Swing by Adriana Locke

I find the button to close the doors when I see her: shiny, raven hair pulled away from a round face accentuated with full, pink lips. Her body is the shape of an hourglass, apparent even under the pale pink dress that just skims her voluptuous curves.

“Fuck me,” I mutter as my hand lurches forward to stop the doors from shutting.

“Excuse me?” Blondie chirps. “If that’s an offer, I’m willing.”

I ignore her. My eyes trained on the woman crouching in front of me so she’s eye-to-eye level with a little red-haired boy, I find myself taking a step off the elevator.

“Hey! This isn’t the therapy floor!” Blondie yelps.

“I know.” But it might be the best kind of therapy if things go right. The bell chimes behind me as the elevator whisks her away.

The little boy joins the others in a makeshift line before they exit the room. She stands, grabbing a cup of coffee off of a ledge next to her before turning and catching me watching her. “Oh!” she says, startled, wobbling slightly on her heels. Heels that make her legs look lean and toned with a high probability of looking fantastic around my neck.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” I smile.

“I, um.” She clears her throat like she’s trying to compose herself. “I’m sorry. Can I help you?”

Oh, I’m sure you can. 

My smirk betrays the neutrality I’m attempting to convey. As her hand reaches for the small, golden charm at the hollow of her throat, all I can do is imagine pressing my lips against it. Touching her skin. Smelling her, what I’m sure is a sweet, sexy aphrodisiac. Skimming my hands down those curves, committing them to memory.

Slipping my hand into the pocket of my sweatpants, I adjust myself. If she notices, she pretends not to.

Classy too? Fuck me. Literally. Please.

“I was looking for Therapy,” I tell her, hoping to spur some conversation I can work into something more. Of course I know damn good and well where I’m headed. It’s become my new home away from home.

“You need to go up three levels,” she replies. “This is Child Life. There’s no therapy happening here, although you might need some if you stay too long.”

Her words are punctuated with a hint of sarcasm in the prettiest way. No malice. No attitude. Just a dose of playfulness that makes me want to keep her talking. Even as she turns down a hallway, effectively ending the start of a conversation, I effectively restart it by following her.

Does she think she can just walk away?

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