A brand-new her was breaking out, a bold woman who saw what she wanted, went after it and scored.

At least in her fantasies.

In the interest of supplying those fantasies with raw material, she copped the customer a south-of-the-border look.

And blew out a frustrated breath.

What a waste of a perfectly convincing pep talk. Not to mention a peep. The customer's conservative dark pants -- creased and casually loose -- gave nothing away.

Except her need to get some. How long ago was it that she had?

Long enough ago to dull her sharp disappointment in the activity but too soon to have rectified the sad, sad, situation.

Things were looking up there. Coincidentally, up was also the direction the tips of her nipples were pointing beneath her camisole top.

Damn, she was horny. No romance about it, she was nailing him. In her naughty imagination. And why?

This was it. A defining moment of epic proportions. No more editing herself according to the Nice Girl Handbook. Look out world. Her inner bad girl was saying it like it was.

I'm nailing him because customer dude tickles my puss-- my puss -- my puss --

No matter how hard she tried to force it out, the word remained stuck in her thoughts. Too skanky?

Too bad. Time to own it.

"Pussy!"

Sweet baby Jesus. Gaping at the customer, she blinked like mad. Had she screamed that aloud?

"Here pussy, pussy," she called to cover her Tourette's syndrome-like outburst. "Did you see my cat, sir? She was here just a minute ago..."

"Cat?" His features displaying the same deadpan set as before, he shook his head. "Afraid not."

She didn't really own a cat. Their fur made her sneeze. But her dorky save worked. Oblivious to her faux pas, the customer returned to pondering the blackboard menu on the wall behind her while she returned to pondering the truly excellent playing field in front of her.

Rivers of "inclement weather" streamed down the customer's rugged cheeks. Clean-shaven rugged cheeks. No fashionably nonchalant, yet oh-so-calculated, three-day stubble for him.

Goody. Independent thinkers played a huge role in her mental lusting. Pack mentality left her cold.

She wasn't cold now. Far from it. Fantasizing about him had made her hot-hot-hot. Shamefully hot.

Her lips twisted. Wait. Delete that shameful word forever from her vocabulary. There was no shame in fantasizing, no shame in having sticky-up nipples, just from ogling the angular set of the customer’s jaw, the strong column of his throat...

His eyes. Brown and soulful. Solemn. As if he had seen too much along the way and those sights had saddened but not defeated him. His mouth, on the other hand, was a straight edge, with a marked reluctance to lift at the corners. And she knew this why?

Because so far she hadn't dragged so much as a polite grin out of him.

JJ harrumphed to herself. So be like that. See if I care.

Only she did. She cared very much. Now that she was single again, she wanted to meet someone. And if she were obvious about it, she couldn’t help it. She was lonely. But optimistic. And willing to try on another boyfriend despite the number the last boyfriend -- the first and only boyfriend -- had done on her.

It was complicated. But experience had taught her to lower her expectations about possible lovers. The next man in her life needn't dissolve in hysterics at her corny jokes. Or make her LOL, either. He didn’t have to be handsome or tall or have perfectly aligned ultra-bright teeth. She needed something other than flash from a man. Something she’d never had before.

No, not love. She was an optimist, not a fool.

What she needed was dirty sex. Gosh, she was desperate for dirty sex. Filthy sex that had her clawing the tangled sheets. Hardcore sex that strung her up and out, and ripped her thighs apart. Practically illegal sex she’d never be able to tell anyone about, not even to make her girlfriends insanely jealous. BDSM sex involving fetishes, like leather and whips, and high-pitched raw screams she couldn’t suppress. Dominant sex that demanded not asked. Forceful sex that -- well -- forced. Wild sex that left her writhing but never wanting. She’d want for nothing with her next partner…

Okay. A party pack of condoms would be very much appreciated, any brand would do. His technique would blow her processed hair back, not the variety of rubber he used. And if that also sounded too obvious, how about this?

Hey you there with the solemn dark eyes and clean-shaven jaw. Yeah, you, I'm talking to you. In my mind. Bend me over this counter and screw me senseless. Now. Can’t you see, I’m doing a luve tango here?