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sophomore again, losing her virginity to the only boy who had ever moved her to be wild. She kissed her way down Andrew’s stomach, running her tongue over him, biting him softly, lost in lustful time and space. Straddling his thighs, she heard her throaty voice ask for a condom, knowing he must have one, and afraid that if he didn’t she wouldn’t stop.
    He slid from under her and reached for his pants. There was the sweet tearing sound of the packet, and he was on his knees in front of her, ready. “I was a boy scout,” he said.
    “Of course you were.”
    Andrew brushed the hair off her face and, taking her cheeks into his hands, kissed her deeply. Claire floated in his desire for her, a devouring kind of lust she realized in that moment that she’d never inspired in her husband, even in their erotically charged early years, and she grew hotter with each kiss. He traced her shoulders and torso, her waist, until finally his hands came to rest between her legs. Within seconds she was writhing and moaning atop her formerly pristine eight-hundred-thread-count sheets, her body on fire and spasming at his touch, her voice screaming, “fuck me, fuck me now,” as if she had never wanted anything more in her life. He obliged, wrapping her legs around his neck and holding her hips tight. It was an electric jolt to her limbic system, a surrender that felt somehow safe and liberating.
    “God, you’re exquisite,” Andrew said, his chest muscles contracting with their shared rhythm. She came again, this time a halo of exploding mirror flashing behind her closed eyes. Words of gratitude, even love, rattled around her head.
    An hour had passed, maybe more, when they were finally able to pry themselves free from one another. They lay quiet and motionless as they waited for their bodies to calm. And as the hungry glow ebbed and the cool chill of reality blanketed the room, the passionate words Claire had imagined saying also slipped away. She rolled to the edge of the bed, suddenly nervous that Nicholas might actually come home instead of going to Reese’s. The numbers on the clock flashed amber like a cat’s eyes in the darkness. “We should . . . get moving.”
    They dressed in hurried silence. As they stepped into the hallway Andrew reached for her hand, and she shivered, feeling the sudden weight of her recklessness shroud her skin.

C HAPTER 4
    C laire walked Andrew Bricker out into the June night, dazed. The temperature had dropped while they’d been in the house, and the scent of roses perfumed the gusty air. She inhaled and waited for the soothing effect of her garden to work its magic. Instead, like a weed, apprehension choked her.
    “Incredible night,” Andrew said, looking skyward, his voice gravelly and sated. Claire forced a nod and contemplated him from the side as they made their way to his car—his lingering smile and ruffled hair, the scar. But still she had no words for him, as if being clothed and vertical again had caused a shift in something more than her posture. Goose bumps flared on her bare arms and she hugged them to her chest, slowing her pace. When they reached the edge of the pathway, Claire watched him fold his body deep into the interior of his borrowed Porsche, his green eyes locked on her face. “When can I see you again?” he asked.
    Her body tensed. Never? Tomorrow? She glanced up at the veiled moon for encouragement, as the wind whipped the branches of the Aspen trees along the circular drive and lifted dust into the air. She moved closer to the car, sensing the coming storm. Wiping cottonwood flecks from her lashes, Claire looked down at Andrew and then quickly away toward her house in the billowy moonlight, afraid to get caught in his gaze, afraid that if she spoke, regret would tumble from her mouth like rocks.
    The chimneys and archways of the house cast wild shadows on the manicured lawn. Nicholas’s lacrosse nets flapped in the gale. Interior lights glowed orange and comforting