She'd read about it. That's why she'd asked.

All of her girly magazines and the occasional relationship book that she flipped through at the bookshop said that all men, on some level, wanted sex in that way. These books and articles were quick to point out the men weren't deviants for thinking about it, and the overwhelming majority wouldn't even mention it to their partner for fear of upsetting her. Men, the books argued, valued their women's comfort over their fantasy. As a result, it was a fantasy that they kept squirreled away in their minds, the closest they'd ever allow themselves was porn that depicted the act.

Sitting at her desk the next day, Grace considered how many times she'd wondered just how often he thought of it, if at all.

Well, last night had given her the answer. Score one for the hack relationship doctors that put their first names after their title. Dr. Sandra, Dr. Patricia, Dr. Dave, and all those other faux academics had actually done some legitimate research.

Her man wanted it, but had never planned to tell her.

She licked her lips in anticipation.

There was a reason she had wanted to know.

Growing up, her beauty had been a blessing and a curse. In high school, other kids had treated her with a certain distinction. Adults responded pleasantly to her. Things were often made easier for her, simply because her genetic molecules had fallen randomly in a pleasing style. Other kids gave her presents, chose her first in team sports, offered to do homework (which she never needed), took her for rides in their cars. However, it didn't always swing that way. If people weren't ingratiating towards her, they were often jealously demanding. Much more was expected of her. She was expected to dress, to act, to befriend, to persecute, to lead, all in a certain way simply because she was beautiful. Other pretty girls had either wanted to follow or dominate her. Plainer girls either adored or hated her. Boys had all unilaterally wanted to screw her. Grownups expected her to act as an example to other kids, knowing they looked up to her.

Whether friendly or angry, they all wanted something. For no damn good reason, except she was pretty.

Over time, her anger began to grow.

Being a teenager in a small town in a nowhere state, perspective is hard won. Gauging herself against others in such a small space, Grace had often felt like she was in a house of mirrors, desperate to see herself for what she was, but only seeing ridiculous exaggerations of everyone else's view thrown back at her. She spent so long in that funhouse looking for an honest mirror before she realized that the only way to truly understand herself was to leave the carnival.

College helped.

Iowa State gave her an environment of independent thought. It introduced her to people who, for the first time in her life, had no idea who she was or what she was good for. She wasn't the coach's daughter. She was just one daughter among thousands. And her looks were now sized up against hundreds of pretty girls instead of just seven or so. She was no longer unique. Rather than sobbing in a bathroom stall about it as so many former homecoming queens did, she rejoiced in her newfound anonymity. People talked to her because they wanted to, not because the small town social imperative said they had to. In these total strangers, she found honest mirrors.

She discovered she was still beautiful, but she also discovered that she was worth a damn in every other department as well. She could debate. She could laugh. She could listen to other people's problems. She could think on her feet. She could counsel. She could desire.

This honesty, so scarce throughout much of her life, became the quality she prized most in people. She'd been starved of it for so many years that she feasted ravenously when she found pockets of it in the larger population. She had a decent understanding of herself now after so many years, but people still appraised her. People still based her worth on her looks. People still revered and despised her before she even opened her mouth.

So when Wayne Rigsby showed her an honest mirror, she'd been pleased.

When she realized that under the mirror was a good man who was also often judged prematurely based on his imposing presence, she'd starting falling.

When he'd fallen in love with her because of who she was, she had tipped completely. Ass over teakettle, it was that fast and inelegant. She gorged herself on his sincerity. She greedily fed on every word and expression of candor.

He couldn't lie.

This was the oasis she'd been looking for since leaving Iowa.

…It was also the incredibly satisfying sex life that she'd been yearning for her entire adult life.

It shook her to the bone.

But over the last few months, as this safe and honest man had taken her to heights of physical pleasure she'd only read about in romance novels, her curiosity began to get the better of her.

Would her unstintingly truthful lover want that certain act with her? Would he, as the book suggested, keep that wish to himself? His rough and splintered frankness meant everything to her. Varnish only served to gloss over the truth. She had no love for varnish. She wanted splinters.

So she'd asked him. And the rough and splintered answer came back. Yes.

A guy thing, he'd called it. He never would have broached the subject.

Unacceptable.

Tonight, Grace planned to show him just how rewarding his rough honesty could be.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

He honestly couldn't help it.

