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Not only was Zena right, she may have undersold the unexpectedly erotic nature of the image. Reagan’s biceps bulged as she lifted a mass of clay over her head and slammed it down on the wheel. Within seconds, she’d wet her hands and gripped the misshapen ball like a horse’s
reins. The dark red material was a living thing thrashing around, desperate to free itself from Reagan’s grasp. As she controlled the clay, her muscles flexed, making the flower adorned rooster tattooed on her upper arm dance.
Libby licked her lips. All of a sudden there was too much saliva in her mouth, too much heat in the room. She kicked o the covers and returned to laying on her back with the phone inches from her face.
When Reagan sat back with obvious pride at having completed the first task and created a shape that didn’t fly o the wheel as it spun, Libby smiled too. Her body wasn’t ready for the second attack. After a cut in the film, the camera lens was set much closer to get a better view of Reagan’s hands as she worked.
Shit.
The ache that started low in her belly was unmistakable and left her feeling uneasy, but she was powerless to stop it.
The desire that grew from watching Reagan’s adept fingers sliding through the wet clay was a tiny spark on the driest of kindling. Reagan leaned forward, revealing her neck and the bottom of her face to the camera. Her flushed skin was covered in a thin layer of perspiration that forced a pulse of desire through Libby’s being.
Transfixed by Reagan’s strong arms and powerful fingers, Libby imagined that her body was the clay. If she focused hard enough, she could feel Reagan’s body on top of her, her bicep bulging next to her head as she held herself up with one hand and slipped into Libby with the other.
Libby slammed the phone down before her hand slipped to where she was in desperate need of a little pressure.
“What the hell am I doing?”
Shame took the place of arousal. Wishing a crater would open up and swallow her whole, she pulled the covers over her head as if she could hide from herself. She never
considered herself a creepy voyeur, and she wasn’t eager to add it to her list of personality traits.
C H A P T E R 1 7
STARING DOWN AT HER PHONE, Libby was doing everything in her power to distract herself. With the exception of breakfast with Zena and Ari, every waking moment had been spent keeping thoughts of Reagan’s sweaty body out of her head.
Results were mixed.
Usually, Taylor waiting for her by the elevator triggered a panic attack. Today, she was grateful for the distraction, even if it meant there was a fire to put out. Better a work-related blaze than the creepy one forming in her pants.
Gross.
“Morning! I have great news,” Taylor announced before she stepped into the lobby.
“Well, that’s unusual for me these days,” she joked before handing her the cappuccino she’d picked up for her.
“I know right,” she agreed with a chuckle as they barreled toward Libby’s o ce. “Jennifer’s list of prospects is down to twenty. I left them sitting on your desk. All but a couple are from the new round of interviews. Who knew removing gender and sexuality boxes would increase our pool of quality hopefuls?”
Libby nodded. As mortifying as it was, she hadn’t realized how alienating some of their old biographical screener questions were. Leaving lines blank rather than providing
boxes to choose from had been such an easy fix, she regretted not having done it sooner. With the new process and new ads directed at diverse clientele, her brand was expanding. She hoped the revenue would catch up soon as well.
“Let me know if you need anything while you review. I organized them in order of horoscope and love language.”
Taylor sipped her co ee in the doorway as Libby sat at her desk. “I put my favorite on top,” she added before disappearing down the hallway and out of her view.
Work, she hoped, would stop the unwanted voice in her head calling her a pervert.
Opening the green file on top of the others, Libby glanced at the photo of a stunning woman. According to her bio, Gale was in the process of transitioning but did not wish to discuss the specifics with the team. Fair enough, Libby thought. Those details weren’t relevant to her prospective compatibility with Jennifer as long as she was open to meeting a cisgender woman. Since she was, and since they both had a similar hierarchy of values, Libby made a note to bring her in for a second interview. She’d have to vet her before recommending a date, but she had to admit, she had a good feeling about them. Good job, Taylor.
Libby had just reviewed the third file and was making notes when her phone and computer dinged at once. If she hadn’t been in the middle of switching profiles, she wouldn’t have glanced at the sound.
“An alert, huh?” she muttered to herself. Taylor had set up something to track the whole of the internet and notify her when her name came up in something new. Usually, the alerts were from the content she created herself, either the posting or the sharing, but she clicked on the link to be sure.
“Oh God,” she whispered, her hand covering her mouth.
The article was, unquestionably, a pointed attack.
