The Love of My (Other) Life by Traci L. Slatton Page A

stance didn’t relent. “You’re a bleeding-heart caretaker without a spine here. In my world—”
    “‘My world?’ There’s only one world, you lunatic.
    One!”
    “Nope. You’re wrong. There are lots of universes.
    Parallel worlds, a near infinite number of them, a different world for every decision. We live in an unfathomably enormous multiverse.”
    “You’re from a different universe?”
    “That’s what I keep telling you. You listen better in my world.”
    “I’m not a caretaker, I’m a blocked artist with noble ideals for helping humanity—”
    Brian made a strangled sound. He gave me a look of total disbelief, as if words had failed him.
    Then he grabbed me and kissed me.
    At first, I fought him, of course. But then something else crept in. Something soft and luscious, something that made me tingle south of my naval and north of my kneecaps. It had just been so damn long since anyone kissed me—and for being a crazy homeless guy with delusions of physics grandeur, Brian could kiss.
    And kiss and kiss and kiss.
    And kiss some more.
    And then I was sort of limp like a pool of uncongealed Jell-O.
    Brian lifted his head. “Blocked, noble, et cetera, et cetera? Is that what you say to yourself when you sleep alone, night after night? When’s the last time you went on a date? When’s the last time a man held you and kissed you until your panties crept up under your armpits and your insides turned to plasma? When’s the last time your lover held you all naked and sweaty until you were done moaning and screaming and were limp with bliss?”
    “My sex life is none of your business,” I said. It came out as kind of a mewl and I would have hated myself, but I was sort of in shock at the masterful way Brian had kissed me. I had never in my life been kissed with such authority. It gave me a whole new regard for him. Not that I’d ever admit to that.
    “You don’t have a sex life.”
    “At least I’m not crazy.” To sound serious and self-possessed, I said, not meaning it, “Let me go.”
    “You stole a million dollar piece of art because you think it’s ugly, and I’m the crazy one?” He chuckled shortly and then kissed me again. He brought my palm to his lips and kissed my hand gently, intensely. Slowly, expertly, he ran his lips and tongue along my wrist.
    All the nerve endings in my body unfurled and sang opera.
    “I have to help Reverend Pincek,” I murmured.
    What else could I say? It was as if this stranger knew my body’s innermost secrets.
    “Sweet, but you have to give it back.” He unbuttoned my top button and kissed my clavicle and the hollow of my throat.
    I moaned.
    “I just want to please you,” he said softly.
    “It’s been so long. Don’t stop!” The words poured out of me—I couldn’t control them.
    Brian stopped kissing me and looked me full in the eyes. “Tessa, sweetheart, are you sure?”
    That’s when I owned what I wanted, and I didn’t need words for that. I kissed him back.

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13
Barolo and missing moles
    We cuddled under the duvet. Brian’s body was as lithe and muscular as his speed and reflexes had promised. And I might be the artist, but the man was a genius with his hands.
    And his mouth.
    It was as if he’d made love to me a thousand times already, and he knew precisely where, how, and when to stroke, press, and accelerate.
    That’s right, this is what it was like to get mine.
    That’s right, I have an erotic core. Mrs. Leibowitz was right, it was all about getting laid.
    My ex-husband had never managed to stir me to such lush intensity.
    I felt like a kitten that had lapped all the cream and I stretched luxuriously. Brian watched me with an inscrutable, though slightly bemused, expression on his face.
    “You’re good at this!” I said.
    “Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be good at it again. Maybe ten.” He nuzzled me.
    We could spend all afternoon in bed … . Oh, wait, no we couldn’t. “Oh. I have a meeting.”
    “What kind