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She moved the mouse arrow over to the appropriate spot and clicked one time. A little message popped up on her screen: “Your message has been sent.”
Sent? Jane blinked, and her stomach clenched into a golf ball.
Yes, sent.
Oh. Dear. God.
She’d accidentally gone on autopilot and hit the same button she always hit when she finished composing a message—the send button.
She heard a strangled sound escape her throat, and she gripped the sides of the computer screen. “No! No, no, no, no, no!”
This couldn’t be happening. She absolutely could not have just sent an erotic e-mail message to her new bodyguard. Her breathing grew shallow and she had to force herself to take slow steady breaths.
Count to ten. Don’t panic. One, two, three…
Just to be sure she hadn’t gone insane, she opened the sent folder in her e-mail program and saw it—the message entitled “A Bedtime Story” had been sent to Luke’s e-mail address at 9:49 p.m. on May 2.
Damn. She double-checked the recipient address against the one printed on Luke’s business card, hoping she’d somehow gotten it wrong, but no, it matched exactly.
Jane reopened the message and read it with fresh eyes, imagining how Luke might actually interpret it when he read it. By the time she finished, her face was burning and she had the sort of light-headed, giddy sensation that came from blood rushing to the wrong parts of her body.
Damn.
There was only one way to interpret her message. Blatantly sexual. She hopped out of her seat and paced around the office.
Did this make her a pervert? A hopeless weirdo? Would Luke want to stop working with her after this?
No, she had to calm down. He was, after all, a more-than-willing party in their haymaking yesterday. Maybe he’d even be flattered. Or turned on.
Jane froze in her tracks. She was right back where she’d started, trying to act with restraint and ending up sending an erotic message to her bodyguard. Her professional career was going to be ruined.
She’d be labeled a hypocrite, a crackpot and a harlot.
And still, tonight, the only thing she wanted to think about was making love to Luke.
All the labels were true.
She wandered around the house, feeling jittery and feverish, until she found herself in the bathroom, staring at the tub where they had shared the most amazing sexual experience of her life.
Without thinking, she turned on the water and stripped off her clothes. She poured a bit of peppermint bath oil into the water, lit a candle, flicked off the lights, then stepped into the bath. It was nearly hot enough to scald, just the way she liked it. Jane settled inch by inch lower into the water until she was reclined back in the very spot Luke had been only a day ago. After a few minutes, she turned off the water with her foot and sighed into the silence.
With her eyes closed and her body immersed in the hot water, she could let go of the panic and let desire take control.
She slid her hands over her aching breasts, down her belly, and she paused. She didn’t want her release to happen without him. But she did want to clear her head. He wasn’t here tonight, and if she didn’t do something about her half-crazed state of arousal, she’d never get a word written, nor would she sleep at all that night.
So, she’d be doing it for her career. Better to have a little solo pleasure than to give in to one’s inappropriate desires for a man she shouldn’t have been sleeping with.
That was it!
Yes.
She’d just add a chapter to Sex and Sensibility about the occasional need for masturbation, and she’d be demonstrating to herself how life experience only improved her outlook on relationships. It didn’t have to be a contradiction.
Not a contradiction at all.
Jane slid her hands down farther, exploring, then stopped again.
This wasn’t what she wanted. Feeling herself up in the tub didn’t even compare to the exquisite pleasure she’d found with Luke. She expelled a ragged breath and opened her eyes. The bathroom clock read 10:42 p.m. She glared at the flickering candle, feeling a strong urge to inflict damage on something.
That was when she heard the doorbell ring.
9
The trouble with casual sex is that there is nothing casual about spreading your legs and inviting someone else in to play.
—Jane Langston, in Chapter Five of The Sex Factor
LUKE STOOD at the front door he’d sworn he wouldn’t enter tonight. He’d thought he might gain a little perspective on the intense emotions bombarding him where Jane was concerned if he had a little time to think. But then he’d gone home, intent on getting a full night’s rest after the night before of barely sleeping at all. He’d been so keyed up about Jane, sleep seemed almost unnecessary, but missing it was catching up with him.
