Jeanie London - Real Men - Rugged Rebels - Watch and Learn / Under His Skin / Her Perfect Hero

“Guess that’s where the term ‘boner’ came from,” a guy in the back cracked, eliciting laughs from the large group.

Gemma smiled obligingly and moved on to the next item on the tour. The museum’s concerns about how the X-rated exhibit would be received had been laid to rest. Jean from the employment agency had informed her that the adult-only tours were booked solid for the next month.

Gemma had worked eight hours for the past two days and had the blisters on her feet to prove it. But she’d been glad for the work that pushed her body to exhaustion and her mind to distraction. It kept her from dwelling on the fact that Chev’s bedroom window had been unshuttered since their encounter … an obvious invitation to resume her watch-me games.

She inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly to calm her racing pulse. It was the charged air in the museum, she told herself, that had her thinking of Chev and his big, strong hand jammed between her thighs. Behind the mask that shielded her identity from the tour group, perspiration moistened her hairline. Today’s crowd was more bawdy than most, tossing around jokes and innuendos that fueled the atmosphere to an almost palpable level. She’d lost a few couples already, slinking away to alcoves in the museum, she supposed, to indulge in a quickie before rejoining the tour.

Gemma used her tongue to whisk away a sheen of perspiration on her upper lip. She was beginning to feel like a fluffer on the set of a porn movie—the person who keeps everyone aroused between takes, but who never gets in on the action. The black corset she wore under a cropped jacket was chafing her nipples, and she ached to free them. But the costume of short shorts and jacket with stilettos was one of the most popular with the attendees—men and women alike were devouring her. Her sex and her breasts were heavy with awareness.

“This apparatus,” she said, pointing to a metal device that resembled a bulky thong on a nude female mannequin, “is a chastity belt, which was padlocked to prevent access for sexual intercourse. They were common in the Middle Ages when crusading and wars were widespread. Some women wore them voluntarily to ward off rape, and some wore them to pledge fidelity to their husbands who might be away at war for years at a time. And some were installed by jealous husbands who wanted to ensure their wives would remain faithful during their long absences.”

“Looks painful,” a woman remarked.

“Which can be its own turn-on,” another woman offered slyly.

A chorus of concurring murmurs met uncomfortable laughter as members of the crowd reacted. Gemma waited until the din had died before moving on to the room that housed furniture manufactured for the purpose of aiding sex—swings, contoured chairs, adjustable beds and benches.Everywhere she looked, she saw Chev, making good use of the devices, his long, brown body poised for a session of Tantric sex. Although she had the feeling that a man like Chev didn’t need props to shake a woman to her core. The sheer intensity of his kiss still plucked at her nerve endings.

She moved through the rest of the tour with the scent of his skin in her nostrils, the pressure of his mouth on her lips. By the time she bade the group farewell, she was ready to combust. She slipped into the employee ladies’room, lifted the mask to her forehead, and wet a paper towel to hold against her warm neck. The mirror reflected flushed cheeks, dilated eyes and swollen lips. Gemma felt ripe and moist.

“You’d think they could turn up the air,” came a woman’s voice from behind her.

Gemma looked up to see a woman with short jet-black hair with a pink streak wearing an outfit similar to her own. “Yes, it’s … warm,” Gemma murmured.

The woman lifted her mask, revealing sharp cheekbones and violet-colored eyes. “I’m Lillian,” she said with a friendly smile.

“Gemma.”

“Nice to know you, Gemma.” Lillian adjusted the collar of her low-cut blouse. She was a fortyish petite woman with lush curves and trim, shapely legs. “How do you like working here?”

“It’s interesting,” Gemma said cautiously. It would be unseemly to say that she actually enjoyed the job, enjoyed injecting herself into the naughty museum exhibit.

“Are you married?” Lillian asked, fluffing her hair with well-manicured hands.

Gemma averted her glance. Eventually she would get used to saying the word “divorced,” but for now, it stuck in her throat.

“I just wondered what your husband thought of you taking this job,” Lillian said into the pause.

“I’m not married.”

“Oh, well, your boyfriend, then.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend … at the moment.”

The woman looked dubious. “Really? Well, if you want one, this is the right job to find one.”

Gemma shook her head. “I’d never date someone I met here.”

“Smart girl.” Lillian checked her lipstick. “It’s probably just as well you don’t have a boyfriend. My Joey is furious that I’m doing this—he doesn’t like other men looking at me. And,” she added lightly, “he doesn’t understand why I’d want them to look.”

Gemma met the woman’s knowing gaze in the mirror and swallowed hard. Was her fixation so obvious that the woman could pick up on a kindred spirit? But then again, anyone guiding this particular tour had to enjoy being in the spotlight to some degree. Lillian blinked and whatever Gemma had sensed was gone.

“So, can you believe how popular this exhibit is?”

“It seems to have caught on in a big way.”

Lillian laughed. “Guess someone underestimated just how starved people are for a little excitement in their lives.”

Gemma tried to laugh in agreement, but she felt exposed, as if the woman was talking about her, and her life. Telling her that she was starved for something too, else why would she have taken this job? And why was she consumed, even now, with the thought of undressing for Chev Martinez? It was simple—she was a tease. She found more satisfaction in performing than in making love. Self-condemnation rolled through her chest. What would everyone think of her if they really knew what dark impulses drove her?

From the outside, she looked so normal, but on the inside, she was burning with her sordid secret.

“By the way,” Lillian offered, “I heard that, since the museum denied the requests of local TV networks to tape the tour, it’s possible a reporter might infiltrate one of the groups.”

“Thanks for the heads-up. What are we supposed to do if we suspect someone is a reporter?”

“Watch for cameras and let the director know afterward.” Lillian glanced at her watch, then lowered her mask into place. “We’re up in two minutes. Ready?”

Nodding, Gemma settled her own mask in place and exited the bathroom, thinking she should have taken the time to adjust her underwear before the next group arrived, yet knowing why she hadn’t—the chafing garment rubbing all the right places was keeping her in a heightened sense of arousal. It promised to be a long, stimulating day.

And—if Chev’s window was still unshuttered when she arrived home—a long, stimulating night.

Her face burned with shame. What was wrong with her?

WHEN GEMMA PULLED onto her street, she steeled herself, ready to face either the cocky peacock or her hunky neighbor—or both. But all was quiet when she arrived home with dusk already setting on a blistering day. A few lights blazed in the Spanish house next door, so she assumed Chev would be once again burning the midnight oil. The fact that his bedroom window remained unshuttered sent a tremor through her womb. He still wanted to see her. Had he heard her arrive home? Was he waiting for her even now to appear at her window?