Best of Best Women's Erotica by Marcy Sheiner Page B

securely in her heart and in the gem on her breast. Finally she spoke.
    â€œWhat would you like for breakfast, Mr. Charles?”

THOUGHT SO
    Cecilia Tan
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    I HAVE NEWS FOR YOU, BOYS: THERE ARE HORNY women out there. There are women walking the streets and bookstore aisles, or riding trains, who are practically crying inside because they want it so bad. Either that, or I’m the only one. But I would put money on the fact that I am not the only one. Especially given what Jason has told me.
    It’s because of Jason that I don’t have to prowl those aisles, those trains, anymore.
    I first noticed him in Walpenny’s, in the cookbook section. I was thumbing through a spiral-bound volume on Thai cookery when I caught him looking at me. Or maybe it was he who caught me. By that point, I was frustrated. It was a summer evening, cool and breezy, and though I wore a brief, swishy dress, and had
arranged my hair suggestively, I had not had good luck. The only mild interest I’d gotten was from people I had no interest in. And while I was starting to think I’d hump an aardvark if I had to, I knew better.
    I was biting my lip and trying to decide if I should give up and go home, the book open in my hands but my eyes unfocused, when Jason stepped out from behind a tall bookcase. My eyes flickered up and then back down to the book. He was tall, a little underfed, with blue eyes and light brown hair…and was he looking at me?
    He was. I gave him a longer look, and a smile. He returned the smile in a knowing way. Thank goodness. The hook was baited. I put the book down on the table, and let my head fall back, some of my curls brushing my bare shoulders. I saw him gulp—hook swallowed. He came toward me and said, “Hi.”
    â€œHi,” I said, lowering my eyes with a shyness that wasn’t entirely unreal. I was accustomed to being the cute one, the desirable one—but Jason would have turned my head even if I hadn’t been having one of my horniest nights. Suddenly I wasn’t sure what to say to him.
    He saved me by speaking first. “I’ve been following you for a while.”
    â€œHow long is a while?”
    He blushed. “Since Alton Station.” He reached his hand toward mine, and brushed his fingertips against my arm. I had to stifle an audible intake of breath. “Would you like to go somewhere?” he asked.
    I nodded. “My place, if that would be all right with you.”
    There was that smile again. “Lead the way.” He orbited me with a crooked arm as I turned toward the door, but he did not touch me until we were sitting on a bench at the station. I
was almost shivering by then, fantasizing about his arm around me, waiting for it to happen—and then he slid close, his blue-jeaned leg touching mine, and his arm slid across my shoulders. His breath was warm in my hair, against my ear, in the air-conditioned coolness of the station. If I had an engine, it would have revved.
    I didn’t want to wait until we got home. It would be twenty minutes on the train, and then a five-minute walk, and I was so hot and ready that I was afraid I’d slip off the peak and lose my edge. The frustration and need of the long evening made my jaw stiffen, the ache in my belly only intensified by the proximity of our bodies.
    His lips nibbled at my ear and tears almost sprang to my eyes. He smoothed my dress down over my legs. I wished I could just lie down on the concrete bench, put up my legs and let him root around to his heart’s content (and mine). Another pass with his hand.
    I hadn’t felt so hungrily frustrated since junior high, when I used to sit backstage during drama club rehearsal, on Daniel Pera’s lap. We were too young for sex and knew it, I guess, because we never took any of our clothes off. But he used to trace every line or design on the fabric of my shirt with his fingertip, roaming