“Nice legs.”
K.C.’s eyes popped open, her senses heightened at being caught. The breeze had teased open the front of her robe. Charlie Simmons, who must have been hidden by his car when she stepped outside, looked over from his driveway, about to open the door.
You’re a hot oven. The words from her dream filled her mind. Her body flooded with desire and her clitoris throbbed with need for the dream to be real.
“K.C.? Are you okay?” she heard from a long way off. She looked at Charlie, confused for a minute. He had clothes on. They were not in bed together. He was her neighbor, and he was thirty to her forty. They would never be in bed together, except in her ridiculous dreams.
“Fine,” she said, recovering, firmly back on planet Earth on a Thursday morning. “I saw a well-dressed businessman and wondered where my neighbor had gone.”
Her fingers tore at the edges of the paper. Why did she have to dream about him? And why did he have to look so mouth-watering, so confident and attractive this particular morning? He owned a small but growing computer consulting firm, so he set the dress code. Usually he came out the door dressed in something that pushed the envelope of business casual right off the table—shorts or jeans, T-shirts or sweat shirts with funny sayings about computers on them, and collared golf shirts on a really formal day. Today, of all days, he wore a light green button-up shirt, linen jacket, tie, and, God help her, a form-fitting pair of dress pants. She could take those pants off with her teeth…