BECCA AWOKE SLOWLY, gradually registering the things she usually did upon waking on this, her favorite day of the week. She loved, loved, loved Sunday mornings, because they heralded such a lazy, obligation and stress-free day. She sighed with satisfaction as, still half-asleep, she luxuriated in her surroundings.

Her bed was warm and cozy, the sheets piled around her smelling like a tropical breeze, courtesy of her tropical breeze scented—new and improved fragrance!—laundry detergent. Soft classical music drifted from the clock radio beside her bed, a lovely, lilting piano piece, the composer of which she couldn’t possibly identify, but she’d bet good money he was Italian. When she opened her eyes to half-mast she saw that gauzy, golden, late morning sunlight filtered through the closed blinds, striping the flowered walls and hardwood floor beneath. Outside that window, she could just make out the sounds of birds singing, children laughing and a soft breeze tinkling the wind chimes on her deck.

What a glorious morning, she thought, smiling as her eyes fluttered lazily shut again. Outside, the weather was sunny and clear. Inside, her bed was snug and toasty. Her entire day lay before her, blissfully agenda-free, and, at the moment, she felt as if she had all the time in the world to enjoy the lack of a schedule. Everything in her world was perfect. The Earth was spinning in its orbit, the planets were aligned, all was well in the universe and—

And she’d had relentless sex with Turner, all night long.

Her eyes snapped open when she remembered what had happened only hours before. Then they closed again when those memories became clearer. And more graphic. And more erotic. And more arousing.

Oh, Turner…

As if she’d spoken that last thought aloud, she felt him stirring beside her in the bed, and only then did she finally register the nearness of his body. He was spooned behind her, his broad—naked—chest pressed to her own—naked—back, his powerful—naked—thighs resting against her own—naked—thighs. One of his—naked—arms was slung up over her head, and the other—naked—arm was folded over her—naked—waist. Most obvious, though, in more ways than one, was how his full, rock-hard—and had she mentioned he was naked? And so was she?—erection was pushing against her fanny.

Her eyes fluttered closed again at the realization that he was waking up so ready for her, and she went wet, just like that, at the recognition of her own readiness for him. The hand at her waist crept higher, closing over her breast, and he nuzzled her neck from behind. Instinctively, Becca turned her head on the pillow to grant him freer access, and he brought his mouth into the action, dragging soft butterfly kisses along her throat and shoulder and back. Reaching behind herself, she tangled her fingers in his hair, her other hand covering the one splayed open now over her belly.

She felt him shift behind her, and without preliminaries, he slipped easily into her from behind. He pushed his hips forward slowly, languidly, so much less fiercely than he had during the night. This was obviously meant to be a slow, leisurely, good-morning coupling, and she couldn’t help thinking it was a much better way to ease into her Sunday.

His hand massaged her breast while the other pressed into her belly, and he gently nipped her shoulder as he bucked his hips less gently against her. Becca pushed herself back to greet him as he thrust deeper inside her, and he dropped his hand from her breast to anchor it to her waist. Holding her still with both hands, he jerked his hips forward, slamming against her ass. Becca moved her own hand between her legs to seek the wet, stiff little button of her clitoris. She gasped when she found it, then drew little circles on it with the pad of her middle finger, keeping time with Turner’s thrusting, until she felt the first waves of her climax rising.

He came more quickly than he had during the night, as did she, both of them crying out softly as the ongoing tremors of their orgasms shuddered through them. Launching his body into hers one final time, Turner spent himself inside her, then collapsed against her, burying his face in her hair.

Becca lay still as she waited for her body to calm, loving how the heat and dampness of Turner’s skin mingled with her own. For long moments the two of them rested in silence, their bodies still joined as one, their respiration united in uneven, irregular breaths. Eventually, she found herself wondering if their thoughts, too, were shared. Somehow, though, she suspected that their thinking might be the only place they weren’t currently connected.

Finally, Turner rolled onto his back, bringing Becca with him. She landed with her head on his shoulder, her fingers tangled in the dark hair spanning his chest. He looped an arm around her shoulders and held her close, capturing a strand of her hair and wrapping it idly around his index finger as he gazed up at the ceiling.

And Becca couldn’t help noting that not only had neither of them said a word to the other, but also they couldn’t seem to look each other in the eye.

She surprised herself by being the one to break what threatened to become an awkward silence. “Gee, I guess that sort of answers my first question,” she said as she snuggled closer to him and opened her hand over his heart. She took comfort in the way his heartbeat buffeted her palm. She wasn’t positive, but she thought his heart rate was in sync with her own. So maybe there was hope they could be in sync with other things that mattered more.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything and, she sensed, continued to gaze up at the ceiling. Then he turned his head toward hers—not looking her in the eye, she couldn’t help noticing—and murmured against her hair, “What question?” He punctuated the query by brushing his lips lightly over her temple, but he still didn’t look at her.

