out that his company came first and everything else a very distant second, and for him to discover that once sex was out of the way, he had very little in common with any of the women. Not that it made much difference. He’d figured out a while ago that settling down wasn’t in his blood.
Home base was in Minneapolis, but he had a house in San Francisco, an apartment in Chicago and a condo in New Jersey, and he probably couldn’t recite the phone numbers of any of them. His cell phone. Now that was the important number.
Although recently an altogether different number had begun resonating through his brain. The number one. The Three Dog Night song of the same name had been playing right along with it. Where one had been more than okay with him before, now it seemed to be emerging the loneliest number, indeed. He noticed it during his last trip to New Mexico, when he’d landed the big deal with Shoes You Use. Deals like that one always planted a grin on his face. But for some reason, the three months of courting the account, wining and dining the company’s reps, then the bigwigs, had felt anticlimactic somehow.
Anticlimactic. Now there was a word. Yeah, well, if he’d paid more attention to the girls at the strip joint earlier, maybe even now he’d be experiencing some real climactic moments. Instead, he’d spent the four hours at the men’s club staring at the dancers’ feet, fixated on his plans to expand his collection of sports shoes to include daily wear. It was then he knew something was really wrong with him. Here were fantastically sculpted women with perfectly bare breasts, and he was fascinated with their feet.
Joe shifted uncomfortably. He was reasonably sure that the account reps he’d been schmoozing hadn’t noticed his distraction. Then again, why should they have? They’d been doing all the things normal men did when a naked woman was shaking her wares in their faces. Namely hooting, hollering and stuffing sweaty bills into barely there bikini bottoms.
Maybe he’d just been to one too many strip joints, he reasoned. There was nothing wrong with him. It was normal to encounter the odd rough patch, wasn’t it? Times when things didn’t make much sense? When a guy stopped cold in his tracks and asked himself just what it was all about, anyway?
Yeah? Well, then, why had he never experienced one before?
He’d always been happy with his bachelor status. Very happy. A jock of all sports throughout high school, he hadn’t allowed his physical capabilities to get in the way of his education and he’d graduated in the top ten percent of his class. An injury while playing college basketball had left him facing a long recovery period. But rather than wallowing in self-pity, he’d traced his injury back to the shoes he’d been wearing and had designed the first of what would be many pairs. He’d graduated, was featured in Forbes at age twenty-five and for all intents and purposes was one of the most successful bachelors on either side of the Mississippi. He’d even finally managed to earn his father’s stamp of approval a couple years back when he’d finagled a sponsorship deal with a top player with the Minnesota Timberwolves. A basketball fan from way back, his retired Army colonel father had grinned from the courtside seat the entire season. It was the first time Joe had ever seen tears in his father’s eyes, the day when the entire team had posed for a picture with the old man in center court.
Joe found himself grinning. Yes, that had definitely been a highlight. And his actions had earned him an ally against his mother whenever she launched one of her “I want grandchildren” attacks.
Joe figured he’d had it pretty good. An only child. A successful entrepreneur. A relatively problem-free existence.
Then why in hell did he suddenly feel like he was missing the point? That there was something he just wasn’t getting?
A shadow fell across his bed from the direction of the open balcony doors. Probably a cloud. He rolled over, away from the balcony, and folded the pillow under his head. He had a full day on tap for tomorrow. Another tour through the target company’s inventory warehouse. A look at charts and graphs of how their other products were doing. Another night spent playing the good old boy.
The sheet around his midsection stirred. He grimaced and looked at it. What the hell?
His thoughts stopped completely when a slender female hand circled his waist from behind. Simultaneously, he felt a hot, wet body slide against his back. A very naked, hot, damp body.
Had he fallen asleep? Was this a wet dream, like the ones he used to have when he was seventeen?
The hand rested against his abs between his ribs and his navel. His stomach automatically tightened. The smell of peaches teased his nose. The details seemed very real to him. And if he was asleep, he wanted to get a glimpse of this dream girl.
He moved to turn around.
“No, don’t!” a female voice whispered, the arm tightening around his waist, the hand slipping a little lower.
Joe swallowed hard. Definitely not a dream.
Sounds of footsteps on the balcony, and more shadows fell across his bed. Then suddenly, where he’d been pinned in place moments ago, the same arm was flattening him on his back and the woman was straddling him.
Breasts. Bare breasts. That’s the first thing Joe saw as firm thighs squeezed his hips. The same type of breasts that hadn’t moved him one iota at the strip joint earlier but now made his mouth water, the stiff, peaked tips swaying a mere inch or so away.
The woman bent forward. “Stay still,” she quietly ordered.
What did she mean? He was still.
Oh. Well, maybe there was one part of him that wasn’t completely obeying.
The sound of the balcony doors being slid open, then the woman was kissing him.
No, she wasn’t kissing him. She was on the brink of devouring him. The instant her lips pressed against his, her tongue darted shamelessly inside his mouth, along the length of his, then around the interior like it was a hot, dark cave she was determined to map out.
Joe stared at her, bug-eyed in the dim yellow light. Lots of dark curly hair, wide, dark eyes—her tongue dipped again, flicking against his—and a hotly decadent mouth.
He groaned against the mattress and lifted his hands, burying his fingers in the mass of damp fragrant curls tickling his face.
Sweet Jesus, but this was better than any dream. Forgotten were the strangers on his balcony, the identity of the woman straddling him, the bizarre notion that he didn’t have any idea what was happening. All he could think about was the rush of heat to his groin, the thunk thunk of his heartbeat in his chest, the taste of the mouth even now plundering his, the feel of soft curls clasped in his fingers.
Then she moved.
Oh, God, she moved.
Joe had to break contact with that incredible mouth and groan as his erection pressed into the V of her thighs. He grasped her bare hips and held her still, his hips jutting upward against her.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized the shadows were no longer at the balcony doors.
The dream nymph on top of him moved again. But this time it was away.
Joe reached for the shadowy silhouette but missed as she padded toward the balcony. A dull click, a rasp of fabric, then the light next to his bedside table was switched on.
Joe blinked at the woman standing in front of the backdrop of the closed balcony doors and heavy maroon curtains, finding her visually every inch as delectable as she had felt. Wild, curly auburn hair framed her oval face, contrasting against her pale skin, the length brushing her shoulders. Breasts full and pouty stood high on her chest, shadowing the slender waist below. The triangle of fleecy curls between her toned thighs was just a shade darker than her hair and seemed to point toward her legs—wondrously long, shapely legs that ended in a pair of sexy feet.
But it was her eyes, almond shaped, brown and large as chestnuts, that told him what had just happened was an aberration.
“I need your help,” she said, her voice void of the sexy whisper of moments ago and