"Are you okay?” Micah's low voice rumbled over her, as did one firm hand as he checked for injuries. “No burns?"
Cori ignored the warmth of his skin on hers and cracked open one watering eye to look at him. He really seemed genuinely worried. Not angry. How had that happened? She'd done nothing but annoy him since this course had started.
"I'm okay. Thanks to you.” She shrugged off his hand.
"And no thanks to you,” he replied, tossing the small fire extinguisher back and forth and giving her a lopsided smile only slightly tinged with irritation.
Uh oh. Here it came. She scrunched up her face, prepared for the worst. Maybe if she apologized before he yelled, it would help. “I'm sorry."
"I imagine you are.” He set down the small red metal tube and stared at the disaster area that was her stove. “However, I'd say you failed this lesson. You may spend the rest of class cleaning up this mess."
Without a backward glance to make certain Cori obeyed his royal decree, Micah turned and walked away. She took a quick look at the horrified faces of her classmates. Her face burned as hot as the flames had on her apron, but she refused to give in to the tears that threatened. Instead she snatched up a wet rag and rubbed at the spilled oil and other goop on the stovetop.
When class was finally over, she put away the cleaning supplies and tossed her dirty rags into the laundry. By the time she'd finished and grabbed her leather jacket, most of the class had already left. She dipped her head and tiptoed toward the door, wanting to sneak out before she did anything else wrong.
"Ms. Weathers,” Micah called.
Her heart jumped at the sound of her name on his lips. Now what? Cori hated that he had the ability to both arouse and annoy her, so she opted to grab hold of the annoyance with both hands. She turned and glared, tapping her foot while she waited for him to speak.
Too bad he was such a jerk to her, because he really was kind of a hottie, if a bit too slick and tidy. He had “high class” written all over him, in the way he dressed and the way he talked. That was enough to take him right off her list of potential dates, despite the way her body reacted when he got too close. She didn't have a good history with high-class guys.
She remembered the night his mother—a slim, brittle-looking woman—joined them in class. One look at her perfectly manicured fingers and precisely coiffed hair, and Cori felt certain the woman hadn't cooked a day in her life. She probably had some fancy French chef who lived in her mansion cooking up perfectly balanced and attractive meals for her.
Still, Mrs. DePalma made all the right noises over the masterpiece Micah had created, taking the smallest bites Cori had ever seen someone eat. No wonder the woman was so thin she'd disappear if she turned sideways. She oozed class and money, just like her son.
So, yeah. Micah was so far off the list it wasn't funny.
"I'm too busy to walk you out,” he said without looking up from the papers in front of him. “Please let Jimmy do so."
She rolled her eyes at his suggestion. Sure it was late. Sure it was dark. And, yeah, the parking lot was pretty well deserted. Despite all that, she could take care of herself. She'd been doing so ever since she turned sixteen and began to work nights at the garage.
She had to admit, though, she really didn't mind letting Micah walk her to her car. It was a strange sensation, being looked after and she thought it rather nice to have him nearby. For safety, she hedged. She also didn't stop herself from thinking that, maybe one day, he might try to kiss her goodnight. Her heart pounded just a little harder at the thought. Gah. She had a crush on her teacher. She gave a small shake of her head, disgusted. She was a cliché.
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Is it possible to be jealous of yourself?
Model Behavior
© 2008 Janie Mason
From nine to five, commercial artist Molly Birchfield lives a lie. A victim of sexual harassment at her previous job, she now hides behind boxy clothes and plastic glasses. She keeps much of her personal life a secret, even from her friend and coworker, Scott McDowell. Especially since erotic visions of him fill her dreams.
When Scott finds himself in need of some quick cash, Molly grabs the chance to delve into an after-hours relationship with him. She concocts a fictitious twin sister to hire him—for some nude modeling sessions.
Scott is immediately attracted to Molly's “sister” Mary, who is physically identical but vastly different in style and temperament. Their sexual relationship quickly comes to a boil, but Scott soon realizes he's missing something: Molly's companionship.
In the throes of passion, the truth tends to come out of hiding. Confession is good for the soul, but when Scott discovers her deception, Molly stands to lose more than a sexual partner and her best friend. She could lose the only man she's ever loved.
Warning: This story contains graphic language and enough explicit sex to leave you hot and bothered.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Model Behavior:
Molly Birchfield awoke, aroused and on edge from yet another erotic dream. As she had on previous nights, she rushed to her pad of drawing paper and graphite. Her hand flew over the surface of the page. A smooth line curved from her dream man's broad back down to a firm, bare ass, then continuing down to outline muscular legs. The pad of her ring finger smeared blackened shadows at the cleft of his tightened buttocks.
During these feverish bursts, Molly wished she was a sculptor, able to run her hands along a three-dimensional version of the man's delicious contours.
