I walk into the still air of the studio apartment, close the door, twist the dead bolts, the sounds sharp and final. With a flick of the switch next to the door, several table and floor lamps situated around the apartment come on. As I set my purse on the marble-topped table by the door, I treat myself to a long, thorough look at him. Even kneeling he’s large. His bowed head comes to my rib cage, and while his fingers in their woven position are relaxed against his closely cropped reddish-brown hair, as the seconds tick past I see his shoulders tense ever so subtly under his black motorcycle racing jacket. Threat is implicit in his size and strength, but for me his power is tightly leashed. Standing close enough to hear his deliberately even breathing, I study him for a moment. In the past he’s waited in a businessman’s armor—suit, tie, wingtips—so this insight into his leisure activities intrigues me. He smells of fall wind and sweat, with a hint of oil underneath, as if he’d worked on his bike before he rode it.
