The stories. It was hard to hold the ink-and-paper version of Alva in the same breath as the flesh-and-blood one—they were such different people. And not just when it came to the sexual exploits, although the ones described in the papers smacked more of imagination than reality. It was that the woman in those stories didn’t hurt, didn’t care, didn’t bleed.

The one standing in front of him had scars. He knew where some of them came from; others were marks of wounds he could only guess at. She’d been hurt over and over again, and in response she’d only grown stronger.

“I researched you the week after I met you,” he said. “I’ve read every story written about you that made it into papers with American distribution.”

She nodded, dropping her hand. “Well, they’re not true. Not a single one. Oh, I suppose the part about me leaving my husband, that’s true enough. But everything else, the affairs, the orgies … nothing. I was faithful, god help me.” She laughed, and the sound skittered down Sam’s spine. “What a word, ‘faithful.’ Faithful to what? But for ten years, I was. Even after I left him … I—” She looked away, staring into the fire.

“Alva, it wouldn’t matter to me if you weren’t,” he said, tentatively feeling his way. “And of course the stories aren’t true. I never thought they were.”

“You don’t understand,” she said. “Don’t you see? I’ve paid the price, but I haven’t done the crime. I haven’t even considered doing the crime. Until I met you.”

He kissed her.

There wasn’t room for careful consideration; her words had pushed it away. There was only room for her—for the soft skin of her lips, the warmth of her body against his. He didn’t even know how he had gotten there, only that her lips were meeting his with need and passion and that his blood was pounding in his body.

She pressed against him, her breath coming in little moans between the meeting of their lips. Her arms were wrapped firmly around his neck, as if she would pull him even farther towards her, merging them into one continually combusting ball of desire.

His hands traveled firmly down her sides, memorizing every inch they covered. The sides of her breasts, soft, tantalizingly sensitive. Her waist, deliciously curved. Her hips, flaring out with dark, womanly promise.

With his last ounce of self-control, he pulled away, his hands lingering on her hips. They stared at each other, breathing hard. “Alva—”

“Make me feel alive, Sam,” she whispered.

And with that, his final tattered shred of willpower evaporated, like water under the sun. He was lost.

“Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse and low. “God, yes.”