two people together at the heart. The kind he’d been craving since she’d left Fall River.

He had just returned to her bed after ridding himself of a condom for the second time in as many hours, and he lay back and tucked her against his side. Lacing his fingers with hers, he placed their joined hands on his chest, and with his free hand he sifted his fingers through her hair.

This, right here, was all he wanted. All he needed.

She threw a long leg over his and snuggled against him, using his shoulder as a pillow. “You’re not the only one who slew a beast this week.” Her voice was thick with sated exhaustion.

“Who’s slaying beasts?”

“You did, when you took on the Silver Summit guys.”

“Maybe. What monster did you take down?” Sterling Fuckface’s smug mug floated in his mind’s eye. A desire to kick the guy’s ass rose up inside him with primal urgency. Joy belonged to him, and he was determined to make sure she and that asshole knew it.

“Nope. My supposed sister.”

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