She stared at him for a full minute. “Fine.” She cut the deck and drew a card. Glancing at it, she closed her eyes for a moment, then showed him the two of spades. “Shouldn’t be hard to beat.”

Cal kept his eyes on her as he drew. He didn’t look at the card, but showed it to her. “What is it?”

“King of hearts.”

He nodded. “That sounds about right.”

Just then, the waiter started heading their way. He set the dishes before them and gave a few more details about dessert. “Can I get you anything else?”

Cal stood and removed his wallet. He shoved a couple of bills in the man’s hand. “We both need to make a phone call. Is there a room around here we can use, an office or a private loo?”

Looking down at the cash, the waiter nodded. “There’s a supply closet in the bathroom hallway.” He looked around as he slipped a key out of his pocket. “Don’t get caught.”

“Thanks, mate.” Cal patted the man’s shoulder and grabbed Monica’s hand. Pulling her from the table, he ignored her expression of horror as he strode through the restaurant, hauling her behind him.

In the darkened hallway, past the loos, he found the narrow door. Without giving her time to make a dash, he slipped the key into the lock and had them inside in mere seconds.

“Cal, this is ridiculous.”

He flipped on the light and glanced around at the rolls of paper products. Monica stood with her back to the door, staring at him with wide eyes.

Flattening both hands on either side of her head, he hemmed her in with his arms. “Tell me your heart’s not racing right now. Tell me this isn’t fun.”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Then she stuck her chin in the air and stared at his nose. “This isn’t fun.”

“If you want to go, I won’t stop you. But if you stay, I intend to kiss you thoroughly. And I’m going to touch you. Here.” He moved one hand and placed it over her breast.

Monica glanced around the room. “I can’t believe you’re doing this. We’re too old to make out in a supply closet.”

“We can’t very well do it at the table. The other diners wouldn’t be able to concentrate on their entrées. So what do you want to do, Monica?” He swept his lips over her cheek. “Stay?” He trailed tiny kisses up to those four freckles scattered above her eyebrow. “Or go?”

She placed her hands on his chest, her fingers restless as they turned inward, like talons, and skittered down to his waist. “Stay.” It was barely a whisper, and her lips hardly moved. But it was enough.

Before she could say anything else, Cal placed his hands around her waist. The fabric of her jacket was stiff and unyielding. He very slowly slanted his body over hers, and angling his head, began to nibble the side of her neck above her collar. She smelled heavenly—sweet, yet spicy. Her skin was silk against his lips. A strand of her hair tickled his forehead.

Monica’s body remained tense for a few moments, but gradually, as Cal ran his lips across her jaw, she relaxed and slid her hands up to his shoulders. Letting out a soft sigh, she tilted her head, giving his lips better access.

Yes. He’d been waiting five long years for this. Another go at Monica Campbell. Not his top pick for locale, but he’d take it. That girl in the garden had been eager and out of control. He wanted to make her that way again.

Cal trailed kisses up to her ear where he caught her lobe between his teeth. He bit down as he had in the bar, but not gently this time. Monica gasped, her breaths growing ragged as he pulled it into his mouth and sucked.

Cal let go of her waist and, with shaky hands, peeled the jacket from her shoulders and down her arms, dropping it at her feet. That damned blouse was still in his way. He wanted to rip it off and bare her skin. He hated that demure white shirt—unimaginative and puritanical, it was the antithesis of everything Monica was. As he tried to undo the top button, his fingers felt awkward and clumsy.

Monica batted his fumbling hands away, making quick work of the buttons. When she was done, Cal parted her blouse and stilled, gaping at her—at her full breasts pushed high above two peachy, lace-covered cups. The scanty material barely covered her nipples at all, and the dark pink areola of one breast peeked above the lace. Fucking hell. Her tits were plump and pale, nearly the same color as her bra.

Cal had been momentarily dazed by the sight of her, but suddenly, he was impatient. He jerked the blouse farther apart and shucked it off her completely, until she stood before him, looking seductive and angelic at the same time. “Lovely.”

Giving him a coy glance, Monica ran one finger along her breast, where the lace met her flesh. “Do you think so?”

He palmed those luscious tits, squeezing them tightly, raising them a little higher. The textured lace felt stiff against his fingertips. “No, I take it back. Not just lovely—gorgeous.” Monica Campbell was heady. Exciting. He wanted nothing more than to fuck her right here, against the door. Make her come with hundreds of people sitting out in the dining room, eating their steaks.

With his thumbs, he tugged at the bra cups and freed those stunning tits from their confines. They were full and heavy in his hands. He couldn’t stop staring, and her nipples budded beneath his gaze.

Cal was actually touching Monica Campbell. Finally, after all these years. And she felt even better than he’d imagined. Her skin felt so fucking supple, like the softest chamois. Her trim waist was a pale contrast against the black trousers.

She allowed him to stroke her like this—intimately. The fact that she arched her back and licked her lips said how much she liked it. When he brushed his thumbs along the underside of her breasts, then flicked her nipples, she moaned low in her throat. That sound, along with her short, breathy gasps, made Cal’s cock so hard it almost hurt.

Monica reached up and threaded her fingers through his hair, pulling his mouth to hers. He kissed her roughly. He wanted her to remember this moment, to come to terms with her passionate side. This woman, the one kissing him back, slipping her tongue into his mouth, biting his lip—this was the sensuous, untamed nature she tried so hard to suppress. This was the Monica from his fantasies.

Her lips were swollen and tasted faintly of mint from her lipstick. For the first time in months, Cal ached from something other than grief. He ached for release. Monica could give it to him. He needed to be inside her, feel her pussy, hot and wet and slick. He wanted to lose himself in her, forget the past and live in this moment. With her.

He’d never forgotten Monica Campbell, or the way she tasted. But this time was different somehow, better than he remembered. He didn’t analyze it, but simply enjoyed the delicate flavor of her skin, the feel of her breasts in his hands.

He thrust his hips against her, torqued them slowly. The friction was almost too much for his sensitive cock.

“Cal,” she whispered. “That feels really good. Do it again.”

He obliged and roughly kneaded her tits at the same time. This was only meant to be a good-night snog—one that had gotten completely out of hand. Back at the table, when she’d drawn the low card, Monica hadn’t been able to mask her troubled expression. Cal knew she’d fret about it all through dinner, so he’d acted on instinct. So glad he had, because kissing her, fondling her, grinding his prick against her was bloody brilliant.

Keeping one hand on her, Cal pulled back slightly.

“What?” Monica asked, her voice thready.

“I want to touch the rest of you.” He wrangled with her trousers, unfastening them and lowering the zipper. Incapable of finesse at this point, Cal thrust his hand into her knickers. Slow down. The thought was short-lived, because Cal couldn’t slow down, couldn’t stop his hand’s path. He wanted inside of her, and if it couldn’t be his cock, his finger would have to do. A thin strip of downy hair covered the top of her mound. The rest of her was bare and soft, like velvet. Cal’s finger traced lower. Her pussy was wet, ready for him.