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Imagining him touching me.
My hand slips down my chest . . .
Past my navel. It slides to the place I wish he was, and with a flick of my finger, I pretend it’s his tongue.
My touch is now his touch.
All rational thoughts leave my mind as I envision a world where Trent Aldridge worships me. Where I chase my high on his lips.
My hips buck, my pulse speeds up, and then I crash down from above, full sated.
Shit.
Looking down to where my legs are still parted, my back goes ramrod straight.
I did not just orgasm to fantasies of Trent.
You keep telling yourself that.
Grabbing a towel from the hook, I scrub at my body, trying to rid myself of the memory of what I just did.
How am I ever going to look at him?
You’re not.
Once I’m dry, I get dressed.
Taking a deep breath, I place my hands on my skirt and straighten it.
He never did tell me the dress code for tonight.
I’m not sure where he’s taking me.
It could be a soup kitchen. Or maybe he’s taking me to a hospital to play with children.
I have no clue, which is why I am wearing a pale-blue cotton dress that falls right above my knee.
It’s casual.
Yet cute.
It isn’t dressy or showy and blends well with almost any situation.
On my feet are ballet flats in a bright white.
Again, simple.
I can run if I need to.
Ready for whatever the devil will throw at me.
He said five o’clock, but I’m ready at four thirty.
I have no desire to piss him off right now.
Been there. Done that. Have the receipts—or in my case, the callus on my palm from cleaning his gym—to prove it.
It’s bad enough that he has me reading about Jung. It’s not that I don’t like his writings, but I am swamped with school, and the idea of presenting in front of Trent and his staff, people I see every day and technically work with, is humiliating.
