The Phoenix Candidate(5)

I let go of the fear.

I let this sexy stranger use my body as surely as I am using his.

I let him unpack one little fantasy, one dark corner of my mind.

I wish it were more. But it would take a hell of a lot more than a one-night stand to explore all of those dark corners. And anything more than this one night, with this perfect stranger, scares the hell out of me.

My insides clench and quiver and his fingers dig deeper into the flesh of my hips. He buries himself deep within me in measured strokes, gathering speed. I angle my hips higher, feel the head of his cock graze my most sensitive spot, again and again.

His muscles tense and his low groan builds to a shout. His body drapes across my back and his teeth sink into the top of my shoulder. And that twinge of pain pushes me over the edge with him, screaming and riding a crest, infinite and unbearable.





Chapter Four





There’s no note on the pillow and no trace of the man when I wake in a tangle of sheets.

All he’s left is the intimate ache between my thighs, a hint of the pain he inflicted on my ass, and tightness lingering in my breasts from a night that could have gone on forever.

No stories. No strings. And no regrets in the morning.

Now it’s dawn. And it’s done. And I’m left alone in a beautiful hotel room to dress and do the walk of shame back to my sterile apartment.

It’s only a dozen blocks, not worth a cab on a cool summer Sunday morning. I pass the dog-walkers and the ambitious yoga-goers, mats in tow. I see hipsters gather at coffee shops, each shop promising to be organic, fair-traded, and locally roasted.

We’re all about craft brews here. Craft beer. Craft coffee. Urban gardening and fixie bicycles. Portland tries to be hipper-than-thou, more-ironic-than-thou. Right now, the kids are bringing back high-waisted acid-washed denim. They call it “normcore.”

I’m too old for that shit.

And yet, I’m not of a sufficient age for Capitol Hill either, where the women are bossy bitches, castrating dykes, or dogmatic hags. Bonus: slutty interns.

I’ll decode that for you in male terms: strong leaders, political mavericks, and party faithful. Bonus: he’s probably gay.

I tap my card on a keypad and ride fourteen floors up to my condominium at The Jamison in the heart of Portland’s new-money Pearl District. Even though I’ve owned this place for more than four years, it barely feels like home. I didn’t keep much when I sold my house: even things as innocuous as a couch were layered with memories.

Ethan making forts under the coffee table.

Ethan coloring at the dining room table—and on the table itself.

Keeping watch over my little boy from a rocking chair in his bedroom when Ethan had the flu.

I drop my keys and purse on the table by the door and touch his second-grade school photo. He’ll be eight forever. Our little family—me, Seth and Ethan—never even had a chance to take Christmas photos.

Five years ago, I lived in a hundred-year-old house in Sellwood, a funky old neighborhood east of the river. I commuted to my job doing contract law, and came home to a carpenter and a little boy with a categorical knowledge of cars. He could spot a rare Tesla or Maserati on a Portland freeway and know it instantly.

Now I live in a new high rise with sparse, kid-unfriendly furniture. When Congress is in session, I’m in a pocket-sized D.C. apartment with precisely one redeeming quality: its proximity to Capitol Hill.

I shower, washing the smell of sex and Jared off me with regret. Not regret for what we did last night, but regretting that I have to take last night for what it was: one night only.

He doesn’t have my number. I don’t have his. I don’t even know his last name. And I suppose I should be grateful he doesn’t know mine.

I’m just about to make coffee when my phone pings with a text.





Aliza: Details, girl.

Me: You’re up early. Does that mean you weren’t up late?

Aliza: I didn’t leave with Mr. Hot-and-please-bother-me. So…?

Me: I am not having this discussion via text.

Aliza: One itsy-bitsy detail? My Pilates instructor is going to show up any minute.

Me: Leaving it to your imagination.

Aliza: I’m not taking no for an answer.





I ignore that text and pop a capsule in my espresso machine, inhaling the fragrance as it brews. My phone trills and I snap at Aliza, “You think I’m going to dish about dirty sweaty monkey sex and give you that to visualize all through Pilates?”

A rich chuckle comes through the phone. A male laugh. “I’m not doing Pilates, but please, do tell me more.”

I gasp and nearly drop the phone, holding it away from my face to see who’s calling. I don’t recognize the number, but my carrier tells me the call is from Springfield, Missouri.