Thank you for your continued support. I appreciate it.

Standard disclaimer.

It's not that chocolate is a substitute for love. Love is a substitute for chocolate.

Chocolate is far more reliable than a man.

On Sunday, Mercedes watched with satisfaction, as the citizens of Lucky Harbor, lined up in the hospital's back parking lo, for the car wash.

The schedule had been set in advance, and as heavily advertised, every board member had agreed to put in two hours.

They were charging twenty-five bucks per wash. A big price tag, but people were paying for the joy of seeing, their well-known town hotshots, stripped out of their usual finery and working like regular joe-schmoes.

Mercedes' shift was from noon to two, and she was scheduled with Mark, Dr. Scott, and Shelby.

Mark was out of his ranger uniform and the doctor was minus his stethoscope.

An both men wore board shorts.

Mark was listening to the iPod he had tucked into his shorts pocket, his head banging lightly, and an easy smile on his face, as he worked his line...without a shirt.

Mercedes knew he was a gym rat, and it was time well spent, because, he was solid sinew, wrapped in testosterone.

And his line was wrapped around the block.

Dr. Scott was wearing a pale blue t-shirt, but he'd gotten wet while washing a large truck, and the thin cotton clung to him like a second skin.

He spent up to sixteen hours a day at the hospital, so Mercedes had no idea, where his amazing body came from.

His line was nearly as long as Mark's.

Shelby Cochran was wearing long Capri-length pants and a man's button-down shirt. The forty-year-old was tall and statuesque, and in the ER, she could wield a cold expression like a weapon, laying waste to all in her path.

And she was no less ferocious today.

But she had no line.

"I don't understand," she said to Mercedes. "People hate me. You'd think they'd want to line up, to see me washing their car, pointing out every spot for me to hand scrub."

"Hmm..." Mercedes said. "Um…can I make a suggestion?"

Shelby slid her a long look.

"I don't know. Can you?"

Mercedes decided to ignore the Ice Queen tone.

"Push up your sleeves. Oh, and tie your shirt tails at your belly button, and undo three of the top buttons."

Shelby choked out an offended laugh.

"Excuse me? Are you asking me to pimp myself out?"

"Yes. And roll up your pants. You're not even showing a knee."

"I have knobby knees."

Mercedes stared at her.

"Okay, you're my boss, so I'm not going to tell you how much I hate you, if that's your biggest body issue. But I will tell you, if you undo a few buttons and tie up your shirt, no one's going to be looking at your knees. Oh, and bend over...a lot. And your line will appear in no time."

Shelby put a hand on her hip.

"I am forty years old, Mercedes."

"Exactly! You're forty, not eighty. And you have a better body than I do. When was the last time you had a date?"

She thought about that and grimaced.

"I don't remember."

At that, Mercedes reached out and undid the buttons herself. It revealed only the barest hint of cleavage, but it was really great cleavage.

Then, she gestured for Shelby to do the rest.

She rolled her eyes, but tied up her shirt.

"I knew it," Mercedes said on a sigh. "Great abs. Now, your pants."

Shelby bent over to roll up the hem of her pants, and instantly, three cars got in her line.

Mercedes noticed and started to grin, just as Shelby straightened, looking, a hell of a lot less, like the uptight Director Of Nurses and more like a tousled, sexy, confident woman with attitude.

She turned her head, looked at her line and blinked.

"You see?" Mercedes asked, a playful grin on her lips.

"Hmm…" Shelby headed for the first car. "They'd better tip well."

Giggling, Mercedes went back to her own decent line.

Santana was first up, in an old Toyota truck that had seen better days, two decades back.

"Are you kidding me?" Mercedes asked her. "You could have either Mark or Dr. Scott slaving over this thing, and you're in my line? Maybe I should be giving the bad girl lessons."

Santana's eyes locked in on Mark. He was washing Brandy Dash's BMW. She was a CPA, who ran her own accounting firm, a cute little blonde, who'd dated her way through the men in Lucky Harbor with exuberant glee.

She hadn't gotten her claws into Mark yet, though, by the way she was hanging out her window watching him, she was working on it.

Oblivious, Mark was bent low over her bumper, scrubbing, the muscles of his back flexing with each movement. He was tan and wet, and looking pretty damn hot.

"Go get in his line," Mercedes told Santana. "One of us should get an upfront, close look at him."

