Her lips quirk up into a delicious grin, as pink splashes across her cheeks. Her blush is magnificently alluring. It reminds me of how her skin flushes when she comes, how the color crawls up her chest when she nears the edge.

The memory is like a serving of lust, and my response to it is instant and hard.

“What can I get you?” the goateed bartender asks as he arrives.

“Something strong,” I tell him, since I can’t very well ask for the drink I really need—The Boner Killer.

“Coming right up.”

“Do you want something?” I ask Sabrina.

She shakes her head and points to her cup.

When the bartender leaves, I gesture to Sabrina, unmasked. “If it’s any consolation, you’re even prettier like this.” My eyes roam her face, cataloging cheeks I held, eyes I stared into, lips I bruised.

Her expression softens. A faint smile tugs at her mouth. “You too,” she whispers, and for a moment, I can see how this night would have unspooled. A drink, a conversation, a laugh. The laughter would have led to kissing, the kissing would have led to stumbling out of here, hailing a cab, making out as the city blurred by, then a hot, sweaty night at my place that went by far too fast.

That can’t happen anymore, yet the promise of a night like that is powerful. I tap the bar, drumming my fingers as I soak in the ambiance of this quirky joint. “I’m not surprised you like this place. I bet you had a dollhouse when you were younger.”

A faint smile plays on her lips. Those lush, sweet lips. “That’s how I learned to sew. For dolls.”

I laugh, wishing this conversation was the prelude to our evening. “Yep. Pegged it.”

“The first time I took needle to thread, I made a terrible frock for a four-inch-high blond toy woman.” She dips her hand into her purse, and fishes around. She grabs a swath of fabric and holds out her hand to show me a green paisley triangle. “Here it is. I keep it with me, like a good-luck charm.”

“That is awful, and I say this as someone who made his first robot out of cardboard, so it was equally abysmal.”

Tucking the dress away, she asks, “Do you make better robots now?”

I shake my head. “I gave up the robot trade in high school. Decided to make radios instead.”

She studies me. “Funny, I would have pegged you for model toys, airplanes, and RC cars.”

I bring my hand to my heart, pretending to look affronted. “I’m offended that you don’t realize I’m weirdly practical. I have no interest in things that don’t do . . . anything. But I do love the radio.”

“Do you have your own radio?”

“Of course. Built it from old parts. Listen to it at night. Works like a charm.”

She shrugs playfully. “Maybe you can tune in to little green men on it.”