I should have been glowing with triumph, but instead I felt nothing but frustration. Erotic frustration. I had showered when I got back to my little Lower East Side studio apartment, but my thighs were still wet with something other than water. My thin cotton camisole teased across my peaked nipples with every breath, and my modest white panties tortured my clit every time I tossed and turned. I was doing a lot of that; tossing and turning. My thrashing was frustrated, almost angry. This was all his fault. Fucking Derek Carter and his fucking gorgeous body and his fucking hypnotic eyes. I punched my pillow, wishing it were his stomach. Although I suspected I would bruise my knuckles on his washboard abs in real life. Everything about Derek’s physique, his bearing, radiated a sense of power. Despite my training, I wouldn’t be able to take him down easily. The thought made my inner walls clench.
