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since I’d had a visitor—a male visitor? My twirl stalled and ended up a half turn. I peeked at him under my lashes. “Um…about that….”
    He patted me on the butt and handed me the box. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. And don’t forget your cream puffs.”
    I sighed with relief when the pastries were once more in my hands—those, I could handle! I walked out the door with my head held high. After all, I’d done my job. Done it well, too.
    Never mind the panty stains.
     
    ***
     
    The night of the big dinner party came and went—without me. I might have been the orderer, but I sure wasn’t invited to the sales meeting. On the Friday evening of the big event, I was home picking lint off my Hello Kitty sweat pants and watching old episodes of Farscape . Alone.
    I knew without a doubt Max would be at the shindig since they were hosting it at his hotel. I’d talked to him two days after our last panty-soaking encounter and informed him rather breathlessly the visitors were from Alsace-Lorraine. He seemed happy to hear from me, but I worried it was my imagination playing tricks on me. Maybe he’d been happy about the job?
    I pondered this as I sat and half listened to the show, doing my best not to pout after having scrubbed every inch of my apartment damn near spotless during the last couple weeks. For all his we’re-having-dinner insistence, he’d never called me after that, and I didn’t have the nerve to show up at the restaurant again and violate his secret kitchen area wearing nothing but panties and a bra. True, I’d eaten all the cream puffs and needed more—my hands were so shaky from sugar withdrawals I could hardly dial the phone—but foisting myself upon his good graces one more time seemed unladylike. Yes, I had needs, a lot of needs, but showing them to a—nearly—complete stranger over and over would make me…well, seem desperate.
    Air snorted out my nose as I ground my teeth. Surely there must be some way to get man and dessert together again. Racking my brain didn’t seem to help.
    The doorbell shrieked as though someone had jabbed a yardstick through its tiny electronic brain. I about jumped out of my skin at the sound. Seconds later, the thing blared again. I huffed, got up from the couch with my eyes squinted, and stood with hands on hips ready give the ringer a piece of my mind. My feet slapped against the tiles in the entryway as I marched toward the door. Before I arrived, the bell sounded again, and by this time I was ready to punch the doorbell addict’s lights out. I flung the door open without bothering to look through the peephole and glared at the intruder.
    And there he was. Max. In all his chef glory. Wearing his crisp whites and carrying a large maroon canvas to-go bag in each hand, he looked concerned and sweaty.
    “Max? You’re here!” I suppressed a loud squeal as the blood flow to my pussy increased by a thousand percent. My heart thundering in my chest, it was all I could do talk in real-people English. “Um…come in.” I held open the door, and he brushed past me in a hurry. In my head I mentally calculated what an impression my attire must make. Not to mention my mussed hair, no makeup, and the potato chips stuck between my teeth. Sexy, Vi. Real sexy !
    I slammed the door and hightailed to the bathroom to freshen up. Inside, I checked myself out in the mirror. No push-up bra on. Check . No makeup on. Check . Hair a disaster. Check . I rolled my eyes at my reflection and picked up the mascara. Had to start somewhere.
    His voice echoed down the hall, but I couldn’t make out what he was hollering. He sounded pained. He’d have to wait. I had my own troubles to contend with at the moment.
    I cracked the door and yelled in a most unladylike manner. “Help yourself to a beer in the fridge. I’ll be right out.”
    More grumbling.
    Hell . I grabbed the hair brush and gave my mop a quick once-over. In seconds it was swept up in a ponytail, and I was