Santana slid dark sunglasses over her eyes and muttered something beneath her breath.

"What?" Mercedes asked.

"Nothing. I don't want to talk about it. Are you going to wash my car or what?"

"Yeah, but San…he looks at you..."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay, but this is the first order of business, at our next Chocoholics meeting. You hear me?"

"You have other things to worry about."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"Like the fact that your Mr. Wrong is behind me."

Mercedes turned to look and went still, at the sight of the classic muscle car there, complete with the sexy man behind the wheel, rocking stubble, in dark glasses, and a darker 'tude.

Sam had been awake, since before the ass-crack of dawn. He'd gone for a punishing swim and found Mark waiting on the beach.

He had given him a long look, but Mark didn't appear to care, that he wasn't welcome. He'd simply swum alongside Sam, at least, until he couldn't keep the pace, and ended up waiting on the shore.

"You're doing good," Mark had said, when Sam walked out of the water.

It was true. He was doing good. And feeling good.

And making real progress.

After the swim, Sam had ran, falling only once, and only because, a crab had come out of nowhere and startled the shit out of him.

Then, he'd hit the gun range, which was about thirty miles outside of Lucky Harbor, needing to push all his skills.

This was the week he was going to get cleared. He could feel it.

He'd just been coming back into town, when he'd seen Mercedes amongst the car washers.

She was in a T-shirt and shorts, and was wet and soapy.

She looked like the Girl-Next-Door, meets a photoshoot, and drawn in like a magnet, he'd gotten into her line.

Her hair was in a high pony, but loose strands stuck damply to her temples and cheeks, and along the back of her neck.

She was soft there, and he knew, that if he put his mouth on her neck, she'd make a little sound, that'd go straight through him.

'Crazy,' he told himself.

He was crazy in lust with a woman he had no business wanting.

When she caught sight of him, she squinted, furtively attempting, to see through the bright sun and into his windshield.

And he felt something loosen, deep within him, but wasn't sure he could have explained the feeling, to save his own life.

"Hey, Mysterious Cute Guy!"

Sam nearly jumped out of his skin. He hadn't even heard Lucille come up to his passenger window.

She smiled knowingly.

"My neighbor's got a Charger. 1970, I think. It has a front end problem. I told him you might be interested. Are you?"

A Charger was a sweet old thing and Sam wouldn't mind getting his hands on one.

"Yeah. I'm interested."

Lucille smiled.

"That's right nice of you."

He smiled.

That was him alright...a right nice guy.

Mercedes finished Santana's car and came up to Sam's driver's window.

"Hey," she said. "Thanks for coming."

A slow, suggestive smile cross his mouth.

Clearly realizing what she'd said, Mercedes felt her face heat.

"Roll up your window," she warned. "Or you'll get wet." She paused, then shook her head. "Dammit, now everything I say sounds dirty!"

He was laughing when he rolled up his windows.

Mercedes got to work, looking flustered, which Sam loved.

She seemed a little annoyed, too.

Which he also loved.

But she was doing a heck of a job washing, her arms surprisingly toned, as she worked the sponge.

Her shirt was a dark blue, modest-cut, knit tee, but she was wet and it was clinging to her...most deliciously.

Her denim shorts were snug, and she had a streak of grease on her ass.

She was just backing away from his car, eyeing it with close scrutiny, clearly wanting to make sure she'd gotten all the soap off, when he rolled down his window and said,

"Watch out! Or you'll trip over the..."

'Soap bucket.'

Alas, it was too late. She tripped and with a little squeal of surprise, went down.

Sam leapt out of his car just as she hit, her fingers reflexively gripping the hose nozzle, as she landed on her ass in the soapy bucket.

At that, a steady stream of water shot out of the hose, nailing him in right in the chest.

"Oh God," she said, dropping the hose and trying to get out of the bucket. "I'm sorry!"

Dr. Scott and Mark, washing cars on either side of her, rushed over, but Sam got to her first.

"Are you all right?" he asked, pulling her out of the bucket.

She immediately took a step back from him, her hands going to her own butt, which was now drenched with soapy water.

"No worries. I have lots of padding back there."

"You sure?" Dr. Scott asked her, reaching for her arm, to brace her upright, while she took stock.

He was frowning at her ankle.

"You didn't reinjure that ankle you broke last year, did you?"

"No." She laughed a little, clearly embarrassed, but resigned. "Please tell me, no one got a picture of that."

