No thanks, she thought now, though she smiled nicely enough at the woman next to her and her two enormous, overstuffed suitcases.
That wasn’t how Indy operated. She was less about neon signs that weighed her down and more about going with the flow. And she’d never had an issue with predators.
Well. She stood up from her seat when she could finally step out into the aisle and considered. That wasn’t entirely true, was it?
Indy had made up no itinerary, back in her world-traveling backpacker days or even today. Because itineraries were boring. They nailed you down to a time and a place and a schedule and Indy was all about never, ever being boring, nailed down to anything, or, God forbid, the kind of person who couldn’t grab a drink without consulting seventeen sticker-laden planners and her phone’s calendar app. She’d watched Bristol—whose whole life was about schedules and responsibility and tedious meetings about any number of inane things—whittle away her life in tiny little recorded increments on hundreds of planner pages, but Indy had never wanted any part of that kind of nonsense. She had barely made it through college. Not because she was dumb, but because there were always so many more delicious things to do than study. Or sit in a yawn-worthy lecture. Or write dreary essays that were never about the things that interested her.
Those being, in no particular order: life. Sex. Fun.
Indy wanted to squeeze every last bit of the good stuff out of every single day, then roll herself around in it until it became who she was. On a cellular level. What else could possibly be the point?
Sadly, that was not, it turned out, the kind of mission statement the average employer liked to see on a résumé. Or the average landlord liked to hear about when rent was due, so it was a good thing for Indy that Bristol was always so dependable.
Still, Indy never had too much trouble finding work. Or getting laid, for that matter, and the two often twisted together in ways she was sure she could probably hashtag about—if she weren’t too busy living to live tweet. She didn’t have any particular airs and was perfectly happy to take a waitressing job here or a temp job there. Just as she was happy to roll under one man in the morning and ride a different one that night. Jobs and men were an endlessly renewable resource, in her experience. There were always, always more when a girl was game for whatever came her way.
Her sister and her perfectly lovely parents back in Ohio did not understand Indy’s approach to life—and only Bristol knew the more salacious details, thank you. All her parents knew was that Indy had trouble settling down.
Her mother thought she needed a man. Indy had to bite her tongue every Christmas to keep from saying things like, don’t worry, Mom, I’ve had many. She didn’t think that would shock the unflappable Margie March. Nothing could, in her experience. But it would open up her personal life to conversation, and Indy always figured that was a bad idea all around.
Particularly these past two years when, she could admit, her usual carefree, hedonistic attitude had become something a good deal more...manic.
It was true. She’d had something to prove, hadn’t she?
Indy shivered a bit in the cab that drove her from the airport down into the old city. Prague spread out before her like a fairytale, but not the kind of fairytale that warmed the hearts of wannabe Disney princesses. Bristol had been the one who loved those happy ever afters when they’d been girls. She’d always longed for the Prince Charmings and the perfect kisses.
But Indy had been far more intrigued by the Big, Bad Wolf. She’d seen no reason for Little Red Riding Hood to waste her time swinging an axe or even getting a passing huntsman to do the same on her behalf.
Not when there were so many other things to do in the dark.
She shivered again, even though it was warm in the cab. The truth was, Indy had been aching like this since she’d left Budapest. It had only gotten worse over time. Her nipples were always so tight they hurt. Her pussy was always so wet. Sometimes she could simply clench her thighs together and make her clit throb, or even get herself off sometimes, but none of it was enough.
None of it was near enough.
No matter how many cocks she rode or took deep in her mouth, none of it had made her feel the way today did. Just here, sitting in a taxi, was already hotter and better than all the sex she’d had since she’d left Budapest.
Combined.
Because today she got to keep her promise.
Indy didn’t let herself imagine, even for a moment, that he wouldn’t be here.
He would. She was sure he would.
He had to be.
His instructions had been simple and clear two years ago. He’d given her the address, a time, and a key. The same key she could feel tucked between her breasts now, because she’d hung it from a chain when she’d gotten back to New York. The key she’d never taken off, no matter who she was fucking or what other adventures she might have had since.
Sometimes she’d gotten off more to the memories the key kicked up in her than whatever—or whoever—she’d been doing. She wrapped her hand around the key on its chain now and sighed a little, feeling her whole body hum in anticipation.
She’d never been one for waiting. But she’d waited for this. Some days she’d been sure the waiting might kill her—but it hadn’t. And now here she was. Alive after all.
The waiting was finally over.
Or almost over. Indy had a few hours before the agreed-upon meeting time, so
