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

She sat in her car in the garage for a few minutes to postpone her decision, loath to go into the stifling house. When she cashed her first paycheck, she’d get the air conditioner repaired. But meanwhile, what was she going to do about the internal heat raging through her body?

Gemma dragged herself inside the house and listened to three messages—one from her mother to call her back, please, one from her credit card company to call them back, please, and one from the newspaper reporter, Lewis Wilcox, to call him back, please. Ignoring them all, she prepared a quick salad from bagged lettuce. All the while, she felt the pull to go upstairs and undress … and be seen. She fought the impulse, and when her attention landed upon the letter that she’d written of her sexual fantasies, she picked up the sheath of folded sheets. What better reminder of how her carnal compulsions had nearly led her to ruin before?

Her heartbeat picked up even as she skimmed the pages to find where she’d left off reading. Performing for the man on the bus in her schoolgirl costume … and loving it.

I was hooked. I learned from Dr. Alexander’s lecture this week that I have a fetish called exhibitionism—I enjoy putting my body on exhibit. Which is very strange considering my personality. Most people would say that I’m a good girl, someone happy to remain anonymous and on the fringes of a group. My mother has pounded the idea of what a girl should be into my head: polite, quiet and accommodating. I was always taught that drawing attention to oneself was vulgar and conceited—better to blend in rather than risk ridicule.

But during twenty-two years of being good, nothing has felt as good as my one day of putting myself on display. I already wanted to do it again, couldn’t sleep for thinking about it—what I’d wear, where I’d go, who I would entertain.

I kept my roommate’s brown wig, and lied when she asked me if I’d seen it. An exhibitionist and a liar—I was getting good at being bad. I dressed in tight, sexy workout clothes underneath my regular clothes, then packed the wig in a gym bag. I took the train across town to a gym that I’d seen advertise free workouts, then pulled on the wig. I filled out the paperwork using a fake name and address, then went into the locker room and removed my street clothes. After adjusting my black short shorts (with no underwear, they felt very naughty) and white jogging bra, I grabbed a towel and walked out into the exercise area. I scanned the men working out for a potential target, and immediately found one in a twenty-something dark-haired guy in a gray sweat-stained T-shirt and blue running shorts.

The way he looked at me made me warm and moist. I walked past him close enough to smell the male scent of him, then got on the treadmill to run and work up a sweat of my own. The wig was hot, but its heaviness made me feel safe. In the mirror I could see the guy watching me while he made his way around the free weight circuit, adding iron plates to the barbells, then pushing his muscles to the limit. We made frequent eye contact in the mirror—his eyes were so sexy it was like he was devouring me. My shorts rode up from the friction, cutting into my privates and rubbing me in the most wonderful way. He couldn’t take his eyes off me.

An older woman in sweats walked up to him and I realized that he was a trainer, and that she was his client. He pretended to be all business with the woman, but as soon as he got her situated on the stair climber, his eyes found me again. The tip of his tongue came out and curled upward. I knew exactly where he wanted to put that tongue. Tingling all over, I reached for my towel draped over the front of the treadmill, then purposely dropped it on the floor. He said something to the woman, then casually walked over to my treadmill. My heart raced even faster as he approached, his eyes smoldering.

When he crouched to pick up my towel, he lingered, at eye level with my crotch. My running shorts were more like a thong by this time, and my thighs were slick from sweat and my own personal lubrication. At his angle, I was sure he could see the lips of my sex squeezed out of my disappearing shorts. With every step I tightened my core muscles, and with the constant massage of chafing and his full attention on me, I could feel an orgasm rushing to the surface.

When I climaxed, the strain of not breaking stride only made it more powerful. My hip muscles contracted, and my breath gushed out in heaving pants. Only he and I knew what was happening. A shudder went through my body, but I managed to stay upright and moving. As I recovered, I slowed the treadmill to catch my breath. He straightened and slowly extended my towel. When I took it from him, I noticed the erection straining against his shorts. I used the towel to wipe my neck and chest. My white jogging bra had grown nearly transparent from my sweat, and my nipples were outlined clearly for him to see. His mouth opened slightly, but before he could initiate a conversation, I stopped the treadmill and stepped off.

“Thanks,” I said, then turned and walked as quickly as I could toward the locker room. He started to follow me, but his client waved to get his attention. He hesitated, then went to her. I dressed hurriedly without showering and left without seeing him again. For days I fantasized about his reaction to me, wondering if he’d tried to find me and was disappointed or intrigued that the personal information I’d listed had led to a dead end. The thought that he might still be thinking about me, the mystery woman, made me feel so sexy and so powerful.

Gemma squeezed her eyes closed against the deluge of memories pouring over her. She had been young and flush with the excitement and newness of her own sex appeal. The world itself had seemed so … alive. And accessible. Even now, her heart beat faster at the memory of her thrilling adventure of experiencing a public orgasm with a private audience.

Her breath quickened and she felt the pull of the upstairs window like a magnet drawing her, a frame for her performance. And Chev wanted to watch … what better situation could she ask for? After all, the man would be there only temporarily. They could … play … and then he’d be gone. No harm done. She pushed to her feet and slowly walked upstairs, her muscles growing more languid with every step.

The upper floor was suffocating. She shed the cropped jacket and tossed it on the bed, then flipped on a ceiling fan to get some air moving. After a few seconds’ hesitation, she walked over to slide open the picture window, allowing it to bang against the casing. The light was on in the opposite window, and a few seconds later, Chev appeared in jeans, shirtless.

His hair looked damp, as if he’d just emerged from the shower. His powerful shoulders and arms were outlined perfectly in the round window. She recalled how they had felt around her—dominant and insistent. A shudder went through her and she was glad for the distance. He leaned forward on the sill using both hands, as if to say that he wasn’t going anywhere, that he wanted her to know he was watching this time.

A sweet haze of raw desire descended over Gemma. She acknowledged that she was sliding into a trancelike state. She wet her lips, then lifted her fingers to the front hooks of her black corset, and slowly began undoing them.

CHEV GRIPPED the windowsill harder as Gemma removed the corset, exposing inch after inch of luminous skin. Frustration and fascination warred within him as lust surged through his body. The little tease. She’d made it clear that she didn’t want any hands-on interaction with him, but watching her through her window wasn’t going to satisfy him.

Still, he couldn’t bring himself to look away—he’d been wound tight ever since the heated kiss they’d shared. He hadn’t imagined her reaction … she’d enjoyed it as much as he had. But something was holding her back. Was she afraid of him? Considering his bulk and that she knew next to nothing about him, he wouldn’t blame her if she was. But somehow, he didn’t think that was the case. If she was afraid of him, she wouldn’t tantalize him like this. Because if he wanted to be in her house, in her bed, he wouldn’t let a few locked doors get in the way.