2. Bad Dates and Good Vibrations
I THOUGHT TONIGHT was never going to end.
After letting myself in the front door of my townhouse, I drop my purse on the couch, piling my coat on top of it.
My disappointment at yet another miserable date is barely tempered by the copious amounts of wine I consumed in an attempt to make it through two hours of listening to the latest in a string of pompous assholes drone on about himself. His self-centeredness was extra annoying considering he seemed decent during our initial text conversations. I really thought I might have finally found someone worth investing in. Someone who genuinely wanted to get to know me.
Instead, I found another aging divorcé trying to live out his fuckboy dreams.
I snort a little, laughing to myself, because fucking me would have only happened in his dreams. I’m desperate for a dicking, and I still would never consider screwing him.
All Clark did was talk about himself. He told me about his car, his job, his house, his friends. The vacations he takes. The wines stocked in his cellar. Blah, blah, blah.
So many words came out of his mouth, but all I heard was—IfI”m so arrogant I won’t ask you a single question, I definitely can”t be bothered to find the clit. And if I”m going to let another man in my life, and my bed, he better fucking know his way around a clit. I spent too many years having bad, unfulfilling sex. I”d rather go without than suffer through one more night under a man whose only concern is getting his rocks off.
I bet he knows where the clit is.
A hopeful, desperate part of my brain drags me back to the spot I always land on nights like this. A spot permanently occupied by a silver fox with a deep voice and an unrelenting glare.
Oh yeah. Vincent definitely knows where the clit is. The man probably goes at a pussy like it’s a mission. A battle to be fought and won. At least in my fantasies he does. And that”s good enough for me.
That hopeful, desperate part of my brain offers up more than enough Vincent-themed inspiration for me to decide I’ll do the job a man can”t seem to. And I’ve had enough wine that tonight, I might just have to do the job twice.
Kicking off my shoes, I bend to scoop up the only pumps I own and pad up the stairs, blowing out no less than three dramatic sighs before I reach my bedroom. After tossing my shoes into the closet, I tug at the belt of my wrap dress. Since I work from home, most of my wardrobe consists of yoga pants and oversized sweatshirts, but when I decided to dip my toe back in the dating pool, I invested in a few decent items that show off my best assets. Primarily my tits. Although, my ass isn”t half bad either.
Twenty years ago I hated how much of me there was, but now I’m older. Wiser. Less influenced by my prick of an ex-husband who expected me to be a size two who existed on lettuce and air. Oh, and bad sex, since he also couldn”t have found a clit if his life depended on it.
That”s why my dating criteria is what it is. I”m determined to live the second half of my life on my own terms. I want it to be exciting. Interesting. Filled with adventure and hot sex.
And orgasms. Lots and lots of orgasms.
But for now, that task still falls to me.
I shrug out of my dress, not bothering to close the vertical blinds across the door leading out to my balcony. There”s an entire pond between me and the line of office buildings on the other side, so I”m not too worried anyone”s looking.
But I really don”t mind if they are. The possibility actually sends a little thrill racing through my wine-warmed body. It pauses to flip through my belly before dropping directly south.
Yeah. It’s going to be a two-round sort of night.
I take the time to hang my dress up, simply because I don”t want to deal with whatever happens to it if I leave it in a pile on my closet floor, then walk back through my room, letting my eyes drift to the glass doors. They’re wide enough to give anyone who might be watching a great view, and that sneaky, desperate part of me comes racing back, making me wonder what Vincent would think if he was looking through that window.
Would he, like my ex, find me lacking? Or would he see me for what I really am? A soft, comfortable place for a man to enjoy.
In my mind, it’s the latter.
Keeping my gaze on the darkness outside the window, I move to my nightstand, pulling open the drawer to peruse my own little arsenal. Since I haven”t had an easy time finding a partner to explore with, I”ve done it on my own, trying out all the things I”d been laughed at for suggesting during my marriage.
I chew on my lower lip as I consider my options, finally settling on two of my favorites. I pull them free, dropping both onto the mattress before moving on to the red lacy bra I chose for the evening. It”s not that I was expecting to get laid—I”ve discovered that, in spite of my expanding sexual interest, I”m still sort of a slow mover. The pretty bra and pantie set was solely for my own benefit. So I could feel sexy and desirable.
It”s crazy to think something no one else sees could make such a difference, but it does. The right underwear can absolutely skyrocket a girl’s confidence.
I grip the front, pulling the overflowing cups closer together as I loosen the line of tiny hooks trapped in my cleavage. Before I peel it away, I lift my eyes back to the window, imagining him on the other side.
