Page 115 of Bad Attitude
Never done that before. Obviously.
It’s never appealed. Obviously.
He did it to me, and hedoeshave a very nice ass. I’ve seen it naked so often that I can just picture it, imagine my hands on it, spreading it…
Fuck. Stop!
I take a shower, turning it cold for a full minute before I step out, gasping, then go to bed.
It hasn’t helped. I still lie there for far too damn long before I reach into the drawer of my nightstand for my battery-powered friend, all the wrong images filling my mind as I bring myself to a crashing release.
In post-orgasmic clarity, I know what he wants: for me to come to him.
It’s a power game.
Bastard.
Is it, though?
He did spend a week here. Maybe he needs space. No… maybe he’s givingmespace. Maybe he feels he took advantage, and can’t intrude.
His voice plays in my memory.“I’ll get an uber back to my place. Give you some peace.”
So going to himisn’ta power move. I’m being stubborn unnecessarily. He’s not keeping me away, he’s keepinghimselfaway.
With that mental gymnastics successfully achieved, sleep finally comes.
Wednesday, I’m in a good mood, feeling so alive. The day’s beautiful. I go for another run and it’s fulfilling, anticipation surging through me with everything I do.
Tonight, I’m going to see him again. And he doesn’t even know it.
This relationship may not be based on love—if it ever will be—but I see no reason not to base it on sex. Not when it’sso damn good. Not when his body is…godly.
That evening, I spend a while in the shower, using my razor blade, making sure I’m smooth everywhere. Men like that, right? Nothing says pin me down and fuck me like a nice silky pussy.
That’s a spectacularly obscene thought. Where the hell did it come from?
But the worst bit is I don’t care. Screw my stupid Mormon upbringing and my stupid past relationships. I’m embracing the new me, making it mine, making mepowerful.
And that brings an idea.
Maybe I won’t turn up on my bike, in leathers that are just so damn awkward to remove in the heat of the moment. I’ll wear something else. Something sexy, something he’ll appreciate. Leaving no doubt.
I open my closet, flicking through. Jeans, tops, two spare pairs of leather riding pants.
Lingerie? None. Skirts? None. Nice dresses? Not really. Not that aren’t rimmed with virginal lace, anyway.
Yeah, because nothing says ‘fuck me now’ thanlooking like a walking chastity belt.
I slam the door shut in frustration. It’s already seven thirty. I don’t have time to go shopping.
Seems my go-to is my only option, and that’s a sad reflection on my life. Leather pants, leather jacket, and he’ll have to peel them off me again.
It’s not the clear signal I had in mind.
Jacket?
I open the closet again, reaching for a hanger. Holding up the black rain-coat against myself, looking in the mirror. I bought this a while ago, partly to wear over that horrible dress when I go to church, the color a small rebellion, even then. Worn it… what, twice?
