The Sex Files

2

“WHY, YOU KNOW I’ll do absolutely anything—and everything—to please a man, Oliver,” Cameron was murmuring huskily a few nights later. As Oliver dreamily splayed his hands on the warm mattress and buried his face in a down pillow, she continued. “I live to make a man happy! Exploring kinky aphrodisiacs is my favorite pastime. I’m the kind of woman who lives only to titillate, and tonight I’ve decided you’re the special man who’s going to be my bed partner. Hmm…isn’t this exciting? Doesn’t this feel good, Oliver?”

Clad in only a black silk teddy, Cameron was purring into his ear as she ran a rose-red nail down his chest, tickling the unruly black hairs that bisected his muscular pectorals before slowly tracing each nipple. As she brought him ever closer to the brink, his eyes roved hungrily over her. Her breasts were creamy and spilling from the low-cut garment, but unfortunately not enough that he could catch more than a glimpse of her tight, straining nipples, something that made him groan. Heat pooled in his belly when he took in the teddy’s hem, which hit where her shapely thighs met. And when she moved, he could see matching panties that covered just enough to hint at the hidden temptations she had in store for him.

“Are you enjoying this, Oliver?” she coaxed, dampening a finger with her tongue before continuing her exploration of his chest in a way that made him shiver. “What about this, Oliver?” she queried, using both hands to massage his pectorals. Inching down, her thumbs dipped into crevices as she explored his rib cage. “Or this?”

“It all feels great,” he managed hoarsely. “Just great, Cameron.” He’d had sex with a lot of women, and he’d fallen in love with some, but he’d never experienced anything like this. Cameron was wrapping him around her little finger.

Pulling in her scent, he awaited more maddening teasing as Cameron’s hands traveled farther southward, her usually soulful brown eyes turning wicked with sensual intent as she paused to swirl mind-shattering patterns on his lower belly, leaving his skin awash with ripples of tingling warmth.

Tensing expectantly, his backside tightened; as pressure built in his loins, he let her do whatever she wanted, silently begging for mercy when she used the backs of her hands to stroke his upper thighs. Every inch of him felt prickly as her now-splayed fingers came closer to the wild tangle of his pubic hair. He arched as she twined her fingers in it, but she still wasn’t touching where he most wanted…

Suddenly, she stopped and merely traced lazy circles around his navel as if she was bored out of her mind. “Cameron,” Oliver warned, his eyes raking down her body, his distracted mind becoming hazier with need as she tortured him.

“What?” she asked innocently.

Shutting his eyes in frustration, he dragged a hand into her hair and closed his fist, lightly tugging. “C’mon, Cameron. Quit fooling around. Touch me.”

“I am touching you, silly.”

“You know what I mean.”

He was throbbing, wanting her so much it hurt, and if she didn’t caress him more intimately, he’d die from the need. Why wasn’t the woman doing something more? Hadn’t she said pleasing men was her sole reason for living? She’d said it in that encouraging voice he couldn’t resist, too. “I thought you were America’s sexiest woman,” he challenged.

“I am,” she purred. “That’s why you’re feeling so…” She whisked a finger around his navel again.

“Frustrated?” he supplied. Yes, he definitely preferred more cerebral women. Of course he did. And yet every time Cameron insisted their relationship be focused on pure pleasure, she left him no choice but to respond. Sex was all this woman wanted….

Cameron was smiling at him mysteriously, looking just like the Mona Lisa as she continued drawing mindless designs on his sensitized skin. He uttered a strangled sound as she reached between her own legs, cupping herself. “Say pretty please, Oliver,” she whispered, a wavy lock of hair falling over her left eye.

“Pretty please,” Oliver murmured, his voice gruff, his pulse quickening as he played along, knowing he’d be happy to indulge in any game this woman initiated… “Tease,” he accused.

“You love it.”

He smiled, looking down into the gaping neckline of the teddy, able to see perky nipples. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

“Is this all a big boy like you wants, Oliver?” she taunted. “Wouldn’t you rather feel something more substantial on all your hot, quivering skin? Wouldn’t you rather feel my mouth?”

As he twisted on the heated water bed his sister usually shared with her boyfriend, Oliver’s eyes remained shut in sleep although his body was radiating with damp, feverish desire. Every time he tossed and turned, hoping to end the frustration of this dream, his movements displaced water. Warm waves rolled back, further exciting him by massaging his pelvis, and as he got even hotter, he thought of wet, cool things such as Cameron’s mouth.

“Oh, Oliver—” Cameron was chuckling naughtily. “Maybe you’d like to model a pair of edible briefs for me. I know you read about how much I like them in the Sex Files. I bet you wish you could feel the languishing lap of my tongue as I lick off all your clothes…?”

He wasn’t wearing any clothes in his dream, but Oliver didn’t bother to correct her, not when she was whispering to him in that sweet voice, her breath fanning his ear in a way that made his lower body surge.

“Edible briefs?” he whispered, hoping she’d say more. He’d heard of the novelty item, of course. Who hadn’t? But he’d never felt the need to bring props into a bedroom. He loved women, and he enjoyed binding them to him using only his body, just the way he planned to do with Cameron.

“Oh.” She panted, her hand dropping another fraction. “Ah,” she added as she scooted downward, settling between his legs, her eager eyes fixing where he’d gotten so hard. Reaching, she grasped the hem of the nightie and, as she lifted it over her head, he ceased to breathe. Lightly licking his lips, he took in her breasts…then the inward curve of her waist…then hips that flared down to…

After he eyed her panties—a scrap of black held together by two tiny red side bows—his hands reached up, brushing the erect tips of her breasts. “You have no idea what I’m going to do to you, Cameron,” he warned, imagining tugging those bows with his teeth…

“Why don’t you tell me? We’ve got all night.” Before he could, she raggedly whispered, “Yes,” her hands bracing against his thighs, her breasts thrusting for his caresses. She threw back her head, her pleasure building, her fingers squeezing into his thighs, the sight of her red fingernails against his skin sending another rush of heat through his veins.

His chest was tight now. Strong bands were wrapping around his ribs. Her hands had turned gentler, and they were rising on his legs like a river about to flood, moving higher…and higher…and higher…

When they bracketed his erection, his eyes settled on her inviting mouth. “Kiss me, Cameron,” he commanded hoarsely, threading his hands deep into hair that felt like corn silk. Strands spilled through his fingers and curled against his wrist, most the color of whiskey in candlelight, the others shot through with different shades of blond. Dragging his nails across her scalp seemed to drive her wild. Good, he thought. Because he wanted her wild and abandoning herself to pleasure.

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?