Learning Curves

Chapter Four





The security lights reflected an unearthly orange glow against the rain-soaked paths as Leanne hurried toward the university parking lot. Most of the day classes had finished and, as the early darkness deepened, only a handful of students darted between buildings, their shoulders hunched against the driving rain, their faces obscured by flimsy umbrellas and precarious newspapers.

Ducking beneath the portico next to the science building to escape the downpour, Leanne tried to reassure herself that she hadn’t run away from the Faculty Club. She needed to leave to tackle her marking. She’d like to think that she acquitted herself admirably after the shock of meeting Brandon had subsided. That she’d managed to hold her own and parry his seemingly innocuous inquiries with bland cocktail talk of her own. That she’d been aloof, dignified and oblivious to his myriad physical inducements.

Oh, who was she trying to kid? She’d acquitted herself with all the aplomb of a toddler for whom two-syllable words were still an impossible challenge. As for her body’s treacherous reactions? Well, after the mass defection of every body part from the neck down, there was no doubt whose side of the argument it lined up to support.

Even now, a dull ache throbbed low between her thighs and her breasts were full and sensitive. The friction of her wide book bag strap rubbing across one peaked nipple was enough to have her tearing her hair out. She felt wild, horny and incredibly frustrated.

And it was all his fault.

“Leanne!”

The hand that grabbed her shoulder startled her, and she whirled, instinctively seeking out the reassuring blue light that marked the nearest security phone. But the any relief evaporated when she saw who it was.

“Brandon.”

He was the last person on earth she wanted to see right now. Anger overcame her at his continued intrusion into her calm and ordered existence. Who the hell did he think he was, horning in on her life like this? Couldn’t he take a hint? She’d left the reception because she didn’t want to talk to him. She didn’t need to talk to him. They didn’t have anything to say.

“Look, I’m sorry.” He was drenched, wearing only a worn leather jacket against the November downpour. His hair was plastered against his skull, and beads of water sparkled on his impossibly long lashes. His flat nipples beaded against the cold, visible through his thin wool sweater. The acceleration of her heartbeat did nothing to endear him to Leanne at that moment. It only fueled her irrational spurt of guilt and lust.

“Sorry? What’s that supposed to mean?” She waved her hand, dismissing his apology. “Sorry you slept with me, because you never thought you’d have to see me again? Sorry your friends walked in and got an eyeful of my winter-white thighs? Or just sorry we slept together, period? Well, forgive me for making your life difficult but that’s tough. Because you can’t regret what we did any more than I do.”

The disbelief on his face was almost enough to make her regret her rash, out-of-character words but she was still too shell-shocked by his reappearance to moderate her comments. The Leanne Galloway she knew didn’t shout or rant or raise her voice. Yet here she was, shouting at a perfect stranger and goading him with details of their abortive fling. Her life was careening out of control and she hated it. Hated what he did to her good sense and what she did around him.

As if he could read her unflattering thoughts, his face darkened. “Don’t put words in my mouth,” he spit out. “I’m trying to apologize, for God’s sake. I would have called you but—”

“Called me? What for?” she scoffed. “I don’t need or want your apologies. What’s done is done. You got caught up in the moment. So did I. But it didn’t mean anything. It’s a big university and we’re in different departments. As long as you keep it quiet, no one will ever know and we can both move on with our lives.”

“Me?” he snapped, anger erupting through his outward calm like molten lava. He looked stunned at her accusations and a small part of her brain—the part not consumed by guilt-fueled fury—felt a flicker of shame at her behavior. “You think I’m the one who’ll let the cat out of the bag? Charming. Really, really charming. You’ll go far with those kinds of people skills.”

She brushed aside his insult, too furious to assemble a coherent comeback. His coworkers’ cruel, jeering comments echoed in her brain, and she couldn’t understand why he was being so stubborn, insisting there was connection between them despite all the evidence to the contrary. She was making sense but he wasn’t listening.

“I’ve got my career to think about,” she explained tersely, trying without much success to control her volatile mood. “Tenure. A reputation for inappropriate liaisons isn’t going to do me any favors in front of a hiring committee. You know I can’t risk it. The bar for female faculty is always higher, no matter what official policies might claim.”

“Inappropriate liaisons with a stripper, isn’t that what you really mean?”

