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I briefly tell him about Tabitha and the night and then the morning we had together. When I finish, I say, “I just don’t understand it. How am I so hung up on someone I don’t even like?”
He chuckles. “Well, that’s easy. You do like her.”
I stare at him. “Have you been listening to me? She irritates the hell out of me!”
“That’s true,” he says. “It’s also true that you like her.”
“I liked fucking her,” I say. “That’s not the same as liking her.”
“True,” he agrees again. “But you do like her.”
I don’t answer right away and he chuckles again and claps me on the shoulder. “I’ll stop giving you shit, but I have one last thing to say, first. Don’t question it. It doesn’t need to make sense. You like her and she likes you. That’s all that matters right now. Let yourself have some fun, Rory. Not everything needs to be wrapped in a neat little bow.”
The conversation turns to other things but when I arrive at the station for another four-day shift, those are the words that linger, and when I drift to sleep those thoughts still linger.
CHAPTER FIVE
Tabitha
That man is so damned sexy.
This isn’t the first time I think about a sexy man while I’m working. This is the first time, though, that I think about a man I’m actually working with while I’m working. I can’t help myself, though. When Rory steps into the station, it’s like my body instantly responds. My nipples turn into bullets and my pussy seems to pulse with need. I can feel my breathing grow a bit shallower. Actually, I can feel my breathing grow more than just a bit shallower. It’s almost like I stop breathing for a minute.
What the hell?
I’m a professional and I’m damned good at my job. There’s no question I like to get a bit of an advantage when I’m in an investigation situation and there’s no question that advantage has a lot to do with creating a bit of arousal in the men around me. Now, I have to face the exact opposite situation. I’m the one losing the edge instead of the targets.
I’m very, very glad that I don’t have to be the first one who speaks. I think I might just stutter like an idiot if I had to do that. I stand in the corner of the station, counting nozzles and hoses and the like and he walks in through the garage looking like some kind of fire god in his shirt and his jeans and his… well, everything about him. He walks to me and asks, “Discovered any conspiracies yet?”
I don’t know what I expect him to say but it’s not that. It ticks me off. “Take this seriously,” I snap, “do you know how much corruption costs the people of this state in a year?”
He doesn’t skip a beat as he says, “No. You don’t know either.”
“Idiot,” I say.
I glare at him, take my clipboard and walk to the supply closet. I open it and step inside to do my counts but a second later, I hear the door open and close. “No reply?” he asks.
“To your stupid, dick-measuring response?”
“No. To the question of how much corruption costs. You don’t know the answer because it’s impossible to know how corruption impacts an economy. Corruption causes distortions and some of them, like opportunity cost, can’t be measured. It redirects money allocated so some things suffer.”
He’s absolutely right, which pisses me off. He doesn’t stop talking, though. “This can happen because corruption causes cost overruns or because someone receives a bribe and that means a contract is awarded for more than it should be. Corruption’s impacts can’t be measured. The only thing that can be measured is the impact of corruption that’s caught. Even then, many of the effects are unknown and unknowable.”
“Okay, fine,” I snap.
“I’m not done,” he says. “You find a hose here missing, maybe someone stole it, and you can say that four-layer attack line nitrile fire hose with the chlorosulfonated polyethylene synthetic rubber cover will cost the state twelve-hundred dollars to replace. You still can’t determine if not having that hose meant we spent an extra forty-five minutes battling a fire. That’s probably twenty-five man-hours there. It’s also forty-five more minutes of fire damage and traffic impact from rubberneckers. You can’t measure the cost of corruption.”
I’m ready to smack this asshole. He says, “But you’re doing a bang-up job with the clipboard.”
“You fucking prick,” I say as I drop the clipboard and kiss him hard.
Why in God’s name am I doing this? I’m supposed to be the unattainable object: the girl all of these men desperately wish they could have but can’t get. I’m supposed to dangle my shapely ass and firm tits like a carrot so men tell me everything I want to know but I’m not supposed to feed them the damn carrot and I’m sure as hell not supposed to chase after one of them like he’s the carrot and I’m the starving mule.
It doesn’t help my mood that I think this while I unbuckle his belt and push his pants down to his ankles. It really doesn’t help my mood that as soon as his pants are down, I pull my lips away and say, “Come on, fuck me.”
It does help my mood a little bit when he bends me over a spool of hose, lifts up my dress, tears away my panties, and slams into me so hard that I cum almost immediately. I shove my hand into my mouth to keep from screaming as my pussy shudders around him and my clit vibrates like a guitar string.
Suddenly, I am overwhelmed with a desire to make him cum hard. I’m not sure if I’m so overwhelmed by the sex that I focus only on that or if I’m just angry at him for breaking through my façade and I want to regain some power by making him as desperate for me as I am for him. I only know that I begin pushing back as he thrusts forward and I reach behind me to massage the sensitive skin just above his shaft.
