I’m in the shower. The light in the bathroom is low, just a few scented candles burning on the vanity. The air is heavy and warm and suffused with the scent of orange blossoms. I close my eyes, the tension in my muscles melting away. When I open them again, a shadow appears beyond the curtain. Before I can scream, the curtain is thrown aside.
I gasp.
It’s Brad Pitt.
In his Achilles armor. (But not the silly helmet.)
His hungry warrior eyes devour the sight of my wet, naked body as he wrests the breastplate from his chest. It makes no sound as it hits the tile floor. “I want you.”
“But Brad…” My eyes widen with shock as he sheds his leather… (skirt? shorts? No, that’s not right. Tunic! Tunic is good. Manly but still Greek.) …his leather tunic. “What about Angelina?”
“That unsightly hag? She’s dead to me.”
My nipples pucker at the sight of his rock hard body. His movie star skin is radiant in the flickering light. So is mine, and not in the usual blanched, I-just-crawled-out-from-under-a-rock-pass-the-SPF 90 way, either. In my fantasy, I am not pale…I am golden. I am shimmering. I am luminous.
But enough about me.
Brad Pitt steps into the shower.
At this point, I make a sort of half-hearted attempt to hide my nakedness behind the curtain, but my modesty is no match for Brad Pitt’s lust. Through the steamy semi-darkness, I see his towering cock, feel his penetrating stare, sense his uncontrollable desire. My legs start to tremble.
“Give me what I want, or I’ll take it from you.” He backs me against the wall, his muscular chest barely brushing the tips of my breasts, because Brad Pitt knows how sensitive they are. How crazy a light touch drives me.
“No.” My protest is demure, feeble. It turns him on.
Without another word, he grabs my wrists and pins them behind my head. Holding them there with one hand, he slides the other one between my legs, running the length of his index finger through my silken folds. I try to get my hands free, but I’m no match for the strength in even one of his warrior arms. “What are you going to do to me?” I whimper.
“I’m going to fuck you, Erin. Right now.” He takes his warrior cock in his hand and rubs my clit with the tip. “Would you like that?”
“Yes,” I breathe, giving in to the tension coiling at the center of my body. “Fuck me. Right now.”
He slides in slowly, a little at a time, until he’s buried to the hilt, practically lifting me right off my feet. Then his cock begins to vibrate against my clit but it’s Brad Pitt so I don’t question it or anything and he’s whispering dirty words and fucking me hard and I want to claw at his perfect warrior ass but I can’t because I cuffed one hand to the towel bar behind my head with my pink fuzzy cuffs like it’s him restraining me and the other is holding my vibrator and oh god oh god oh god Brad Pitt can make me come so hard…
“Yes!” I cry out softly as the orgasm swells to the breaking point, my core muscles clenching the firm shaft of the Naughty Rabbit. “Oh God, Brad, you’re so—“
THUMP.
My eyes opened. Did I just hear something downstairs?
Fumbling with the off switch, I removed the Naughty Rabbit and hid it behind my back, as if shame would be my biggest problem if some intruder was in my house. (Actually, the thing was pretty solid. I could’ve probably used it as a weapon.) With my heart hammering in my chest, I set the vibrator down, uncuffed my hand from the towel bar, turned off the water, and listened.
Nothing.
I stayed that way, dripping and breathless and shaking for another minute or so, then I pulled the curtain aside. The bathroom door was still closed.
But I couldn’t remember locking it.
Stepping over the side of the tub with the fuzzy cuffs still dangling from my left wrist, I tried the handle. It turned easily, and the lock didn’t pop.
Omigod! My jaw dropped open and my hands flailed. I’d been so anxious to get to the Brad Pitt part of my crummy day that I’d forgotten to lock the door! I lived alone, but I always, always locked the bathroom door when I showered at night, especially if I was taking toys in with me. (After all, my mother had a key to my house.) But I’d been so worked up—and tipsy—when I came upstairs that I hadn’t done it. Note to self: three glasses of wine in an hour is too many.
Suddenly I couldn’t recall double-checking the lock on the front or back door before coming upstairs, either. Wait, had I even locked it after coming in from the grocery store? My stomach churned as I tried to piece together the last couple hours—after a late rehearsal at the studio and two difficult conversations with helicopter dance moms, I’d gone to Kroger, come home, put away groceries, and answered a phone call from another dance mom I should have ignored. Looking to unwind, I’d guzzled some wine and gotten distracted by Troy on HBO when suddenly the urge to shower with Brad took hold and I couldn’t ignore it (I wouldn’t have turned down Eric Bana or Orlando Bloom either. Sweet Jesus, all three of them in one movie…). Telling myself I deserved a little break from reality after the week I’d had, I’d poured a third glass of wine, stumbled upstairs, and dug out my personal Secret Box of Sexy from under my bed. The wine and the Box were now sitting on the vanity next to the candles in a sad little romantic display of a typical Friday night in my life.
But I had a bigger problem.
Had someone gotten into my house? Worse, was he still there? Friday night fantasies aside, an actual stranger intruding on my shower was not sexy.