Naked Sushi. Jina Bacarr

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СКАЧАТЬ thinking. He knew I wanted him even if I was majorly pissed at him.

      Then he had the nerve to wipe his chopsticks across my midriff, leaving a trail of sticky white rice. His tongue flickered out as if he intended to lick the gummy rice off my bare skin.

      Oh, yes, please!

      I dared not move a muscle.

      I couldn’t believe I was lying here naked, belly up, with raw fish spread out all over my body, even around my pubic area. Waiting for this guy to make his move. He appeared unconcerned by the fact I was at his mercy. I would have died if his sexy lips nibbled on me, lips that I imagined were both soft and rough, tender yet insistent in finding out what was underneath that crisp, brown banana leaf glued to my mound.

      As if I was going to let that happen.

      Phew. I smelled like raw fish, tasted like raw fish, and I had raw fish, cold and slimy, sliding down between my thighs, much to the delight of the salivating man breathing on me. I felt so vulnerable lying here, unable to move, as I watched him licking his chops.

      I stifled a groan in the back of my throat, imagining him pushing his probing finger into me, testing the moistness inside me, his touch arousing me before his mouth found the pleasure of my pinkness. Sucking on me, giving my swollen clit so much attention I could hardly stand it.

      In my mind, he stroked me faster and harder, delicious sensations building inside me and the ache turning into an unrelenting agony when he went down on me and—

      Dream on. I’ll never let my defenses down again. How can I?

      It was because of him I got fired from my job. I allowed my overripe female hormones to be seduced by this man with a slow, irresistible smile.

      And a great butt.

      He looked amused, which annoyed the hell out of me. Because of my indiscretion, I wasn’t getting unemployment checks, my savings were almost gone, and my rent was due.

      Naked sushi, indeed.

      I wasn’t just pissed. I was going to get even.

      * * *

      It all started weeks ago when I was working late, preparing to copy the cue sheets for a commercial spot due in the morning. No big deal. Five minutes of slaving over a hot copy machine, and I’d be heading home to my studio apartment with Chinese takeout.

      A single girl’s best friend, next to her rabbit vibrator.

      The office manager had gone home, so I decided to do the job myself, though I wasn’t familiar with how the new machine worked. I was a computer research analyst programmer for a video game company, better known in the world of corporate acronyms as CRAP.

      It was a private joke among programmers. No corporation could run without our snappy codes and erratic symbols splashed across pages of files that looked like Jackson Pollock got stuck inside a computer.

      I liked my job.

      I analyzed and edited clips of our company’s ads and video games and then recoded the video and audio files and converted them for various media. I also did postproduction, including sweetening the videos with music. When I got bored, I’d get creative and do fun things, like embed hidden erotic poems into corporate microdots in PowerPoint presentations. Easy as texting if you knew how.

      All you had to do was create a new text box on a slide and type in sexy stuff like, “Did your last date speak French without an interpreter?” Then change the font color to the background color to make it invisible before shrinking it down to a small, dot-sized box. Add a grid, note the box’s location, and then send that to all the programmers. The clued-in ones without computer anxiety knew how to read the sexy message. Made Tuesday morning meetings a lot more fun.

      I also added sexy French words to the background tracks on test video games. I was good at picking up languages. And I loved messing around with spy stuff, which was why I’d applied to the CIA, FBI, DEA and ATF.

      I never got past the written exams.

      I found out sporting anchor-girl glasses didn’t place me high on their list of qualified applicants. I was saving up to get Lasik surgery before I got canned, but I could never get the cash together.

      Then there was the matter of my questionable background. I was a security risk because I didn’t know who my parents were. How could I? Officer O’Malley found me when someone dumped me at the 16th Street Mission BART Station while I was still in diapers. He gave me his surname and called me Mary Dolores after the mission nearby, but the guys knew me as “Pepper.” I started calling myself that in the eighth grade to rev up my sex quotient.

      Since it was doubtful I’d make it as a covert operative, I was determined to be the best at my job. I was really comfy at my last place of employment. You could call me an arty techie, which was why things like outdated office furniture and dirty bathrooms, leaky ceilings and vermin of the four-legged kind bugged me.

      I found out you can’t escape the two-legged ones no matter how cool the decor was. I worked at one company with a gang of programmers who thought using soap was for girly men. Worse yet, I could hear rats scurrying above me. When a ceiling tile came loose and I saw a tail and two little feet dangling over my head, I bailed.

      At my last job we had airy working spaces, bathrooms with cut flowers and a lunchroom with a junk food menu to die for. Unlike a lot of software companies who dip their sticks in Silicon Valley, my ex-boss took over a restored Victorian house in San Francisco and turned it into a first-class company facility.

      I loved discovering the secrets of the old house, including hidden cabinets, desks with locked drawers, even a concealed entrance.

      And I had my own office. No backseat surfers peering over my shoulder and trying to tell me how to write code. Add to that a steaming-hot mocha latte on my desk every morning and I was stylin’.

      Damn, I wanted my job back. That place was cool.

      It was the why I got fired that had me pissed.

      I had sex in the copy machine room. My cheap surrender over the copier, buttocks thumping, my rear end overexposed.

      I admit it took two to fandango, but it wasn’t all my fault. I was hungry—and not just for Chinese takeout. I spent way too much time alone. It wasn’t easy keeping a man interested when you get excited by new software programs and he had a hard-on. My last boyfriend dumped me because I worked late nights stressing over things like audio warping.

      I noticed guys didn’t dig chicks who knew more about their computers than they did. Consequently, my dating life consisted of hanging out at a virtual world website and having an orgasm while I watched my flashy avatar have all the fun.

      So who could blame me for taking advantage of the situation when I cornered a stud in the copy room?

      Not just any stud, but my dream guy.

      For years, I’d pined over the bad-boy type. Bare chest ripped to please and tease. Cute butt. And a lazy swirl of black hair that covered one eye at just the right angle. Daring a girl to go further into the dark with him...

      And not look back.

      Maybe it was because I was tired of Chinese takeout or СКАЧАТЬ