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Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

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He’s breaking out the manners, I see. And he still hasn’t let

go of my hand. And I still can’t banish that image of him

fondling me everywhere as I writhe and moan and beg him for

more. “Of course.”

Please don’t let him notice that my nipples are hard.

Please, please, don’t let him notice. Why the hell didn’t I wear

a bra?

He says pleasantly, “So what do you do for a living, Nat?”

“I’m a teacher. Of art. At a middle school.”

I could also be an escapee from a mental institution. I’ll let

you know in a minute, right after the throbbing between my

legs settles down and the blood returns to my head.

What is wrong with me? I don’t even like this guy!

“And you?”

“I’m a collector.”

That surprises me. He could’ve said “contract killer” and I

would’ve just nodded. “Oh. Like antiques or something?”

His pressure on my hand is firm and steady. His gaze is

also steady as he looks into my eyes and answers.

“No. Like debts.”

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