"Everyone's too busy staring at Shelby," Mark assured her, looking over at Mercedes' boss himself. "Who's…not her usual self today."

They all looked at her then, she was indeed looking very unlike herself...she was smiling.

Just then, someone from Dr. Scott's line honked a horn and yelled, "Dr. Scootttt…"

He swore under his breath, making Mercedes laugh, as gently pat him on the chest.

"Your women are calling, Dr. Scott. Better get back to them. And don't forget to give them what they want."

"A clean car?" he asked.

"Lots of views of your ass when you bend over."

He grimaced and headed back to his line. And Mercedes turned to Sam, gasping with shock at how wet he was.

"Did I do all that?" she asked.

"You going to try telling me that it wasn't on purpose?"

"No," she said on a laugh. "It wasn't on purpose, I swear! If it had been, I'd have skipped the embarrassing bucket part, trust me."

Mark had gone back to washing a car and was busy flirting, with the pretty blonde owner of said car.

But Sam was extremely aware, that the good doctor was still watching them.

Scott was indeed a good man, one of the best that Sam had ever met. But he was also on Mercedes' list, and Sam wasn't evolved enough, to wish him the best with her.

"Mercedes."

"Yeah?"

He stepped closer to her.

"You can take Dr. Scott off your list."

She choked out a laugh, as he pulled his now-drenched shirt away from his skin.

He was still wearing his gun form the range, in a shoulder harness, so he removed the wet Glock.

Then realized, the entire parking lot had gone silent. Everyone was staring at him. Actually, his gun.

'Shit!'

"It got wet," he said. "Guns don't like to get wet."

Mark stepped away from the car he was working on and came to Sam's side, a show of solidarity.

"It's okay," he said. "Sam's licensed to carry." He said this with his usual easygoing smile, putting a hand on Sam's shoulder, using his other, to wave at someone who'd just pulled into the lot.

And just like that, everyone went back to what they were doing, giving the two men some privacy.

Mark gave Sam a look.

"I keep telling you, this is Lucky Harbor, not the Middle East."

Sam returned the look and said nothing.

Mark sighed.

"You know that Vet program you're funding at HSC? The one you told Mercedes to get a good counselor for? You ought to consider making use of it."

"I'm fine."

"Well, I'm glad to hear it. Maybe you could work on happy. You got any of that? Because, you can get away with just about anything, if you smile occasionally. You ought to try it sometime."

"Yeah, I'll keep that in mind," Sam said, but he didn't feel like smiling.

He had no idea what he was still doing here. His leg was fine. And yet, he'd stopped at the small town car wash, because, Mercedes had been looking hot in shorts.

He'd just agreed to fix someone's Charger. What the hell was he doing?

He was gone, out of here, any day now, moving on, as he'd done all his life.

So why the hell was he acting like he was sticking around?

Why was he letting people in and making plans?

It was not in the cards for him, this small town life.

Ties and roots were not his thing.

He paid for his car wash. And he would've said good-bye to Mercedes, but she was busy with another vehicle.

A couple minutes later, Sam got into his car, but something had him looking back once more, at Mercedes.

From across the lot, she was now watching him, her gaze long and thoughtful.

'No regrets,' she'd said.

But he thought, that maybe this time, there would be at least one regret. A regret named Mercedes Jones.

That night, Mercedes, Quinn and Santana, sat in a corner booth at Eat Me, forks in hand, and a cake on a plate.

The Chocoholics were in session.

"So," Quinn said, licking her fork. "The hardware store is hiring. The owner, Andrew, asked me out."

"Don't do it," both Santana and Mercedes said, at the same time.

Quinn sighed.

"He's cute. But I'd rather have the job. I filled out the application. I'm trying hard to find my happy."

"And you think counting nails is going to do it?" Santana asked.

"Is clearing dishes doing it for you?" Quinn countered.

Santana shrugged.

"It leaves me a lot of free time and brain cells to do what I like."

"Which is?" Mercedes asked.

She shrugged again.

"Drawing."

"You're supposed to be letting people in," Mercedes reminded her. "It was your decree, remember? Drawing is a solo sport."

Santana stabbed her fork into the cake, for a large bite.

"I'm in training." She eyed Mercedes. "You want to talk about today?"

"What about today?"

"Gee, I don't know...how about the fact that, MCG is carrying?"

