3: Locke.

From the second-story window of my home office, I stare down at the driveway and watch the hot brunette climb out of her pink Jeep.

I've never seen anyone more beautiful in my thirty-two years.

Beautiful and young. Carefree. Bubbly. Social.

In other words, my opposite.

Harriet.

She's in icepick heels and a skirt that barely covers her incredible ass. She's smiling. I recall that smile almost as much as the wicked hard-on she gave me yesterday at work. At work. I couldn't stand up for three hours after she left, my dick was so stiff. My heart seemed determined to beat out of control long after she'd sashayed through the aisle of ogling coders and out the exit. It's all starting again and she's not even in the door.

Now, she leans across the driver's seat to retrieve a folder from the passenger side, causing her skirt to travel upward and reveal hints of two supple buns. A nude-colored thong. And those thighs. They're so long and tan—and shiny. How the hell does she get them like that?