She gasped. He was putting words in her mouth. Butcher, baker, candlestick maker—it didn’t matter what he did. What mattered were the consequences to her nascent career if she got a reputation for sleeping around. “I didn’t say that.”

Men were protected against many of the dangers that could beset an unwary female intent on making her mark in academia. He’d told her that night that he didn’t sleep with women for money and she’d believed him. But even if he did sleep around, the impact on his career would always be less dire. Unfair, but the unspoken reality on campus.

He was a man. A beautiful, gorgeous man, who had to have women throwing themselves at him left, right and center. While their encounter had been miles from ordinary for her, Leanne couldn’t believe he’d never taken advantage of his good looks to get what he wanted from partners willing to overlook the downsides of a casual hookup. He glared at her through narrowed eyes, his mouth pulled into a thin scowl. “I’m very good at reading between the lines.”

“Oh, really?” she jeered, masking her insecurities with biting sarcasm. “Then read this—I don’t care what you do. I just want you to do it far, far away from me.” She tried to walk away but he stopped her escape with an unrelenting grip.

“Let go,” she cried. “I’m not going to discuss this with you anymore.”

Why was he trying to prolong the misery?

She was equally angry, as much at herself as she was at him. At her body’s susceptibility to his beauty and his sexual allure. Heat poured from him, and she was captured again by the beauty of his eyes, alight with fury. They had darkened to a mutinous indigo, and one corner of her mind registered that the shade was the same as when he’d come inside her. The reckless memory set off a riot of electrifying shocks. They rocketed through her and she shuddered, with lust or humiliation she couldn’t tell.

“Is that what we’re doing? Because right now, it feels like I’m defending myself against someone who’s determined to forget what really happened between us on Saturday night. How good it was. How hot it was.”

Her breath caught in her throat at his stunning admission. Her breasts peaked in needy points, and she could feel the heat of his body through her damp clothes.

“I know what happened Saturday night. We had a one-night stand,” she spat out, furious at this proof of her body’s unreliability when it came to this man. She vented her anger at her private shortcomings with words. “Don’t you get it? I don’t care how hot or how good it was. All I want is to forget it ever happened.”

His jaw tightened at her insults but he didn’t release her arm from his bruising grip.

“You were the one who came backstage.”

“That has nothing to do with anything, I told you, Jeremy—”

“Don’t talk to me about Jeremy,” he snarled, bending to look her in the eye, his face stiff and intent. “This is about you and me.”

She couldn’t think clearly when he was so close. Her body resisted her silent admonitions. At his touch, angry or not, it abdicated from her mind’s control, clamoring for his talents, no matter the cost.

She made a last, desperate stab to reclaim sanity. “I don’t know what you think happened between us the other day, but I’m not interested.”

Brandon exploded. “Not interested? Is sucking my cock ’til I damn near came in your mouth how you tell someone you’re not interested? If that’s the case, I’d suggest you think about refining your technique, because you’re going to give some poor schmuck the wrong idea.”

“F*ck you,” Leanne swore, stunned at the vitriol in his words, her fury overwhelming her usual reticence.

“Sorry, sweetie. That train’s already left the station,” he ground out as he hauled her even closer to his shockingly aroused body.

The brush of his erection was as electrifying as it was bewildering.

What the hell?

Here they were, fighting like fishwives, and he was getting off on it? Leanne was overcome by a burning sense of shame that she’d ever slept with this man. Worse, that her body still didn’t care what a piece of crap he so clearly was. Even now, with her wet clothes rubbing against him, she could feel her sex clench. The smell of the rain, the heat of his skin and the anger lighting the depths of his eyes—the combination was a heady mix and even as she berated herself for being six ways to foolish, she couldn’t deny his sensual appeal.

She watched, like a victim of a high-speed crash who sees the accident unfold but is powerless to stop it, as his beautiful lips descended toward hers. At their touch, she splintered, a moan rushing from her throat. She parried his tongue with her own, and he slanted his mouth to the corner of hers and down her jaw, nipping, kissing, licking, his dangerous lips and lethal hands silencing her mind and all its concerns.

When he caressed her, wrapped her in his strong arms, tenure didn’t matter. Her dissertation didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but this. His kisses. His touch. Her knees weakened and she melted against him, reveling in the substantial length of his erection pressing into her core. She was lost, awash in sensation and unable to grasp at anything tangible beyond the here and now.

