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She stumbled over to the couch, collapsed onto the cushions, and exhaled a deep breath. This was better. She didn’t have to think about the sky, or going outside, or Dad, or Connelly. Here, in the safety of her home, she could close her eyes and let the alcohol wash away her troubles.
“Cheers,” she murmured, raising the glass to the empty room before taking a deep drink.
As she finished off the glass, her inhibitions slipped comfortably away. She kicked off her shoes and stretched out on the couch, enjoying the cool leather against her skin. Her mind was hazy, her thoughts jumbled and disjointed. She turned on the TV, but the screen swam before her eyes, so she gave up trying to watch it. Instead, she allowed her mind to wander, letting it drift into places she couldn’t visit while sober.
She closed her eyes and thought about the last time she had been with a man. Voluntarily, at least. She couldn’t think of the actual last time when three men she thought were friends had drugged her and?—
No.
No.
She stopped that thought before it could fully form. If she let it take root, she wouldn’t be able to do this. And she needed it. Her body was on fire. She was desperate for something, anything, to take the edge off.
It had been years since she had felt the loving touch of another human being. The thought of someone else’s hands on her skin, someone else’s lips on her neck, made her pulse race with a mix of anticipation and fear.
But it wasn’t really someone else, she reminded herself.
It was only her own touch. Her own imagination.
She shifted on the couch, her fingers trailing down her chest, teasing the swell of her breasts. She imagined someone else’s hands there, rough and calloused, kneading and pinching. She moaned and pressed her thighs together as a thrill ran down her spine.
God, it had been so long.
She imagined being touched. She thought about the feel of a man’s hands on her skin and the way his lips would taste. She thought about the way his body would feel as he laid above her, pressing her into the mattress, his warmth seeping into her.
What would he look like? She pictured him tall and strong. His hair would be dark, his eyes darker still. Eyes to get lost in. His arms would be thick with muscle, and his body would be covered in dark hair…
Her hand drifted lower, over her flat belly and down to the waistband of her sweatpants. Her breathing grew ragged as she slid her fingers underneath the fabric and traced the outline of her panties. Pressure built inside her, the ache swirling in her belly.
Connelly’s face flashed in her mind, making her jolt and open her eyes.
No, not him. He was the last person she wanted to see, but since reappearing in her life a few months ago, he was constantly on her mind.
She should stop.
She was losing control.
She traced the outline of her panties again, then slipped her hand underneath and wiped her fingers experimentally into her sex.
She couldn’t stop.
She bit her lip to stifle a moan. God, it had been way too long. She pressed her fingers deeper, sliding them in and out of her tightness, her body already shuddering as the pressure built. She worked herself faster, stroking her inner walls as a gasp of pleasure escaped her lips. Her mind filled with images of her fantasy man—not Connelly. It could never be him. It was his fault her life was a mess. If it weren’t for him, she wouldn’t have had to quit flying. If it weren’t for him, she wouldn’t be here, drunk, alone, and finger-fucking herself?—
The pressure eased, the orgasm slipping away.
No. Dammit. She had to focus.
She closed her eyes again and tried to imagine a different man. Someone as different from Connelly as possible, with blond hair and light eyes. Someone sweet and gentle with none of the baggage, like that lawyer she sometimes saw at Redwood Coast Rescue when she still left the house. Cal Holden. Yeah, he was a safe fantasy man because it would never, ever happen in real life.
She imagined hands teasing her nipples, imagined lips sucking her breasts, imagined a tongue swirling around her navel. She groaned as the pressure built inside her again, her body begging for release. She pressed on her clit?—
But it was no use. Her mind was filled with Connelly. His smile. His laugh.
And then his face blurred and split into three. Three leering, laughing faces she could never forget, no matter how much she drank.
And fear once again took her in a chokehold.
She couldn’t do this.
