“Maybe I’ll never have sex again,” Tilda said. “I’m trying to decide if that’s a bad thing.”

“Tell you what.” Davy picked up the bottle again. “Small bet.”

“Bet?” Tilda watched as he slopped more vodka in her glass. The pineapple-orange juice was only a pale memory now. “Like poker?”

“I bet you,” he said, handing it to her, “that I can make you come, right here on this couch. No Space Invaders.”

“Uh-huh,” Tilda said dubiously over the rim of her glass. The coming part sounded good, but it was Davy. There was bound to be a catch. On the other hand, it was Davy. And she did want him. Even the FBI thing was a turn-on. Maybe she had some Louise in her after all.

“If you win,” he was saying, “I help you get the rest of the paintings. If I win, we play Space Invaders.” He thought about it. “Which means that you win either way. This is a great deal for you, Vilma.”

“Spare me,” Tilda said, willing to be seduced but not scammed.

Davy shook his head sadly. “I’ve never met a woman who was more afraid of orgasm.”

“I’m not afraid of orgasm,” Tilda said, indignant. “I’ve had plenty of orgasms. I just-”

“When Harry Met Sally,” Davy said. “First diner scene.”

“That was not a movie quote,” Tilda said. “Is everything a game to you?”

“Pretty much.” Davy met her eyes and smiled at her, and Tilda thought, Oh, Lord. “So, do you want to play or can we go to bed now?”

“There are two more paintings left,” Tilda said, her heart picking up speed.

“Fifteen minutes,” Davy said. “Time me.”

She drank the rest of her vodka and orange vapor, regarding him over the edge of the glass. He was so much fun to look at. And as long as she kept her mouth shut, what did she have to lose besides her dignity? Which, let’s face it, had gone with the wind the last time they’d hit the couch. That had to be the all-time low. And if it wasn’t Space Invaders, if she wasn’t letting him inside, maybe she wouldn’t say anything-

“Matilda,” Davy said. “I’m growing old here.”

Her heart began to pound and she swallowed again. “Fifteen minutes?”

“Yep.”

So even if it was bad again, it was only fifteen minutes. And if it was good, it might be Louise. She took a deep breath -there was never enough oxygen around when she started contemplating having sex with Davy- and she nodded. “You’re on.”

HE GOT UP and locked the doors to the gallery and the hallway, and she said, “That was thoughtful,” as he took her glass away from her.

“You’re drunk,” he said.

Tilda looked at him with contempt. “Well, duh. Would I be doing this if I wasn’t?”

“Good point.” He went over to the jukebox and started punching numbers at random.

“What are you doing?” She squinted at him through her glasses as the Exciters started to sing, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“Cover,” he said, over the music. “In case you turn out to be a moaner for real.”

“Somehow I thought it’d be more romantic,” she said. “You know. Since we sort of know each other this time.”

He came over to her and took her glasses.

“Hey.”

“Reality is not a turn-on for you,” he said. “Stick with soft-focus.”

“Well, that’s a good point,” she said, and didn’t say anything at all when he turned the lights off so there was only the glow of the jukebox behind them. Then he came over, picked up her knees, and swiveled her around so her back was to the arm of the couch.

“Okay, I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to be more romantic than this,” Tilda said, as he pulled her hips down the leather seat. She managed not to roll off, but he stuck his hand out to catch her, just in case. A real gentleman.

“Here’s the deal,” Davy said, leaning over her. “You shut up. Both your mouth and your brain. You’ve probably talked yourself out of coming more times than you’ve come.”

“Hey,” Tilda said, annoyed, and he kissed her, that mouth on hers, hot and insistent, all that heat going straight into her brain and shorting out whatever it was she’d been going to say. “You do that really well,” she said, when he moved to her neck.

“I know,” he said into her shoulder. “Be quiet.”

He began to slide her T-shirt up, and she held onto it and tried to remember if she was wearing a good bra or not, definitely not one with safety pins but hopefully not a boring white one-

“Matilda,” Davy said.

“Hmmm?”

“You’re thinking.”

“Am not.”

“You had that look on your face, the one you get when you’re counting something.”

Tilda shrugged herself down on the couch a little more, which brought her into contact with him. Somehow, in all of the sliding around, he’d put himself between her legs. “How did you get there?”

“Practice,” he said. “Stop thinking.”

“It was sexual. I was wondering if my bra was good.”

He stripped her T-shirt over her head before she could stop him, catching it on her ear. She untangled it and looked down. White lace.

“It’s good,” he said. “Now make your mind a blank. Try not to pass out.”

“How long have we been doing this?” Tilda said. “Is my fifteen minutes up?”

He bent and licked her stomach, and she shut up, and then he moved down, flicking her belly button with his tongue as he slid her zipper down, and Tilda felt the heat spread low, which was surprising because there he was, right there in the room, dangerous as all hell.

She looked at the ceiling and thought, This could be good. As long as she kept her mouth shut. Positive thoughts. “I’m positive,” she said, surprising herself when it was out loud. “I’m positive I want the most incredible orgasm I’ve ever had in my life.”

“Okay.” He eased her jeans down, and she lifted her hips to help him because given the amount of hip he had to negotiate, that was only fair. “What’s my standard of reference?”

“Pretty damn good,” she said. “Scott knew what he was doing.”

“Scott?” Davy looked up at her. “Who’s Scott?”

“My former fiance.”

“And you wait until now to mention him?”

“He’s former,” Tilda said. “Am I making snarky noises about Clea? No.”

Davy shook his head. “Okay, if it’s only pretty good, you’ve got it,” he said and bent down to her again.

“Talk’s cheap,” she said, but his hand slid between her legs as his cheek brushed her stomach, and his mouth was hot on her skin, and Tilda felt herself flush with something that wasn’t embarrassment. If she thought about it, she’d have to stop, but the deal was she wouldn’t think, and when he pushed her knee up, her hips rose to meet his hand and then his mouth. She gasped once as he licked inside her, and she grabbed the arm of the couch over her head to keep from sliding off, and then he licked again and got serious and she gave herself up to the pressure he built slowly in her, thinking, This boy has a great mouth. Don’t think about where it is.

Behind her, Betty Everett sang, “It’s in his kiss,” and Tilda relaxed into the familiar lyric and Davy’s unfamiliar mouth, thinking, I’ll never hear this song again without remembering how this felt, easing into heat, breathing in pleasure. When she was breathing pleasure so hard they could have heard her in the hall, Davy pulled back.

“Nice try,” she said, as Betty trailed off behind her.

“Quitter.” Davy bit her inner thigh.

She pushed herself up on her elbows. “The deal was-”

Davy pointed his finger at her. “Fifteen minutes. And you’d be quiet.”

The thought of where that finger had been made her blush. Not to mention where his head was now. “Well, what-” she began, trying to brazen it out, but then the jukebox started the Sisters, and by the time they’d finished the first line of “All Grown Up,” Davy’s head was back down, and he began to slowly lick all that heat back into her. She shivered and felt the tension start in her again, as tight as it had been before, and she slid back down the couch, closer to him, she hadn’t lost anything, and this time the heat rose much faster so that when the Ladybugs finished “Sooner or Later,” and Davy pulled away again, she smacked his shoulder and said, “Don’t stop.”