The fantasy amps up the throb between my thighs and I drop my bra to the floor, letting it slide down both arms as my breasts fall free. They’re full and heavy enough to give them a sexy sort of sway when I move, and I kind of love it.
Are they perfectly perky? No. They”re big boobs. Perky big boobs aren’t really a thing, and I”m okay with that. Especially since the way they move can feel so good.
I lift the first of the items off the bed, the chain swinging from my palm. My nipples are already pulled tight in anticipation when I close the rubber padded clamps in place. The pinch makes me moan and has me hurrying to rid myself of the matching red panties clinging to my hips. I start to move into my normal position, head against the pillows, but stop. If I”m going to pretend he”s watching me, then I want to be sure he sees everything. So I lay across the foot of my bed instead, facing the glass doors.
Letting my legs fall open, I switch on the second item, my hands-free vibrator. It’s shaped a little like a U and designed to stimulate a woman inside and out. All I have to do is switch it on and it does all the work.
My clit is already throbbing when I slide it into place, the slightly flared end buzzing right against my G-spot as the other vibrates alongside my clit. It feels better than anything a man has ever done to me, and in under thirty seconds, I”m writhing on the bed, one hand tugging the chain draped between my breasts, adding another layer of stimulation. It’s fucking divine and sometimes makes me wonder if it’s even worth trying to find a man.
But then I imagine Vincent”s expression if he could see me now. If he was watching me through the window the way he”d watched me through the computer screen. His eyes would narrow. His nostrils would flare. The hard line of his mouth would flatten, like he was pissed about how unashamed I am. How much I need to feel free. To feel excitement. To feel danger.
I open my eyes to stare out the window and catch a tiny flicker of light from the building across the pond. Almost like a pinpoint of a reflection that I can pretend is him. Watching me. Angry. Intense. Focused. Considering coming over here to show me how much better he could do.
And the Vincent in my mind could absolutely do better. He”d storm in, yank the vibrator out of my pussy and drop it to the floor, leaving it buzzing away as he replaced it with his mouth. His tongue would work my clit as his fingers fucked me relentlessly, his other hand gripping the chain of my nipple clamps.
Just imagining it sends me over the edge, shuddering almost to the point of convulsing as I come harder than I ever have. Dots dance in front of my eyes. My ears ring. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to wash my duvet.
And I still bet he could do it better.
Collapsing against the mattress, I fight to catch my breath as I switch off the vibrator and drop it beside me. Staring up at the ceiling, my brain circles back to the place it always lands.
Why couldn”t Vincent have hired me? I feel like hacking into GHOST’s system was more than an acceptable audition. He was surprised. I saw it in his face. Maybe even a little impressed. I know he’s not really going to show up and fuck me silly, but the least he could do is offer me a job. Save me from a continued life of never-ending monotony. The most excitement I’ve ever had is masturbating in front of a window. I want more.
I deserve more.
Blowing out a final exhale, I collect the vibrator and head for the bathroom. The nipple clamps still feel good even though I just came, so I leave them where they are, because I take every bit of pleasure I can get now.
After cleaning the toy and leaving it to dry on a towel on the counter, I wrap myself in the fluffy terry cloth robe hanging from the back of the door and wander into the second of my two bedrooms. This one serves as my cramped, but functional, office. It’s got two desks, one for the job that pays not only my own bills, but also my two sons’ expensive as hell college tuition. The other desk is where I fiddle around with my hobby. The same hobby that brought me to Vincent.
I move to that one and drop into the chair, flicking on the monitors before indulging myself in a little peek. Is that little peek invasive? Yes. But I don”t feel bad about it because I’m positive Vincent has invaded any sort of privacy I have. I know he”s dug up every bit of dirt he could find on me, probably all the way down to my first-grade report card. It’s a little embarrassing considering he won’t come across anything interesting. No matter how hard he looks.
Vincent, on the other hand, is very interesting. When I heard about GHOST in one of the underground hacking groups I found my way into, I was intrigued. A privately held company with ties to the most secretive government branches? It sounded exciting as hell.
The people who work for GHOST probably never feel bored or like their life is going nowhere. I want that, and my options to have it are limited. I can”t work for the government at this point. I”m too old to waste time working my way up that patriarchal ladder. But GHOST? I figured I might be able to find a way to work for GHOST.
So I did. I spent months circling them. Learning all I could about what they do and who they are. Then it was time to strike.
And when I came face-to-face with the man who is GHOST? Let”s just say that was a two-round night too.
