The Sex Files. Jule Mcbride

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      Her breath caught. “Where exactly do you want me to kiss you, Oliver?”

      His voice lowered. “You know where.”

      “I have something else in mind.”

      She was making him writhe with annoyance! “What?”

      Instead of doing him the courtesy of answering, she hopped from the bed, and as she reached for the bedside table, Oliver’s whole world seemed to stop. A thong left her backside bare. Before he could react, she whirled, a bottle of mint-scented oil in her hand, and he watched, fascinated, as she squirted some into her hand. His mouth slackened as she set aside the bottle and massaged her own breasts, pressing them together, deepening the cleavage, and then slathering on the oil until the tips glistened and she was begging for relief that only he could give.

      “Oh, yeah,” he whispered as she lowered her chest toward his thighs, her lips only inches from his aroused flesh, her breath warm on his erection, her slender fingers feeling like heaven as they circled where he’d gone so taut. When she squeezed, his head reared back, the pressure more than he could stand, and when he felt her blond hair sweeping his thighs, the sensation added to his delight—and torture. The water bed churned as she kneeled astride, urging him between her luscious, waiting breasts.

      Thrusting into the slippery cleavage, he gasped. The oil was mentholated, and with every mind-bending movement, it warmed him and made him tingle. Now he was so unbelievably hot…the oil was frothing…the essence of mint was mixing with Cameron’s heady musk. He was going to come. The cool autumn-night air was bursting with scents, just as Oliver was about to burst…

      Vaguely, he realized a siren had sounded.

      It came from far off, edging into his consciousness at first, then becoming deafening as an ambulance or police car passed beneath the window overlooking Barrow Street. Blinking, he opened his eyes and sat up in bed, his head pounding from the sudden movement. Whatever he’d been dreaming must have taken him to the outer reaches of REM-phase sleep, because he felt completely groggy.

      Dragging a hand through his hair, he realized the strands were damp with perspiration. And that he wasn’t in his own bed in Quantico. Nor was he in a hotel.

      “Anna’s,” he whispered, feeling mildly disoriented and surprised to find that his mouth was bone dry. He’d kicked away most of the covers, and the remaining sheet was twisted around his legs.

      He was as hard as steel, too.

      A groan rumbled in his chest as the dream came back to him: Cameron’s red nails tracing patterns on his skin…the soft stir of her warm, panting breath…the searing feeling as he’d slipped inside her cleavage. Realizing he was still hovering on the brink of release, he drew a sharp breath, his eyes adjusting to the room’s darkness. “Some dream,” he murmured.

      It wasn’t the first time the nonexistent woman had entered his nocturnal world, teasing him to distraction. As he’d awakened, he was actually feeling that he couldn’t live without her. Heaven help the woman if he ever really met her…

      But of course that was crazy. She wasn’t even real. She didn’t even exist. “I feel like I’m losing my mind,” Oliver whispered.

      It had all started when Anna insisted on running the Sex Files statistics through the Quick Composite software, generating the picture of “Cameron.” Ever since, the fantasy woman had been wreaking havoc in Oliver’s life. On two occasions, he’d been convinced he’d actually seen her.

      It was impossible, of course. Computer-generated women didn’t materialize. But after Anna left his office, a woman who looked exactly like Cameron had been standing in the street outside Grand Central Station. He could swear to it. She’d been looking at him wistfully, as if she’d desperately wanted to approach him.

      And then yesterday at five o’clock, when Oliver left his office, he’d been sure someone was following him. That, of course, was possible. He was a well-known FBI agent and author, and he’d been approached by fans often. Criminals, too.

      As he’d been swept along by the rush-hour crowd on Forty-second Street, he’d glanced around, but it was raining hard and he didn’t see anyone suspicious. After he’d ducked into a subway entrance, then transferred at Times Square to another train, he figured he’d lost the person.

      But then, at the West Fourth Street station near Anna’s apartment, he’d seen Cameron across the platform. Two train tracks separated them—one going uptown, one downtown—and a train was passing on Oliver’s side; through the windows, he could see her in bits and snatches.

      Astonished, he’d felt as if someone had breathed life into Cameron’s computer-screen image again. But how? What was going on?

      He’d taken in her tall figure, the wavy blond hair falling over her left eye and the green raincoat she wore over a black knit dress. Before he’d been aware he’d moved, he’d given chase. He’d grown up in Manhattan, and even after he’d moved to the D.C. area and his parents retired in Utah, he’d continued visiting because Anna was here, so he knew the subways like the back of his hand.

      He’d jogged upstairs, passing turnstiles as he headed for the uptown platform, but just as he’d reached it, another train pulled in. The electronic doors opened, and he’d cursed inwardly as people spilled out of cars, then back inside. He’d reached the doors just as they glided shut. Cameron had been right on the other side of the glass! Her brown eyes had widened, and she’d swung her head, so hair fell across her face as if to disguise herself. She’d tried to back away, but she’d been hemmed in by other passengers. Futilely, Oliver had lifted a hand as the train pulled away, as if to wave goodbye.

      Now he shook his head to clear it of confusion. None of this made sense. He was haunted by a woman who didn’t even exist. As a psychologist, he knew the mind could play tricks, so his best guess was that Anna was right. He was overworked and lonely, a state that had made him ripe for suggestion when he’d seen the image of “Cameron.”

      Besides, what man wouldn’t fantasize about America’s most erotic woman? Yeah, this was definitely a case of wishful thinking. That, or his subconscious was trying to tell him something. “Yeah,” he whispered hoarsely, his body still aching with need. “That you need a woman.” A real woman.

      Memories of the X-rated dream came back, and he couldn’t believe what lurked in his subconscious. He wasn’t really sexist, and he dated smart, levelheaded professional women, not stacked blondes who painted their nails come-love-me red and whispered to him as if he’d just called a 1-900 number. “Edible briefs,” he whispered, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Wow.

      “Why don’t you settle down, Midnight?” he added as Anna’s black cat scampered along the windowsill, drawing back the curtain. As light shined into the bedroom, another siren sounded, and Oliver glanced at the digital bedside clock: 2:00 a.m. So much for peace and quiet. During the day, when he’d visited Anna, this neighborhood had been deserted, but sometimes at night it was a different story.

      Rising, he moved to the third-floor window, but instead of closing the curtain, Oliver stared through the rain into Nite-Lite, a club across the street. Usually the club’s curtains were closed, but tonight, black-light strobes illuminated a packed dance floor. Everybody was gearing up for the holidays. It was depressing. Despite what he’d been saying to the contrary, Oliver wasn’t thrilled about spending Christmas alone.

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