That petrifying thought somehow managed to penetrate the lust that had descended on her like a fog. She wasn’t that person. She knew who she was. She knew what her goals were and what she needed to do to reach them. She never got so lost in a moment that she couldn’t rationalize and weigh the pros and cons. She was sensible and purpose driven and resolute.

Except that right now, she wasn’t.

And that terrified her. The fear galvanized her into action.

She wrenched away and, summoning a reserve of control from somewhere deep inside, brought her hands to his chest and pushed.

“Stop,” she ordered, gasping for breath. “Enough.”

He lifted his head, breathing hard. His lips were wet and swollen, as she knew her own must be, and a red mark on his neck bore mute testament to Leanne’s own reckless, passionate response. Brandon’s arms dropped and he retreated. Leanne suppressed the quiver that shook her at the loss of his heat, her gaze dropping to the sizeable bulge in his sodden jeans. She took another step back, and a cold shower of rainwater streamed into her upturned collar. She shivered violently, chilled and queasy.

Her mind a wasteland; words escaped her entirely. She didn’t know what just happened or why, and she was in no shape to parry his accusations or recriminations. Her only consolation was that Brandon looked as bewildered as she did.

“Leanne, I’m sorry,” he said softly. “This got out of hand. I just wanted to talk to you again and—”

“Brandon? Oh my God, it is you.”

The excited voice hailing his name startled them both.

“It’s so good to see you,” a tiny blond whirlwind exclaimed, throwing herself into Brandon’s arms.

“Stephanie.” There was real pleasure in his voice as he leaned down to kiss the beautiful young girl’s cheek. “It’s been too long. What are you doing back at Wellington?”

She laughed, revealing even white teeth, and shook her umbrella, sending a cascade of droplets through the air. Despite the foul weather, her long hair hung in a perfect wave over her shoulders and down her back. Despite her petite size, her slim legs looked impossibly long and limber in tight jeans.

“Just here visiting,” she said, throwing a questioning glance at Leanne, who continued to stand awkwardly beside the reunited pair, toying with her own umbrella.

Brandon caught her glance. “Oh, I’m sorry. Stephanie, Leanne. Leanne, Stephanie. Steph’s a graduate. She’s one of the students I worked with in studio last year.”

Trying not to squirm under the speculative glance of the young woman, Leanne nodded. “Nice to meet you.” But the dancer’s focus was already back on Brandon.

“I came back for the end-of-term show. Are you choreographing it again this year?”

“I am,” he replied. “I hope you enjoy it. The students have really been working all out.”

“I enjoy anything you do,” Stephanie said, her face alight with flirtatious intent. She flicked another fleeting look at Leanne, as if to gauge her reaction to the romantic sally. Leanne was careful to ensure that none of the turmoil she felt reflected on her face, but she was still unprepared for the tight clench of possessiveness that spasmed through her at the sight of Stephanie’s hand resting on Brandon’s forearm.

It wasn’t jealousy.

Uh-uh. No way. The mini mushroom quiches had just given her indigestion. That was her story and she was sticking to it.

Even as she vowed to steer clear of suspect appetizers in the future, Leanne had to give Brandon credit. He didn’t respond to the clear invitation in the young dancer’s face, but simply stepped back and smiled. “Do you need a ticket to the show?”

Stephanie shook her head. “No way, I booked them ages ago. But you’ll be there, right? With your girlfriend?”

“I beg your pardon?”

At his shocked tone, Stephanie wrinkled her nose. She took in the red mark low on Brandon’s jaw, and Leanne could only hope that her lips weren’t too swollen. It took everything she had not to rub her mouth guiltily with the back of her hand. Brandon looked as embarrassed as she felt, the tips of his ears turning pink.

He shook his head at her erroneous conclusion. “We’re not dating.”

Stephanie didn’t even try to hide her disbelief, taking in the clear evidence of the passionate embrace that still lingered like disreputable clues. She didn’t press the subject.

“It’s all right, Stephanie.” Leanne’s innate honesty compelled her to interject before the dancer grilled Brandon on their plans any further. “I don’t think I’d be able to come in any case.”

“I have two free tickets, you know.”

