Free Flash and Burn: Second Five (Flash and Burn #2) by E.J. Swenson Page B

must have.
She hurries back, crossing two streets against the light and
earning angry glares from smug cyclists and heedless drivers alike.
She finds her usual table and exhales with relief. Her phone is
right where she left it, next to the sugar dispenser. She snatches
it up and heads home, where she will do laundry and perhaps catch
up on Netflix. Another sleepy Saturday, just the way she likes
it.
    ***
    Her clothes are tumbling in the
dryer and Tang, her orange tabby, is nestled by her feet. She’s
reading something fast-paced and forgettable, a palate cleanser for
the mind, when she hears a loud snippet of Beethoven’s Symphony 9.
It’s coming from her bag. She is puzzled; her ringtone is a series
of low soothing tones. She eases herself off the couch, trying not
to disturb her cat, and retrieves her bag from the kitchen
table.
    Several text messages are
blinking for attention, all variations of “Are you the woman who
stole my phone?”
Damn
it
, she thinks,
I must have some grabbed the wrong
one.
She hurriedly composes an
apologetic reply.
    I’m so sorry, must have
grabbed your phone from Rosa’s. It was a case of mistaken identity,
nothing more sinister. Can I meet you somewhere to return
it?
    A pause, then more
violins.
Young lady, you’ve caused me
to miss some very important messages. Very naughty. How will you
make it up to me?
    She shakes her head
slightly.
I guess I could buy you a
cup of coffee. Or maybe something stronger?
     
    His reply is almost
instantaneous.
I was thinking of
something more personal. Are your panties as dull as your clothing?
Or are you hiding your light under a bushel?
    Horrified, frightened, and
just the slightest bit aroused, she stares at the phone as if it
has a perverse kind of life. Then she hears a knock at her door and
recalls that all kinds of apps exist specifically to locate lost
and stolen phones. She peers through her peephole, and there he is:
tall, Nordic, late thirties, unspeakably handsome. It has been more
than a year since she’s been with anyone, man or woman.
Do I call the police or let him
in?
    ***
    She rides him, wearing nothing but
a lacy red bra with transparent insets, and the sensation is
deliciously frictionless. Her juices flow, her clit swells into a
small, hard pebble, and she admires his sculpted face and gym-toned
abs. She is fucking a potentially dangerous stranger who now knows
where she lives. She smiles broadly. It’s the kind of stupid,
reckless thing she did in college, when she dyed her hair purple
and told everyone her life was performance art.
    She’s glad she saved those
handcuffs from her last boyfriend, the one who fancied himself an
older, paunchier, and impecunious version of Christian Grey. They
look great holding this new man, whose expression is equal parts
delighted and bemused, securely to her headboard.
4. Homework
    The college girl–now a
senior, practically a grown woman–keeps the envelope in her copy
of
Wings of a Dove.
It has been there for days. She doesn’t have the
will to tear it open and face its contents. She wills herself to
think of other things. Like her literature professor.
He’s certainly distracting,
she thinks,
although
it’s such a stupid cliché
. Still, she
can’t help admiring the intelligence and authority in his voice,
the dark curls kissing his chin, the trim lines that promise a
taut, well cared for body.
    He’s saying something profound
about Henry James’ attitudes towards woman, she’s sure of it, but
his words are deflected by the fizzy, lusty feelings that are
pulling her mood towards a simple, animal happiness. She smiles and
pulls out her compact, checking her lipstick. It’s the only makeup
she wears, and she prefers a deep red, verging on
burgundy.
    It takes her a moment to
realize the students around her are gathering their things and
moving towards the exits. The professor himself is waving casual
goodbyes and making light chatter with his pupils as they file out.
The girl