Quietly, she said, “Last night did we really do what I thought we did, or was it just a dream?”

He chuckled low and nuzzled her hair affectionately again. “Ain’t no way that was a dream,” he told her. “Because whenever I have dreams like that, they always end way before I’m satisfied.”

As strange as Becca felt, she couldn’t help but smile at that. “Judging by what just happened, you still weren’t satisfied by what happened last night.” Less happily, she added, “So maybe it was a dream, after all.”

“It wasn’t a dream,” he repeated. “And believe me, Becca, I am satisfied.”

He rolled to his side and bent his head to kiss her, and when he finally pulled back, he met her gaze. Better than that, he smiled at her. “At least I am for a little while.”

Somehow, she was able to smile, too, but it didn’t quite feel genuine. Turner seemed to realize it, because his own smile faded.

“Is everything okay?” he asked, his voice edged with concern.

She nodded, but said nothing.

Now his smile disappeared completely. But he didn’t withdraw from her, only skimmed her cheek with his thumb and then turned his hand to repeat the action with the back of his knuckles. “’Cause, you know, Becca, as nice as last night was, right now, you kind of look like you’re having second thoughts about what happened.”

“No, I’m not,” she lied.

He said nothing for a moment, his fingers still caressing her cheek. Then, very quietly, he said, “Yeah, I think you are.”

She sighed softly. “Okay, maybe I am. But not the way you think.”

“No?”

She shook her head. “I’m not having second thoughts about what we did last night.”

“You sure?”

She nodded, for the first time feeling certain about her reply. And about her feelings, too. “I’m not sorry we made love,” she told him. “I’m just not sure I understand how it happened, that’s all.”

His smile was back, but there was something melancholy about it this time. “That makes two of us,” he told her.

She hesitated for a moment, then said, “I know I’m the one who started things last night. And the other times, too. And I know that, before last night, I was always the one to stop them before we had a chance to finish.”

“But last night you didn’t,” he added unnecessarily.

“I know,” she said. “That’s what has me so confused.”

“You don’t understand why you didn’t put a stop to things last night?”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t understand why I did put a stop to them before.”

He propped himself up on one elbow to look at her, clearly very interested in what she was saying. “So then why was last night different from the other times?”

Becca thought about that before answering. She hadn’t felt any different, she realized. Last night her feelings had been identical to the first two times she’d wanted to have sex with Turner. But the first two times, those feelings had subsided. Last night, they’d just kept growing fiercer and fiercer. And last night, she couldn’t put her reaction down to stress or pressure. Because last night, the two of them hadn’t been under any stress or pressure. And even if they had, she could have eased the tension by going outside to smoke a cigarette, the way so many other people were. Instead, she’d bypassed the smoking area and had gone straight into the shadows with Turner. Because she hadn’t wanted a cigarette. She’d wanted him. Powerfully. Intensely. Immediately.

But why had last night been different? she asked herself. Why had she finally gone through with it, and taken what she so desperately wanted? And why had she denied herself what she so desperately wanted before last night?

“I don’t know,” she finally said, not just in reply to Turner’s questions, but to her own, as well.

He said nothing for several moments, his expression offering not a clue about his thoughts. Ultimately—and, she had to admit, surprisingly—he seemed okay with her answer.

“Maybe it really doesn’t matter why,” he told her. “Maybe we shouldn’t question it. Maybe it’s something really simple that we’re just trying to make too complicated.” He shrugged. “Maybe it’s like in the song.”

“What song?” she asked.

He smiled. “You know. It’s that crazy little thing called—”

Love, she finished silently for him when he stopped himself before saying the word out loud. And also when his expression changed from one of fond affection to one of stark-raving terror.

“Lust,” he finished then. “That crazy little thing called lust.”

Becca nodded. In a way, she even believed it. For some reason, though, she didn’t much like it.

But what else could it be but lust? she asked herself. What they’d done last night certainly hadn’t been generated by love. It had been too powerful, too hot, too raw, too extreme. It had been much too intense to be anything but a purely physical response to a purely physical feeling. Love was founded on the emotional, not the physical. Love was tender. Love was gentle. Love was sweet. What she and Turner had done last night had been—

Well. Something she wasn’t likely to find with anyone else, that was for sure. But it hadn’t been love. It couldn’t have been. It had been way too potent for that.

“Lust,” she repeated, thinking maybe it made sense, after all. Certainly more sense than that other L-word.

“Lust,” he echoed.

She nodded, still thinking about it. “We have both been a long time without dates,” she pointed out.

“Too long,” he said.

“Maybe we both just had an itch we needed to scratch,” she offered further, warming now to the idea.

“You got that right,” he agreed.

“And since there wasn’t anyone else available, we turned to each other,” she finished.

