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She'd shaved inside her thighs before, but it always left sharp stubble and a rash. If she was going to be someone's lust object, she wanted to be smooth and sleek and not worried about whether he was going to get sandpapered by her thighs.

She stripped and gave herself a quick sponge bath, put on some red lipstick as the quickest way to brighten up her face, combed her hair and smoothed out the frizzies with water and silicone serum, then sat on the edge of the tub and tore into the wax kit.

The instructions were full of cautions, but she'd waxed her legs a few years ago and figured she understood the basics. The cold wax came in a tube and had the consistency of honey. She squeezed a blob of it onto the small plastic spatula from the kit, smeared it over a quarter-sized patch of hair inside her thigh, pressed a strip of cloth over it, then held her skin taut with one hand while ripping off the cloth with the other.

"Holy crap!" she screeched, and slapped one palm down over her offended flesh, hoping that pressure would ease the pain. A moment later she lifted her hand and examined the damage. Her skin bore faint pink dots where each hair had been exhumed, but was otherwise a smooth, lovely patch of civilized hairlessness amid the wilds.

Emma darted naked out into the kitchen and checked the time: she had eight minutes. She darted back into the bathroom, hoping Russ would be late.

If she waxed in sensible one-inch patches it would take her forever to get it done, and impatience drove her to slather progressively wider and longer strips of wax on her skin, press on the cloth, then pull it off in a series of short jerks. Stray dollops of wax attached to her fingers, to the tub, to hairs she didn't intend to pull.

The doorbell rang and her hand jerked, sending a smear of wax from her i

He knocked on the door.

"I'm coming! One second!" she shouted, and tried to rip the cloth off. "Monkey Christ!" she shrieked, and tumbled in pain to the bathroom floor, her thighs clamped shut over the agony.

"Emma?" Russ called from the other side of the front door, his voice muffled.

"I'm okay!" she squeaked. "I'll be right there!"

She lay for a moment, breathing heavily and waiting for the pain to fade, then pushed herself up into a sitting position and looked at her crotch. The white cloth was attached to her like a bandage, ru

"Jeee-zus H!"

There was too much wax and way too much hair. She snatched up the instruction sheet, sca

"Emma?" Russ called again.

"Dammit! Dammit dammit dammit!" She'd have to figure it out later. She grabbed all the waxing paraphernalia and shoved it into the cabinet under the sink. She got up off the floor and yelped as she tried to straighten up. The damn wax and cloth had glued her left leg into a raised position. Standing up straight stretched her skin painfully. "Crap!" She'd have to hide her limp as best she could. She pulled on her bra, sleeveless white blouse, and short green skirt, skipping the underpants. She didn't want those stuck to her as well.

With the waxed cloth tugging painfully with each uneven stride, she hobbled barefoot to the front door and put her hand on the knob. She rested her weight on her right leg, the left one cocked and on tiptoe, as if it were a sultry pose. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself, and planted a welcoming smile on her lips.

Ready or not, here she was.

Russ approached the door to his old apartment with an unsettling mix of familiarity and alie

And wrong! Wrong, wrong, wrong, he reminded himself. All week, he had meant to call Emma and break their agreement. He'd meant to do that even as he express-mailed her a loaded Visa card. He'd meant to do it as he e-mailed her a link to his lab test results. He'd meant to do it as he bought a bouquet for her, walked into the building, and rode up the elevator-and now, as he stood before his old door, he still meant to do it.

He looked at the flowers. What the hell was he thinking? This wasn't a date!