Excerpt

Her hair was like fine copper wire, gleaming red-gold strands swept back from her forehead and gathered into a knot at the back of her neck. Her creamy skin stretched over high cheekbones and a pointed chin. My fingertips tingled, wanting to sample that softness, to trace the perfect curve from her pearl-studded earlobe down to her firm jaw. She pursed her lips in concentration, and I thought about kisses. Something long dormant stirred in my belly, an ache I hadn't felt in months.

“Lieutenant Wilhemina MacDonald of the Airendale City Fire Department, am I correct?” Her voice was like sudden rain on a muggy August day, chill but welcome. I shivered. With her complexion, I'd expected blue eyes, or maybe green, but hers were so dark they looked black. Like black holes. I felt myself tumbling into their depths, unable to resist the pull of her will. She fixed me with a steady gaze I couldn't read and held me pinned like a trapped butterfly.

“Uh... people call me Billie, Ma'am.” Ma'am? Where did that come from? It felt right though, something to hold onto amid emotions swirling through me.

“Very well, Billie.” She folded her hands on the desk in front of her and looked me over. All at once I was twelve years old again, trembling in front of my beautiful seventh grade home room teacher while she berated me for dressing like a boy. The same shame. The same need. “Lie down on the couch, Billie, and we'll get started.”

Without waiting for my response, she rose from her seat and strode over to the leather-upholstered divan by the window. Just a few steps, but enough to send my pulse rate up into the triple digits. She wore a straight skirt of navy blue with a hem that grazed her knees, a blouse that had to be silk from the way it draped her breasts, three-inch stacked heels and — oh, my God! — stockings with seams that ran up her shapely calves. A wide patent-leather belt cinched her waist, accentuating the swell of her hips. Moving with the sure-footed grace of a panther, she seated herself in an armchair near the head of the couch and crossed one leg over the other. Her skirt rode up a bit, displaying a modest length of nylon-encased thigh. “Billie? Don't keep me waiting.”

Pussy juice moistened my boxers. My clit buzzed like a trapped wasp. This was wrong — wrong! She was supposed to be my doctor! I didn't need more emotion, more misery. I needed peace, comfort, safety. And at the moment I felt like I was perched at the top of a ladder, six stories above the street, clinging for dear life.

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