Later, Evelyn remembered almost none of it. Not the titles, not the faces, not most of what had happened on the screen. The images blurred together into one awkward, arousing, and occasionally anatomically educational revelation.

Except for one video.

That one remained in his memory with the clarity of something he'd seen yesterday.

There had been a man and a woman on screen. The man was human. At first, the woman appeared human too: pleasant face, ordinary body.

Then she opened her mouth.

A long, flexible tongue slid out and curled around the man's neck. It did not merely touch him — it almost encircled his throat in a dense, living loop, stroking as it tightened. Then it glided across his collarbones and slowly slipped lower. The man exhaled sharply, a visible shudder running through him. The woman sank to her knees while her tongue continued downward, nearing his hips...

Evelyn jerked his head, returning abruptly to the present, and realized he had somehow shifted toward the edge of his chair.

"Good Lord."

So many years had passed, and the memory still affected him almost exactly as it had the first time. People said habits formed young and went on to shape a person's character.

Evelyn was not convinced about the character part.

His tastes, however, that video had clearly ruined forever.

And yet...

How long was Mr. Johnson's tongue?

The brief, almost imperceptible moment in the office replayed in his mind: the narrow tip sliding along a row of sharp teeth before vanishing behind pale lips.

Heat rushed through Evelyn again.

It was probably as strong and flexible as the rest of that beautifully constructed body. Not that Evelyn had actually seen much of the body itself. So far, he had only what the impeccable suit permitted him to infer.

Perhaps the problem was the suit.

Yes. Entirely the suit.

Mr. Johnson's tailor had to be an extraordinary professional. The fabric fell perfectly, defining broad shoulders, a powerful chest, and a waist offensively narrow for a man that large.

Evelyn suddenly envied a complete stranger.

The tailor was allowed to touch Mr. Johnson legally. Professionally. For work.

Take measurements. Learn his exact height. Shoulder width. Chest and waist circumference. Draw a measuring tape around his hips and down those long legs...

A rough breath escaped Evelyn's chest.

The thin cashmere of his lounge trousers had pulled tight across his groin so visibly that ignoring the situation was no longer possible, even if he had wanted to.

Unfortunately, Evelyn showed no sign of wanting to stop.

He imagined the tailor asking Mr. Johnson to stand straight. Johnson calmly extending his arms while the measuring tape passed around his torso. That low voice asking, perfectly composed, whether the measurements were precise enough.

Then Mr. Johnson looked at Evelyn.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Gilmore?"

"Yes."

Surprise crossed his face for an instant, immediately replaced by that familiar half-smile on pale lips.

"And what would that be?" he asked, eyes narrowing slightly.

That was the point at which Evelyn's remaining good sense gave up entirely.

"You should take that suit off immediately."

Mr. Johnson clicked his tongue softly. The sound flowed into a quiet laugh — rough-edged, warm, and enough to send gooseflesh racing over Evelyn's skin.

"Is that so."

With that predatory grace of his, he slowly lifted his arms as though politely allowing Evelyn to carry out his own demand. Open amusement danced in those nearly black eyes, and the sight of it finished off what remained of Evelyn's reason.

"Then why are you still standing there, Mr. Gilmore?" he said in the same low, unruffled voice. "You should immediately assist your future boss."

In the fantasy, Evelyn went to him with a muffled groan. He opened the buttons of Johnson's shirt — one-handed, almost roughly — and his palm met skin. Dense. Smooth. Unnaturally pale, like marble statuary, something that belonged in a museum.

Evelyn ran his fingers over the chest beneath it, feeling clean bands of muscle. And the scent. Yes, of course. That refined cologne that had drifted almost imperceptibly through the office. Tobacco too, surely. Metal. Danger. Gunpowder, perhaps, scrubbed from his hands after some recent case. Evelyn breathed it in like a man possessed and knew he was not going to stop.

The jacket dropped soundlessly to the floor. The shirt followed. Evelyn's fingers slid to the belt buckle — shameless, hungry, without hesitation — while his other hand was already closing around Mr. Johnson's ass through the thin fabric of his trousers.

Good God. Ecstasy.

Surely in reality that firm ass would be every bit as taut as it seemed now. The same perfect continuation of that long, powerful body. Evelyn moaned — aloud, helplessly — then clapped a hand over his mouth. The neighbors would start thinking the rolling-pin incident had inspired him in an entirely different context.

In his imagination he kissed Marcus's collarbones, his chest, caught a pinkish nipple between his teeth. Pink — or perhaps the same shade as his lips? Beautiful either way. Evelyn had no doubt nature had refined every detail of that body to perfection.

Mr. Johnson, in Evelyn's fantasy, breathed softly above him. Those large hands settled around Evelyn's shoulders with an easy, almost careless strength that served as a reminder: this monster could break his neck in a second.

But he didn't.

He allowed it.

He looked down at Evelyn with that same half-smile that made his knees unreliable.

And the knowledge of it — that Evelyn was vulnerable, that Johnson could destroy him at any moment and simply chose not to — sent another wave of pleasure through him.

Evelyn spread his legs wider and, with a quiet broken sound, moved his hand faster. His hand had a considerable distance to travel, but Evelyn had been living with that particular fact for years.

In the fantasy, Evelyn had already reached the lower plane of his stomach. He kissed the defined lines of his obliques slowly, explored every inch of skin with his mouth — it seemed almost sweet. 

Evelyn's hands kneaded firm muscle greedily, squeezing Johnson's ass and spreading him. His fingers slipped lower — toward the place Evelyn wanted to occupy in an entirely different way.

His body burned. At the edge of his thoughts, Evelyn realized Ms. Alvarez would be deeply confused if she chose this exact moment to turn off the television and heard the steady wet strokes and strangled breathing through the thin wall.

The thought was almost funny.

Almost — because the monster named Marcus Johnson had already driven everything else out of Evelyn's head again.

Magnificent.

A walking catastrophe.

Evelyn was right at the edge now, lost in the fantasy of ... while one finger pressed between his ... He had barely pushed the first joint deeper when Mr. Johnson placed a hand against his shoulder and moved him back — gently, but with absolute refusal.

That elusive amusement still gleamed in his black eyes.

"That is forbidden territory for you for now, Mr. Gilmore."

Then came a vibrating laugh. Low. Warm. Almost tender.

Evelyn broke.

He arched with a torn-off moan, bit his lip hard enough to hurt, and clenched his fingers as pleasure hit him with sharp, almost helpless force, sweeping away the last of his self-control.

For several moments Evelyn simply sat there, breathing heavily, a fine tremor running through his legs. Marcus Johnson still hovered behind his eyes — or rather the version of him Evelyn's overheated imagination had invented: amused, unreachable, and painfully beautiful.

When he finally managed to collect himself, Evelyn looked down at the splattered parquet.

He decided grimly that he would have to wash it.

Preferably several times.

Not so much for cleanliness as for the opportunity to occupy his hands, shut down his brain, and stop losing his mind for at least a few minutes.

Evelyn had just finished his third pass over the most affected section of floor when his phone vibrated on the table.

He froze with the mop in his hands. His heart gave one short, ridiculous leap. Evelyn dropped the mop against the edge of the bucket and lunged for the phone.

The screen said: Mom.

Disappointment hit so sharply that he felt ashamed at once.