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peered over his shoulder at her. Intrigued. Against his will. He lost with a fair bit of grace; not a bad characteristic.
    â€œThat’s what I claim as my winnings,” she said as she twirled her hair into a knot and snapped the elastic off her wrist. “I want you to want the next time we do this. If you manage it, you set the pace for our next encounter. If you don’t, I win again.”
    â€œWe agreed on a forfeit, not torture,” he said.
    â€œYou’re being dramatic. Think of it as a chance to redeem yourself after a loss.”
    â€œYou’re not the one going without for days.”
    She patted his chest as she scooted past him and found her clogs, kicked off by the door. “I’ll play, too. Neither of us gets off until we see each other again.”
    â€œThis can’t be much of a sacrifice for you if you’re willing to go along with it.”
    â€œThat’s the first sex I’ve had in . . .” Thinking about it reminded her of the darker reason that had brought her to New York. To distract herself she tried to count the days and got lost in months. This was exactly what she needed, and after what she’d gone through for two years, a little spring fling wouldn’t hurt. “A very long time, and it was top ten, easily. Top five, maybe. I’d have to think about it. No, I wouldn’t. Top five. Anyway, I could go again right now, so this won’t be easy for me, either.”
    Long fingers wrapped around her upper arm. “I bet I can get top three. Who’s number one?”
    Heat eddied through her, because his voice was as scratchy and raw and demanding as his stubble on her cheek. “I dated a soldier who deployed to Afghanistan. His first weekend home on leave we holed up in a tent near the beach in Point Reyes. Sunshine and the ocean after six months of celibacy. I know what it means to ache for it, and I know how good it feels when you get it.”
    He stroked the soft inner flesh of her arm, not-so-coincidentally running the backs of his fingers against the swell of her breast. “I’m not waiting six months for dinner.”
    â€œNeither am I. Saturday night? My roommate’s going to her first weekend at her beach house.”
    â€œI haven’t eaten dinner yet today.”
    She laughed and hunkered down by her messenger bag to find her phone. “We wait. What’s your number?” He rattled off a 212 number. She keyed it into her phone, sent him a quick text to give him her number, then picked up her messenger bag.
    â€œSarah.”
    She stopped. She didn’t mean to, but there was an edge of command in his voice, a rough, masculine power that hinted that while he’d underestimated her, he’d also been holding back. There was nothing hotter than six-plus feet of blond, bearded man at her command.
    â€œI won’t underestimate you again,” he said.
    â€œGood,” she said, and unlocked the door.
    â€œOne more thing. Did you feed strays?”
    â€œNo. My mother said it was best not to encourage them. We trapped them and took them to the shelter. I play to win, Tim.”
    ***
    Sarah clattered down the narrow stairwell to the door leading to the street and hoped no one in the building worked the night shift. Her favorite Dansko clogs in a fire engine–red patent leather saved her legs during long shifts on her feet, but they weren’t exactly stealth shoes. When she reached the street, she stopped and took her bearings, adding Tim’s exact address to his contact in her phone, and the cross streets for good measure. Manhattan wasn’t difficult to navigate on the grid above Houston, but below that, the streets were a lopsided warren with odd names and no discernible rhyme or reason to naming.
    She plugged her Brooklyn Heights address into the maps app on her phone and waited while it calculated a walking route. It would take her an hour, but that suited her. The