"MCG?" Mercedes queried.

"Mysterious Cute Guy. Sam Evans. Hot stuff. The guy you smile dopily about, every time he's mentioned."

"I do not smile dopily."

Santana looked at Quinn, who pulled out a small mirror from her purse and held it up in front of Mercedes.

Mercedes looked at her faint glow and dammit...her dopey smile, and did her best to wipe it off her face.

"It's the chocolate cake."

Santana coughed and said 'bullshit' at the same time.

Mercedes sighed and set down her fork.

"Uh oh," Quinn said.

"I like him," Mercedes said.

"And that's a bad thing?" Quinn asked. "You set out to stretch your wings, experience something new. It's happening."

"With a guy that could break her heart," Santana said softly. "Is that it, Chica? You're scared?"

"Like a little bunny rabbit," Mercedes said. "Some bad girl I turned out to be."

Sam swam by moonlight, and then hit the beach for another run. He didn't fall this time, not once.

'Progress.'

When he was done torturing his body and his every muscle was quivering with exertion, he went to bed.

'I'm too tired for nightmares,' he told himself, just as he closed his eyes.

Things started out good.

He dreamed about the time, his team had been assigned, to rescue a diplomat's daughter out of Istanbul.

Then, the dream shifted to another mission, where they'd 'commandeered' certain components, from a Godforsaken, forlorn corner of Iraq...components that had been waiting for another shipment, which, when combined together, would have been a huge terrorist threat.

Then, things transitioned again, to the time they'd managed to get to a bus loaded with U.S. and British journalists, before their scheduled kidnapping.

All successful missions.

But then, the dream changed, and everything went straight to hell in a handbasket.

He was thrown from a burning wreckage.

When he opened his eyes, his ears were ringing, and although he could see the wild flames all around him, he couldn't hear a damn thing.

It was a movie without sound.

His men were his first thought.

He belly-crawled to the first one within reach, but he was already gone. Next, he found two more and did what he could for them.

Then, he went after the last guy, who was on the other side of the wreckage, gasping for air, his chest crushed. And all that Sam could do, was hold him as he faded away.

Suddenly, Sam woke up alone in bed, not on a Godforsaken mountain.

"Hell!" he breathed and shoved his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. "Shit!"

It was two in the morning, but he rolled out of the bed, grabbed his jeans, and shoved his legs into them.

He reached for his phone, it was blinking due to missed calls, that were no doubt from Francine. He shoved into his pocket and did the same with his empty Vicodin bottle.

After heading for his garage, Sam got into the Mustang and fired her up. And having no idea what possessed him, he did a drive-by of Mercedes' house.

She wasn't the only one with recon skills, though he figured, the only way she could have gotten his cell phone number, was through the hospital records.

How very industrious of her.

And illegal.

He found it amusing, and in a world, where nothing much amused him anymore, he was also intrigued.

A deadly combination.

Distance. He needed a boatload of distance. But he was working on that.

Mercedes' ranch-style house was in an older neighborhood. Typical Suburbia, USA.

The place was freshly painted, the yard clearly cared for, much more, than the piece-of-shit car she drove.

Which was why he was here. Or so he told himself.

It took him all of six minutes to replace her alternator, with the one he'd driven into Seattle to get for her.

He really needed to work harder on keeping his distance, he thought.

And he really needed to get back to work, because, he needed to be fucking useful for something again.

He put his tools back in his car and had just started to get behind the wheel, when he heard locks tumble.

Then, Mercedes' front door opened.

In the lit doorway, highlighted by both the porch light and a single light somewhere inside, she stood.

Her hair was a wild cloud around her face and shoulders, her bare feet sticking out the bottom of her robe.

"Sam?"

'So much for stealth,' he thought.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

Funny thing about that. He had no fucking clue what he was doing. None. Not a single one.

Sam closed his car door and walked up to her, crowding her in the open doorway.

"Sam?"

He didn't answer.

If she backed up a step or told him he was crazy, or gave him the slightest sign, that he wasn't welcome, he would turn on his heel and walk off.

He was good at that, and they both knew it.

And he definitely expected her to be unnerved. He'd seen her face at the car wash, when he'd been holding his gun.

But she surprised him now by stepping into him, meeting him halfway.

Reaching for him, Mercedes' body answered his touch with a slight trembling, that made him feel pretty fucking useful, and wasn't that just what he'd wished for?