Opening up one of the many programs I”ve designed now that I have a nearly unlimited amount of free time on my hands, I log in and bring up the map identifying the single source the program is set to track. Leaning closer, I blink a few times. It seems like my eyes haven”t fully recovered from the orgasm induced, temporary blindness I suffered a few minutes ago.
But the blinking dot is still in the wrong place.
I zoom in, bringing up a more detailed map.
And yelp.
Jumping up from my chair, I grip the front of my robe. Surely that can”t be right. It”s gotta be a mistake. The program must have become corrupted somehow. Or maybe it”s accidentally tracking a different device.
I know none of those things are true or possible, but my brain is scrambling for any sort of explanation for what I”m seeing.
Because it almost looks like Vincent’s cell phone is right where I”m standing.
Not even five minutes ago I was wishing he was here, but now?
Now I think I might puke.
Vincent isn’t the kind of man who would casually wander into my neighborhood. If he’s here, it’s for one reason. And I can guarantee that reason is nothing like what it is in my fantasies.
I fan my face, suddenly so hot I’m starting to sweat. Panic has my underarms clammy and my post orgasm glow shriveling like a grape in the sun.
Forcing in a deep breath, I try to get a hold of myself. This was what I wanted. Even six months ago, when I pulled the trigger on my plan to claim a position at GHOST, I was trying to get Vincent’s attention. Trying to make him notice me. See what an asset I could be to his team.
But then nothing. No phone calls. No emails. The ass didn’t even pull my credit report. I assumed my feat of breaking through his firewall wasn’t as impressive as I thought it would be.
Except now he’s here. Or he was.
I keep fanning with one hand and use the other to click through the information my program’s collected. It pings Vincent’s phone every hour, using the many satellites orbiting the earth to narrow his location down to within a few feet. That means he was here less than an hour ago.
In my home. Probably in this very room.
Technically, he could still be here.
My stomach falls through the floor at the possibility. I rush to the closet before I lose my nerve and fling open the doors, all the air rushing from my lungs when there’s no silver fox with a bad attitude glaring out at me.
One down.
I already know my room is clear. I’ve also been through the bathroom, so now I’ve covered the entire upper floor. That means if he’s here, he’s downstairs.
I force in a deep breath, but nearly gag on it. I don’t know if the nerves twisting my insides are fear or excitement. Probably a combination of both. Whatever the reason, I need to get them under control. I can’t finally get my eyes on the man I’ve been pursuing professionally—and maybe a little bit personally—only to barf on his boots.
Keeping my steps slow and silent, I creep to the stairs, making it halfway down before I realize the full extent of my predicament. I’m trying to sneak up on a quasi-government operative. In my fucking bathrobe.
Wearing nipple clamps.
Given the current circumstances, if Vincent did come here to offer me a job, he’s probably going to rescind it. I would.
But it’s too late to turn back now. So I keep moving, holding my breath, praying he’s not still here because, again, nipple clamps. The living area at the front of my unit is blessedly empty, along with the closet I should have hung my coat in. The last spot he could be is my kitchen.
I square my shoulders, clenching a little as my robe shifts the clamps, then jump around the corner, hoping for the element of surprise. If a wild woman wearing hot pink terry cloth and nipple clamps doesn’t surprise him, then nothing will.
But, like the rest of my condo, the kitchen is empty of all hard-jawed silver foxes.
“Well…” I look around, just in case I missed him somehow, but there’s no frowning Vincent anywhere. “That’s disappointing.”
He’s probably long gone at this point. I never expected to need more than hourly data, but maybe I should adjust my program to ping him every half hour. Maybe every fifteen minutes. I don’t want him sneaking up on—
My eyes fall to the counter and my heart skips a beat. An all-black business card sits on the chipped Formica surface. I swallow hard and reach for it, sliding it to the edge before picking it up and flipping it over. There’s a single word written on the back in perfect, block letters.
ONE
My lips press into a frown. Is he—
Is he counting at me like a child?
I lift the card to my nose, sniffing at it like a weirdo. Thank God I did because holy hell does it smell good. Earthy. A little like cedar with a hint of citrus. I always imagined him smelling good, but I gave up on finding out for sure months ago.
I guess I need to learn to be more patient.
I look the card over again before slipping it into my pocket, a smile teasing at my lips. I should not be smiling. A strange and dangerous man broke into my home. Walked around my private space and left me a warning. But now I’ve got the excitement I’ve been desperate for.
And I can’t wait to find out what happens when Vincent gets to three.