Page 7 of Command and Control: GHOST Operative

I THOUGHT TONIGHT was never going to end.

After letting myself in the front door of my townhouse, I drop my purse on the couch, piling my coat on top of it.

My disappointment at yet another miserable date is barely tempered by the copious amounts of wine I consumed in an attempt to make it through two hours of listening to the latest in a string of pompous assholes drone on about himself. His self-centeredness was extra annoying considering he seemed decent during our initial text conversations. I really thought I might have finally found someone worth investing in. Someone who genuinely wanted to get to know me.

Instead, I found another aging divorcé trying to live out his fuckboy dreams.

I snort a little, laughing to myself, because fucking me would haveonlyhappened in his dreams. I’m desperate for a dicking, and I still wouldneverconsider screwing him.

All Clark did was talk about himself. Hetold me about his car, his job, his house, his friends. The vacations he takes. The wines stocked in his cellar. Blah, blah, blah.

So many words came out of his mouth, but all I heard was—IfI'm so arrogant I won’t ask you a single question, I definitely can't be bothered to find the clit. And if I'm going to let another man in my life, and my bed, he better fucking know his way around a clit. I spent too many years having bad, unfulfilling sex. I'd rather go without than suffer through one more night under a man whose only concern is getting his rocks off.

I betheknows where the clit is.

A hopeful, desperate part of my brain drags me back to the spot I always land on nights like this. A spot permanently occupied by a silver fox with a deep voice and an unrelenting glare.

Oh yeah. Vincent definitely knows where the clit is. The man probably goes at a pussy like it’s a mission. A battle to be fought and won. At least in my fantasies he does. And that's good enough for me.

That hopeful, desperate part of my brain offers up more than enough Vincent-themed inspiration for me to decide I’ll do the job a man can't seem to. And I’ve had enough wine that tonight, I might just have to do the job twice.

Kicking off my shoes, I bend to scoop up the only pumps I own and pad up the stairs, blowing out no less than three dramatic sighs before I reach my bedroom. After tossing my shoes into the closet, I tug at the belt of my wrap dress. Since I work from home, most of my wardrobe consists of yoga pants and oversized sweatshirts, but when I decided to dip my toe back in the dating pool, I invested in a few decent items that show off my bestassets. Primarily my tits. Although, my ass isn't half bad either.

Twenty years ago I hated how much of me there was, but now I’m older. Wiser. Less influenced by my prick of an ex-husband who expected me to be a size two who existed on lettuce and air. Oh, and bad sex, since he also couldn't have found a clit if his life depended on it.

That's why my dating criteria is what it is. I'm determined to live the second half of my life on my own terms. I want it to be exciting. Interesting. Filled with adventure and hot sex.

And orgasms. Lots and lots of orgasms.

But for now, that task still falls to me.

I shrug out of my dress, not bothering to close the vertical blinds across the door leading out to my balcony. There's an entire pond between me and the line of office buildings on the other side, so I'm not too worried anyone's looking.

But I really don't mind if they are. The possibility actually sends a little thrill racing through my wine-warmed body. It pauses to flip through my belly before dropping directly south.

Yeah. It’s going to be a two-round sort of night.

I take the time to hang my dress up, simply because I don't want to deal with whatever happens to it if I leave it in a pile on my closet floor, then walk back through my room, letting my eyes drift to the glass doors. They’re wide enough to give anyone who might be watching a great view, and that sneaky, desperate part of me comes racing back, making me wonder what Vincent would think if he was looking through that window.

Would he, like my ex, find me lacking?Or would he see me for what I really am? A soft, comfortable place for a man to enjoy.

In my mind, it’s the latter.

Keeping my gaze on the darkness outside the window, I move to my nightstand, pulling open the drawer to peruse my own little arsenal. Since I haven't had an easy time finding a partner to explore with, I've done it on my own, trying out all the things I'd been laughed at for suggesting during my marriage.

I chew on my lower lip as I consider my options, finally settling on two of my favorites. I pull them free, dropping both onto the mattress before moving on to the red lacy bra I chose for the evening. It's not that I was expecting to get laid—I've discovered that, in spite of my expanding sexual interest, I'm still sort of a slow mover. The pretty bra and pantie set was solely for my own benefit. So I could feel sexy and desirable.

It's crazy to think something no one else sees could make such a difference, but it does. The right underwear can absolutely skyrocket a girl’s confidence.

I grip the front, pulling the overflowing cups closer together as I loosen the line of tiny hooks trapped in my cleavage. Before I peel it away, I lift my eyes back to the window, imagininghimon the other side.

The fantasy amps up the throb between my thighs and I drop my bra to the floor, letting it slide down both arms as my breasts fall free. They’re full and heavy enough to give them a sexy sort of sway when I move, and I kind of love it.

Are they perfectly perky? No. They're big boobs. Perky big boobs aren’t really a thing, and I'm okay with that. Especially since the way they move can feel so good.

I lift the first of the items off the bed, the chain swinging from my palm. My nipples are already pulled tight in anticipation when I close the rubber padded clamps in place. The pinch makes me moan and has me hurrying to rid myself of the matching red panties clinging to my hips. I start to move into my normal position, head against the pillows, but stop. If I'm going to pretend he's watching me, then I want to be sure he sees everything. So I lay across the foot of my bed instead, facing the glass doors.

Letting my legs fall open, I switch on the second item, my hands-free vibrator. It’s shaped a little like a U and designed to stimulate a woman inside and out. All I have to do is switch it on and it does all the work.

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