She thought after a night’s sleep, her brain wouldn’t be a mental pile of pick-up sticks anymore. She’d been dead wrong. After walking into the house in a fog, she’d fallen face first into bed, her brain refusing to accept any more input. Porter. Thinking his name sent a hot shiver whispering down her back, made her breasts feel fuller, in need of sucking. Red stained her cheeks as she put away the toothbrush. This arrangement didn’t feel like working an impulse out of her system; it felt like creating new, darker, irresistible ones—courtesy of one magnetic Brit with a body that had essentially ruined her yesterday in the front seat of her cab. What she’d engaged in with awkward, twenty-something boys hadn’t been sex. It had been paltry attempts at sex. Sex was Porter. Porter was sex. Her foresight had been faulty in agreeing to another day. How deep could she get before her feet touched the bottom? Before the sand sucked her down and never let go?
