Scott was hers. Hers alone. For tonight.
And when he spilled himself inside her, with a gasping, luscious groan into the mouth he was kissing so deeply, Kate held him tight, so tightly against her, and wrapped her legs around him, let herself join him in her own flowering release.
‘Thank you,’ he whispered into her ear.
For what? she wanted to ask, but she dared not break the spell by seeking answers he wouldn’t give.
And in any case Scott was holding her close, kissing the top of her head, stroking her back. And it really was enough.
So beautiful… Soothing… Lovely…
Ahhhh…
When Kate woke early the next morning she turned, smiling, to face Scott—only to find his side of the bed empty.
A quick walk through the apartment showed that all he’d left behind was a note, on the kitchen bench.
Saturday night?
S
Two words. One question mark. One initial.
Which brought home to Kate that last night had been just…well, just last night.
He hadn’t stayed until morning, the way she’d thought he might. She wouldn’t see him tonight, the way she’d hoped. And their relationship hadn’t metamorphosed into anything other than what it was: contractual sex.
Which brought her to Saturday night. Yes or no?
She sighed as she looked at the calendar on her fridge. Today was Friday the thirteenth—hopefully that wasn’t an omen!—and Saturday, tomorrow, was…
Oh.
Ohhhhh.
Saturday. The fourteenth of February.
Not that the momentousness of that date would have entered Scott’s head. He wasn’t a Valentine’s Day kind of guy.
And in this instance it was a moot point. Because her sister Shay, and Shay’s partner Rick—who were Valentine’s Day kind of people—were leaving their two gorgeous daughters with Kate while they went out for a romantic dinner.
So she should just get straight on the phone and tell Scott she was busy on Saturday. No need to embarrass herself by mentioning Valentine’s Day. She didn’t want him to think she was angling for something other than sex. Something like… Well, something Valentine-ish.
Even if she had a lump in her throat about the whole stupid day.
A lump so big it was physically impossible to get a word out of her clogged-up throat. Which made a phone call impossible.
Okay, she would email.
Got your note, Scott.
I’m babysitting my nieces, Maeve and Molly, on Saturday night. I’m free Sunday if that suits?
Kate
There. Cool, businesslike. Contract-worthy.
Three hours later, back came a two-word response: No problem.
And Kate released a big, sighing breath.
Right.
Good.
Good…right?
Because Valentine’s Day actually sucked. If Kate had a dollar for every now-divorced couple who’d managed either their proposal or their actual wedding on February the fourteenth, she’d be retired already! Valentine’s Day was all about spending too much on wilted roses and eating overpriced restaurant dinners.
Stupid.
The worst possible day for scheduling a date with a sex-only partner.
Valentine’s Day? As if!
Kate went to her kitchen, looked again at the calendar stuck on her fridge.
Yep, there it was. February the fourteenth. With a nice big red heart on it, courtesy of whoever printed stupid refrigerator calendars. A big red heart. A love heart.
And, to her absolute horror, Kate’s eyes filled with tears.
Kate had a hectic day of meetings, followed by a catch-up with the girls for drinks after work, and by the time she clambered into bed that night, she was sure she was over the whole weepy Valentine’s Day phenomenon that had blindsided her.
So when she woke on Saturday morning to find that depression had settled over her like a damp quilt, she went the whole tortured-groan route. What had happened to her brain during that awards dinner on Thursday night to have resulted in her losing all her common sense?
Sex-only partners did not celebrate Valentine’s Day. Sex-only partners scheduled sex on days like the fifteenth of February. A perfectly legitimate, much more appropriate day for having no-strings sex with guys who left two-word notes on your kitchen counter.
A two-word note. And a two-word email. That encapsulated her relationship with Scott very nicely—two words: sex contract.
Imbued with a burst of damn your eyes energy, Kate got out of bed and on the spot decided to clean her apartment. An activity that was not some kind of displacement therapy twisted up in her need to wash that man right out of her hair, but a simple household activity. A spring clean—just in summer.
She got underway with gusto.
Gusto that lasted approximately fifteen minutes.
Which was how long it took for the first memory to sneak in.
Kate was wiping down the dining table—and there in her head was the memory of that first night… Scott reaching across to hold her breast…and then the whole dining chair thing. Ohhhhhhh.
It was like a switch, throwing open the floodgates—because the memories started pouring in, room by room, after that. Plumping up the couch cushions—that night when he’d thrown the cushions off and dragged her on top of him… Cleaning out the fridge—Scott, coming up behind her, hands all over her… Bathroom—three separate shower scenes.
Her bedroom—holy hell. So vivid it was painful. And the most painful of all that last time… Scott drawing her gently down onto the bed…kissing her as if he wanted them to merge.
Okay, enough cleaning.
She hurried to the laundry to dump the housekeeping paraphernalia, only to be hit by another memory. Oh. My. God. Had she—? Yes, she had! She’d had sex with Scott Knight in every single room of her apartment—including the damned laundry room! What normal person had sex in the laundry room? Sitting on top of the washing machine, with the vibrations adding a little extra hum to proceedings as you wrapped your legs around—
Arrrggghh.