Leanne turned in shock, certain she must have misheard him. Surely, after everything they’d said moments before, there was be no way Brandon would want her near him. Not with a ten-foot pole.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I have two free tickets. Everyone in the production gets them. I haven’t given mine away yet, so if you wanted them, you’d be more than welcome.” He smiled wryly. “Think of them as a peace offering, if you will.”

She was surprised by how much she appreciated his offer. It warmed her to know that despite their volatile interactions, he was still considerate enough to offer the tickets. He wasn’t a jerk. She’d known that from the first night. While her irrational behavior might drive her crazy, it wasn’t fair to blame him for her weakness.

She smiled but shook her head. “I can’t. But thanks. Really.” She didn’t elaborate and she hoped Brandon would be able to make out the message between her words too. From the ironic but not unfriendly twist of his lips, she knew he had.

“Well, if you change your mind, let me know.”

“I will.”

They both knew she wouldn’t.

She paused, unsure of what else she should say, but Stephanie saved her from further excuses.

“I was supposed to meet everyone at the bar, like, fifteen minutes ago.” Stuffing her cell phone back in her jacket, she flung an affectionate peck against Brandon’s cheek before lifting a hand in Leanne’s direction. “Later!” Her hair bounced and swayed as she scurried away under the protection of the portico. Brandon and Leanne watched her go wordlessly.

She turned back to him and was struck anew by his masculine beauty. She felt a momentary pang of regret, knowing such an appealing creature would never settle for someone like her: someone average and boring and routine. She quashed the thought, grateful for the détente they seemed to have achieved, and determined to put her brief bout of madness behind her for good.

“Good night, Brandon.” She pushed up her umbrella and swung it above her head. As she stepped into the night, Brandon replied, his words muffled by the heavy fall of rain.

“Good night, Leanne. Take care.”



The phone was ringing when she unlocked the door to her apartment. All she wanted to do was strip off her wet, clammy clothes and slip into a hot, steaming shower but the insistent trill continued and Leanne felt compelled to answer it. Dropping her sodden book bag by the radiator, she moved quickly through the living room and grabbed the phone from its cradle.

“Hello?”

“Leanne, where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you at home for well over an hour.”

Closing her eyes, she sent a brief prayer for patience skyward and forced herself to answer in a pleasant tone of voice.

“Sorry, Mom. I stayed on campus a little later tonight and turned off my cell while I was in seminar. Then Cassandra and I went to the faculty social.”

“Cassandra?” Her mother sniffed. “I suppose you spent the entire evening in some corner, talking university mumbo-jumbo. Were there any nice men there?”

“It’s not that kind of a social. It’s about networking and finding out about new research and stuff.”

Her mother sighed. “Sometimes I just don’t understand you, Leanne. I mean, you’re my daughter and I love you, but it’s bad enough you’ve decided to spend the last three years of your life writing about some man named George who was in an old novel—”

Her mother could recall the name, date and location of every pageant she’d ever entered from the age of two, yet despite the fact that Leanne had told her the title of her dissertation no less than a half dozen times, she never seemed to remember the details of the writing project that had consumed her daughter’s life for nearly two years now.

“Georgian, Mom,” Leanne said tightly. “And it’s not a person, it’s a time period. I told you that already.”

The silence that met her correction told her she might as well have saved her breath. Like an implacable steamroller, her mother carried on.

“So let me tell you why I called,” she said, clearly working to change the subject. “I want you to come with me on Wednesday night.”

“Come with you where?”

“Marjorie’s. You must remember Marjorie Giles. You were in baton twirling with her daughter, Jennifer, when you were six.”

Where Leanne dropped the baton so many times, the instructor finally suggested—begged really—that she try another activity. Any other activity, if memory served.

Unaware of her daughter’s cynical mental commentary, she continued undeterred, “She’s started selling cosmetics since she retired from the Board of Education. Home parties. And she makes the best crab and cheddar dip. Don’t forget to remind me that I need to remember to get the recipe from her Wednesday night.”

Used to her mother’s circuitous conversations, Leanne let her continue, shimmying from her wet jeans as she listened.

“I thought we could go and you could get some new makeup,” her mother wheedled. “It might give you a little kick-start. Spark up your personal presentation so you can meet a man and start dating again.”

