By Appointment Only

A good marriage is based on love, commitment, and enough hot sex to last a lifetime...

Hannah loves Morgan enough to become his fiancée, but that doesn't mean she wants to get married. In her experience, everything goes downhill after you say "I do"—and it all starts in the bedroom. For Morgan, marriage isn't the end, it's the beginning, and he's aching to get started.

They find the perfect compromise with a new form of counseling—premarital sex therapy. Each private session brings them closer together, revealing the quirky, kinky sides of their deepest desires. As the role-playing sessions heat up, Hannah discovers that marriage might be the sexiest game of all.

Even minus the requisite white wedding dress, the woman fleeing down the front steps of a large, imposing church in downtown Orlando had a definite “runaway bride” vibe thing going on. Morgan Webber was minding his own business as he strolled along the sidewalk when she literally slammed into his shoulder, threatening to send them both crashing to the pavement.

Only his bulk and her quick footwork saved them. She tossed out a muttered apology, evaded his grasp, and darted out into the street. He watched aghast, wincing at the cacophony of blaring horns and screeching brakes, as she danced between the vehicles.

When she made it safely to the opposite curb, he actually glanced over his shoulder expecting to see a distraught groom in hot pursuit. But at the top of the steps, the sturdy oak doors, both decorated with large white ribbons, remained firmly closed.

Two things kept him from going on about his business. The first was simple curiosity. He sensed a drama in the making. But the second reason was even more compelling. The brief physical encounter smacked him square in the chest with a powerful sexual attraction.

His mystery lady was tall and slender and had masses of wavy brunette hair that bounced and tumbled on her shoulders. Even when she wasn’t in a dead run, he suspected that her extravagant hair would seem alive with the current of energy she exuded.

While he watched, bemused, she unlocked a fuschia Kia, rummaged in the glove compartment, and backed out of the car to do a reverse dash, once again ignoring the irate motorists who tried to keep from killing her.

As she retraced her route, he jogged up the church steps close on her heels, compelled by an urgency that was probably only a reflection of hers. But he ran anyway, unwilling to miss the next act in this unfolding mystery.

By the time he stepped into the cool, dimly lit church, his fleet-footed, graceful gazelle was kneeling beside a tiny, gray-headed, supine female, opening the woman’s mouth and tucking a small pill beneath her tongue. A minister and a rail-thin, octogenarian groom hovered helplessly nearby along with a bald, middle-aged fellow who was apparently the best man.

Morgan held his breath unconsciously until the old lady’s eyes fluttered and opened. She looked up at her rescuer. “Stupid angina. Damn it, Hannah, my girl. What took you so long?”

In the flurry of nervous laughter that followed, Morgan allowed himself a closer inspection of the female who seemed to be in entire control of the situation.

“Hannah” grinned down at the small, elderly bride. “Sorry, Miss Beverly. Next time let’s leave those pills in your pocket.”

Beverly snorted as she allowed herself to be lifted to her feet. “No next time about it. This is my last trip down the aisle.”

Morgan lingered in the back of the church while the abruptly aborted wedding service continued. Shafts of sunlight filtered through massive stained glass windows painting Hannah with a rainbow of soft colors. Her generous lips curved in a smile as she watched the older couple repeat their vows.

If she knew Morgan watched her, she made no sign. But surely she must sense his intense absorption. He felt almost dizzy from the force of his heart pounding in his chest. He told himself it was the leftover adrenaline from thinking she would be hit by a car at any second.

But the truth was, he’d been the one to be metaphorically knocked on his ass. And he was in imminent danger of appearing to be a stalker and a wedding crasher at that. So he slipped into a pew at the rear of the sanctuary and sat quietly until the ceremony reached its conclusion.

There was no recessional, merely lots of hugs and congratulations and then finally a deep, resonant silence when the bride and groom, minister, and best man disappeared through a hallway at the side of the chancel area.

Now, only his Julia Roberts look-alike remained. She turned as if on cue and their eyes met. She was smiling, but it was a mocking smile. Whether it was directed at herself or at him, he couldn’t tell. He rose to his feet and walked toward her. After a split second, she moved as well.

They met in the middle of the church. She cocked her head, her sultry lips and wide-lashed eyes, brown he saw now, making him sweat beneath his dress shirt. He’d had a meeting with the suits at the bank earlier, hence his unusual attire in the middle of a work day. He much preferred the shorts and boots he wore on the job.

Though he topped six feet by a couple of inches, she was tall for a woman, and their lips were in touching distance. That odd thought shook him even more, and he swallowed against a dry throat.

Her ivory slip dress clung to her fit body and begged for a man’s touch. Finally she took pity on his mute state. “Do I know you?”

Her husky alto took what was left of the starch in his knees. He shook his head, trying to clear it. “No. But seeing a woman nearly run over... twice... tends to grab a man’s attention.”

She lifted a hand to his chin, shocking the crap out of him. Her long slim fingers brushed his jaw in a brief caress that made note of the slight stubble she found. He’d been up at 5AM to shave and dress, and it was now midafternoon.

When her hand fell away slowly, he forced himself not to grab for it. She lifted one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Your name?”

He forced the words past the lump in his throat. “Morgan Webber.”

She observed him like an exhibit in a museum as if by analyzing his form she could come to some conclusions about his identity or his motives or even his moral character. Then her eyes lit with a combination of mischief and outrageous bravado. “Can I do anything for you?” she drawled, the words dripping with sexual overtones.

He studied her mouth with rapt fascination. “You could marry me,” he said, only half joking.

She lifted an eyebrow. “I’m afraid I don’t think much of that venerable institution.”

He frowned. “And yet here you are.”

She shrugged, the epitome of haughty sophistication. “I don’t impose my views on others.” Then her naughty smile returned. “I’m assuming you have no desire to kiss the real bride, so perhaps I’ll do as a substitute.”

And then she wrapped her slim arms around his neck, found his mouth with hers, and proceeded, like some ancient sorceress, to steal his heart away.

He sucked in a startled breath and managed to get with the program in a split second. She tasted like whipped cream and coffee, and her body in his arms was all curves and slippery silk and sensuous woman.