Page 12 of Flying High

He does have a point. His words, though, have me imagining him laying a finger onme. His hands, pulling me in close against his hard body and kissing me senseless. Warm palms slipping up the back of my skirt and grabbing the globes of my ass, his fingertips grazing against my most sensitive flesh from behind, feeling how wet I am. Him fingering me under the table in the restaurant and licking is digits clean afterwards.

No, no, no! I don’t even like him.

“Tonight. My place. Six sharp.” I rattle off my address, ignoring my over-fertile imagination and my body’s physical reaction. It’s been way too long since I had a guy in my bed and taking matters into my own hands doesn’t seem to have taken the edge off. And it doesn’t help that the last guy I dated wasn’t exactly a god in the sack.

Dean’s light laugh echoes down the line at my expense. At least his sense of humor is intact.

“And by the way, if you don’t show, I’ll call your mom. And before you say anything, I know exactly how pathetic it sounds, and I’ll still do it.” Ha, take that, Dean. “Good. Bye.”

Ending the call my brain immediately starts to churn over the conversation. Might not have been my finest moment. Thankfully, it was in private, and nobody overheard.

Feeling sore, I let my shoulders slump. I’ve been holding them up around my ears, tense for the duration of the call. I can salvage this and find Dean a date. Surely, or am I just a hopeless romantic?

Or just hopeless?

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