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amused by the look on his face. He was like the proverbial kid in the
candy shop, given free rein to indulge as much as he wanted. She didn’t want to
wake him just yet, enjoying his gleeful expression.
    Suddenly, he was rolling her onto her back and
coming over her, inserting his legs between hers. His eyes were still closed as
he surged into her, filling her to the hilt with one determined thrust.
    She winced a little, not yet fully aroused, sorer
now from the second coupling. But it still felt good, so good, and different
from the other times. Heat and dampness pooled and spread as she relaxed into
his slow, unhurried rhythm, her arousal increasing as his chest rubbed against
her breasts and his breath sounded strong and even against her ear.
    For a long, pleasurable time, he rocked languidly
into her. She wondered if he would ever wake up, missing the penetrating fire
of his gaze. But when his pace quickened and he braced himself on his arms
above her, his eyes were still shut, squeezed tightly together now as he
groaned and heaved. She clasped his arms, on the verge of climax, when she
suddenly felt his release, a gush of hot liquid bathing her womb.
    Oh God. He wasn’t wearing a condom. Yet, even as
her mind was trying to grasp that troublesome fact, she was enthralled by the
feel of that virile heat inside of her body, the intensity of that feeling
instigating her own quiet orgasm.
    All coherent thought was pushed aside as he fell
against her, his cheek pressed to hers. She wrapped her arms and legs around
him, keeping him close, holding on to him for as long as he would allow.
    Coasting on the edge of sleep, she gradually
became aware that something had changed. His arms had tightened around her. He
must be awake. But his head was still pressed close to hers and he was shaking
uncontrollably, his body convulsing with what she gradually, and with shocked
dismay and concern, realized were silent, gut-wrenching sobs.
    He was crying.
    She brought one hand to his head, running her
fingers soothingly through his hair. At a loss, she didn’t know what to say.
She could only respond with a silent, tender touch to the dark, deep emotions
that seemed to emanate from the very core of his being.
    She felt his mouth against her neck, burying
tear-soaked kisses there. He muttered something against her skin. She strained
her ears to decipher the one word as he spoke it again.
    “ Rachel .

2
     
    Six months later .
              “Rob wants everyone to meet in the
conference room in five minutes.”
              Maggie glanced up from her computer
screen. “Do you know what it’s about?”
    Her colleague and fellow copywriter, Samantha,
shrugged, already moving away from the entrance to Maggie’s cubical. “No clue.
But he seemed pretty excited. I’ve got to round up the herd. See you in a few.”
    Maggie rubbed her eyes, welcoming the break from
writing fresh advertising copy for one of the agency’s longstanding clients, a
Midwest steakhouse restaurant chain. Trying to come up with new and unusual
words to describe a cut of filet mignon was making her feel a little queasy.
    Grabbing her yellow legal pad and a pen, she made
her way down the hall to the conference room. All of the employees at Pelham
and Mason Advertising Agency were gathered there, including the receptionist.
This was something major then.
    Maggie took the empty seat between Samantha and
Dan, the art director on their team. The three of them reported to Tim Mason,
owner and Creative Director of the firm, a title he shared with Rob Pelham. Rob
and Tim had started the agency located on the outskirts of Des Moines three
years ago, both having come from a prestigious New York agency. It was a small
agency with just under twenty employees at the moment, but it was beginning to
grow since business had picked up within the last year. The copywriters and art
directors reported to either Tim or Rob, each team responsible for different
projects, but