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Well, I brought this on myself. If I hunched a little, he wouldn't notice, probably. They were barely B-cups. With a fortifying breath, I slipped out of the hoodie, one sleeve at a time and over the head last to make absolutely sure my T-shirt didn't go along for the ride. Just because I really liked this guy's eyes and voice didn't mean I wanted to flash him, and he also didn't need to see the little pouch of my belly.
I loosely folded the hoodie and put it onto one of the trays, sending both into the x-ray machine. Next, I toed off my fake Vans to do the same with them. Dark blue panty hose, knee-length dark jeans skirt, and the gray T. I wasn't going to win any pageants today, that was sure.
"Step onto this platform, facing this way."
I did, standing before him in my T-shirt, looking at him waiting for new instructions, and feeling like an idiot for some reason. At least the platform was made of some foamy material that warmed right up under my near-naked soles.
"Feet a little farther apart."
I widened my stance slightly.
So much for the hunching. I lifted my arms and felt the shirt stretch just a little over my small chest, and the material brush against my nipples. Correction: Now I felt like an idiot.
The thought must have shown on my face, because Campus Security dream boy smiled a little. "Good girl," he said.
"Ha!" I gave a single, sarcastic laugh and grimaced at him. "Very funny. Do you 'attaboy' every guy who comes through your, uh, little cubicle?"
"Only if they follow instructions as beautifully as you do," he replied.
Yeah, I had nothing.
He commenced to pat down my arms, starting with my right, moving from hands to shoulder, then switched over to the left.
"I feel like this is a little excessive, don't you?" Man, his hands were big and warm. He wasn't wearing gloves but I was trying really, really hard not to notice it. "I mean, it's not like I could be hiding a baggie full of anthrax in my sleeves right now. You know, because I don't have any sleeves."
"Just being thorough," he said and slid his fingertips into the hollows underneath my arms. I inhaled sharply at the ticklish sensation and at the thought that he must be feeling the small damp patches there, on my skin and on the seams of my T-shirt. I wasn't an excessively sweaty person and I did use soap and deodorant, but today was a relatively warm day and my hoodie was made for chilly Midwestern springs, so the little spots were inevitable.
Also, the touch and closeness of this random guy definitely drove my body temperature up.
"You are Ms Wilkinson, aren't you? Isobel Wilkinson? You were one of the suspects for a long time," he said, and my heart stumbled, undecided whether I should be delighted that this handsome stranger knew my name and could identify me, or horrified that a) he knew my name while I didn't know his and b) that he thought I could be a freaking terrorist.
"Uh, yes, that's my name, and yes, I was. I didn't do anything, though." Why did that practically sound like a confession? I huffed. "I would never do something like that," I finished lamely and shut my mouth before the lady did protest too much. Instead, I focused on keeping my arms in a perfect T-shape and looked at a spot just above his shoulder as if my life depended on it.
His hands swiped down my sides all the way to my hips. Next, he used the outer edge of his hand to wipe down my front - one, two, three swift movements from my chest down to slightly below my navel, exactly to the area of my body that suddenly felt expanded, like there was a hollow that had just formed there and now pushed outwards.
My cruelly ignored tits still tingled with the fleeting contact, and my nipples tightened like little knots.
His palms flattened against the front of my skirt. The material was too thick and sturdy to really feel his touch through it, but I saw. I saw. The visual of his big hands lying flat against my abdomen burned itself into my memory.
He went to his knees and came face to face with my middle - I forced my eyes up and away before