“Mom, there’s nothing wrong with my personal present—”

“Because it’s really past time, Leanne. I mean, your father and I have tried to be patient and support your desire for learning, but there comes a point, sweetie, where you have to realize that you’re not getting any younger. Take Steven. You couldn’t keep him long-term and he wasn’t even much of a man, anyway,” she said in what passed for love and supportiveness in her slightly skewed books. “Take it from me, sweetie—if you don’t start putting some serious effort into meeting a man now, all the good ones will be gone.”

“I don’t want to—”

“So, I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty and we can—”

“Mom,” Leanne shouted into the phone. Despite the miles between them, she could hear her mother’s startled exclamation at the disruption. “I’m not coming with you to Marjorie’s party.”

Silence met her pronouncement. It didn’t matter how many times Leanne told her mother that she was satisfied with her life; nothing she said ever seemed to sink in. Life, according to Sandra Galloway, was meant to be lived in pairs. Life outside of a couple, therefore, was not to be considered.

Yet a treacherous part of Leanne’s psyche couldn’t help but wonder if settling for contentment was enough. She wasn’t interested in living life according to her mother’s restrictive rules but surely even she deserved more than just that. Didn’t she deserve happiness too? And what about love?

But before she could ponder that startling notion any further, her mother interjected once again.

“Really? And why is that, pray tell?”

“I—I have plans.”

“A date?”

“No, not exactly but—”

“Not exactly? What does that mean? You either do or you don’t.”

“What I mean to say is…I’ve got tickets that night. For a performance,” Leanne said. “Modern dance.”

“Modern dance? Since when do you like modern dance? And more importantly, are you going with anyone?”

“Well, actually,” Leanne lied without a qualm, padding through the apartment with the phone tucked under her ear, “I just got the tickets this afternoon. In fact, I was going to call you and see if you wanted to come. I know how much you appreciate the arts.” Perched on the side of her bed, she peeled off her wet socks and tossed them in the hamper.

“Yes, I’ve always had a keen eye for that sort of thing,” her mother preened. “But there’s just no way I can. I’ve already promised Marjorie I’d bring my macadamia nut bars to her party. She’s counting on me.”

One handed, Leanne fished a dry pair of jeans and another pair of socks from her dresser and made a commiserating noise. “Oh, well, it sounds like it just isn’t going to work then but maybe another time—”

“What about your father?”

“Dad?” Leanne was so surprised her mother had even suggested it, she nearly dropped her change of clothes. Goodness knows Sandra Galloway had dragged her long-suffering husband to many a cultural event over the years, all in her quest to “improve herself” and meet the right sort of people. Her dad on the other hand was as happy to stay home and retreat to the comfort of his state-of-the-art, the-Starship-Enterprise-ain’t-got-nothing-on-it media room and watch the Golf Network on TV as he was going out on the town to a show.

“Yes, your father. Besides, I don’t want him sitting home, all by himself while I’m out Wednesday night. He’ll get lonely.”

Leanne smiled at the image her mother painted. If she knew her father, he’d relish a few hours of peace and quiet without the constant flow of conversation that emanated from her mother from the moment she awoke until the minute she laid her well-coifed head down on her color-coordinated, 400-count Egyptian cotton sleep set.

The sound of the receiver being set down was followed by her mother’s muffled shout. “Larry! Pick up the phone. It’s Leanne and she wants to talk to you about going to see the ballet.”

A pause and then another click as her father picked up the extension. From the background noise, Leanne’s guess about her father relaxing in the media room with the sports network on wasn’t far off. She smiled. Some things never changed.

“Hello, darling,” her father said in his low, soft voice. “What’s this I hear about me watching men in tights?”

“Not tights.” Leanne laughed. “I was invited to see a student production of modern dance at the university. Someone I know is choreographing it,” she said, feeling a twinge of guilt at her attempts to stretch the truth. But it was a simple white lie. The alternative was explaining to her father that the choreographer was actually a one-night stand she’d picked up on a lark at the local strip club. There were some things her dad was simply better off not knowing. Clearing her throat, she continued, “So I have two tickets. Would you like to come?”

“Why not ask your mother?”

“She can’t. Marjorie’s home party is the same night.”

“Oh, I see. But are you sure you can’t find someone else you’d rather go with?”

Suddenly, Leanne found herself overwhelmed by a desire to spend some time with her father. More than anyone else in the world, he understood her insatiable curiosity and drive for learning. A mechanical engineer by training, he’d always encouraged her to develop her mind. When she was a child, he’d spent hours with her, touring museums and art galleries, driving her to and from the library, always bringing back a new book whenever he’d had to travel for work.