To be useful again?

He kept telling himself, that as curious and attracted as he was to her, if she hadn't started things up between them at the auction, he'd have never initiated any sort of intimacy.

He was full of shit. And he knew it.

She'd assured him, that all she'd wanted was the one night, and he'd tried like hell to believe her, but somehow, they kept getting in deeper.

She was like a drug.

The most addicting kind, and he had a problem...he was pretty sure, that she was developing feelings for him.

And he no idea what to do with that, or with his own feelings, which were definitely getting in his way.

This whole 'no emotional attachment' thing, had gone straight to shit. Because, Mercedes Jones, was emotionally attached to every person she'd ever met, and she had a way of making that contagious.

He craved contact with her, in a way that he wasn't experienced with.

And he liked to be experienced.

But he couldn't think about that right now, because, her lips were parted, her cheeks flushed, her eyes telling him, that his presence affected her, every bit, as much as hers did him.

Helpless against the pull of her, Sam caught her up against him and stepped over the threshold, kicking the door closed behind him.

They staggered into the entryway together, mouths fused, bumping into her umbrella stand, knocking it over, as she tripped on some shoes and slammed into a coat rack.

They were both laughing, as he spun her away from danger, pressing her against a little cherry-wood desk and mirror.

He trapped her there, and all amusement faded, as she gasped, the sound full of desire.

And just like that, Sam wanted to hear it again...needed to hear it again.

Lowering his head, he kissed the sweet spot beneath her ear, along her jaw, and then the column of her neck.

He spent a long moment at the hollow of her throat, because, oh yeah, that's where she made the sound again, her shaky hands clutching his shoulders.

"I was dreaming about you," Mercedes said softly.

He was glad, even more so, since he'd been dreaming of pure hell.

He'd had no idea how much he needed this...needed her...until this very minute.

"Tell me."

"We were back at the auction." Her fingers wound their way into his hair, giving him a shiver. "Working our way through all the furniture," she murmured.

"Working our way through the furniture?"

"Yeah, you know…" Mercedes hesitated. "Doing it on each piece," she whispered.

Sam drew back, far enough to see her eyes. When she lowered her head, he laughed softly.

"After what we did that night, you can still be embarrassed to say 'doing it'?"

She pushed at him but he didn't budge.

"Hmmm," he said, pulling her in tight. "I like it."

He knew, she had to be able to feel the proof of that.

"What piece of furniture did we do it on first?" he asked.

Mercedes turned her head away.

"I'm not going to say now."

He nibbled her ear.

"Tell me," he coaxed, flicking his tongue on her lobe.

She gasped.

"A table."

He grinned.

"I did you on a table?"

She made a sound, that was only half embarrassment now, the other half pure arousal.

"Tell me, that I spread you out for my viewing pleasure and feasted on all your sweet spots," he said.

Eyes widening, Mercedes stared at his Adam's Apple.

"No. You...um...bent me over the table...and then...you know...took me from behind."

'Yeah, good luck with finding distance now,' he silently told himself.

He was as hard as a rock.

Maybe distance wasn't the way to go. Maybe they needed this, needed to just go for it, to get each other out of their systems.

Yeah, that was the story he was going with.

Sam turned them both, so that she was facing the small foyer desk.

"It was just a dream," Mercedes murmured into the mirror.

"Doesn't have to be."

She stared at his reflection, watching, as his hands ran down her arms, to take her hands in his, drawing them up around his neck, where they'd be out of his way.

The air crackled with electricity. And need. So much need.

"What are you wearing beneath this robe?" Sam asked.

Mercedes nibbled on her lower lip.

"Mercedes..."

"Nothing."

Sam groaned.

Her body was so close to his, that a sheet of paper couldn't fit between them. He reached for the tie on her robe.

"Do you want this?"

"I..." She closed her mouth.

"Yes or no, Mercedes."

"Yes."

One tug of the tie and the robe began to loosen.

"Wait," she gasped. "I...I'm…" She hesitated. "I can't watch."

And yet, she didn't take her hands from his neck, or her hungry gaze off the mirror, eyes glued to his fingers, as they gripped the edges of her robe.

"Full access this time," Sam said.

"Oh, God," Mercedes groaned, then nodded. "Okay, but I..." She broke off, when he slowly spread the robe open, his green eyes riveted to her body.

One he already knew, was the body of his dreams.

