“Yes.”

“A picture showed up on Twitter a few days later. My friend Sutton noticed it.”

“When you said I had fans?”

“Yes. I guess the fact is there are a lot of women in this city who want to fuck you, Jack Sullivan,” she said with a wink, tugging on his tie and pulling him closer.

“But there’s only one who is. And there’s only one I want to fuck,” he said, his voice low and husky in her ear.

“Good. I like it that way.”

“That’s the only way for me,” he said, then pulled back to look her in the eyes. “Are you sure it doesn’t bother you?” he asked, serious once more.

She shrugged. “It’s not that bad a piece. We were only at dinner, and the rest is the columnist making a joke. So truly, I can’t let it get to me.” If she stopped buying cereal at Trader Joe’s, or going out to dinner, or skipping the theater, she’d be less human. And to do her job—which was her passion, her love, her soul—she needed and wanted to be fully involved in the world around her. To be a part of it. To live. To love. To feel.

He smiled and fingered a strand of her hair. “Do you have any idea how nice it is to be involved with a shrink? You don’t overreact to things.”

She laughed. “I still have emotions, Jack. Being a psychologist doesn’t mean I’m devoid of them, or that I can manage them properly all the time. Sometimes, I can misbehave horribly.”

Just then the lights flashed, and the orchestra took the stage, the virtuoso musicians settling into their chairs, ready to launch into Brahms Fourth Symphony.

“I can misbehave too,” he said, mischief skipping across his blue eyes.

She drew a sharp breath, expecting him to brandish his remote and send pleasure shooting straight into her core.

But he didn’t. Instead, he took her hand, and turned his attention to the stage to watch, and listen. She enjoyed the music too, feeling it wrap its way around her, slink into her mind and body as the sound of the flutes soared through the cavernous hall. But she was waiting, too, tense, hoping to feel that pleasure again.

As the violinists picked up their bows, her eyes widened, and she gripped the arm of her chair. He’d turned it back on, and he’d turned it to high. She held her breath as she let herself adjust to the intensity of the vibrations between her legs, but soon he lowered the pressure, letting it buzz against her at the lowest level, a faint but still-present sensation, as if he were gently rubbing his fingertip against her clit. Like they were lying on her couch, watching a movie, and he’d decided to dip a hand inside her panties and absently stroke her while staring at the screen.

That was how it felt. Enough pleasure to send her body into a heightened awareness, a craving for more. But not enough to satiate her. Not enough at all. She wanted more, and as the bassoons joined in she was about to beg for it, to tap him on the shoulder and ask him to turn it up and get her all the way off. But this man could read her perfectly. He glanced over, and she was sure he was taking in her expression as she tried valiantly to not show the world that she wanted him to make her come in her panties at Avery Fisher Hall.