FOLLOW(9)

My fingertips are slick with my own juices again, my hand wandering down of its own accord. And I bring my fingers to my lips and suck, picturing what it might be like to suck Vaughn Asher’s dick.

And that’s it.

Dreaming about blowing him is all it takes.

I gush for him. I come for him. I moan his name and buckle my back for him. My body aches for more as soon as I’m finished. I bring my fingers back to my mouth as I imagine how hot the sex might be.

How thick is his cock? How long? Will he go slow and give kisses? Or fast and hard up against the wall? Will he eat me out? Make me beg? Will I beg? Fuck yes, I’ll beg. Will he have stamina? Or will he be a huge disappointment?

My eyelids become heavy and before I know it I’m dropping off as all these things flash through my mind.

I dream of hard cock.

Of my sopping wet pussy.

I dream of his fingers inside me, caressing my most sensitive spots. I picture his cock as it pushes past my wet folds and plunges into me for the first time, giving me the best orgasm of my life.

It’s the perfect fairy tale ending.





Chapter Seven



#MyFirstFairyTaleDate



I JOLT awake, not sure where I am for a moment. A breeze passes over my hot sweaty body and I smell the sea.

I’m on Saint Thomas. I’m on Saint Thomas and… I have a date with Vaughn Asher! I jump up and check the time. Only eight. An hour is not great, but it will do.

My bottoms are still missing after my solitary orgasm and my fingertips slide between my legs automatically. I’m still slick. I suck in a breath as the tingling starts again. But there’s no way I’m going to masturbate. If Vaughn Asher wants to have sex with me tonight, I want to be damn sure I come when it happens.

A cold shower takes care of my wanting and leaves my whole body with chills. My nipples are perky and hard when I slip the yellow sun dress over them. No bra tonight.

I look down at my pathetic pair of tighty-whitie underwear, wishing I could go commando on the bottom too, but I can’t. That really sends the wrong message when you’re wearing a dress, not to mention when you’re on a first date.

I reluctantly pull the underwear on. They are not so bad, really, I’ve seen girls at the gym wear these. Not the men’s variety—they were always some cute color and they were shaped for a woman’s hips. But these are not so different.

The front sags over my pubic area and no matter how many ways I try to fold the waistband over, the ass sags too.

I slip them off and pull on a pair of bikini bottoms. These are better, right? Except all my bikinis are held together with strings and this dress is a little form-fitting over the hips.

I put the TW’s back on and sigh. That’s what I get for not making a packing list. And I have such cute underwear at home. Not the really expensive kind, but cute stuff.

I let it go and blow-dry my hair instead. It’s one of my best assets. It’s a color that can only be described as honey-blonde. It’s thick and long, almost to the middle of my back, and perfectly straight. I love that. Some girls wish for curls when they have straight hair, but not me. I love the fact that I can let it dry naturally and it barely has any wave to it at all. And when I blow-dry it, it falls over my shoulders and down my back like a waterfall.

My makeup bag is filled with all the usual, but I opt for a light dusting of powder and some eye makeup and that’s it. I’ve spent the entire summer bumming around in the sun on the cheap, so my tan is perfection. Why hide it with makeup?

I smile at that and adjust my girls inside the built-in dress cups. My breasts aren’t overly large, but they are decent and they are natural.

I slip my feet into my favorite pair of espadrille wedges and take stock in front of the mirror.

Cute.

I’ve always been cute. People never call me sophisticated or glamorous or beautiful. No. It’s always cute.

But it could be worse. I could be plucky or perky.

If someone calls you plucky, you’re a side character. That’s how they describe side characters in movies and books, right? The plucky sidekick.

I admit, I’ve been Bebe’s plucky sidekick before. Many times. She’s definitely the stock image of glamorous and sophisticated. Her long hair is dark, wavy in all the right ways, and perfectly matches her dark eyes. Everything about her look says mysterious sexy woman you want to take home and fuck.

A sigh escapes before I can stop it and a wave of self-doubt washes over me. Everything about my look says always a bridesmaid, always a sidekick, always an afterthought.

Never a star.

“Oh Jesus, Grace,” I chastise myself out loud. “Stop wallowing in self-pity. You’re young, you’re pretty enough, you scored a fantabulous job that’s waiting for you back in Denver, you have your own apartment—finally!—and you’re about to go on a date with a movie star while enjoying a free vacation on one of the most beautiful tropical islands in the world.”