Before they'd gotten together, the thought was just so damn wrong that it felt illegal just thinking it about his fellow young colleague. When the urge struck, he always wanted Cho or somebody to just cuff him and lock him up, maybe throw some ice water on him for good measure. Toss him a Bible. Or a titty mag. Find Jesus or find relief, just stop with the dirty thoughts already.

Sicko.

But now he and Grace were involved.

And one thing more than any other triggered this mental scenario against his will.

Grace? Waxed.

Oh, dear God, it had killed him their first night together. As she had modestly slipped her panties down her legs, he'd been dangerously close to coming before he'd even touched her. Her sweet, achingly beautiful pussy was smooth and silky to the touch. He'd gone more than a little crazy when he finally made his hands reach for her. By the end of that night, she'd come against his hands and lips and cock so many times that he'd lost count. He hadn't said a word about it, but her anatomy—so fucking visible and gorgeous—ensured that his cock never stayed down for long.

Finally, after he scooped up his liquefied brain from the floorboards and rested in sated bliss in her arms, she'd quietly explained. Boyfriends—assholes, he mentally amended—in her past had teased her about her red curls. They weren't being cruel, she'd told him quickly, it just made her uncomfortable undressing for someone the first time and watching them chuckle at her unusual pubic hair color. She felt exposed at their lighthearted mockery instead of sexy and desired. It made intimacy that much harder for her, and it was hard enough already. So in her early twenties, she'd made a decision: Remove it. All of it.

Wayne instantly wanted to ask her for the names and addresses of these jagoffs. Because of their unthinking dumbassery, he hadn't got to experience her fully. They had ruined his exploration of her red, glorious body and made her feel like she needed to hide her true self from him. Not that he didn't love experiencing her skin instead of her beautiful little locks, but seriously? Those bastards managed to get a woman like Grace into bed and they had to audacity to laugh at her? Were they so knee-deep in perfect women that they could afford to joke about their divine bodies in front of them? Yeah, he felt a bit homicidal at the thought.

He'd kissed her forehead and told her that she could throw her waxing kit away, if she wanted. Her body was a living work of art. He wanted to admire it in every single form. She'd smiled softly and said she'd think about it.

Meanwhile?

They had fucked each other senseless every single night.

And the wax job in question? Didn't just highlight her perfect little pussy. As he drove into her wantonly from behind, or held her legs wide open underneath his thrusting hips, her perfect, pert little ass was on constant display. A tiny, pink little buttonhole next to a spectacular flower.

And the male prerogative of wanting to fuck a woman in the ass hit him like a Mack truck.

But no. He crushed it every time. As he thrust blindly into her perfect body, he knew he had more than he could ever want just experiencing her this way. Only this way. He'd watched her face that first night when he'd yanked his boxers away and knew that he was more than she was used to. Her eyes had gone round. Her breath had caught. And when he'd slowly entered her impossibly tight depths, she'd gasped, her hands gripping him as her body stretched wider than ever before.

He'd been careful. She'd been eager.

As a result, their hormones now screamed only for one another and their bodies fit each other like elaborate keys. It blew his mind how perfect they were together.

So that little extra desire was totally nonessential. More than that, the act itself would most likely hurt her. She was so tight. He was well endowed. This convinced him that her tempting little hole—pink and sweet as a rabbit's nose—was off limits. And that suited him just fine.

Until last night. She'd agreed to try it. She said she wanted it.

Suddenly his nonessential, extra little desire—his Polaroid pictures—had been blown up into posters. They hung from every corner of his mind. He couldn't escape them. As he looked up from his own desk and stared at her rapt concentration in her work, he envisaged what such an act would be like with her.

Because he had never done it before.

Just like in his current relationship, he'd never mentioned it to past girlfriends. Nor had they. It had stayed in his fantasies and the sex had stayed straight-forward. And just like now, that had been fine with him.

But now there were exactly seven hours before they both lost that cherry. Grace, his own personal earthquake, wanted it just like he did.

Standing up quietly, he took one of his breaks and slipped into an empty interrogation room with his private cell phone. Once seated in silence and total privacy, he called up the internet and, clearing his throat modestly, searched for anal sex techniques for men.

Unbelievably hot fantasy or no, if his inexperience ended up hurting her, he'd kill himself. There had to be methods, other than just going slow, that would not only avoid pain, but create pleasure. And he would find them. He would teach himself how to make this so damn good for her.