Shadow Girl by Mael d'Armor Page B

wasn’t getting the right vibes no matter what he said about her being free as a bird when they were through with the language lessons. He had her over a barrel, he knew it and she knew it — and he might literally strap her over one at their next session. Bastard. She hated him for what he was doing to her. He had no right.
    But the worst thing about all this — the absolute worst — was that her anger was more theoretical than actual because one touch from him and one look from his intense sexy eyes and she was freaking putty in his hands again, and that submissive thing between her thighs wanted to please him so much it was pathetic but there was not a damn thing she could do about it.
    So of course, in the end, she squeezed her body into that tiny kit and even wiggled and paraded her tits and butt for him like that bloody beach bimbo she did not want to be. Sickening really how she was cooing and fussing and enjoying every moment of it, and all the while growing wetter and hornier.
    Now she is trailing him and Jenny on the footpath, skipping like a little girl every few steps to keep up with them. As they cross a street, she catches her reflection in a large glass panel opposite, and gets a shocking confirmation of her hotel suspicions: she looks almost naked.
    She pivots a quarter turn to recheck the effect, out of a perverse curiosity to assess how thoroughly she has been stripped of her better judgment. Seen from the side, the shorts reveal so much of her curvy bum cheek you might be excused for thinking they do not exist — were it not for the frayed edges fringing her hip.
    And her breasts are bursting out of her top like two vanilla scoops about to fall off their waffle cone. Her hair, which still bears the marks of her latest rough-and-tumble, is spilling down her neck and shoulders in wild waves.
    Everything about her yells out not just blatant sexiness, but rampant take-me-nowness. She must be a walking magnet for every drooling caveman within a two-mile radius. And the awful truth is, she does not know whether to cringe in shame and run for the nearest cover, or throw modesty to the wind and take credit for what she has to admit is a damn hot look.
    In the end, her scanty shorts help her decide. The denim crotch is pressing against her like a lover’s finger, and rubbing insidiously with every step she takes. Yes, she might as well take the credit for her look. Or rather let the credit take her, for she knows she has a say in the matter approaching zero when that lascivious thing starts fawning — which it is doing at this point to great effect.
    Her eyes stray to Yaouen’s appetizing bum, wrapped taut in his stylish trousers. She could so sink her fingers into that tight arse. The anger and frustration she felt a moment ago have completely evaporated.
    So has her focus. She is gliding along in a haze of gratification and would no doubt be lurching into passers-by if it weren’t for her guide leading the way. She tries hard to stay in his charmed wake.
    She hardly hears the wolf-whistle when it comes. It is followed by a one-liner that has about as much wit as you can find hair on a Shaolin monk’s head.
    â€˜Hey sexy, I’d love to stick it up ta ya!’
    The tradie grinning on the scaffolding across the street is determined to catch her eye and cat-calls again. ‘Come on princess, give us a smile and bend over like a good girl, will ya?’
    Sandra finally registers what is being hurled at her from above. The sort of crap she gets occasionally, despite her efforts not to show too much skin in public.
    She looks up uncertainly at her admirer. Last time she bore the brunt of such poetic attention, she was quick to sling back one or two barbed comments. Immediate return to sender, she calls it.
    This time though, nothing whatever pops into her mind and so nothing makes it past her lips, bar a surprised gasp. In fact, she hates to admit it but she is oddly