...The Philly Flash was flashing, all right. Big, old hot flashes that started in her face and ended in her crotch, tightening her nipples on their way down her torso. Not the flashes of menopause, not at thirty-five, but the flashes certainly had to do with men. Well, a specific man, to be more accurate.

She hadn’t felt true sexual desire since Jay died, and the heat, combined with the dampness between her legs, was flummoxing her.

Burt Stone was good-looking—she especially liked the All-American jut of his jaw, his deeply-set iron-gray eyes, and his sturdy shoulders—but whatever was affecting her was more than his looks. Simply put, the way he moved his body, gimpy leg or not, made her certain he’d be great in bed.

He wants it. I want it. Why not?

Jay, that’s why not.

But Jay isn’t coming back.

She put down the marker, walking straight to the man, in the grip of something more powerful than her will, her stubbornness. She perched her butt on the edge of the table and leaned forward.

“Burt,” she said flatly, “you look as if you’re going to die unless you score. Does this table work for you?”

She held her breath, hoping she hadn’t misread his body language. God, that would be embarrassing, to offer yourself to a man who’s not interested.

“Huh?” His gray eyes had narrowed. “What the hell are you saying? Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Felicia pushed his chair back from the table. Then, she straddled his lap while still standing. “I’m saying that, if you’d like to put off the poker lesson for a time when we’re both more, um, relaxed, we have a huge table here, a door I can lock, and—”

Her sentence ended in a squeak, because his hands had firmly clasped her bottom.

“Lock the damn door before I lose my mind,” he said.

She tried to move, but his fingers dug into her ass. “Let go, and I will.”

“Fuck that,” he said.

He had her jeans and panties down in what felt like three seconds before he pushed her onto the table, on her back. With no pretense or preamble, he leaned forward, still sitting in the chair, and put his mouth on her pussy, exploring between her inner lips with his tongue.

Felicia gasped, gripping his head. It had been over two years since—

Her orgasm stopped all conscious thought. Her legs curled around his neck, and she held his head against her, moaning. Hot, liquid sensations shot through her as she writhed on the mahogany, the mother of all hot flashes tormenting her while his tongue stroked mercilessly.

The man can really eat pussy.

“Jesus, that was—Jesus,” she repeated.

He whipped off her shirt and bra, groaning, “Those are some tits,” before pulling her off the table and onto his lap. His mouth was at just the right height to work on her nipples. The middle finger of his right hand found its way inside her. His finger caressed while he sucked her nipples fiercely enough to hurt.

It felt exquisite.

Then he put two fingers inside her. That felt even better.

Her fingers groped for his belt, his zipper. His mouth never losing suction, the two of them wrestled his cock out of his pants, and she sat on it with a loud sigh.