My phone buzzes, startling me. I grab it just as the force of the vibration setting sends it scurrying across my desk, and tap the text message icon. My heart stumbles and a surge of hot, liquid heat sweeps through me as I read who sent the text. I tap the name and three words appear on my phone’s screen.

Mister No O’s text provides me with a much-needed distraction from my quarterly taxes. I stare at it for a few seconds. Maybe he’s decided that it’s time we have a face-to-face meeting. The prospect makes my heart pound and has me pressing my thighs together. Common sense might insist that the real-life version of him can’t possibly measure up to the virtual god my overactive imagination has managed to create, but my body doesn’t want to listen to common sense.

It’s only interested in one thing. Strange, since it’s never been excited before. I square my shoulders and make a mental note to resist the temptation of dialing his number.

I hold my breath as I wait for a follow-up text. Luckily, I don’t have to wait for long.

An unexpected burst of anticipation rockets through me. Is it possible that the mysterious Mr. No O is going to pay me a visit?

Idiot, my common sense hisses. The only thing I know about this man is that he has a voice that makes my panties damp and that he’s some sort of sex guru. He could be a serial killer or human trafficker and I just gave him an exact location.

Sometimes, like right now, my common sense is overly paranoid.

An incoming text distracts me from my inner war.

Err, strange question. Maybe I should give my common sense more credit.

I send my single-word text message.

I stare at my phone. A, that doesn’t answer my question, and B, why does he care?

Before I can shoot him another quizzical text, my cell phone chirps.

I wrinkle my nose and push my chair far enough away from the desk to look down at myself.  Right after Dan agreed to have dinner with me, and he’d jumped on the opportunity the way a drowning man leaps on a deserted island, I’d imagined dressing up to the nines. But this morning, when I took a long, hard look at my schedule, I realized there simply wasn’t time.

Deciding that the best way to save time was wearing the same clothes to both work and my date, I opted for a black, knee-length dress whose tapered skirt does wonderful things to my legs, pulled a pretty, mauve and white striped silk blouse overtop of it, and added my grandmother’s pearls. I wore my shoulder length hair loose. It was a little fancier than what I normally wear during the work day and is a little more conservative than most women wear on dates, but I was pleased with my selection. Tonight, before I leave the office, all I have to do is freshen up my make-up and swap my sensible kitten-heeled pumps with the tall pair of stiletto boots and I’ll be good to go.

Totally put-together business woman to playful sex kitten in less than five minutes. At least that’s what I’m hoping for.

Even though I’m confused about why Mister No O cares what I’m wearing right now, my fingers tap out the response.

His response appears almost as soon as I hit send. I can hardly believe he had time to read what I’d typed.

My …

My fingers fly over the on-screen keypad. I don’t bother checking for typos before hitting send. I can’t believe he suggested such a thing, but his words are right there in front of me.

Again, the answer arrives faster than I would have thought possible.

A second later, a follow-up text appears on my screen.

I should be repelled. I’ve always been a good girl, for the most part. The kind that always makes sure she has clean underwear on when she walks out the door.

Still …

I can’t deny that there’s a part of me that has kind of wondered what it would be like to be the kind of person who goes commando. And while there are some definite good points to being a good girl, following the rules hasn’t helped me much in the dating department, has it? Sometimes I can’t help thinking how nice it would be to just throw caution to the wind and stop worrying about my reputation, and just concentrate on having a good time. Other people do it, so why shouldn’t I?

I double check that my office door is tightly closed and that the little shade covers the window that looks into my office before moving behind my chair.

Heart pounding and the blood roaring in my ears, I stand up and hurry behind my desk chair before I have time to second guess myself. Panting heavily, I keep my eyes glued to the window, alert to the slightest sign of movement. I grasp the hem of my skirt, pulling it up until I can slide my right hand under the lacy waistband of my Victoria Secret panties. I tug and wiggle until they slide clear and fall down my thighs. I leave them wrapped around my ankles for a second as I smooth my skirt back in place.

I shuffle to my chair, sit and kick off the scrap of material. Now that I’m no longer wearing my panties, I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with them.

After a quick assessment of my office, I shove them into my bottom desk drawer, the only one that locks, and push them all the way to the back.

Please, I silently pray to whatever deity happens to be listening as I pick up my cell phone.  Don’t let anything happen to me that would require Tracy or someone else to search my desk before I have a chance to take those home.

I tap the phone screen with my shaking fingers, and send a text.

Oh boy!