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course.”
    “Neither one of
us is married. I’m not sure ‘affair’ is the correct term.”
    “Of course it
is. You don’t have to be married to have an affair. It just needs to be
secret.” No one knew that Carrie was regularly screwing Matthew Lynch, and she
intended to keep it that way.
    “I see.” He
looked eminently unconvinced. And still amused. And definitely superior.
    “Don’t be an
ass.” When he opened his mouth to respond, she spoke over him. “You know
exactly what ass-like behavior I’m referring to.”
    Since that
first night, they’d gotten together at least once a week for sex, although
recently they’d been getting together more often.
    Matt was her
hot secret. Her shameless indulgence. Everyone thought she was quiet and
withdrawn—keeping to herself, working in her coffee shop, never taking risks.
No one would dream she’d have a casual affair with a gorgeous, notorious,
wounded artist.
    She knew she’d
have to let him go eventually—you didn’t have sex indefinitely with a man you
could never be in a real relationship with.  She assumed eventually she’d be
ready for a real relationship. But not yet.
    “What is it?”
Matt asked. His vivid eyes were knowing and astute. Sometimes she wondered how
far inside her soul they could see.
    “Nothing.”
    “Feeling guilty
about your sleazy affair?” he asked with light irony.
    His question
was perceptive—just shy of the truth—and it left her feeling a little uneasy.
To hide her response, she raised her eyebrows. “I thought you said ‘affair’
wasn’t the appropriate word.”
    He chuckled and
reached over to skim his fingers along her back again, lingering on the spot
he’d admired before—the deep curve and dip just above her bottom.
    She watched him
in silence. He was looking at her body with an expression that was both amused
and strangely hungry. His coloring had evened out, although he was still wet
with perspiration. Her eyes dipped from his face to his chest, and she couldn’t
help but notice the lines of faint scars there. There were a lot of them. And
more on his arms. Plus the two deep ones on the side of his head.
    He’d barely
survived that car accident two years ago.
    Matt’s body
wasn’t perfect—wasn’t flawless and invulnerable. His muscle development was
lean, masculine, and efficient, but he wasn’t a body-builder. And he was
scarred. Scarred so deeply. Scarred in so many ways.
    “Why don’t you
have any tattoos?” she asked, trying to drag herself away from the soft
feelings her reflections had prompted.
    “Why would I
have tattoos?”
    “I don’t know.
You seem like the kind of guy who would have tattoos. You’ve got that hard
edge, you know.”
    He chuckled.
“When an activity is so common that college kids do it when they’re drunk, I
think it’s time to admit that the activity has lost its edge.”
    She burst into
giggles when the words processed. Sometime in the last three months, she’d
learned how to laugh again—although she couldn’t really pinpoint when it had
happened.
    “You’re not
that much older than college kids, you know. You shouldn’t sound so superior.”
    “If you say
so.”
    Still smiling,
she reached over to stroke his chest, her hand gliding over the smoothly
rippling muscles and scattering of coarse hair.
    “Do you want me
to get a tattoo?” he asked, a different note in his voice.
    “No.” Her
fingers lingered on a jagged scar that slashed through the curve of his
ribcage.
    “I guess my
body is marked enough.”
    She sucked in a
sharp breath. “Don’t say that. I like your body as it is.”
    When she
realized what she’d said, she blushed a little—although there wasn’t any good
reason for feeling self-conscious.
    Her eyes darted
up, and she saw Matt was almost smiling. “You know what I mean,” she added.
    “Yeah. Thanks.”
    Her fingers
kept playing along the scar, and she felt that same unfamiliar tenderness
overwhelming her.
    He cleared