Thirty three

Again Tasha had to resist the urge to fiddle with her new violet-black skirt. It had been one of those love-at-first-sight purchases.

She loved how the outer edges, running from her hips to just over mid-thigh, looked to be laced up—as if just a tug would have the whole thing on the floor. She also loved the feel of the black silk underskirt against her skin. Shame it hadn’t had some kind of warning label to alert her to the fact that whenever she sat down it was going to creep up her thighs.

She smiled at Jackson as he poured more wine into her glass. The guy had been okay so far. The date, as a whole, had been okay so far too. Therein lay the problem: it was “okay.” There was no sexual tension, though he had given her compliments that indicated he would happily take over for her vibrator.

There was no teasing between them or banter. He seemed to be too nervous to joke.

She had to give him credit where it was due, however—he was doing a fan