“That has to be it,” he stated.

“Has to be,” she concurred.

When she looked at Turner’s face again, though, he didn’t seem to be buying it, either. Still, it was the only explanation that made any sense.

“So then, now that we’ve scratched that itch,” she said slowly, still trying to work things out in her brain, “do you think we’ll do this again?”

He eyed her intently. “Do you want to do this again?”

She thought about that before answering. What had happened last night had been amazing. Incredible. Phenomenal. She’d never had a sexual encounter that even came close to how it had been with Turner. And this morning, they were still speaking to each other, and although she felt a little weird, there was none of the awkwardness or embarrassment she might have thought would result from such a thing. She had slept with her best friend last night, something she’d always sworn she would never do. Slept? she repeated dubiously to herself. Hah. They’d done a lot more than sleeping. They’d explored every sexual avenue they could think of during the long night.

But did she want to do it again? she asked herself.

Her baser self, the part that was spontaneous and irresponsible and hedonistic, replied with a resounding “You bet your ass I want to do it again!”

But her more lucid self, the part that was honest and rational and far-thinking, piped up with a “Not so fast there, girlfriend…”

It had been wonderful with Turner, she thought. But how long would it stay wonderful?

Ultimately, the only answer that came to her was the one she’d had to accept for so many other things this morning. “I don’t know,” she told him.

And she watched Turner’s face carefully as she replied, trying to discern even the smallest clue as to what he might be thinking, how he was reacting. But his face changed not at all, and his gaze remained steady and unwavering.

So Becca said, “Let’s just take this one step at a time for now, okay? Because I just…” She sighed heavily and met his eyes again. “I don’t know, Turner. I just don’t know.”

And what bothered her more than anything was that she was being honest again. Even after everything that had happened last night, she truly didn’t know how she felt about Turner this morning.

TURNER STOOD NAKED under the hot spray of Becca’s shower, letting the water blast his face full-force, and hoping it would pound some sense into his idiot brain.

Lust, he repeated to himself distastefully. That crazy little thing called lust. Why the hell had he said that? Why couldn’t he have just called it what it was? Why couldn’t he have told Becca how he felt about her? That he loved her? That the reason last night had happened—at least on his side of things—was because of the way he felt about her? Emotionally as well as physically? He’d had the perfect opportunity. Instead he’d forced himself to retreat before he could make himself get the word out. Because he’d watched her face carefully as she’d sorted out her thoughts and feelings, and he’d noted the confusion and the uncertainty and the fear that had been so unmistakable. And he’d stopped himself from saying that one little word that would have changed everything. Because he’d known then that, even after last night, Becca still didn’t feel the same way about him that he felt about her. And he hadn’t wanted to bare himself—well, not that part of himself—to her unless he could be certain she loved him, too. But she didn’t.

She didn’t love him.

He had no choice but to make himself accept that now. Because if she loved him, she would have told him so. At some point during the night, she would have revealed it, because Becca wasn’t a woman to keep something like that to herself, especially during a time when she was letting down so many barriers. And the fact that she hadn’t voiced her love for him—or any feelings for him, short of Oh, baby, do that again, it feels so good—could only mean one thing. What had happened last night hadn’t happened because she loved him.

Dammit.

He turned until the shower was pounding his shoulders and back, pushed his troubling thoughts to the back of his brain, and reached for the shampoo. He wrinkled his nose in distaste at the words passionfruit fragrance. Then he tipped the bottle sideways to pour as little as he thought he could get away with into his palm, and scrubbed it vigorously into his wet hair.

Hey, that actually didn’t smell too bad. In fact, he kind of liked it….

Then he realized the real reason he liked the fragrance was because it reminded him of Becca, and he ducked his head under the stream of water again to rinse it out. The soap, too, something pinkish-orange and citrusy smelling, roused more reminders of Becca, so he hurried through the rest of his shower and stepped out, reaching for the clean towel she had handed him on his way to the bathroom.

But it smelled like the sheets on her bed, and that, naturally, just brought back all the memories of the night before, not that his memory needed jogging there, thank you very much, but there it was all the same, and he wondered if he would ever be able to do anything again for the rest of his life that didn’t remind him of Becca, and his night with Becca and his feelings for Becca.

Doubtful, he thought as he knotted the towel around his waist, since so much of his life involved Becca. He worked with her every day. He lived within three miles of her place, so they often ran into each other, even when they didn’t plan to, at the grocery store or Starbucks or the park in between their apartments. And they liked a lot of the same things, too, so they went out together regularly, to movies, or concerts, or restaurants, or whatever caught their fancy. And, hell, he’d grown up with her, so he couldn’t even claim any memories from childhood or adolescence that didn’t include her in some way, too.

So that kind of sucked.

