My entire body goes taut as a bowstring.
"Oh, God," I cry out, my back arching off the bed. "Mario!"
And then I am coming, harder than I have in my entire life. A long, drawn-out moan escapes me as the pleasure washes over me in wave after wave, leaving me gasping and trembling and utterly spent.
I lie there for a long, long time, my breathing ragged, my body still humming with aftershocks, and stare at the ceiling while the shame sets in.
I called out his name.
I actually called out his name.
My face burns with mortification.
What is wrong with me?
I have had crushes before. Of course I have. I have been attracted to men before.
I have never, in my entire life, had a reaction like this.
This isn't a crush. This is something else.
Something I don't understand.
Something dangerous.
I get up, my legs still shaking a little, and go into the bathroom. I flip on the light and look at myself in the mirror.
My face is flushed, my pupils are still dilated, and my hair is a mess.
I look like a woman who has been thoroughly fucked.
And the worst part? In all of the dreams I've had, we still haven't actually fucked.
That is apparently where my subconscious draws the line.
It's driving me insane.
I splash cold water on my face, hoping it will help. It doesn't.
I look at my reflection again.
"You need to get a grip," I tell the woman in the mirror.
She doesn't look convinced.
I wash up the hot and sticky mess between my legs and go back to bed, but I know I won't be able to sleep.
I lie there in the dark and listen to the city, and for the first time since I started my own firm, I wonder if I've made a terrible mistake.
Not in leaving the old firm. I would do that again in a heartbeat.
But in taking the Conti account.
In walking into that building and letting myself be drawn into Mario Conti's orbit.
I knew he was dangerous.
I knew he was the kind of man who could ruin a woman like me without even trying.
