“Eight,” I replied.
“Good. No more phone numbers. Come home with me.”
I laughed and shook my head. Was he for real?
“I’m serious. You said you want to shower. Shower at my place. You said you want to climb into bed. Climb into my bed.”
He’d just invited me into his bed. I felt the yearning between my thighs again. It was like he was able to flip an “on” switch on me and my pussy suddenly began preparing itself for penetration. I squeezed my thighs together and the tension felt good. I wanted more tension.
I just stared at him for a second.
“I don’t know you,” I said.
“So know me.”
This was crazy. I wanted to be as sporadic and daring as the girls in the movies, as trusting and needy as the young girls like the one my ex husband was fucking. Those were the girls who got fucked so good they couldn’t walk the next day.
I wanted that.
I wanted to be treated like a succulent piece of meat, like a goddess that was so desired my man couldn’t keep his hands off me, or his tongue, or his cock.
I wanted to devour this man so that he thought of nothing but me if he tried sleeping with anyone else.
But was I good in bed? I wasn’t even sure.
I’d been with my husband for a long time. One guy before him in high school and one guy after him, a few months ago, an Internet hookup kind of thing.
Thinking back, I couldn’t remember a single seriously steamy situation with any of them. I came sometimes with my husband but not always. Not even usually. In fact, I think it was quite rare.
And that pissed me off too. I deserved a good man. I decided right then that I was going to fuck this guy so damn good that he’d be beating off to my memory for years to come.
“Meet me in front of the store at 7am,” I said.
“Seven minutes,” he said as he checked his watch.
I was nervous as I hit the time clock. I punched out at two minutes after because it had taken me a couple of extra minutes to gather my things. I think I was procrastinating, kind of hoping that I’d walk out the doors and find that he’d flaked on me.
I didn’t know anything about this guy. Serial killers pulled similar shit all the time. But he’d been in the store a lot. People had seen his face. So I was sure he wasn’t a killer.
I checked myself in the mirror once before leaving, making sure to smooth down my hair and reapply lipstick. I sucked in my stomach and propped up my breasts.
Does he really find me sexy? God, I really want to be sexy in someone’s eyes. And not just the, “Oh she has a nice ass” kind of sexy. I want to be yearned for. I want to be the object of someone’s fantasies.
I checked myself out in the mirror and tried to see myself through his eyes. My uniform definitely wasn’t flattering, but I’d been wearing it every time Mr. Cooper had seen me, so he must’ve liked me in it…at least a little bit.
His black BMW was parked at the curb, right outside the store entrance. The windows were tinted and I clutched my purse in my hands tightly as I contemplated whether or not I should approach the strange vehicle. Then he rolled down the passenger side window.
“My lady,” he said.
“You’re not going to use the chariot line are you?” I asked with a roll of my eyes.
“Umm no, I was just going to say get in the freakin’ car will ya!”
So I did.
I climbed into the passenger seat and as soon as I closed the door the seatbelt automatically wrapped around my chest, locking me in place. I suddenly felt claustrophobic.
There was no turning back at this point. He had me in his clutches.