Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 22583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
I should be annoyed. I mean, he’s rude, impatient, and impossible to please. But I’m not. Or, I am, but only in the way that makes me want to lean in and argue more. The more he pushes, the more I want to push back. And that’s starting to bleed into other thoughts: what it would feel like to be pinned against that glass wall, what he’d sound like in bed, and whether he’s as bossy naked as he is in a boardroom.
I shake myself. This is not the plan. The plan was to impress him, get a solid reference, and move up the ladder somewhere less unhinged.
I pull up the next call on his calendar, dial it, and buzz his office. “Your two o’clock is ready,” I say.
He picks up, voice low and gruff. “Send them in.”
I stand, straighten my skirt, and ignore the tremor in my knees.
One more meeting, I promise myself. Then I’ll get a grip.
But when he walks past, so close I can smell that clean, spicy cologne, my hands shake just a little on the folder.
Goddammit, I think. This was not supposed to happen.
By the time I’m done wrangling Declan’s inbox and cleaning up after a city council disaster, I’m running so hot that my lips buzz every time I close my mouth too hard. I keep looking up from my keyboard, expecting to find him lurking behind my glass partition, but he’s gone into one of his closed-door rages with the IT contractor. If I ever want to survive this job, I need to figure out how to reset my system before I do something reckless, like unbutton my blouse just to see if I can break his goddamn poker face.
At exactly thirteen-o-eight, I snag my purse and duck into the ladies’ room.
The McDaid Security ladies’ room is probably the nicest I’ve ever seen, with marble counters, gold fixtures, and spa-tier lighting. I choose the stall at the end, lock it, and let my spine melt against the cool tile. My hands shake just a little as I dig through my bag for anything to fixate on that isn’t the heat in my stomach or the memory of Declan’s hands on mine.
I stand there, breathing slow and even, like I’m prepping for a presentation. It takes almost a full minute for my pulse to drop under one hundred twenty. I count tile grout lines. I try to list the names of every US President in order. None of it works. All I can see is the way his mouth moved when he said, “You’re good at this,” like it was both a threat and a promise.
I want to scream. Instead, I press my palms to my cheeks, then force myself to unlock the stall and face the mirror.
My hair looks okay, but my skin is flushed, high on my cheeks and down my throat. I run cold water over my wrists until the tingling goes numb, then blot my face with a paper towel. The chill helps for maybe two seconds.
That’s when I catch myself in the mirror and realize I’m still trembling, a livewire in a buttoned-up suit. If I don’t get this out of my system, I’m going to melt down in front of the entire floor.
I stumble back into the stall, my legs trembling like a fucking earthquake, and collapse onto the closed toilet lid. My skirt rides up my thighs, exposing the creamy skin of my inner legs, and I don’t even bother to adjust it. Fuck modesty. The air is thick with the scent of my own arousal, and I can feel the slickness pooling between my thighs, soaking through my panties like I’m some kind of desperate slut. Which, let’s be honest, I am right now.
I listen for footsteps outside, but it’s dead fucking silent. Everyone’s at lunch, stuffing their faces while I’m here, about to stuff something else entirely. No excuses left. No one’s coming to save me from myself. Good.
I slide a hand under my skirt, my fingers trembling as they hook into the lace of my panties. I yank them to the side, and the cool air hits my pussy like a slap. I’m so fucking wet it’s obscene. My juices are practically dripping down my thighs, and I can smell myself. The heady mix of musk and desperation makes my clit throb like a heartbeat. I bite down on my lip so hard I taste blood, just to keep from moaning loud enough to bring someone running to check on me.
I drag two fingers along my slit, slow and deliberate, savoring the way my pussy clenches around nothing, begging to be filled. My clit is swollen, aching for attention, and I circle it with my fingertips, teasing myself until I’m panting hard enough to make myself dizzy. I close my eyes, and the fantasy takes over, hot and immediate, like a porn reel playing in my head.