Hands so impatient, so passionately eager, are running themselves up and down my pinstriped grey skirt. While my body, is being kept so sensuously still by a possessive and muscular frame. Our breaths are hot, just like the air all around us. Closing my eyes, I tilt my neck, giving permission for his lips to do some amazing things to it. That mouth, that cushioned mouth doesn't hesitate to do what my throat is so longing for it to do. Lips so soft, sweep themselves slowly across my electrified skin, causing me to exhale with breathless and giddy exhilaration. I need that mouth. I neeeeeeeeeed those lips upon my own. So I grab the face, desperate to kiss the owner of those tasty, delectable lips. "Mitch!" Slips from my mouth as an aroused and demanding whisper. "Kiss me, Mitch...kiss me now!"

Jarred awake by the heart-stopping digital shriek of my alarm clock, I lie in my bed with blood rushing to my just-woken head. Running a shaky hand through my tangled mass of dark hair, I groggily mumble. "Shit!" Inhaling hard, I'm trying to calm my heartbeat that's still thumping so hard within my chest, I'm also trying to make sense of the dream that I've so hornily just had.

There was me.

There was Mitch.

Passionately getting it on.

Oh my days, we were soooooo getting it on.

Rubbing both my cheeks, I'm slowly beginning to wake up more, slowly remembering more of Mitch in my dirty dream. Since walking out of his hotel room five days ago, those dirty dreams have become quite a nightly thing.

The dreams are always different.

Dreamt in different and sexy ways.

But always with Mitch.

Mr Hollywood, he sure has put himself inside of my imaginary knickers. I'm so sexually frustrated, I have been out running every single day; just to burn off some of the randy tension inside of me. Not even my shower head, with the lovely warm water that sprouts out from it, has been safe from my horny-filled mind.

Never, and I mean never, has a guy got to me so much.

Yet Mitch, he kind of has.

Which is so damn ridiculous. I was the one who walked away from him, and I still stand by that decision. Walking away, it was the right thing to do. As utterly charming as he was, it was right to not get involved with Mitch. I mean really, how do ordinary people like me realistically fare when venturing into whatever I would have been venturing into with someone so hugely famous as him? I don't think people like myself, would fare all that particularly well. It's just the way it is. Famous and non-famous, they often don't work. Which is why famous people tend to stick with other famous people; it's just easier, I guess?

Not that I'm a woman who shies away from hard work. I thrive on hard work. It gives me a great deal of satisfaction to know that I've had to slog out my guts, to get something I really want. But that's only with my professional life. My personal life is much simpler—because I don't have that much of one.

I'm a career gal. My career, it's my life. Before that, books and education were my life. Everything that I now have, is down to all of the dedication and the hard work that I've so tirelessly put in.

Relationships are something that I really don't care that much for. I've had a few, they've not worked out, so I've just carried on with the rest of my busy life. I'm not one of those women who will cry into her wine over a break-up. No, I'm the kind of woman who will crack open a bottle to celebrate that break-up. I treat them like I do a business venture—some work out, some don't.

I just think that I am too much of an independent woman for most guys; particularly those who are the same age as me. At twenty six, I have a lot that others don't—financial security, a home, a successful business, fierce professional motivation and drive, and womanly maturity—that can shrink many a testicle, let me tell you.

Men, they like to be needed.

They like to be depended on.

They like to be wanted.

I'm just not that kind of girl. If and when I need a man, it's just because I need a man. I don't need their money. I don't need their protection. I would simply just need them. I would only need them because they are able to make me laugh, or they can converse interestingly well, or even, they just excite me.

That is what I want, a man who knows how to be a real man. I'm not interested in men who have the mindset of a pubescent boy. For me to have an ounce of confidence in them, they need to have great confidence in themselves. And such men, they are few.

Hence why I have never been in love and doubt that I ever shall be.

I just don't know whether there is an ordinary man out there, with big enough balls, to take on the ordinary but fiercely independent me.

Mitch Heston probably ticks a lot of my 'man requirements', but he's Mitch Heston. He's famous. Stupidly famous. So famous, that even his toe nail clippings are deemed just as famous. That kind of fame, is just too big to even contemplate...even for me.

Yet my dreams...yeah, they're totally having a horny Heston party.

And it's those dreams, that are making it so damn hard for me to leave Mitch back in his hotel room at Fort Lodge five days ago. Those dreams, they just keep reminding me of his body being pushed warmly against mine. They taunt me with the memory of how his azure eyes bore so deeply into mine with a carnal craving veiling both of his irises. They also keep replaying some of his poignantly spoken words, over and over, I keep hearing them.

So, I work.

I run.

I work some more.

Then I run some more.

I'm doing all of that to forget. To forget Mitch. To move on. But every time I fall asleep, the dreams of him return. They keep returning. Night after night, they keep returning. Then I wake up, say shit again, ponder whether I should just have some fun with the shower head and it's lovely warm water, before the whole pattern starts again.

Yeah, Mitch Heston....

.....he really has put himself inside of my imaginary knickers.