“Where are you going?” he asked, standing up behind her. She bent over, pulling on her shoes.

“Home. Gotta get changed, head to work,” she replied. She felt his hands slide over her hips, pulling her back against him, and she glanced over her shoulder.

“Just getting reacquainted,” Ang told her. She stared at him for a moment, watched him as he looked down at her back, at her hips, his hands sliding back and forth. His voice was soft, but nothing else about him was.

Uh-oh.

“Save it for your porno, Ang. I'll talk to you later,” she said, managing a laugh as she pulled away from him. He gave her a tight lipped smile, but didn't say anything as she walked out of his room.

At home, she put on some tiny black shorts, and a cropped Red Sox jersey. Her knee high black wedge boots. Did her eye makeup extra heavy, pulled her hair up in to a “just fucked” looking ponytail. She wanted to look bad. Slutty. Angry.

The Sox had played the day before, and her jersey got a lot of compliments – as did her stomach and ass. She slung drinks and flirted a lot more than she usually did, all while watching the front door. Sometimes, on a Saturday, Jameson would come to town early, sit at the end of the bar. Watch her in a way that usually had her squirming to get him alone.

He didn't show up, but while she had her eye on the door, another good looking man walked through it. Warm brown eyes. Shaggy hair. Open smile. Broad shoulders, thick arms. She recognized him, and suddenly a thought burst in to her head.

She couldn't sleep with Ang, and since she and Jameson had started sleeping together, she hadn't felt the urge to be with anyone else. Well, right then, the urge was upon her. The man was sexy as sin, and he was a baseball player. The first baseman for the Boston Red Sox, Nick Castille, to be exact. Wealthy. Semi-famous. A challenge.

A threat.

She laid it on thick with him. Leaned over the bar to deliver his drinks, winked at him, touched Rusty inappropriately in front of him. He watched her with hooded eyes, obviously liking what he was seeing. He finally called her over.

“I like your jersey,” he commented. She spun around, showing him the back while shaking her hips.

“Good, I'm glad,” she laughed.

“But it's the wrong number,” he informed her. She turned back, sauntered up and leaned against her side of the bar.

“And what number should I be wearing?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow up.

“Mine,” he replied.

“Ooohhh, and how would I go about getting one of your jerseys?” she asked, lowering her voice.

“You could have it tomorrow, when you wake up wearing it,” he suggested. She laughed.

“Sounds like a plan.”

They chatted on and off for a while. He was actually pretty funny, and very nice. He left after about two hours, but came back when the bar was closing. She chased everyone out, locked up. Didn't even ask to go back to his fancy hotel room, or penthouse condo, or whatever. Just straddled him right on his bar stool. Gave him a lap dance. Let him carry her to a booth and spread her out on the table, like she was Sunday dinner.

It wasn't the most exciting sex she'd ever had, but it wasn't bad, either. He was different than what she'd been dining on lately, and that made it fun. He was more than capable and she really put on a show for him, coming loudly and hard. Then she backed him in to a chair, sat down on him, made him say her name like it was a swear. Slid under the table, wrapped her lips around him, and made him whisper her name like it was prayer.

I still got it.

Afterwards, he asked for her phone number. She laughed and said she didn't really plan on seeing him again. He shrugged and gave her his phone number, and then really did give her a jersey. She thought it was cute and put it on, gave him a lingering kiss goodbye at the door.

“You're a pretty amazing girl,” he mumbled, clasping his hands around the back of her neck. She laughed.

“No, just a huge Sox fan,” she teased. He rolled his eyes.

“You didn't even know any of my stats, or what my number was,” he pointed out.

“Well, I'm a huge fan now. And I will definitely remember your number,” she assured him.

“Most girls want to give me their phone numbers, you know. I usually have trouble getting away. You seem like you're pushing me out the door,” he told her with a laugh.

“I guess tonight's your lucky night. No strings attached, one night only, totally awesome sex,” she said, laughing as well. He raised an eyebrow.

“One night only, huh. So if I come back, I won't get a repeat?” he asked.

Now that was surprising. This guy really seemed to like her. She didn't know why. She was a succubus. Couldn't he tell when he was being used? That they were using each other? But as she let her eyes wander over him, she bit in to her bottom lip. He was very good looking, and it hadn't been a bad time at all. He was very nice to her. She wondered if he'd ever call her a waste of time.

“Not an exact repeat,” she started, pressing herself against him as her voice fell in to a breathy whisper. “I like to change things up, keep things exciting. There's a pool table in the back that is just the right height for -,”

He pushed back in to the bar and it was another hour before they said goodbye for real.

*

She could have gone to her apartment, but she took a cab to Jameson's. She wanted to get it over with, end her suspense. Confess to her sins. Find out if they even really were sins. It was after four-thirty in the morning, and she didn't expect anyone to be awake, but as the taxi rolled up to the porch, Sanders came outside.