There's no mistaking him when he walks through the door, setting the stupid little bell jingling and making her look up from her Harlequin

There's no mistaking him when he walks through the door, setting the stupid little bell jingling and making her look up from her Harlequin. He looks larger than life, epic, even against the bland backdrop of a dingy Boston diner. Emily doesn't remember him being quite that big before; maybe the trees all around them had made him seem smaller than he really was.

Not a spark of recognition flashes on his face when he sees her; she's just part of the brisk, knowing sweep he makes of the place before setting his feet firmly on the checkered linoleum floor. Emily's never felt quite so much like part of the background, at least not since she ditched the dumpy cardigans and demure ponytails for a look with a little more sass and flash. She'd faced down a god, and brought a town to its knees; she's allowed to play.

He sits straight, rigid in his chair, looking like he wants to tear something bloody apart with his teeth. Just when she's thinking she likes the dangerous glint in his eye, he glances at the menu and smiles, looking like he's on the verge of tears. A bad boy who's in touch with his emotions? Check and mate.

Emily decides there's no time like the present and saunters over to his table. He's cramming a BLT into his mouth, spurts of mayonnaise dripping out the sides of the sandwich; for someone who eats with such gusto, he sure doesn't look like he's enjoying it. She sits without an invitation and signals the waitress over. "A slice of apple pie, please," she says, keeping her eyes on him, letting her tone go demure and her voice go husky. And there, there it is, his gaze like daggers on her, and she smiles, trying to look nonchalant.

"Up," he orders, and she stands, smoothing down her skirt with nervous hands. "Leave your stuff," he says, and she lets her purse keep dangling from the chair back and Forbidden Love stay face-down on the sticky table. His hand on her arm is like a handcuff, unyielding, but she doesn't need him to guide her.

Emily pushes open the door to the single unisex bathroom. A handicapped stall would give them more room --

She stops thinking when he slams her against the wall. Her hair does nothing to cushion the blow to her head.

"You," he says, looming above her, right up in her face, and if she weren't so turned on that he's come back, back to save her a second time, she might be just the tiniest bit afraid.

She hooks her arms around his neck anyway, reaching up, up, up.

He jerks her off her tiptoes with strong arms ripped with muscle. Her skirt is too tight for her to get her legs around his waist; he takes care of that by flipping it up. Her panties - the old ones striped red and white like a barber's pole - she thought he'd rip them off, but he just pushes them to one side. Her back is throbbing from being pressed so firmly up against the door, and it only gets tighter when he pushes harder, freeing up his hands to undo his own pants; her arms are too short to reach, her fingers not nearly nimble enough.

She peels her head away from the door, straining her muscles like crunches never could, just to get close enough to lick his neck. He doesn't react, so she bites instead, and he grunts and slams her back once more. Her head is pounding, and she tips it forward.

There. Oh, he's beautiful. Big and long and thick, and she wants it now.

His grin is sharp, shaded but not dimmed by the fall of long, soft hair. "Come and get it," he says, but she can't move, he knows it, not when he's got her pinned like this, and she doesn't know if she should beg, and then.

Then he's there, pushed inside her like a hand inside a glove, and she can't even breathe with how full she is of him.

She's pinned like a bug on a pin, but he starts to move, sharp little snaps of his hips, his thick thighs solid underneath her. She's like a boat in the water, bobbing and coming right with every wave, only to be set rocking again by the next one.

"You," he says again, sounding like he's not even winded, like he's as calm as if he were out there, finishing his messy sandwich, and she needs more than that. She clenches fiercely around him, feeling her panties cutting a sharp elastic line into her skin, and finally he gasps and goes a little crazy, losing his rhythm. "God," he says, as he comes, dropping his head to her shoulder. The hand that drops to her waist, the hot breath on her breast are enough to set her off, and she comes again, long and loud, and falls forward into his arms.

Two years of fantasies, and he just blew them all away.

She's sure she'll think of something else by the next time he rolls into town.