Admittedly, it had some appeal.

“You read me right on that one, Jack,” she said, and took another bite of her pasta, shaking her head in surprise. The food was good; she wasn’t going to miss a chance to enjoy this delicious dish simply because he’d proposed something so ridiculous.

But he was undeterred. “So? What do you think?”

She finished her bite, set her fork down and clasped her hands together. “Jack, we had a great night, and I’d really like to sleep with you again because sex with you is spectacular, but suggesting we have a no-strings-attached affair for thirty days and then walk away is ludicrous.”

“But why? Why is it ludicrous?” he asked in the tone of someone who was damn curious. As if he were asking a business partner why the terms in a contract didn’t make sense. “You’re not in a spot for a relationship. And you’ve already decided I’m not either. Let’s not pretend it’s ever going to be anything more. We’re both mature, reasonable adults who had a fantastic night together. We’re both looking to move on from hurt. Let’s help each other do that.”

“Through sex?”

“Yes. We can both be therapists,” he said with a sexy glint in his eyes, and she laughed. “I’ll give you the best kind of therapy there is. I’m very good at sex therapy,” he added, his eyes looking so eager. So boyish for a moment. So young, like a kid at Christmas.

“I hardly even know you, though.”

“What do you want to know? I’m thirty-four. I grew up in Colorado. My father taught at the Air Force Academy. I played baseball in high school, studied business in college at the University of Colorado, served in the army for six years, most of it in Europe. I speak German and French. I run a business. I play basketball for exercise with my friend Nate. I live on Fifth Avenue. I like classical music. I’d like to fuck you to Ravel.”

She reined in the naughty grin that threatened to bloom across her face from the final statement. She could practically hear the rising crescendo of Ravel’s “Bolero,” the way the piece was sex in musical form. But now was not the time for picturing more orgasms from him.

“And you?” he asked.

“Thirty. Grew up in Westchester. My parents were in the arts—mom was a choreographer, dad a theater professor. They died in a car accident when I was seventeen.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said, tilting his head, his eyes on her, filled with compassion.

“It’s okay. I mean, it wasn’t okay. But it’s okay now. My brother delayed college for a year to watch out for me when they were gone. Then we went to school together at Yale. I live off Park Avenue in Murray Hill. I’ve never done any sports. I like to go shoe shopping with my friend Sutton. I love wine and scotch and theater.”

“And fucking to Ravel?” he asked in his deep, sexy tone, returning to his seductive side. The side that thrilled her.