Free TEMPTATION - A Bad Boy Romance by Gabi Moore Page B

But at least she’s not wasting her evening cleaning up cat shit, now is she?
    I sighed.
    I allowed my eyes to fall on his body again. Surely people didn’t really look like that. Not really . I stared for a long time at the almost comically large cock hanging loosely between the two toned, tanned thighs. Was it photoshopped? It was the look of a Spartan still pumped up from battle, but the face was all wrong somehow and didn’t match: it was an easy, mocking face, too comfortable, arrogant even. Familiar somehow. It was the face of someone who’s never struggled, never had to fight for a thing in their lives.
    My hand found its way into my pants. Fuck that stupid idiot for taking advantage of me. I wanted all his dumb gaming equipment out, and I never wanted to see him again. I slipped a noncommittal hand into my underwear, still looking at the picture. What was her life like? Did she have to put up with a man-child for a boyfriend? Or was it champagne and Gucci, all day, everyday?
    I closed my eyes and felt ugly threads of tension slowly leaving my body. The kitchen floor was cold and hard, but I deflated with a huge sigh and try to calm down. It would be OK. I would be OK. It was hard now, but I was working for something. I had a purpose . Men could wait.
    My fingers found the old familiar sensations as I began to stroke my clit, still staring at the same picture I must have looked at a million times already today. I imagined something easy, soothing, something outrageously hot. Why couldn’t I be the sexy girl on the yacht with the celebrity? Who would stop me now if I imagined myself laid down on a bed of money, lavished with attention by some airheaded stud with a big cock? Why not?
    I moved my fingers more quickly.
    My boyfriends had always been kind of weedy, nerdy types. And I liked it that way. Men with big dicks usually are big dicks, right?
    A soft wet bead of moisture grew at my fingertips as images flitted through my mind. I bet he had so much sex he was bored of it already. I bet a big idiot like him could fuck for hours, like a machine.
    Hovering over the edge of a warm, friendly orgasm, I held myself suspended there for a moment, still staring hard at the picture. Each pixelated fold and vein. The small pleat between his hard thighs and the flat of his stomach. What if it was me , perched there on his lap, with every last inch of that cock buried inside me? Curling my spine, I squeezed my eyes shut, shuddered smoothly and came, with long, easy twitches.
    Damn. Ok. I stood up, flustered. Buttoned my jeans up again and looked with fresh disgust at the picture. I swiped the screen with slick fingers.
    “Are you sure you want to delete Image 05?”
    Yes!
    Delete it all.
    I was done with this shit.
    I was finally getting recognized at work, finally making strides in a career that took many people decades to get off the ground. I wasn’t going to let some rich jock take up any more space in my mind than he strictly needed to.
     

Chapter Three
     
    Looking back, I’m pretty sure my body knew what was up long before I did. Had I been paying attention, I would have noticed that I took just a little longer getting dressed the next morning, and picked an outfit that admittedly, I wouldn’t have worn otherwise.
    I pretended this was all necessary, all part of this game I was playing wherein I was a professional, and people took me seriously. I would have to meet him at an expensive, up-market hipster hole where I would be forced to put fussy drinks and snacks on Penelope’s credit card and act like I did this all the time.
    And he was late.
    It was 11:00 am on the nose that I began to sweat in my low cut silk blouse and skirt that was just a few threads long enough for plausible deniability. My feet were killing me in my heels. Ten minutes disappeared and then another ten. I began to get annoyed. Possibly by the realization that even I, professional cynic and hard ass, was a little buzzed to be meeting the Tom