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I’m comfortable. What else?”
    “Tell me your fantasies.”
    “That’s a rule?”
    “I’m done with the rules. Now I want to know”—he reached over to push her hair back and tapped her temple—“how your mind works.”
    The touch was slight yet somehow intimate, as if they were the only two people in the room. She thought about the massage fantasy, but she couldn’t tell him that one. Because of the way Gary had reacted. Not that she thought the Viking—Rand—would think the same thing, but because it was embarrassing that her husband had had so little faith in her that he thought she’d dosomething in a massage parlor. “I’m not sure I have any fantasies,” she evaded.
    “Now, that’s another rule.”
    “What?”
    “We only speak the truth.”
    She snorted. “Well, that’s pretty darn scary.”
    Putting a finger under her chin, he was so close she could see tiny flecks of brown in the blue irises. She could smell him, not soap or aftershave or even toothpaste, but
him
: man, sex, testosterone.
    “You tell me your fantasies, and I will make everything we do so good for you, you won’t be able to get enough.”
    She felt herself falling, falling, into his gaze, his thoughts, his mind. He’d said their meeting wasn’t coincidence, and she suddenly believed he was right, that this was meant to be, that he was the perfect man and this was the perfect time. She wanted to follow any rule he set down.
    Okay, and the first was to give him the truth. “I do have one fantasy.” She had others besides the masseur, but they were vanilla, and that wasn’t what he was asking for. “But I’m not ready to tell you about it.”
    “Fair enough.” He dropped his hand, picked up his coffee. “But you were at Pleasure Time, and that bag contained more than a pair of sexy panties.”
    She couldn’t help blushing.
    “And you said you’d been thinking about us. I’m assuming we weren’t just holding hands in those thoughts.”
    “No. But it didn’t qualify as pushing any limits.” And imagining him as a Viking raider was a bit too juvenile. She pursed her lips. “I should admit I’m pretty vanilla.”
    He winked. “Then we’ve got so many things to try. Let’s start with the basics. I’ll list a few things. You tell me what appeals to you.”
    “All right.”
    “Voyeurism,” he said in that low, deep, sexy voice.
    She shot a look at the tables close by. No one cared. Besides, the roar of the espresso machine would drown out their words. “You mean like a Peeping Tom?”
    “That’s negative. I’m talking about watching people who want to be seen.”
    “Oh.” She absently stirred the plastic stick in her mocha and imagined taking a walk at night and passing a house with open curtains. Oh my God, she remembered a story a friend had told her. She hadn’t seen Laurie in ages, but she remembered the account Laurie had given.
    “What?” he prompted.
    “Something a friend once related to me.”
    “Tell me.”
    She felt a kick inside. “She lived in an apartment on the third floor, and from her living room she could see straight down into an apartment on the second floor across the way, especially at night, when the lights were on.”
    “Into the bedroom?”
    “No, it was a spare room the woman did her ironing in. One night the woman’s boyfriend came in, lifted her dress over her hips, and went down on his knees.” She was suddenly wet, thinking of the story, the woman, what her boyfriend was doing. And Rand sitting so very close while she talked about sex.
    “He went down on her.”
    “Yes.” Laurie said he went to town. They didn’t switch off the lights, and the woman never turned around. She simply stopped ironing and spread her legs wider for him.
    Rachel looked at Rand, and it was like that moment on Santana Row, or in the bar when Bree plunked down the condom. Everything faded. There was only him, his eyes on her face, the sound of his breath. And how wet she was between her