Page 3 of Service Included

She squeezed her breasts together, nipple to nipple, still twisting the points against the bedding, and imagined offering them to his mouth.

He’d say,Come to me. Come for me.Behind her closed eyes, she could hear his voice. He’d tell her to take off her shirt, lift her breasts, bring her breasts to his mouth.

She’d say yes. Yes to all of it.

We’re going to fuck all night, he’d promise.

Her moan sounded like the word yes. Her hips moved harder against the pillow, and she imagined the voice again.

I want to fuck you, Megan.She liked that wordfuck, a hardworking single syllable turned into a downbeat by the mystery voice.Fuck.She moaned it, her voice keeping rhythm with her hips each time she thrust at the folded crest of the pillow.Fuck. Fuck.Saying it out loud made her hotter, made her push faster and her tendons clench harder.Fuck. Fuck me. Fuck me now.She didn’t know if that was her imaginary lover or herself speaking, but it was what she wanted, needed.

She wiggled a hand between her body and the pillow and freed the button on her shorts.Brace your hands on the bed.No, he’d order her to her hands and knees, tell her to spread her legs and stick her ass in the air, because he’d want to get to the fucking. And she’d do what he told her. She’d slide her knees apart and drop her head and arms to the mattress.

Her hand slipped into the gap between her shorts and her stomach, to the slick folds waiting for touch. Her fantasy man would be as hard as some sort of tool, a hammer, no, something straight like a screwdriver, but that might betoohard. Damn, she needed the vibrator from her house, wanted to rub it across her clit, back and forth, or stick it inside herself, because grinding her pussy on a pillow was not enough. Not fucking enough.

He’d wrap his hand around his own shaft and guide his tip around, across, but oh, yes, around, getting a little bit faster and a little bit faster—her fingers traced the path he would take—around and around the spot. He wouldn’t tease for long, because they didn’t have a lot of time. She wouldn’t be able to see him as she begged to be taken from behind. Their bodies would be slick where they touched. Wordless gasps, pushing herself backward against his hand, his cock, his thighs. She moaned, and squeezed hard on the rolled pillow gripped between her thighs. She hungered to be filled with more than her own skinny fingers.

Want to fuck you.He’d already said that.Want to pound my cock in your pussy.Better.

“Harder,” she gasped into the comforter. The loop of speaking and hearing torqued her arousal higher while her finger moved faster. She was wet, but one finger wasn’t the cock that went with the voice in her head. “Fuck me harder,” she moaned. Her mind filled in the slap of their bodies while she tensed her buttocks and thighs to thrust at the ridge of the pillow, like he was behind her pinning her to the bed. Sucking the hot, sticky air into her lungs, she humped faster, sloppy with need, the pillow never enough, but the best she could do while her own breathing filled the room.

So close to coming. She pushed into the sensations deep behind her pussy and squeezed them as hard as she could, forcing them to spread to her tensed thighs. This was her dependable orgasm, the kind of pillow pleasure she could almost think herself into feeling. To extend the waves, she rocked harder and rode the padding like it was a man, while she opened her imagination to picture a cock, hard and thick, driving up while her body slammed down. The throbbing grew until her thighs and knees shook and forced a groan out of her, the good throbbing, so good, so fucking good, and then she collapsed into the finish.

Her knees and hips dissolved into the bed, and her fingers dropped away from her breasts. The old mattress had a groove at the spot she occupied, cradling her, but she couldn’t relax. Tingling energy wanted to escape, so she rolled to her back and stretched her arms, which had been held tight to her body for too long. What she felt was best described asnice, simultaneously keyed up and smoothed over, a combination male partners didn’t understand when she tried to explain why even a less-than-screaming orgasm was still appreciated. An orgasm didn’t have to be the deep, wringing-out, power-toy pleasure kind, or the cocktails, foreplay, and real-guy kind, or even the watch-porn-on-mute kind. It could be nothing but a basic friendly roller, a have-a-nicer-day little bitty bite. Orgasms were infinite in variety and all good, even ones most accurately classified asnice.She opened her eyes.

