Page 22 of Body Shot

Unable to stop myself, I slip my hand into my shorts and panties again and stroke myself. It doesn’t take long to get that feeling back, that coiling sweetness that spirals up into a peak and then bursts in a shimmering explosion of heat and sparks.

I lay back in the chair, breathing fast, heart skipping, muscles lax. Whoa.

What is even happening to me? I’m not sure how long I stay sprawled in the chair, once more remembering the feel of Beck’s body against mine, inside mine, the scent of his skin, the taste of his mouth . . . This has never happened to me. It’s like someone spiked my coffee with some kind of aphrodisiac.

Finally, I rouse myself enough to rise. I need to wash my hands . . . he’ll probably be able to smell my arousal on my fingers . . . or maybe I should have a shower . . . no, no time for that.

I hurry to the bathroom. When I look into the mirror, I blink. Oh my God. My face is tomato red. I stare in horror. Do I always look like this after an orgasm? That is mortifying, thinking that last night he gazed down into my face after I came—twice!—and saw this.

What am I going to do about that now? There’s no way to will the blood away from my cheeks. Even my nose is scarlet. I run the water cold and splash some onto my face, hoping that will cool down my overheated skin, but it’s probably hopeless.

Then I glance down at myself, at the pair of gray fleece shorts and baggy T-shirt I’m wearing. So not sexy. But that’s good. Good, good, good. I don’t want to appear sexy. I do not want him to know I’ve been sitting here fantasizing about him and touching myself—

My doorbell rings. I go still, draw in a long breath, and let it out with a sound that sounds almost like a whimper. I dry my hands on the towel, then hurry to the door. Yes, it’s him.

He gives me that lazy smile, teeth white in his dark beard, when I open the door. “Hi.”

Guilt and awareness make my throat dry and my voice squeaky as I say, “Hi.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Can I come in?”

I want to shout, No! But with my heart slamming against my ribs, I open the door wider and step aside.

“Cute place.” He strolls in with that long-legged, athletic grace.

“No, it’s not.” I shut the door and follow him into my living room. “It’s basic.” I wanted somewhere close to the university and my lab, so this isn’t exactly a posh neighborhood. I don’t make a lot of money as an associate professor and only take a small salary from the business, so I’m not in a position to splurge on a new place. I also don’t have a lot of time for decorating, but Carrie helped me pick out furniture, frame a few photographs, and arrange some of the things that belonged to my parents, and I’m comfortable here in my little condo.

“If you think that, why do you live here?” He turns to face me. His tone of voice is gentle but his gaze is sharp as he waits with what appears to be sincere interest in my response.

“It’s convenient. I work long hours. I don’t need something fancy.”

“Huh.” He tips his head. “That’s why you’re shut up inside working on a beautiful Sunday afternoon like this?”

“Yes.” I give him a lopsided smile. “Right now it’s pretty much seven days a week.”

“That’s not good for you.”

I lift a shoulder. “Whatever. I love it.”

He tilts his head, his steady gaze unnerving me. “What is it you do?”

“I’m an associate professor at UCSD, and I have a small biotechnology company.”

“A professor?”

“Yes. In the Biochemistry and Cell Biology faculty.”

“Huh. And your company does . . . what?”

“We research and develop protein therapies based on a new kind of messenger RNA technology.”

His forehead creases. I recognize that look—the blank expression, followed by a perplexed frown and then utter disinterest. I prepare for his, Oh hey, look at the time . . .

“Don’t worry about it.” I hold up my hands up and smile. “It’s not that interesting.”

Strangely, he’s not making a speedy exit. “I don’t even know what you just said, so I can’t say it’s not interesting. When you say you have a company . . . you mean you own it?”

“Yes.”

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