Tonight had been more than productive, and she’d imagined all sorts of positions that a woman could take in a well-planned office. The only problem was she kept seeing images of Dustin as the alpha male hero. She imagined Dustin, his skin slick with sweat, working in the barn on his motorcycle. She clenched the muscles between her thighs. She groaned and shook her head.
Before she’d been all the way across the country and it was easier to stop this kind of thought. Tonight, after seeing him and his broad shoulders, a fully grown man, her imagination refused to obey. Just the sound of his voice sent chills racing around her body. Her nipples tightened. She couldn’t stop the thought of his hands on her body.
To hell with it. She didn’t have the strength to fight temptation. All she wanted was a moment of comfort and satisfaction being in his arms. Tonight she’d enjoy the fantasy once and for all, freely. She could just imagine what it would feel like to be bent over a workbench, him pushing against her bottom, hard and erect, a man intent on giving her what she wanted.
She gulped. The mere idea of him doing things to her liquefied her body. A throbbing began between her legs. She uncrossed her thighs and lifted her nightgown to reach inside her panties, and damn if she wasn’t wet and tingling. She touched herself, releasing a skittering of pleasure. She closed her eyes, giving free flight to Dustin’s fingers. She imagined him spreading her legs, pushing her further over a motorcycle, lifting her hips. Claire bit her knuckles to keep from calling out his name.
Desire saturated her mind and body. He was so near, just a house away. Is that why she wanted to bolt out the door and throw herself on him?
She wanted to taste him. See what he felt like in her mouth. She rubbed her fingers against her swollen, moist skin. She bent her legs, bringing up her feet to rest on the edge of the chair. She imagined his broad shoulders and wrapping her legs up and over his muscled back. Claire stroked herself, imagining her finger was his tongue. The movement sent electrical thrills of pleasure up and down her body. She swiped her finger back and forth, swirling around her clit and then she slid her finger into her opening. This could be his fingers caressing her.
Claire imagined taking his cock into her mouth as he stroked her. The head was engorged and dripping and velvet against her tongue and lips. It was too late to turn back from this fantasy.
She neared the place where desire melted and ran and she was free falling, gripping the table as she orgasmed. She threw her head back, resting against the chair, her legs wide open. A fine mist of perspiration coated her skin. Between her legs she still felt a throbbing, an ache, that sparked and ignited her hunger.
Dustin, she half moaned and half cursed him.
She couldn’t escape the image of him without a shirt. This wasn’t lasting relief. If anything masturbation was an hors d'oeuvre, opening and whetting her appetite.
Tears stung her eyes, from frustration and desire, braided and coiled into a force that refused to expire. She wished for the possibility of commanding Dustin’s attention, instead of secretly hiding in the dark.
She imagined sliding walls where she created a soundproof version of a sex chamber. One where she was in charge. She was his succubus, haunting his sleep. The image of him drifted back and forth. She moved him aside trying to envision the details. The texture of wine-colored satin sheets, smooth and soft. She inhaled and chose a woody scent for his body. Claire heard a far-off, deep laugh that lodged in her chest. She turned up the volume of a Middle Eastern melody within her fantasy.
This was a battle, trying to stop the trembling between her thighs. Claire reached inside her panties and rubbed the slick hood of her already engorged clit. She wanted relief, but this was torture. She slammed the door to her memory and tried to double-lock the storehouse of fantasies.
Dustin slipped in, nevertheless. Beckoned her to come.
She rubbed herself, trying to find relief until beads of perspiration erupted again and she gave in to the waves of pleasure. She hung over the chair, limp, having climaxed twice, but still greedy, wanting the real thing.
Claire wished it was possible to let go of the past. Fran said it. No way to change history. She sighed. Did her own flawed personality prompt her to search for a man who ultimately took control into his own two hands? Dustin had flat-out failed to do that way back when. There was nothing that prompted her to believe anything had changed.
The only way she’d find a satisfying ending to her story would be to start again. A new story. The writing of a story was no different than life, a balancing act in trying to create or be a woman who didn’t settle for just anybody but was pursued by Mr. Right-Who-Took-What-He-Wanted.