Probably just the tequila getting to me. Or stress from this week’s insane work schedule. Safety-wise, the only scary thing about this campus was its deadly dullness.
Shaking off my unease, I dug my phone out of my pocket and checked e-mail. Nothing from Zironoff. I was beginning to think I’d gotten scammed by my investigator. It wouldn’t be the first time one of them had ripped me off. Had I blown a year of tips on that DNA dickwad?
There was an e-mail from Mom, wondering why I was working so much, worrying. If she ever found out about my quest, she’d take it personally, and we didn’t need any more friction between us.
Finally home, I meandered up the walk that wound through our yard. Our place was a cute mid-century bungalow, owned by Jess’s parents. She called it the Bunghole, a perfect indication of her maturity level.
Inside, I shed my coat on the way to the kitchen. Chilled Gatorade, my secret hangover preventative, awaited me.
Hearing a sound from the front of the house, I called from the fridge, “Jess, that you?” I sounded tanked. “Whatcha doing back?” Maybe she’d struck out for once? We could commiserate.
No answer. I shrugged—the Bunghole emitted more banging and moans than a p**n set.
I closed the fridge. Half of the door was covered with glossy pics from Jess’s pervasive fashion magazines. My half was covered with postcards. She sent them from all the exciting locales she visited each break. Though I had an open invitation from her family and yearned to travel, I was constantly working. I’d never even been outside of the Midwest.
I’d never seen a seashore, much less the Eiffel Tower.
If I had a dollar for every time I’d gazed at these cards while promising myself, One day . . . well, I wouldn’t need to work three jobs.
After downing my Gatorade dose, I swerved to my room, knotting my hair atop my head for a bath. Minutes later, when I eased back into the steaming water, another wave of drunken disappointment settled over me.
Now that I’d crashed and burned on my first pickup, I had to wonder how guys kept hitting on women, forever risking rejection. I mused over all the men I’d turned down—had I torpedoed their mojo?
I just couldn’t figure out why that Russian had been so angry. And what the hell had been so off-putting about me? I wasn’t a beauty like Jess, but I’d had male interest ever since I’d sprouted mammaries.
Curious, I ran my palms down my legs. They were fit from standing for hours on end while waiting tables, just as my arms were lean from hefting trays.
My hands ascended to my hips. Admittedly, they were wide, but my waist was narrow. And my br**sts? They were fairly big, bobbing now in the water, coral-colored ni**les puckering just above the surface. My rack had been on display tonight; that Russian hadn’t given it a second glance.
But what if I hadn’t repelled him? What would those hot, rough palms of his have felt like kneading my chest? At the thought, I experienced a surge of arousal so strong it startled me. My ni**les stiffened even more. When the bathwater lapped at them, my breath hitched.
I’d talked to him for less than two minutes, seen him for less than ten, and his effect on me was this strong?
To hell with it—he could spurn me all he wanted to, but he couldn’t keep me from fantasizing about him. With a mental Screw you, Russian, I reached between my legs to stroke, picturing his broad shoulders, his square jawline, his mouth. Those hooded golden eyes.
Even in the water, I could tell how slick my pu**y had grown, my forefinger gliding along my lips, parting them. When I reached my clitoris, I found it swollen and supersensitive.
Sighing with need, I began to rub the bud in slow circles. My lids slid shut, and my knees fell wide against the sides of the tub. With my free hand, I petted my br**sts, thumbing my ni**les till they strained. . . .
I debated fetching one of my trusty vibrators from under the bed. But then I pictured the Russian kissing down my torso with that scorching expression, and realized B.O.B. could sit this one out.
Though I’d never had a guy go down on me, I could all but see the Russian’s dark head between my thighs as he began to lick. Another stroke had me undulating in the water, gasping. His lips would be firm against my weeping flesh as he hungrily tongued me. He’d want me wetter and wetter, and I’d oblige.
In this fantasy, my aching cl*t wasn’t throbbing against my finger, but against his greedy tongue.
As my body tensed for my orgasm, every inch of me seemed to gather in on itself, like a star about to explode. I rubbed my palm over my taut ni**les, another shot of stimulation. So close, only a couple more strokes . . . I cracked open my eyes to watch myself writhing in the throes. Corner of my vision, strangest thing . . . through the steam, I thought I saw the Russian.
In my doorway, gazing down at me with smoldering eyes.
Broad chest heaving as he gnashed his teeth.
Muscles tensed as if he was about to fall upon me.
I squinted through the haze. Surely my muddled mind was imagining this? Was I that drunk? I was right at the razor’s edge of coming, my toes already curling. As I met his mesmerizing imaginary gaze, my sneaky finger decided to give my cl*t one more shudder-inducing flick.
He exhaled sharply, big hands opening and closing. His expression said that he was about to seize my body and eat me up, bit by little bit.
So close . . . Then it registered that he was actually standing in the doorway of my bathroom.