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if your source actually listened to the music. Maybe he spent the whole night looking at my legs.”
    “My source also mentioned your nipples.”
    “Your source needs a cold shower.”
    “Jo?”
    “Hmm?” The air had shifted, or so it felt, although the studio was perfectly warm and comfortable. My nipples were erect.
    “Show me.”
    “Show you what?”
    “Take off your top.”
    I turned on the speaker to the phone and untied the halter top. It slithered down my torso in a caress of satin.
    “That rustling sound…”
    “My skirt.”
    “Ah. And your nipples…”
    “Erect. Very hard. Dark pink like raspberries. I’m pinching them.”
    “Good. Are you standing or sitting?”
    “Standing.”
    “Spread your legs. Can you feel the air on your cunt?”
    It was the first time he’d ever used the word, the first time I’d ever liked a man to say it to me. The contrast between his cultured voice and the crudeness of the word made me shiver.
    “Now lift your skirt. Tuck it up, if you can, so you can keep your hands on your breasts. I want to see you exposed, the contrast of the black stockings against your skin. That rustling is supremely erotic, by the way.”
    “Say it again,” I whispered, my skirt tucked up.
    “What?”
    “Talk about my cunt. Please.”
    “Your cunt.” I could hear the smile in his voice. That’s what we say in the business, when you want to convey an upbeat attitude on mic. Put a bit of smile in it.
    “Your cunt,” he repeated. “I’m imagining your hair looks very dark against the white of your legs. Quite a lot of hair. You’re not the sort of woman who’d shave or wax it into submission. Is your cunt wet, Jo?”
    “Yes. I want to touch myself.”
    “Not yet. Can you come from touching your breasts?”
    I moaned and rocked my pelvis forward. I thought of the pinkness and wetness between my legs, my clit a hard splinter of nerve endings. I pressed my middle finger hard against my nipple as though it was my clit, rotating.
    “That’s right, darling. Get yourself off.”
    “Talk to me,” I gasped. “I’ll come if you talk to me.”
    The studio door banged open, and I blinked as the room flooded with light.
    Jason stood there, his mouth hanging open at the sight of me.
    I stood there for a moment, horrified, my fingers stilled, before I lunged forward and disconnected the call. I fumbled to pull my top up, my skirt down.
    “I’m sorry—” Jason mumbled. He had an erection; I could see it distending his jeans.
    “No, I’m sorry. Oh, fuck.” I could get fired for this.
    “I was…uh, I didn’t think you were here.”
    “I didn’t know anyone else was here.” My fingers shook as I tied the halter top. “I’m leaving now.”
    I grabbed my shawl and purse, mortified, further embarrassed by having to scoop my panties from the floor. I’d find another phone and call a cab. I’d wait for it outside, braving the freezing temperature, rather than having to face Jason after what he’d seen.
    “I’m sorry,” I said again. I walked toward the door, toward him, discovering it was almost impossible not to walk with a sexy sway in the shoes.
    “Uh. It’s okay. It was hot.” Jason blushed. He backed away from me. “You’re hot.”
    I stopped. I needed a real man, a flesh-and-blood man. Just for tonight.
    And then I can tell Mr. D. about it.
    I guess I was ready for this journey, after all.
    “Jason, I need a ride home.”

4
     
    HE STUTTERED AN ANSWER—SURE, YES, YEAH —and jingled his keys in the fidgety sort of way men do, particularly young, hyper guys, and led the way outside. We both fumbled around with the lock and the alarm, jerking our hands away when we made contact with each other.
    I hoped Jason was as nervous as I was.
    Once outside the fresh air hit my exposed and overstimulated pussy with a cold burn and I clamped my legs together. Another icy caress as I climbed into the front seat of Jason’s pickup and then I squealed as the cold vinyl of the