"Mercedes," he breathed. "You're so beautiful."

He stroked his hands up her stomach to cup her breasts, his thumbs brushing her velvety nipples, wringing another gasp out of her lips.

Then, he did it again, a light teasing touch, before he took his hands off her.

And she whimpered.

Next, he pulled her hands from around his neck and pushed the robe off her shoulders, to puddle at their feet.

Taking her hands again, he pinned them out in front of her on the table, which forced her to bend over.

He gently squeezed her fingers, signaling he wanted her to stay like that.

"Sam..." she choked out, holding the position with a trusting sweetness, that nearly undid him.

Especially, when it was combined with the sexy sway of her breasts and the almost helplessly uncontrolled undulation of her hips, at his crotch.

Sam cupped Mercedes' gorgeous full breasts, teasing her nipples, before skimming one hand south, between her legs.

"H...here? We really shouldn't…" she started.

"No?"

"No," she whispered and then spread her legs, giving him more room.

Dipping into her folds was pure heaven, and Sam groaned, when he found her very wet.

His fingers trailed her own moisture over her, exploring every dip and crevice, until she was undulating again, her fingers knuckling, at the tight grip on the table, her eyes closed, her head back against his chest.

"Watch," he reminded her.

At that, Mercedes' eyes opened, locking onto the sight of her own body...naked, bent over the table, Sam's tanned hand on her breast, and the other, languidly moving between her legs.

"Oh," she breathed. "We look…"

"Hot," he finished.

He slid a wet finger deep inside her, and she gave an inarticulate little cry, straining against him.

"Sam..."

"Tell me."

"In me," she gasped, breathless. "Please...be in me."

"Come first," he softly commanded.

Giving her another slow circle with his thumb, he watched as she shuddered, still holding obediently onto the desk's edges, for all she was worth.

He could feel her tremble, as the tension gripped her, so he added another finger and some pressure with his thumb, nibbling along the nape of her neck to her shoulder.

Strung tight, Mercedes breathed in little pants, her spine and ass braced against Sam, her arms taut, her face a mask of pleasure.

"Sam..."

"Right here with you," he assured her, and sent her skittering over the edge.

Mercedes cried out as she shattered, and would have dropped to her knees, if Sam hadn't caught her.

"Now!" she demanded breathlessly. "Right now!"

Not one to argue with a lady, Sam stripped, grabbed a condom from his pocket and put it on, before pushing inside her.

She cried out again.

With one arm supporting her, his other hand found hers where it gripped the wood, and he linked their fingers.

She was still shaking from her orgasm, he noticed.

So he bent over her, pressing his torso to her back, brushing his mouth against her neck, as he tried to give her a moment.

But when she pressed her sweet ass into him, all restless, he began to move, stringing them both up this time.

She took each thrust, arching her back for more, insistent demand in her every movement.

'Not so shy now,' he thought, with a surge of hunger and a rather shocking possessive protectiveness.

Sam found he couldn't tear his eyes from Mercedes, even as his every single nerve ending, screamed at him to let go and come already.

The fire she'd started in him was flashing bright, the ache for her, tight and hard in his gut, as he plowed relentlessly into her willing body.

'Mine...all mine," his thoughts screamed at him. And he shook his head, trying to dislodge those thoughts.

It didn't work.

They screamed louder.

'Mine...she's mine!'

Instinctively, he gripped her hips, lifted her higher and slammed into her, wringing the sexiest noises ever from her lips.

Hearing her, caused his hips to piston and he knew, he wasn't going to be able to hold on.

But then, it didn't matter, because, Mercedes went rigid and skittered over the edge again, her muscles clenching him, in erotic, sensual waves.

And it was not enough.

It was too much.

It was everything.

Gripping her harder than before, Sam growled out a heartfelt 'Oh fuck!' and buried his face in her hair, as he followed her over the edge, coming so hard, his legs buckled.

But he managed to gain enough control, to make sure his knees hit the hard wood floor and not hers.

He turned her to face him and pulled her tight, nuzzling her neck.

After a minute, he pulled back to look at her. And her smile tugged a helpless one from him as well.

"Good?" he asked.

Mercedes traced a finger along his lower lip.

"That's a pretty weak word for what that was. I bet you could come up with something better."

He nipped gently on her finger.

"I'm more of a show-not-tell, kind of guy."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"So…" she said, softly. "Show me."

Stay safe!