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“You gonna finish that bottle or are you ready to hand it back?”
I eye the bottle in question, contemplating finishing off the few inches that remain, then remember the last hangover I had when I attempted to drink Charlotte from my thoughts. It didn’t work, and I don’t see it working tonight either.
I pour one last shot before I slide the bottle across the bar. Reed takes it and tips it to another shot glass. He downs the shot, then slams the glass on the bar top.
“You know what you’re going to do?” he asks as he caps the bottle.
Clarification isn’t needed. I know he’s referring to Charlotte.
“Not one fucking clue.” I stand and pull out my wallet, sliding out several bills and throwing them on the bar. “I’m out.”
As I leave Whiskey’s, my mind drifts back to Charlotte. As I just told Reed, I have no idea how to deal with this incessant need I have for the woman.
The only thing I know for certain is, as much as I may want her, giving into temptation is a risk I can’t take.
Chapter 4
CHARLOTTE
Sliding my big, designer sunglasses over my eyes, I take a seat on one of the benches in the park underneath a big tree. Several people mill about: walking their dog, talking on their phones, or gabbing with friends.
It’s not those people I’m interested in. It’s the guy fifty feet away sitting on another bench across from me. His head is bent, reading a book. He looks to be in his early-to-mid thirties with sandy-blond hair, a nice build, and his clothes suggest he’s middle class. None of that matters though. Not for what I have in mind. Anyone will do actually, as long as they’re of age and not old enough to be my grandfather.
I set my purse down on the bench beside me and check my surroundings, making sure no one is around who shouldn’t witness my actions. Satisfied, I unbutton my blazer and slide it down my arms, setting it on my purse. The blouse beneath is sheer white and feels splendid against my bare breasts. The way it rubs my nipples almost has a moan slipping past my lips. I specifically chose this shirt because without a bra or cami, you can easily see the outline of my breasts, especially the darker color of my hardened nipples.
My sunglasses hide my eyes, so I can easily watch the man across from me without him noticing. His focus is still on his book, but I’m not worried. I know he’ll look up soon. They always glance up every so often to look around. And they always find what I want them to.
I uncross my legs and let my knees part a couple of inches. The breeze blows up my skirt, cooling the fevered, naked flesh between my legs. I let out a sigh, enjoying the feeling. It’s almost like a feather-soft caress.
Inconspicuously, I glance back at the man, and just as predicted, he’s looking directly at me. If I wasn’t so turned on, it would be comical to watch the way his eyes dart back and forth between my boobs and up my skirt, fighting with himself on which he wants to see more.
I tuck my feet under the bench and cross my ankles. The action causes my knees to fall open another inch. The man makes his choice and settles his gaze on my legs.
I grab my blazer and lay it across my lap to get my phone from my purse. When I pick the blazer up to put it back on my purse, I strategically slide the material over my legs so my skirt slides higher up my thighs. The hem is only a few inches away from completely exposing me.
Pretending to look down at my phone, I tilt my head up just high enough so I can keep the guy in view. A ripple of excitement forms in my stomach at the blatant lust on his face. He licks his lips, like he’s imagining running his tongue over my slit.
Being an exhibitionist is something I discovered I enjoyed a couple of years ago. The first time was by pure accident. I was taking the bus to work one morning when I caught a guy seated a few spots down from where I was, staring at me. It’s not uncommon for guys to hit on me. I’m not vain when I say I know I’m beautiful. It’s a simple fact; born from the many, many flirtatious encounters and desirous looks I’ve gotten from men over the years.
The look on the guy’s face on the bus though was different. More intense. Deeper. He was turned on from just a simple look, and I have no doubt had my hand wandered to his groin, he would have been rock hard.
I liked that look. I liked knowing I put it there. That just looking at me caused his mind and body to react so strongly.
It wasn’t until he stepped off the bus that I realized in my mad rush getting dressed that morning because I was running late, I missed a couple of buttons on my blouse. I wasn’t flashing partial cleavage, I was damn near showcasing everything I had in that department. And because I dropped my pen, I bent over, giving the guy even more to look at. I’m pretty sure he could have told anyone the color of my nipples.
Most women would have been mortified by the experience. It did the exact opposite for me. I wanted the guy to come back so I could show him more.
That started my fetish. In the beginning, the bus and a few restaurants were where I gave little flashes of myself, but I’ve since moved on to the park. I like the smell of nature and the breeze on my flesh.
As I watch the guy across from me practically drooling, I can’t help but wish he were someone else. Someone with rich-brown hair, melted-chocolate eyes, a deep, gravelly tone, and a body I know I could spend hours worshiping.
I may get my kicks from showing my body to random strangers, but at night, when I slide my fingers between my legs and find my release, it’s to thoughts of Dr. Erikson.
I first sought out a psychologist at the urging of my friend, Taylor, when I nearly got caught by the police in the park across town. Fortunately for me, just as I was handing him my license so he could write me a ticket for indecent exposure, he got a call on his radio and had to rush off. The experience scared the shit out of me, but not enough to keep me from finding another park the next week.
I didn’t know the psychologist I would be seeing would damn near knock me on my ass the first time I walked into his office. Sitting across from him every week for the past six months has been delicious torture. Never has the need to lift my skirt and show off what’s underneath been so strong as during my sessions. There have been so many times I almost parted my legs, just enough to give him a glimpse and have him wanting more.
And I know I’m not the only one who feels the intense chemistry between us. If it wasn’t his eyes that told me he wanted me just as much as I want him, the hard bulge between his legs he always tries to hide would.
