Page 10 of Bastard In A Suit

Chapter 4

Hot steam fills the bathroom. I climb out of my skirt, strip out of my blouse, my underwear and my bra, and step into the scalding water. It streams down my shoulders and along my spine, easing out the tension that has me wound up like a jack in the box.

The overhead pipes groan as they struggle to draw from the small water tank. I’ve got about five minutes before this shower turns ice cold—and that’s only if old Mrs. Crockett upstairs hasn’t had two baths today.

I fantasize about being rich someday, and buying an entire apartment’s worth of hot water tanks so I can shower for hours. Days. Maybe a whole month. I don’t even care if I shrivel up like a prune.

I lather with soap and rub it across my stomach and under my breasts. My thumb catches on my nipple. I gasp and touch it again, this time pinching it between my fingertips.

The sting is shocking.

Soap suds slide down my chest, trailing down over the curve of my stomach. I reach around to wash my lower back while my thoughts return to Duke. I imagine his strong hands exploring my body. He cups my ass from behind, squeezes, and then slides one palm between my legs, massaging my inner thigh as his mouth closes in on the back of my neck.

A strangled moan escapes my lips.

The water begins to cool.

I lather up more soap and bend to wash my legs, fingertips inching up along my thighs. My pinky grazes the tight nub of my clit and I clench in response. Cool water drizzles between my breasts. I imagine Duke’s tongue there, lightly flicking my skin as water streams down around us.

My entire body aches for his touch.

I unhook the shower head, turn the spray nozzle to a more powerful stream, and point it between my legs. The water pulses against my flesh. I grind my hips up against the nozzle, slowly at first, and then gaining momentum as I discover new pressure points. I lean against the tile and arch my back.

Jesus. I have never done anything like this before. I can’t believe how amazing it feels. Pleasure sweeps over me in intermittent waves, the fantasy consuming my thoughts, my actions. I picture Duke’s face between my legs, the raw edges of his beard scratching at my inner thighs as his tongue licks and swirls and—

The water turns to ice.

I yank the shower head away, shocked, my desire deflating faster than a popped balloon. My breath comes in small shallow pants. I turn off the water, re-attach the showerhead and quickly towel off. My skin is so goose pimpled it’s like sandpaper.

I haven’t washed my hair, haven’t fully rinsed.

No wonder I’m fucking single.

I wrap the towel around me, pull my wet hair into a loose bun, and pad through to the kitchen to check my phone—no messages or texts—and then to my bedroom. My cat, Onyx, stares at me with knowing eyes.

“Stop judging,” I hiss. He flicks his tail and licks his lips. Smart ass.

My closet creaks as I open it. I push some hangers aside, and that’s when panic sets in—I have nothing to wear. Wool skirts, pencil skirts, plaid skirts, even a damn tutu from that phase of my life. I find more cardigans than the local thrift mart. Every pair of jeans I own is riddled with holes—hip, but not professional—and my single pair of dress pants gives me about as much shape as a potato. Ugh. I wore my most professional outfit for today’s meeting. There is nothing in my closet except—

My fingers close around the hanger tucked at the back behind a signed Big Bang Theory T-shirt and my prom dress which has far too much tulle. I pull out a small black dress and hold it up for inspection. The neckline plunges almost to my belly button and it’s too short—way too short. I can’t believe I ever bought it.

I lay it on the bed and scrounge in the back of the closet for shoes, finally producing a pair of strappy stilettos that need a good dusting.

The ping of an incoming text pulls my attention. I slip into lace thong underwear and a black bra, and go back to the kitchen, carefully avoiding Onyx’s judgmental stare. I don’t recognize the number, but the message is clear: A car will be there at 8 p.m. sharp. Be ready.

No room for interpretation.

A quick glance at the clock tells me I have less than an hour to transform from nerdy college grad to soon-to-be successful business woman.

Challenge accepted.

I crank the radio and sashay over to the bathroom and dig around under the bathroom cupboard for my make-up. Most of the containers are still sealed, the brushes and applicators clean and covered. I call up YouTube on my phone and start scrolling through make-up tutorials until I find something that looks easy enough for me to pull off.

Two tries later and my eyes are dark and smoky, an almost perfect blend of silver and grey. I blink at my image. The eyeliner is thick. My eyelashes seem to go on forever. I lean toward the mirror and smooth out a wayward eyebrow hair.

My stomach flutters.

The make-up is too much. It’s overdone. I’m overdone.