Working her way up the model's incredible body, she added higher definition at the trapezius, deltoids and triceps. Not wanting to distract from the musculature, she chose to forgo body hair in these drawings, even though the man who haunted her nights had a masculine layer on his legs, forearms, chest and groin. She decided to add the facial profile to the drawing later, concentrating instead on capturing the perfection of the body. It was always the same face anyway.
Scott's.
Near sexual frenzy, she let that first sheet of paper flutter to the floor and began a frontal pose. She illustrated the outer curve of muscular calves, thighs and hips with clean lines. Her heart raced as she sketched the corded muscles of the abdomen that flowed down to the groin. Male anatomy was no mystery to her, but she allowed herself to savor the mental image of her dream man's semi-aroused penis before drawing it.
Molly swallowed hard and then bit her bottom lip, lusting after his steely male thickness. In her dream she had reached out, weighing him, stroking him with her dusty palms. Then she had dropped to her knees...
"Someday,” she whispered.
* * * *
It looked like a twelve-story phallus.
Molly, a seasoned commercial artist, stared wide-eyed at the paper. What was I thinking? Her rough sketch of Thrillville Amusement Park's newest ride, the Fall of Fear, too closely resembled a very enthusiastic male organ.
How Freudian is that?
Probably a safe bet to say this wasn't the image a family-oriented theme park wanted to project.
She glanced quickly over her shoulders. Hopefully, none of her co-workers at K&B Advertising had entered her cubicle and gotten a peek at her erection. Wasting no time, she crumpled the paper, hopped off her ergonomic stool and buried the evidence of her self-imposed celibacy deep in the wastebasket.
Horniness aside, between the office's stifling heat and her fatigue from another night of erotic dreams she was finding it impossible to stay focused on the theme park's advertising. Even with the deadline a few days away. She closed her eyes to gather her wits, but couldn't keep from fantasizing about Scott.
Perspiration beaded on her forehead and trickled down her cleavage. Between her thighs she pulsed with a familiar, unsatisfied desire. Her hands were white-knuckled and damp from gripping the edges of her design table, and she shifted uncomfortably on her stool.
"Okay, this is a stick-up,” said a voice behind her. “Hand over your purse, nice and slow."<
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Molly's eyes flew open as she felt something hard press into her spine. She hoped that, in her horny, daydream state, she hadn't actually moaned aloud.
"Oh, no.” She gasped in a mocking helpless-female voice.
"Quiet,” the familiar voice said. “Follow my instructions and nobody gets hurt. Now, like I said, hand it over."
"But I don't have a purse.” Molly tried her best to sound brainless and breathy.
"Nice try, but I know different. I've been watching you for awhile now, girlie."
She couldn't help but grin.
"You've got a purse as big as a saddlebag, full of all kinds of female doo-dads."
"What?” Molly whirled and deftly slapped the fluorescent highlighter out of Scott McDowell's hand. “I don't own doo-dads. Take it back, McDowell."
Scott laughed at her semi-indignation and retrieved the marker from where it had landed in the corner of her cubicle.
"Okay, okay, but what would you call all that crap you cart around?” His blue eyes twinkled in devilish amusement and, as he straightened, he ran his free hand through his thick blond hair.
"The items in my purse are none of your business.” She pushed her plastic-framed glasses back up the bridge of her nose and pretended to be in a huff. “But, I repeat, there are no doo-dads."
"Jeez, what's with you? I was just kidding around.” Scott leaned against the edge of her filing cabinet.
In deference to the heat, he'd rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, abandoned his necktie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. A few tawny hairs teased her into contemplating the masculine chest beneath. She forced herself not to lick her lips.
God, she wanted to jump Scott and rip off his clothes. He wore navy pleated-front trousers, leaving her to wonder how much of the folds were filled with air and how much with ... him. She'd been craving a cool shower all morning, and now she needed one for a reason other than the unbearable heat.
Hoping he hadn't guessed her line of thinking, she averted her gaze and dabbed a tissue at the moisture on her upper lip. Temperatures like this made wearing her thick hair in a tight bun sensible, but even it seemed to be melting, lilting slightly to the left of where she'd pinned it that morning.
The K&B offices were sweltering, but one would never have known it by looking at Scott. Unfortunately, doing just that increased Molly's body temperature a good thirty degrees. She looked and felt like she'd been standing all day in front of an open pizza oven, whereas Scott looked like a brand new Ken doll ready for an afternoon picnic with Barbie.
"You're a pod person, right?” she asked. “The air-conditioning is on the fritz, the building is about a zillion degrees, and you look like you just stepped out of a Saks Fifth Avenue ad."
"Bite your tongue. Saks isn't a client. Yet.” He smiled, and the chill that zipped up her spine almost made her forget about the office's current sweatshop conditions.
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