She smelled the honeysuckle, recalling how the little blossoms had ground into her damp skin as they rolled together in the undergrowth, the juice mixing with their mingled sweat to create the most arousing scent she'd ever known.

As always, she tasted the blood, because she'd kissed him so violently that she'd sliced open her bottom lip.

Charlotte let her tongue fiddle with the invisible scar as she wrote:

Meat

Three helpings

I couldn't get enough

It's not polite to devour and run

But I had a plane to meet

Meat

That first time remains

In my blood

And I'd lie if I said

Anything since has been as thick

Or juicy

And filling

As you were

Hungry

Always so empty-hungry-open-ready

Waiting

For your meat

Charlotte put away the poetry journal. She removed her convenient handheld lover from its soft cotton storage sleeve. Then she made that mysterious battery-powered journey through memory and fantasy until she arrived at the only kind of release she'd known since that perfect afternoon thirteen years ago, in the arms of the man with the greedy hands, the insistent mouth, the endless dark eyes that swallowed her soul.

The man of her fantasies.

The man with no name.

Chapter Two

"My name is Joseph W. Mills and I'm here to pick up my keys."

The bleached blonde he'd been told was LoriSue Bettmyer rose from her desk and produced a saleswoman smile. Then she smoothed out the nonexistent wrinkles of her tight blouse, in case he'd missed her customized upper body at first glance.