One Dirty Night

What was so bad about a night of sensory overload; a physical, visceral, sexual overload.

I was old enough to choose.

Old enough to embrace my secret perversions.

And boy, did I want a ticket to that.

My hands shook as my heart thundered against my ribs. My white dresser wobbled as I wrenched open the top drawer where skimpy lingerie that I’d bought myself in a moment of self-pity waited. I used lingerie to make myself feel powerful. And this set…it promised magic.

Soft pewter silk embossed with black lightning bolts graced the lacy bra and tiny see-through thong. They weren’t exactly underwear for support or a hard day at the office. They were purely for driving a man wild or granting feminine strength beneath a good girl’s clothes. A bit like Superman in his flying suit—I was Superwoman in my G-string.

Tossing them onto my cream bedspread, I darted down the corridor to the bathroom. I didn’t bother closing the door. I stripped, climbed into the shower, and had the quickest wash and shave of my life.

Nerves scattered down my spine as I wrapped a towel around myself and padded back to my room. Even though Nick wasn’t here, his harsh telling-off still made my nape prickle at the thought of him finding me half-dressed again.

Rebellion filled me and my chin tilted up.

I refused to let him make me doubt my own self-worth anymore.

I had a good body. I worked hard for it every day that I ran. I wouldn’t hide away just because he couldn’t stand the sight of a little skin.

Dropping my towel, I paraded naked into my bedroom and headed to my very lacking wardrobe. I didn’t really have anything sexy to wear. Working long hours meant I favoured leggings and jumpers. But I did have a little black dress in the back.

Slipping into my sexy underwear, I shivered as I stepped into the dress and contorted myself to secure the zipper. Every twist sent firebolts of awareness through my nipples, the satin of the bra amplifying every sense.

Dammit, I hadn’t even left my house yet and I was more turned on than ever.

What if I read the flyer wrong?

What if it was a sick, practical joke for horny, desperate people?

What if I got there, and it was nothing more than a ruse?

Worry prickled; I shot a look at my bedside drawer. Maybe I should stay? An orgasm was an orgasm—regardless if a vibrator or a man donated it.

A vibrator can’t hurt me.

All my horny confidence bled down my legs and puddled onto the floor. God, what made me think I could do this?

Stupid. So stupid.

Cursing all the tight tingles inside me, I reached for the zipper again. I’d slip into my cotton pyjamas and—

My reflection snagged my gaze as I twisted in my dress, struggling to undo it. I stuck my tongue out at myself, hating that my blue eyes seemed extra bright, my skin flushed a dewy pink, my chestnut waves were extra bouncy thanks to the steam of my quick shower.

Slowly, I dropped my hands and padded toward the dressing table.

I ran my fingers up my belly before cupping my breasts.

What if, years from now—when I was older and married with a kid or two—I never felt this wild again? What if this panicky desire to be free was every primal instinct driving me toward recklessness for a reason?

To sample, to try, to learn, once and for all, what made me happy before I settled for a life of mediocrity.

Dropping my hands, I caught my eyes and nodded.

I’d lived my life the way I was supposed to. I’d focused on study. I saved what I earned. I only dated nice boys. And I was so…freaking…bored.

Fuck it.