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Dirty Girl
Evangeline Anderson
(c) 2006
ISBN 1-59578-207-9
Dirty Girl
Evangeline Anderson
Published 2006
ISBN 1-59578-207-9
Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509
Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © 2006, Evangeline Anderson.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or
otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
Manufactured in the United States of America
Liquid Silver Books
Tina Burns
Cover Artist
April Martinez
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of
the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual
events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
Dedicated to my wonderful editor, Tina for picking my baby up out of the dirt,
washing her face, and making her presentable to the general public. Thanks for all your
hard work. This book couldn’t have been done without you.]
Chapter 1
The Dream
Rough yet gentle hands caress my breasts. A hot mouth covers mine with soft kisses
and then moves down to tease my nipples with a tender but insistent tongue. He sucks and
nips my aching buds until I think I will go crazy with wanting him.
His mouth moves down further, leaving a trail of fire along my navel and hip bones,
until he reaches the center of my need. Oh, God! He parts my thighs and the warmth of
his breath blowing across my heated flesh is almost too much to bear. He spends an
eternity kissing my inner thighs, the stubble of his five o’clock shadow scratches at my
tender flesh until I’m moaning and begging him for more.
Teasingly, lightly at first, he kisses the outer lips of my sex, the same tender way he
kissed my mouth. He gathers my hips in his large hands and pulls me to him, as though
he is dying of thirst and my pelvis were a bowl of clear water. He parts my lips and
begins to taste me in earnest.
I gasp in pleasure, gripping my lover’s thick black hair, arching my back
shamelessly to meet his exploring tongue and ride his mouth as he draws magical figure
eights around my swollen clit. He thrusts his tongue into me, penetrating me gently but
forcefully, stripping away the last of my dignity as I cry out for more, cry out for him to
bring me to the edge and push me over…
I woke abruptly, tangled in the sheets and breathing heavily. The dream still hung
over me like a cloud, cluttering the inside of my head with confusing images. Groaning, I
rolled onto my right side to glance at the bedside clock. Surely I had managed to get two
or three hours sleep this time?
“Damn!” Not even one hour since the last time I had awoken in the grip of that awful
dream. Three a.m. and no sleep in sight. I felt exhausted, but turning over and trying to
get back to sleep wasn’t an option right now. I’d only wake up again forty-five minutes
later thrashing and moaning, clawing the sheets…
A quick trip to the bathroom and a glance in the mirror over the sink showed my
blonde curls in a hopeless tangle, and bags under my bloodshot blue eyes Samsonite
would be proud of. I needed a hot cup of herbal tea. In the past, I had sometimes been
able to break the odd spell the dream had over me in this way—by taking a small break
from sleep. I threw on a robe and ran my hands through my hair. I sighed heavily and
padded to my kitchen to put on the kettle.
As the tea steeped I considered my predicament. How long had it been since I had
had a decent night’s rest? Two weeks? Three? It seemed like an eternity since I had slept
the night through and it was starting to affect my performance at work.
Phillip Paxton, my partner of six years, had already tentatively asked me once or
twice if I was all right, but I’d quickly rebuffed him. Phillip was a topnotch profiler—one
of the best in the country—and I didn’t want him inside my head. He didn’t know about
my strange recurring dream and he didn’t need to know either.
I shifted uneasily on my hard, wooden dining room chair. The ornately carved dining
room set had belonged to my grandmother—a rather puritanical soul. In light of that fact,
the chair hardly seemed the correct place to sit with the dream’s disturbing images still
trapped inside my brain.
Abruptly, I picked up my cup and retired to the cozy armchair in my favorite nook of
the living room. I had bought this chair myself and it felt more comfortable than the hard,
cold wooden one anyway.
“There, Kate.” I curled into a comfortable ball with my feet tucked under me in the
overstuffed armchair. “Think as many dirty thoughts as you want to. This is the place for
it.” Except lately, any place seemed to be the place for it. Because the damn dream
wouldn’t leave my head.
It’s funny really because usually dreams are so fleeting. You wake up, even from a
pretty horrible nightmare, thinking, “God … I’ll never forget that!” But by the time
you’re in the shower with hot water running across your skull, it’s melted away to
nothing and you can’t remember a thing. But not this dream. This dream—or should I say
the dream—went clicking through my head twenty-four hours a day until lately I thought
I was going to go crazy. I mean, I could never completely get rid of it—the details, the
images in my head were like a murmur, an undertone to all my other thoughts. And the
thoughts and images weren’t the worst either.
No, the worst was definitely the constant state of arousal I was in lately. From the
dream? I didn’t know. Can someone be bombarded with sexual images and thoughts all
day and not become aroused? It didn’t seem likely, but for whatever reason I felt like a
goddamn cat in heat lately and I had for the last three weeks ever since the dream started.
And what’s more, it was getting worse.
“What’s wrong with me?” I asked myself for the umpteenth million time. “I know
it’s not physical…”
I knew that because the battery of blood tests and the MRI brain scan I ordered for
myself the week before had all come back negative. Being an M.D. does have its
advantages, even if my work as a pathologist with the District of Colombia’s serial killer
division did mean most of my best work was done on corpses.
But all the tests I had ordered had come back completely negative, nothing wrong
with my body chemistry, and no brain tumor to explain my strange dreams or my mood
of late. The fact remained that I was constantly, continuously aroused and thinking of
sex. That, coupled with three weeks of sleep deprivation, was beginning to wear me
down. No, scratch that, I was already worn down—almost to the point of a breakdown
even. But what could I do? It was just as bad when I was home as it was when I was at
work—worse maybe. At least the work distracted my mind.
“This must be what it feels like to be a man. Always horny. My God, how do they
stand it?”
I took another sip of tea, concentrating on the hot, soothing liquid running down my
throat. And what did men do about it? Hell—what did anyone do about it when they felt
this way? Well they … took care of themselves. Well, let’s not put too fine a point on
“They masturbate, Katie.” I said aloud to the empty room. “Why don’t you try it?”
I knew why, though I was thoroughly ashamed to admit even to myself that a
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