She wasn’t exactly in the mood, so to speak. Work hadn’t been very stressful that day, but wiping dust off condom boxes wasn’t exactly her kind of foreplay. Then again, was masturbation supposed to require foreplay? She clearly hadn’t read the handbook on it, but she could use all the help she could get.
Mentally, she added solo foreplay to the list of things to try if this tiny little vibe didn’t work, and then adjusted her pillows to cradle her neck and shoulders. She settled into the comfort of her bed the way she did when she curled up in it with a textbook for class, but kicked her comforter away and let her knees fall open. The air was cool on her inner thighs, and she felt an anticipatory tingle between her legs.
She slid the vibrator onto her middle finger once more, but didn’t turn it on. First, she slipped her unadorned left hand between her legs and cupped herself. The warmth emanated from her core and sank into her palm with a faint but lingering dampness. She closed her eyes, tried to clear her mind.
She wasn’t surprised when her brain conjured an image of Des on the backs of her eyelids. The easy warmth of his smile, the twinkle of amused intrigue in his gray eyes. That pretty little sliver of black. The way his forearms looked when he came in without his blazer, his shirtsleeves rolled up against the California summer.
She could imagine the way his forearm would look as his hand skimmed up over her knee, following the line of her thigh down to where she wanted him. It would be so sweet. He would be sweet. He would whisper praise to her—you look so pretty when you need me, Cami—and he would skim his lips over her bare shoulder, maybe press them to the pulse point in her throat.
She thumbed the vibrator on. She’d thought its soft buzz would be jarring, but it almost seemed comforting, like a promise. She pulled her left hand away from her vulva, let it drag up her torso and under her shirt. Then she let the vibrator touch the crease of her thigh. The vibrations rippled through her, ghosting toward her clitoris like the gentle lapping waves from an earthquake a hundred miles away. She traced the vibrator over one labia and then the other, carefully avoiding her clit atfirst. And then she skimmed over it, a breath of a touch, just to test her body’s reaction.
It felt good. Just that little bit made her back stretch like it wanted to bow, but the promise wasn’t worth it yet. She pressed a little harder, and this time didn’t pull away. She let the sweet vibrations roll through her, heating her blood to a low roil. The heels of her feet started to slide against the mattress across the faded white cotton of her bed sheet. Her opening grew hot and wanting, and in answer she finally massaged the little vibe in a circle over her clit. Her back arched and her toes curled under inside her socks. Pleasure wracked through her body as her finger settled into playing a delicious pattern on her clit.
This is it, she thought. It was going to happen, here, this afternoon, all thanks to Des and his cheeky, inappropriate purchasing habits, and the unbearably sexy image of his fingers between her legs. Twenty-four years of anorgasmia and all it took was an off-the-hook clitoral vibe to make it happen. The crest of need built and built inside of her until she was certain it would break in her very first orgasm, ever, but instead of the sweet release she could almost taste, she got... nothing.
The sweet sensations slipped away, slowly at first, like she’d just aimed wrong and needed to readjust, and then altogether. As quickly as it had come, the promise of an orgasm fled, leaving her muscles tense with unsated need and her wrist aching from her pace. She stilled her motions, but let the vibe continue to massage her clit, like maybe that would bring back her missed opportunity, but she knew better.
Every. Freaking. Time.
It wasn’t that she couldn’t get there. She could bring herself to the edge, so close she could almost taste it, but every time she tried to fling herself over that cliff, push just that extra inch toward orgasm, everything fell apart at the absolute last second. It was infuriating and humiliating, and tears welled behindher eyes as she finally gave up and thumbed off the stupid, ineffectual vibrator.
Was it any wonder no one she’d been with could ever get her off? She couldn’t even do it herself. How could she expect someone else to do it?
She tossed the vibrator away, a little harder than she’d meant to, and the thunk of the sturdy plastic base colliding with drywall made her wince. She ignored it, instead pulling her pants back on and storming into the kitchenette to get a glass of water.
She took a sip, letting the coolness of it soothe her throat, and then slumped against her counter, eyes closed, head falling back on her shoulders.
It was hopeless. She was broken. Not even Des and his flirty smile and his briefcase full of sex toys could fix her.
“Shake it off,” she scolded herself. Nothing had changed. She was still just as messed up as she had been that morning.
She took a deep, steadying breath, and then moved with her water over to the tiny kitchen table where her laptop sat. She plunked down in front of it and opened a new browser tab that auto-loaded to Ancestry.com.
If she couldn’t get herself off, she could at least get some work done.
5
The world always looked brighter with a few days between Cami and her failed attempts at orgasms. Of course, it was summertime in California, so the world was usually pretty bright.
Her search on Ancestry had yielded no new information, but that wasn’t surprising. She hadn’t found anything new since she’d arrived in Santa Monica a year ago. Ancestry records were only viewable with a paid account, which she couldn’t afford, but she could look at other peoples’ trees and see bits and pieces of info; enough to know that no one had added anything about her father. He’d been the whole reason she’d come to Santa Monica in the first place, and the only thing she’d learned about the man was that he no longer lived at the address he’d had in high school. It was looking like her search for her father was going to be just as futile as her search for orgasms.
But at least the search for her father wasn’t floundering because there was something wrong with her. It was just hard to find someone who didn’t want to be found.
When her shift at the store ended, it was early afternoon, and the thought of returning to her little apartment and the pile oftextbooks waiting for her made her skin itch. The sun shone and a light breeze ruffled the leaves of the palms that lined the street along the plaza. She couldn’t be entirely irresponsible; she did have two chapters to cover for her Javascript class but she could at least get an iced latte and study outside Starbucks.
She exited the store with a wave over her shoulder at her coworker, Tristan, her messenger bag bumping against her hip. She paused to scoop her hair up off her neck into a messy bun, then crossed the parking lot to the sidewalk.
The road outside Paragon Plaza was buzzing with the low hum of car engines, tires crunching on loose gravel, and the thumping beats of some newly released pop song sure to top the summer charts. Over all of that, she could still pick out the rumbling of a motorcycle before it even turned the corner, and, in spite of herself, glanced to where it would appear. It rounded the corner onto her street, shiny and black and topped by—wait a minute.
The bike pulled into her parking lot, and she folded her arms across her ribs as it drew to a stop next to her. Des pulled his helmet off and propped it on the handlebars, looking pleased and surprised to find her there.
“Of course you ride a motorcycle,” she said, smiling. He was still smartly dressed in his standard business suit, this one navy blue, the blazer buttoned at his waist. Who rode their motorcycle in a business suit?
“What’s that supposed to mean?” His brow furrowed, as though he weren’t sure whether to be amused or offended.
She ignored him. “Aren’t you supposed to have more padding than that?”
“Technically? Yes,” he admitted, finally shutting the bike off and swinging his long leg over the seat to climb off. It was a smooth, effortless motion. “But I wasn’t going far, just a couple of blocks, and I took it slow.” He pulled his briefcase from acovered compartment near the back of the bike, and then tossed her a teasing smile. “I promise not to give myself road rash. Wouldn’t want to mess up my pretty face.”