“No, Dad. I’d like to spend time with you. We don’t see each other as much now that I’m in my own place.” They lived only half an hour apart and saw each other regularly but with her mother’s inhibiting, albeit loving, presence, they rarely got to connect. “If you wanted, we could go out to dinner afterward. There’s a new Thai place on Cumberland. Julia says the food’s great.”

Pleasure lifted her father’s voice. “In that case, how can I say no?”

Making arrangements to meet outside the theater just before the curtain, they spoke briefly for a few more minutes before Leanne said goodbye, a smile on her face and a spring in her dry-footed step. It might have been a miserable day, but things were looking up. She wouldn’t bother Brandon for his complimentary tickets. They’d both rest easier if they simply went back to pretending that Saturday night never happened. She’d order two tickets online; then she could tackle another few essays before she finished reading the last sixty pages of the new academic journal she’d started on the weekend.



Sold out.

The 8:00 p.m. performance for Wednesday, November 12th, at the Simon Baker Center for the Performing Arts was sold out.

Damn. Double damn.

She knew her father wouldn’t mind missing out on the performance. He’d be happy if they just went out for dinner and talked. But heaven help her if her mother got wind of the change. She’d instantly jump to the conclusion that the plans Leanne claimed prevented her from attending the makeup party had been entirely fictitious. And all hell would break loose.

Notwithstanding the fact that she’d be entirely correct, Leanne would rather suffer through a root canal without anesthetic than be subjected to the dubious combined charms of her mother and Marjorie Giles, cheddar and crab dip or no.

Think. Think. Think.

After fifteen minutes of gnawing her thumbnail, only one viable solution presented itself. And it made her heart sink in a swift, rapid descent that ended only when the organ was somewhere level with her ankles.

Four drafts of a three-line email later, Leanne finally felt satisfied her message struck the right tone between casual disinterest and pressing need. She scanned it one last time.

Brandon—Hi. If it’s not too late, I’m hoping you’ve still got those tickets for Wednesday’s performance. If the offer stands, you can leave them in my box in the English department. Tatum Hall, J102.





Leanne

PS—and if not, I understand completely. Really.

Was the postscript too much? Would he read into it more than she intended? She debated another moment. No, it was good enough. Clicking the send icon before she could change her mind, she sent the brief message winging through cyberspace before returning her attention to her marking. But her focus was undermined by the fact that between her shower, heating some soup for a late supper and marking essays, she checked her email with far more frequency than she normally did.

Her email program finally chimed just as she was climbing into bed. Telling herself she was just being conscientious, not eager, she clicked it open. One unread message. From Brandon. She opened the message gingerly, unsure of what to expect.

To:[email protected]

From:[email protected]

Subject:Re: Tix?

Leanne—I’m in studio in the morning but I’ll drop them by after my rehearsal.

Brandon.

PS—and I wouldn’t have offered if I hadn’t wanted you to come.

Sinking back into the cushions piled against her headboard, Leanne read the message one more time. He couldn’t really mean that he wanted to continue to see her, did he?

Even if he was interested in sleeping with her again—and their rain-fueled kiss had laid any doubts she might have had on that count to rest—she knew there was no future for them. She had her career and more immediately, the Walters Prize to consider. And while she didn’t know what drove Mr. Brandon Myles, she’d bet her next shot at a tenure-track position it wasn’t anything involving commitment or a relationship. He gave off a vibe—an edgy, don’t-pin-me-down kind of vibe—that made anything long-term an impossibility.

Feeling unaccountably vexed at that conclusion, she clicked off the bedside lamp and sank into the warm flannel of her bed. In the dark, her mind wouldn’t quiet, replaying their incendiary encounter under the portico, playing back their angry accusations and their even angrier embrace. She was still jittery and aroused. Slowly, her hands slid down, across her stomach, and parted the moist curls at the apex of her thighs. She caressed the sensitive bud, circling round and round. In her mind’s eye, she remembered the feel of her body Saturday night, stretching to accommodate Brandon’s long fingers.

Panting, she stroked herself harder, slipping her fingers inside. She crested hard, her breathing labored, as images of her fantasy flashed in sexual Technicolor against her eyelids.