The Next Mrs Russo

“I’m not a licensed plumber, but I know my way around a broken pipe.”

“Well, aren’t you handy.” That doesn’t come out the least bit sarcastic because in my head I’m picturing exactly how hot being handy is. Sexually. I can feel myself blushing at my own errant thoughts so I clear my throat and try to focus. “Seems like a real waste of your time and abilities,” I manage in a voice that sounds a lot less like a purr.

“Does it?” He’s smiling, like he can read my mind. I remind myself that’s impossible and soldier on.

“Logically, yes, it would seem so.”

“It won’t take that long,” he answers, casting another glance at the ceiling.

“Fine!” I toss my hands up in defeat. “Thursday is fine.”

* * *

“Thanks for having my back there, Miller,” I grumble a few minutes later, once Warren has left.

“Uh, I did have your back. You were doing a terrible job of sealing the deal on your own.”

“Maybe I didn’t want to seal the deal. Maybe it’s a bad deal.”

“I’m not sure we’re talking about the same deal,” Miller says slowly. “I’m talking about the deal in which you eventually get naked with the governor.”

“Miller!” I groan, dropping my head into my hands on the workstation.

“What? You’re into him. What’s the problem?”

“Maybe I have a sordid past, okay? Have some respect for my boundaries.”

“Sordid past?” Miller couldn’t look less impressed with my possible sordidness if he tried. “You’re not even thirty and you go to bed at nine o’clock.”

“It’s complicated.”

“I’m sure.” He nods as if he’s being reassuring before adding, “That it’s not.”

“And it’s usually closer to ten,” I add, a bit sullenly if I’m being honest.

Chapter Nine

On Thursday morning I wake up early. Hot, achy and a bit wrung out. Exactly how a girl should feel after a great round of sex. Or perhaps if she has the flu. I, fortunately or not, have had neither.

What I’ve had is a sex dream about Warren.

It was incredible. One of those dreams that feel oh, so real and long. Really long. Supposedly most dreams occur in a matter of minutes but let me tell you, Warren had dream stamina because it felt like it went on all night long. Perfectly placed kisses, long, lingering strokes of his hands on every inch of my body, and a dick that would not quit when it mattered.

Except now I’m all hot and bothered and feeling like that dream orgasm just left me hanging. I mean, it was a really nice orgasm, but it wasn’t real. Ugh. I try to pull the covers over my head, but Gary is sprawled out weighing them down so I only manage to tug them up to my chin before I run out of cover and earn myself a cat grunt and a slow blink for disturbing him.

I tap my fingers on the covers and stare at the ceiling. I should try to go back to bed. A quick glance at the clock tells me it’s too early to get up. Yet. Here I am, wide awake.

And horny.

My second fake date with Warren is tonight. How in the heck am I going to get through an entire evening with him when all I’ll be thinking about is the amazing dream sex we just had? Who has that kind of focus? Not me. I’m all worked up and enticed yet unsatisfied.

There’s only one answer to this dilemma. I need to burn off some energy. A lot of energy. The only thing I need to be thinking about when Warren picks me up is a nap. I know, you’d think this would be a job for my vibrator, and I give it a cursory glance as I toss the covers off and get out of bed.

That stupid vibrator will never live up to my overactive imagination.

Passing the replacement toilet still sitting in the hallway, I enter the bathroom and make quick work of pulling my mass of unruly blonde hair into a ponytail before washing my face and brushing my teeth. I examine my eyebrows, contemplating if they need shaping in a blatant attempt at stalling.

I floss. Think about moisturizing.

There’s no avoiding it. I’m gonna have to go for a run. I slide the I Heart NY t-shirt I slept in over my head and leave it on the floor in a heap as I slip a pair of leggings on and pull a running tank top on over my head. Shoes, my phone, earbuds, some light stretching and I’m ready to hit the pavement.

The first song on my playlist is Lady Gaga, reminding me that following someone until they love you is only okay if you’re paparazzi.

I don’t need that kind of negative energy so I hit the off button and pocket the earbuds while reminding myself that I am not the one who got myself into this mess. I mean, I didn’t really get myself out of it either, but whatever. It’s probably fine.