She was a sexual creature by nature. A grown woman. A widow with vulnerable kids. So what other choice did she have?

In fact,, if the truth be told, what choice had she ever had?

The hurt rolled through her chest and she closed her eyes. Yes, she'd loved Kurt. He'd been a loyal husband, a fun-loving companion, an honorable man, and a wonderful father;

But the sex. Yes, well… the sex.

About six years into their marriage, Charlotte read an article in a women's magazine that said if your partner didn't satisfy you, it was your own damn fault. You needed to speak up. Spell things out. Draw diagrams on a chalkboard like John Madden football plays if you had to-but it was up to you to teach the man what he needed to know.

But she'd wondered-didn't the author realize that some men were too shy to talk about sex? That sometimes in a marriage it was the woman who was more sexual than the man? That sometimes a woman's secrets could keep her from pushing too hard, asking for too much?

Fine. So maybe it was all her fault that sex with Kurt wasn't cataclysmic. But that didn't change the fact that when she'd focused on her husband, looked into his eyes, stayed present with him in the moment of passion- pfft -nothing. Zilch.

She opened her eyes. She put the pen to the paper and let the truth out: that the only thing that had ever worked was the memory of that day so long ago, and of that man.

Always her fantasy man.

Charlotte began to compose her latest erotic poem. It made her smile that Jimmy Bettmyer, of all people, had given her the idea for the title. And as the words flowed from the pen, Charlotte felt the warmth spread in her veins, because the memory of the man from her past never failed to make her unbelievably, wildly, wantonly… hot.