Chapter 12

Thinking About Sex

T he panelists had interesting things to present; too bad I was distracted by worries over a vengeful, obsessed felon. The occupants spilled out into the crowded lobby, and I wormed my way toward the restroom. With no men in attendance, snaking lines full of women clogged the men's, women's, and family doors. I supposed I could wait.

Spotting Tammy and Beth, I squirmed back to them with my shadow clinging to my elbow. "Did you see anything?" I asked.

Tammy screwed up her face in frustration, and Beth reached up to claim her hand. "No. They all seemed riveted by the panelists."

"Why weren't you a panelist?" Winter aimed her questioning gaze at Tammy.

"I was one last year," she explained. "Although I do have to read a ten-minute passage. I'd forgotten about that." Tammy worked the frayed schedule from her back pocket and unfolded it. "Dang, honey—my reading is in an hour," she grimaced.

"Perfect!" Beth exclaimed. I had to lean in to hear her whisper. "We need to watch readers attending the conference too."

"I, for one, wouldn't miss Tammy's reading for the world," I replied with gusto.

"Me either," seconded Winter. "I wouldn't even have a published book without Tammy." She held up her wrist and checked a digital watch that could probably make and receive phone calls and take photos. "What should we do now?"

"Book piracy is this afternoon," Elaine chimed in as she joined our island in the center of the foyer. Other attendees coming and going streamed around us as if we were a clump of boulders hindering their flow. With a glance about, I easily spotted Q.L. in one of the restroom lines.

"I also don't want to miss ‘Color Your Novel Inclusive; How to Write POCs in an Organic Way,'" Elaine continued. "I want to have more non-white characters share the spotlight, but I'm afraid if I portray them wrong it will offend someone."

"That sounds like an important class to attend," I agreed.

"It's the slot before the panel on book piracy," Tammy said, referring to her sheet. "Right now, there's a reader panel on how to write reviews and ‘Harnessing the Power of Social Media to Sell Books' in Chin A."

"We should sit in there then," Winter suggested, "or take a quick dip in the pool!" She beamed at me with a florescence that I could imagine lighting many a frigid night.

Tammy gave her a sarcastic expression and rolled her eyes. "Pools later. Zero in on stalker now. Social media it is."

We entered the same room I had given my presentation in yesterday, and I swear I could still feel the sensual vibes reverberating off the walls and ceiling. Two women dressed like marketers in their off-the-rack synthetic blazers, one with her hair in a bun sporting gold-rimmed glasses and the other with a neat, brunette pixie, occupied a table at the front with microphones before them and a large projection screen at their backs. They both smiled nervously. Knowing I didn't have to talk in front of crowds anymore flooded my heart with relief.

Tammy and Beth grabbed spots in a back corner, Elaine took an aisle seat next to an older woman with whom she immediately launched into a conversation, and Winter and I moved to chairs near the far end of the presenter's table in the opposite corner from Tammy's vigilant watch. That way, she would notice if anyone had their gaze too far to the right and was staring at us instead of the presenters.

It was a satisfactory strategy … until I started to wonder. What if people look at us to determine if we're a hot new item? What if they're staring, hoping to puzzle out why that little girl with Harry Potter glasses hasn't left the sexy, erotic storyteller Aspen Wolfe's side since the moment they were introduced? And why does Aspen keep her there?

Although I didn't feel the scrutiny of anyone's gaze, the idea got me thinking—thinking about Winter. What's her real name? Is it as bland as mine? Does she have another job, and what is it?

"One of the most important tools for authors today is the platform of social media," the one with the bun began. They probably said their names; I was just too busy musing about Winter to notice.

I like her spunk. The thought appeared in my mind unbidden. No. I needed to listen to … stuff I already knew and couldn't apply, anyway. Winter was far more interesting. Is she more butch or femme?

She couldn't measure up to Tammy on the physical side, but she had short hair and overflowed with protectiveness. Her wardrobe screamed nerd, which wasn't exactly butch or femme. She possessed a sweetness like the first honeysuckle blooms of spring, pointing me toward a more feminine quality.

I guess she's kind of like me, I decided , somewhere in the middle. In truth, I didn't know Winter well. A part of me wanted to, though. Why would she put her life on the line for someone she just met? All we have in common is Tammy as a mentor.

"On social media, you control your narrative," Brunette Pixiecut said. It took all my willpower not to burst into bitter laughter. Instead, I chanced a peek at Winter. A frown wrinkled her lips, and she crossed her arms as if in disapproval.

Then she leaned in toward me and whispered, "I beg to differ." She didn't take her eyes off the presenters, and yet I felt like her full attention focused on me. Her shoulder pressed against mine, and she didn't shift away. The thrill of contact shot through me like a bolt of lightning out of a clear sky. Why did she have such an effect on me?

My ex, Tracy, was about as rough and tumble as they come, and I'd been drawn to some sultry, feminine women in my time. I'd dated a couple of inbetweeners but never had I looked twice at a tiny elf who spent more of her time in a fictional galaxy than ours. Or maybe that was purely my misconception. Simply because one enjoys science fiction doesn't mean she's out of touch with reality. I mean, didn't all those gadgets Gene Roddenberry dreamed up for Star Trek get invented? Cell phones, computer tablets, space shuttles, hyposprays, holographic meetings, and 3D printers, which are kind of like replicators. I guess sci-fi gurus imagine the next generation's real-life technology. It's kind of cool if you think about it.

