Strip-O-Gram

"Do I know you?" he asked.

Only parts of me. The naughty parts.

"Maybe." I sure as hell hoped Sandra got what she wanted from this because I was never doing her any favors again. "Does that matter?"

"Not at all." He grinned, the devilish smile that had haunted my dreams ever since I'd kissed a stranger under the mistletoe and followed him back to what I thought was his office. I hadn't had a date since that damned party because I couldn't get him out of my head. His hands. His smell. His taste. I told myself it would be stupid to track down a guy who went south without even asking for a name, much less digits, but the truth was, I was ashamed of my behavior. I hadn't even told Sandra.

The object of my shameful lust leaned on his desk and crossed his arms. He'd rolled his shirtsleeves to reveal tan forearms corded lightly with muscle. "Who sent you?"

I set down my bag and took out my CD player. The song I planned to sing was cued up and ready to go.

Then I gritted my teeth—without showing it, of course—and untied my belt. My coat slid down my body. I struck what I hoped was a challenging pose that didn't reveal my inner turmoil. His eyes nearly bugged out. "I think you know who sent me."