Talk Me Down. Victoria Dahl
to jump under her touch.
His cock grew harder as she watched, and she ceased to care about his abs. He was long and thick, the skin stretched tight until it glowed like silk.
Itching for something naughty to do, Molly’s fingers drifted over her hip and pressed against her damp panties. A moan crawled from her throat as she pictured Ben watching her, getting harder, his cock throbbing with need. She wanted him desperate, delirious. She wanted him to watch until he snapped, until he took her rough and hard.
Molly’s free hand reached blindly for the knob on the nightstand drawer as her other slipped beneath pink cotton and stroked.
“Oh,” she whispered, encouraged by her own slickness and heat. God, she wanted him there, sliding in, stretching her until she begged for more or for mercy or for anything he’d give her.
Her other hand closed around her favorite toy. Not Ben, but it had been her best friend for months now.
Molly slipped off her panties and clicked the switch. The familiar buzzing made her smile, and then it made her arch her back and moan in approval. Oh, yeah. Oh, yes, yes, yes.
She began floating up into pleasure and turned back to her fantasy of Ben. He was eyeing her with hot anger, furious that she hadn’t let him near yet.
Molly stroked one of her nipples, imagining the way he—
A sudden metallic screech interrupted, terrifying her into a scream. She sprang up, flinging the vibrator across the room. It landed with a thud and writhed itself into a dim corner. “Jesus! What the—?”
The ancient phone next to her bed rang again, nearly jangling itself off the table.
“Oh. My. God.” She thought she’d electrocuted herself with a defective sex toy. Her heart was still trying its best to escape from her chest, jumping ship at the first sign of danger. She pressed her hand to it, panting to catch some air.
Brrrrrrr-ring.
It had better be Ben. Maybe the two of them had some sort of psychosexual connection. If they did, she’d been giving him a hell of a ride for the past ten years.
Molly snatched up the phone and attempted to answer with some dignity. “What?”
“Hey, beautiful.”
Unfortunately, she knew exactly who it was. Cameron, that bastard. “Go away!”
Molly slammed down the phone, hoping she broke the ancient menace in the process, but of course they didn’t make ’em like they used to. No, this phone wasn’t slapped together in China. The damn thing was probably made of pure American steel.
It jangled alive again. Loudly. Her aunt had clearly been hard of hearing.
Molly was nearly weeping with frustration when she answered. “Please, Cameron, for the love of God, leave me alone!”
Cameron just chuckled. “Pete said you were in a bad mood. I don’t think mountain living suits you.”
“I’m not coming back to Denver. Now, goodbye.”
When she hung up this time, Molly turned the phone over, searching for an off switch. But apparently Ringer Off switches hadn’t been invented forty years ago, so she just unplugged it.
Un-fricking-believable. Cameron Kasten was now officially ruining even her solo sex life. Had he known she was masturbating? Molly glanced at the windows, just to be sure, then shook her head to clear the shocked buzzing away.
The buzzing stayed. Frowning, she tugged the sheets up over her chest and glanced around the room. But of course it was nothing menacing, just her favorite toy, shaking its little blue self half to death against the baseboards. Despair slapped Molly full in the face.
She didn’t even want her favorite blue toy. She wanted Ben Lawson, and he didn’t want her.
Legs weak and heavy, Molly forced herself to get up and retrieve the vibrator. She stared down at it for a moment, but she wasn’t even close to being in the mood now. She just switched it off and headed for the shower.
Thank God she hadn’t adjusted to the altitude yet. She was going out tonight and she needed those drinks to hit her hard. It was all the hard she’d be getting for a while.
PROSTITUTE.
Ben cringed even as he wrote it.
No way was Molly Jennings a hooker. She was sweet and smart and had always been a good student and daughter.
But then who were all these male “friends” she seemed to have acquired? Sure, she’d claimed she was doing nothing illegal, but she’d already lied about a half dozen other things, why not that?
He glanced at his computer, tempted to do a background check. It’d be easy enough to find out if she had any arrests on record. But it felt unethical; he didn’t really have a good reason to pry into her life.
Even if she had been a hooker in Denver, it was nothing to him. He wasn’t going to date her. She certainly wasn’t going to be turning tricks up here; she’d have moved to Aspen for that. So he just couldn’t convince himself he had a reason to look her up.
“Plus, she’s not a prostitute,” he muttered. There was no way in the world she’d be so cute and shiny if she’d been living that lifestyle. She had a sharp wit, but that was the only thing hard about her. Molly Jennings was all softness and light. And heat.
Ben crossed the offensive word off his list and let his body fall back in his chair. He cracked his neck, ran his hands over his face.
It was almost seven. He was exhausted and frustrated and jumpy. He needed a damn drink.
Leaning as far to the left as he could, Ben craned his neck to catch a glimpse of The Bar outside his office window. The h on the sign had burned out long ago; half the locals called it T-Bar now. The place was worn-out and small, and it was the only place in town to get a drink.
And she’d be there.
He couldn’t avoid the woman; there was only one gas station, one grocery store, one bar. Still, maybe seeing her tonight wasn’t a good idea. He’d been picturing her in her fuzzy pink hat and white coat and high-heeled boots…and nothing else. In his mind, she looked all wrapped up and proper, bundled against the cold. But then she untied the belt on the thigh-length coat and tossed it open and there she was in all the natural pink and white glory of her naked body.
“Jesus, I need to get laid,” he groaned, rubbing his face again. Except that he immediately thought of Molly and his body began to cast its own vote on the subject.
No, he wouldn’t date her. But drinking wasn’t dating, after all. Neither was flirting.
Ben shut down the computer and headed for home. A shower and then…bed. Probably.
MOLLY PRACTICALLY hopped down her front steps as she left to meet Lori Love at The Bar. It had been a good evening, despite her disastrous afternoon. All that sexual desperation had served her work well. She’d channeled her lust into the new story and managed to bang out twelve pages. Twelve awesomely good pages, if she did say so herself.
Hips swaying over her heeled boots, Molly hurried down the hill toward Main Street, her grin widening as she walked. Even the new e-mail from that nasty Mrs. Gibson hadn’t ruined her mood. The woman wrote to Molly and her colleagues on a regular basis to call them whores and smut-peddlers, but she was strangely well-versed in the stories. In fact, it seemed clear that she read every one. Sometimes Mrs. Gibson even provided statistics about which dirty words were used and how many times. This new book was really going to set her off.
Molly had never written anything quite so wicked before, and Mrs. Gibson wouldn’t be the only one shocked by it. Molly expected her editor to be very pleasantly surprised.