Winter's face was so expressive—as if a thought didn't go through her head that wasn't broadcast to the world. I'd admired her beautiful, guileless eyes; now I noticed her lips. She licked them, probably considering something the presenter had said or maybe merely to moisten them. Is it getting hot in here?

Those lips were so kissable … and her breasts appeared to be exactly the right size for my hands. They didn't have to be voluminous like Selina Fowlerton's to be delectable. A lot could be said in the praise of smaller breasts. For one, they stayed perky longer, probably well into a woman's forties or fifties, without gravity tugging them toward the floor.

I pictured myself caressing them, peering longingly at their milky surface, running my thumb over an erect, pink nipple, taking it in my mouth and … I jerked my head up, realizing I was staring at Winter's breasts most inappropriately. A swift glance around debunked my irrational fear someone had been watching. So what if I found Winter attractive? I found most women attractive. It was my honed habit to always look for one's most appealing feature and see only it, to the exclusion of any flaws. With Elaine, it was her smile. With Winter it was …

Sweeping her with a casual gaze, I noticed she was in shorts again. New Orleans must seem oppressively hot to someone from up north; it only differed from Gulfport by the lack of a refreshing sea breeze. They were nice legs, even if they were as snowy as her face. Or her breasts, I imagined. Silky smooth, I pictured gliding my hand up from the top of her sneaker to her knee, over that cute, little knee, and inside the wide cuff of her blue shorts. The next thing I knew, I was speculating about what kind of underwear she had on. Regular briefs, bikinis, or boxers? It was inconceivable she'd even own a thong. But if she is wearing one …

I was grievously overcome by an inexplicable urge to get Winter alone in a closet somewhere. Nothing captivated my interest as much as pulling down her shorts to discover what variety of undergarment she had on. Probably cotton , I supposed. Do people from Wisconsin wear cotton everything like Southerners do? They could be synthetic or a blend. Yeah, a blend. Boxer-briefs? With Star Wars characters or the Dr. Who Tardis on them?

Heat built in my core as I started imagining my fingers time-traveling inside boxers as blue as her eyes, or maybe it was her iridescent eyes that whisked me away to other times and places. Tension grew in my core as I dreamed how it would feel to have her hands on me … teasing, tickling, caressing, possessing. I'd heard nerds could be little spitfires in bed, with all their pent-up sexual tensions finally bursting into release.

She said she didn't have a sweetheart, and she looks at me like I'm the cat's meow. Suddenly, I was conscious of how hard my nipples had become, and the thin silk of this bra wouldn't hide a thing. To top it off, I'd foolishly thought to wear a tight-fitting knit pullover. I crossed my arms over my chest, relaxed all the muscles I didn't remember clenching, and tried to cool the heat from my face. Thank goodness nobody was watching me. They weren't, were they?

I took a moment to peek around the room. Several women were nodding off while a couple of others feverishly took notes. My shoulder retained a tingle where Winter pressed hers against it. Well, the chairs were scrunched right together. The energy I sensed flowing from her was pure, admiring, and affectionate. If someone wanted to speculate we were together, it wouldn't be the end of the world. I couldn't be that much older than her.

In the next instant, my brain wanted to know everything about Winter Bliss. What were her hobbies, her favorite foods? What music did she enjoy? Was she legal drinking age? Is she as distracted as I am?

Honestly, I wasn't the kind of woman who thought about sex all the time, despite the fact it featured prominently in my writing. Lately, that's the only place it had featured. Maybe, I proposed to myself with a wicked grin.

I'd always had a fantasy about hooking up with a hot babe from out of town at a convention, a weekend tryst, a fabulous fling for the sheer pleasure of it. Nobody from home would know or care, and I wouldn't be saddled with the usual fears and expectations of actually dating her. Just wild, passionate sex with someone who wasn't a jerk and wouldn't screw me over. Maybe it would get me through the next six months.

A thrill tingled every nerve end as I wondered if Winter would be interested in a no-strings-attached weekend. Well, we'd already lost Friday, but there was still today and tomorrow. OK, so I had pictured this being with someone whose body was as spectacular as Selina's, but that wasn't everything. It wasn't even the most important thing. I didn't want to be—I surely didn't understand it—but I was attracted to this protective sprite with the heart of a lion. Thinking about her gave me warm fuzzies all the way down to my toes. It felt nice. A wistful smile crept across my face, and my vision blurred before I shook my head, presumably to stay awake. These two had to be the dullest presenters ever.

One realistic moment, and I knew it couldn't happen. This was Winter Bliss. And as much as I wanted to warm myself in blissful rapture with her tight in my embrace, she was far too innocent and vulnerable for such a ploy. The potential for her being hurt was too great. I couldn't whisk her off to my room for some afternoon delight and then drive back to my home over a thousand miles away from hers with a lame cliché such as, "Thanks for a great time. See ya."

Digging deep, I realized the truth. Although I didn't know Winter, I still cared about her. I cared about keeping her safe from external danger and from any heartache my actions could cause her. She wasn't a one-night-stand kind of gal—that much was obvious. Besides, I couldn't risk drawing Tammy's wrath if I broke her new protégée's heart.

The kicker came when I recognized I didn't wish to hunt a substitute with whom to spend the night or any portion of it. Not only because any of them could be awaiting an opening to smother me in my sleep or mount me only to strangle me with a silk cord—I no longer found the gorgeous, spicy women desirable. Even R.B.'s sexy firefighter faded when compared to a silly sci-fi nerd with snow-white legs and big, round glasses she couldn't keep up on her nose. Was something wrong with me, or was there more to Winter Bliss?

If I could stop envisioning having sex with her long enough, I intended to find out.