From directly under her old NSYNC poster, she looked up at the five spiky-haired teenage boys, her perspective from below increasing the impact of their baggy denim while also shrinking their heads at the top of the poster. Yuck, totally leaving that behind to be tossed.

On the wall next to that dubious boy band relic, artsy teenage Megan had assembled a collage of museum postcards. The usual suspects of Georgia O’Keeffe flowers, book-reading Impressionist women, and a Botticelli painting of the Three Graces mixed with what adult Megan recognized as refreshingly obscure mythological themes. One image in particular seemed to leap off the wall—a painting of a woman wearing a one-shouldered, amethyst-colored robe, eyes shadowed under a long red veil as she perched on a stool that straddled a steaming fissure in the rocky ground.

Possibly it was the Oracle of Delphi, but she reached for the postcard to check.

During her most hormonal phases of high school girldom, she had wanted to be a woman draped in red and mystery, somehow understanding that this image was neither the usual depiction of an idealized classical woman in virginal white, nor a severe, sexless Athena. As an adult, she admired how the painter had given the Oracle a full measure of dark sensuality wrapped in the crimson of carnal knowledge, and then set her astride the powerful magic of the smoke. She suspected the artist’s model had understood that aspect very well indeed, if she could make assumptions from all that bare skin, the highlights glowing along her exposed clavicle, and the attention lavished by the artist on the creases where the upper slopes of the model’s breasts blended to her shoulder.

She ignored the flakes of paint that clung to the yellowed tape and read the caption on the back of the postcard.Priestess of Delphi, by John Collier, 1891.

Delphi. Priestess. Priestesses, plural.

Her office was starting to plan the next extension to their alternate Peloponnesian Wars game. Management had emphasized that female gamers were their brand’s greatest untapped growth opportunity, so they wanted to attract them with something more than pumped-up Spartans conspiring with Persians. As the lead historical consultant, she wasn’t a token female, more like a token expert, but they had asked her to weigh in with ideas alongside the developers. What if—

A big engine rumbled in front of the house.Shit.Full Service Movers had arrived.

Chapter 2

Too sexy for my chert

Megan wasn’t prepared forcompany. The postcard fluttered to the floor while she jammed her nipples into her bra and zipped her shorts.

Outside, a vehicle door slammed, sounding louder and heavier than a car’s would.

She tugged the quilt into place and fluffed the pillow, eliminating the most obvious signs of her horizontal jog, but that didn’t relieve her dry mouth or the weighty feeling in her breasts. The beeps of a truck backup signal prodded her to find the shirt she’d tossed away earlier and stuff her arms into the sleeves before she scooped up the postcard and moved toward the window.

Through a gap in the white sheers, she watched a lanky guy in the driveway guide a white panel truck toward the garage. A smaller van parked at the curb displayed a cartoon logo of two muscular men draped in togas, flexing for a gaggle of grinning women beneath the name Full Service Movers. Across thebottom, a rippling scroll proclaimed: We give FULL SERVICE! No request refused.

Nope, no double entendres there, definitely not.

While she stared, the pad of her thumb flicked the edge of the postcard, matching flutters in her imagination. What if—this was what she needed to pin down before it disappeared—what if she proposed that the playable roles were an all-female cult? They could take it further than the female roles in games likeAssassin’s Creedby requiring that any of the eighteen million original players who wanted to explore the expansion would have to play females; the female gaze would drive the whole damn thing.We’d have to hire a lot more female developers and artists. That would set us apart. We’d have buzz about that, and pretty sure we’d have a noticeably different product at the end.This wasn’t her lane, it wasn’t even close to her job description, not to mention it was probably ludicrous and wrong and ill-informed, but—

The truck shut off, the silence indicating that the men would soon expect her attention.

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