Maybe that was the problem, he thought as he searched through the bathroom closet for a comb and hair dryer, feeling in no way hesitant about rifling through her things, since that was what friends did—they felt comfortable enough together that they didn’t need to always ask permission or worry about the repercussions of their actions. Maybe he and Becca had spent too much time together over the years, and they continued to spend too much time together now. No wonder he’d never formed a long-term attachment to another woman, and no wonder Becca had never formed a long-term attachment to another man. They’d scarcely given themselves a chance to do that, because they always hung out together.

Of course, the fact that Turner had been in love with Becca since junior high school may have kind of hampered him with regard to that long-term commitment business, too….

But Becca hadn’t been in love with him ever, he reminded himself as he thumbed on the hair dryer, and she’d never kept a boyfriend for more than a year. Usually, she called it quits with a guy after a few months. And that—

His thoughts stopped right there. As did his hand, so that the hair dryer was blowing one section of his hair straight up toward the ceiling. But Turner didn’t care, because he suddenly realized that since Becca never stayed with a guy for more than a few months, then that meant he might not have more than a few more months with her, either. Because he’d witnessed for himself how she tended to lose interest in guys not long after getting sexually involved with them. Not that Turner had ever paid that close of attention to her sexual liaisons with other men over the years, but…

Oh, all right. So he’d watched her sexual liaisons with other men over the years like a hawk and analyzed them to death to see what those guys had going for them that he didn’t. And not only had he come to the conclusion that none of them was in any way good enough for her—in fact, the majority of them were bums, but who knew what attracted women to jerks like that?—but he’d also noticed that Becca’s feelings for them cooled not long after the initial launch stage.

So to speak.

And now that Turner had fully launched himself—yeah, baby, he’d launched himself like a surface-to-Becca missile—and was orbiting her like a satellite, his days might very well be numbered.

But maybe that was good, he told himself, grimacing when he realized how one side of his hair was sticking straight up in the air, making him look like a dog with one ear perked in curiosity—or stupidity. He wet his hand under the faucet and flattened the hair again, then moved the hair dryer to the other side of his head. Maybe it was good that Becca would soon grow tired of him, because then he’d have to accept once and for all that there was no future for the two of them the way he’d always hoped for, and fantasized about a future for the two of them. And then he could get on with his life. A life where he might have the chance to build a loving, lasting, sexual relationship with someone else.

Hey, it could happen.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror as he tried to convince himself that such a thing was possible. That they’d both enjoy this new sex thing for as long as it took to run its course, and that Becca would ultimately tire of Turner the way she had all the other men in her life. That they’d talk it over and agree to remain friends, and just put down that brief sexual dimension as an aberration, however amazing and satisfying and incredible and erotic and licentious and hot and sweaty and tasty and zesty and arousing and raw and—

And where was he?

Oh, yeah. That they’d talk it over and decide they could still be friends, and both would move on to other people. And then, armed with his newfound resolution about not spending the rest of his life in a man-woman thing with Becca, Turner would finally be forced to look elsewhere for the man-woman thing with someone else. And he would find someone else. And fall in love with someone else. And the sex thing with the new woman would be even better than the sex thing with Becca had been. He and his new woman could invite Becca and her new man to their new home for cocktails and cards, the way his folks and Becca’s folks had spent a couple of nights a month together when they were kids, playing cards and filling the family room with the sound of laughter and the haze of blue cigarette smoke and the sharp scent of bourbon.

Yeah, they could do that, he told himself. Sure they could.

Except that Becca’s guy would no doubt be some bum who wasn’t nearly good enough for her, and all Turner would be able to do was sit across the card table from her, shaking his head and wondering what she saw in some schmuck when she could have had him, because not only had the sex thing been phenomenal between the two of them, but also he loved her more than any guy ever could or would, even if he did have a new wife and a new house and a family room for entertaining.

“Idiot,” Turner said to the guy in the mirror. “You’re a first class, see-exhibit-A idiot.”

“What was that?” he heard Becca call through the door. “Did you say something, Turner?”

He closed his eyes tight and felt like the biggest fool who ever had the misfortune to be born. “Nothing,” he called back through the bathroom door. “I was just talking to myself.”

Idiot, he berated himself silently now. He should have told Becca how he felt this morning when he’d had the chance, no matter how she felt about him. Because he might never have the chance to do it again. She hadn’t exactly said she wanted them to continue on this newly discovered path of sexual enlightenment. For all Turner knew, last night might end up being a one-night stand. The best damn one-night stand he’d ever had, but a one-night stand nonetheless. What if he never had the chance to be skin-to-skin and heart-to-heart with her again? What would he do then?

Suffer, he told himself. A lot.

Because now that he’d been with Becca the way he’d always fantasized about being with her, he knew the reality was even better. Because what had happened last night had been incredible.

And it might never happen again.