I turn my head forwards, looking at the open doorway opposite me and chew on my nails again. Has my spurned match found a way of getting out of his contract? Is he a gazillionaire and can stand to lose the money of the ridiculously high breach of contract fine? I don’t know whether I’m sad or glad. If he doesn’t turn up, does that mean whatever farce is going on here is over for me because I’ll have no spurned match to face? Will Mr. Snail tear up my contract? Fat chance. There will probably be small print in the small print stating in the event of such an occurrence, I’ll be forced to work in the whorehouse.
Then a flash of green jumps out of the doorway. The mate I spurned stands feet astride in the circle outside his door, panting. His four eyes are wild and he’s gritting his fangs. The numerous dangly things on either side of his face that turned my stomach in his profile picture are moving frantically, as if they have a life of their own. The jumpsuit he is wearing is only pulled up halfway and the arms of it dangle redundantly by his sides. I can’t stop my curious eyes from checking out the expanse of his chest and shoulders. I lower them to his arms to see why he hasn’t worn the top half of his suit, and I’m astounded when I see the reason.
He has some kind of webbing that is attached from his torso to the upper part of his arms. I follow the edge of the webbing, noting how sculptured his arms are, but I also see his hands are curled into tight fists. Why does he appear to be angrier than the other men? Is he about to give me more than a piece of his mind for turning him down? Tear me a new ass hole? I can’t meet his gaze yet, just in case he does. I need to steady my racing heart, so I lower my eyes and they stray onto his equally sculptured legs and up to his…oh my God…very well formed bulge.
I’m mortified. My eyes even steered in that direction and flick my head up. Our eyes lock—all six of them. His nostrils are flaring. He still hasn’t calmed down. His eyes release their hold on me to return the eye roaming gesture to roam slowly down my body. I raise my arms from my midriff and cover my breasts, but his eyes continue to roam south, landing on the apex of my legs. There, they linger far longer than necessary.
I glace down at myself and I’m horrified to see I have a camel toe.
I release one of my arms from my bust and yank the offending jumpsuit material out of my pussy lips, cringing inside. When I look back up, the wild look of rage in his eyes has been replaced by another look—desire. Shame the attraction isn’t mutual.
A three foot high holographic image of the app owner’s alien gastropod face I wanted to melt with salt and slap into oblivion an hour ago but was too scared to, suddenly materialises in between the men and us.