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untouched with the exception of the bookcase. He moved closer to read the titles and found a little bit of everything. There were books on nutrition and cooking, jewelry making, finance, business, fashion, biographies of famous entertainers: Bette Davis, Josephine Baker, Lena Horne. There was also fiction. Most of it by African-American authors: Toni Morrison, Zora Neale Hurston, Alice Walker. He found several volumes of poetry by Langston Hughes and Maya Angelou. A book lay on the night stand, The Secret History by Donna Tartt. It was huge, and when he flipped through to the back, he found a white woman’s picture above the author bio.
    He went to her bedroom bathroom next, all white and very clean. There were no pills in the medicine cabinet, which was strange. Most people had aspirin or vitamins at minimum. There was very little makeup either, a tube of mascara, some blush, a four color palette of cream eye shadow, two tubes of lip gloss, one pink, one dark red. There were lots of skin care products, however. He saw two kinds of serum, three moisturizing creams, two bottles of toner, several exfoliants and cleansers.
    He closed the cabinet and opened the closet door. The top two shelves were towels. The third held bar soap, toothpaste, candles and hair products, and wa la, a bottle of over-the-counter painkillers. The bottom held packs of sanitary napkins, including a little round basket with a selection of them inside. He theorized she filled the basket and set it out when the time came, removing it when her need passed.
    He heard the key in the door and quickly nipped into the small bath again where he peed, washed his hands, and emerged to find her kicking off her shoes with an armload of mail.
    “You went to the mail box in those shorts?”
    Shit. He hadn’t meant to say that. But she laughed at him.
    “Didn’t you see me when I left?”
    He had but he hadn’t been thinking. He’d been wishing. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
    “Where did you go?” It was a ridiculous question, but she answered it.
    “PO Box. I haven’t been this week.”
    “Working?”
    She nodded.
    “How’s the collection coming?”
    “Fine. I’ll have designs for you to see by the end of next week as agreed.”
    He nodded slowly, following her from the room. Wait. She was taking off her clothes!
    “What are you doing?”
    She smirked at him over her shoulder as she walked into her bedroom and clicked on the light. “What do you think? I thought you wanted some pussy.”
    “What?” he asked, attentive as she removed one earring and then the other.
    “Pu-ssy,” she enunciated. “Isn’t that why you’re here?” She walked toward him, tugging rings from her long fingers. “Come on, now,” she coaxed softly, retrieving a hair band from her wrist to ball her long hair on top of her head. “I know you didn’t come to eat my cheap ass lunch.”
    Nori stared. Was she for real? “Lunch was good,” he said, walking toward her. “But I suspect you’ll taste quite a bit better.”
    He yanked her into his arms. Part of him was pissed she’d given him what he wanted with no effort. The other part was cock poundingly happy he now had her within his grasp. She smelled good, like woman and outdoors and something slightly metallic. He would learn later it was dust from the materials she worked with, residue from shaping stones and beads and grinding metal.
    But right then all he knew was that she was delicious. He ran his lips down the side of her throat. He nipped lightly when he reached her collar bone, his cock jumping with pleasure when she squeezed him hard.
    “Do you often work when you’re drunk?”
    “Why?” Her hands went to his shirt buttons. She had it off his shoulders before he finished kicking his pants loose. “You worried about me chopping off a finger?”
    “Ummmm.” Just the feel of her stroking his body threatened to end this before it began. She was licking his nipples; he shuddered. “That’s not