Her nipples strained against the lace of her bra with wicked torment, and the friction of her panties on her folds made every move a delicious torture.
“Maybe I have got some kind of virus?” she wondered aloud, studying herself in the bathroom mirror. Her pupils were dilated. Her skin glistened with tiny beads of perspiration, a ridiculous fact given the air-con was switched on and her apartment was like an icebox. “A sudden horny-on-the-cusp-of-an-orgasm virus? Wonder if there’s a NyQuil for something like that?”
She finished getting undressed, biting her bottom lip at the hot pleasure licking through her with every scrape and rub of fabric on her skin.
“This is ridiculous,” she grumbled, dropping her bra to the floor. She toed it aside, all too aware of the trembles quaking her body.
Unnatural hunger ate at her. Scared her. Which was also ridiculous when it came down to it—who got scared about being unexpectedly turned on?
She returned her attention to the mirror, studying her reflection.
It had been a while since she’d truly thought of herself as a sexual being. That had something to do with her last boyfriend, she suspected, who’d dumped her without warning six months ago for a girl almost half her size.
Although dump might not be the most accurate word. Ghosting would be a better word, given one Thursday he just never arrived for their normal dinner and had never contacted her again.
She’d only found out about his new girlfriend when Derek showed her a picture of them both on Instagram, smiling at each other in a clichéd selfie. Her ex wearing the Thor T-shirt given to him by Jilly for his birthday only three weeks earlier. His new girlfriend was in gym wear that showed off her perky size-B boobs and six-pack tummy.
Since seeing that image, Jilly had turned her back on her own sensuality. It really was a farce, after all. The closest she came to allowing herself to indulge in sexual wants were her recent daily fantasies about the hunk on the Harley with his dragon tattoo and her subsequent time with Mr. Rabbit.
Maybe that’s why she was so freaking turned on now? Because he’d looked her way? Perhaps her mind was so pathetic that when their eyes had connected—even for only a microsecond—the very hint of a mutual awareness had awoken in her a neglected, deprived beast of sexual yearnings?
Jilly let out a ragged sigh and turned from the mirror.
This self-directed negativity was a real downer, a waste of her energy, and did nothing to dampen the burning lust threatening to overwhelm her.
Shower time. Massage-jet time.
Biting-her-lip-as-she-made-herself-come time.
“Oh boy,” she huffed, reaching into the shower to turn on the water.
Someone knocked on her apartment door as her fingers curled around the faucet.
She froze, and then twisted around, staring in the direction of her door over her shoulder.
If she answered it, it would mean dealing with the interruption waiting on the other side of the threshold and not dealing with the building arousal smoldering through her.
But what if they didn’t go away?
What if it was Derek? He’d never made a move on her, but she’d known him since their university days, and a tiny part of her wondered if he had a thing for her. What would happen if whatever this weird sexual affliction was flared up in her while she was talking to him and he got the wrong idea? What happened if she couldn’t stop herself and they suddenly found themselves making out and… Oh God, how embarrassing would that—
The knock came again, louder this time.
Jilly’s heart thumped hard in her throat. Her girly bits throbbed, contracting in anticipation.
Anticipation of what? What do you think is going to happen?
“Fuck it,” she growled, turning away from the shower and snatching a towel from the rack. “It might be my dream-guy Viking Harley hunk, here to make me come over and over.”
Liquid heat pooled in the junction of her thighs at the fantastical notion. Yeah, like that was ever going to happen.
Her nipples beaded again. Her breasts grew heavy.
She hurried through her apartment, wrapping her towel around her with snug pressure and tucking its end into the chasm of her cleavage.
If it was Derek, the guy might be in for the surprise of his life.
Poor bastard.
Reaching the door, Jilly checked the towel was wrapped around her securely, drew a deep breath, shut out as best she could the aching sexual hunger consuming her, and then opened the door.
“Fire Mate,” her Harley hunk murmured, staring at her from the other side of the threshold.
Holy fuck.
The exclamation whispered through her head, full of stunned shock and confusing excitement, a heartbeat before he destroyed the small space between them, buried his fingers in her hair and crushed her lips with his.
He swept his tongue into her mouth, savage and possessive and completely as if it had every right to be there.
For a wicked, intoxicating, insane moment, Jilly surrendered to the sheer rightness of the kiss, the absolute perfection of it. A tsunami of raw pleasure flooded through her, bringing with it an exquisite heat beyond her experience. Her head swam. Her body quaked with urgent need. Light and shadow swirled behind her eyelids, flames of red and blue that reached for an endless blackness. What sounded like a hundred mellifluous voices sang in her head, a chanting intonation that echoed the pounding of her heart.
And then the reality of the situation smashed into her, and she tore herself free of the stranger’s arms. She staggered backward out of his grip, her stare locked on his face, her breath all but shallow pants.
“What the fuck?” she burst out, dragging the back of her hand over her lips. “What do you think you’re doing? Who the fuck are you?”
The man followed her into her apartment, his strides purposeful, his nostrils
