Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
“Thank you,” I say, as low and soft as I can, so only she can hear.
She freezes, then nods, eyes lifting up to meet mine.
Goddamn, she’s beautiful close up, under the light. It’s like a punch to the solar plexus because she’s even more gorgeous than what was revealed that shadowy night. My mystery woman is barely five foot five in a black-and-white server uniform, and she’s got the same impossible hair—pale gold, not quite corralled by the idiotic little white paper hat perched on her head. Her black skirt is scandalously short, and the apron is crisp and starched, more theatrical than functional. Her legs are bare, smooth, pale as a secret. She’s carrying a tray of champagne flutes, and her hands tremble just enough to send the bubbles shivering.
I feel my cock start to stiffen, absurd and unignorable beneath a thousand-dollar layer of worsted wool.
For an instant, the party drops out of focus, the entire ballroom reduced to just us, predator and prey. Her lips part. She stops breathing. The tray almost tilts, but she corrects at the last moment, eyes wide and wet.
“I hope you enjoy the party,” she murmurs. Then, she moves on. I catch a waft of her as she passes—fresh sweat and perfume, yes, but underneath: the sweet, faint tang of sex. Like she’s still wearing the memory of last week between her thighs. My hand twitches, wanting to grab her, but I don’t. Not here.
There’s a woman at my elbow, a vice president of something, prattling on about “strategic partnerships.” I nod, smile, say the right words. But all my blood is pooling below the waist, my entire attention mapped to every inch of the girl’s skin. Her walk is clipped now, mechanical, like she’s on autopilot or about to bolt for the door.
Of course she has to be a student at Century. It’s so obvious I feel like an idiot. But the first time, I’d let myself believe maybe she was in grad school, or a lost TA, or at least not young enough to be a statistical liability. But now, seeing her here in the livery of Century Catering, I know: she’s likely an undergrad because a lot of undergrads do their work-study through the catering service.
She’s young. Too young. That should be a stop sign. But it isn’t. Not for a man like me.
I watch her make a slow orbit of the room, tray refilled, posture tense as a bow. Sometimes she glances back—just a flick, but enough to register. Once, she passes within arm’s reach. I brush her wrist as I take a glass; her pulse is rabbit-fast.
“Thank you,” I murmur, soft enough that only she can hear.
She flushes, looks down, and scurries off.
I adjust my cufflinks to hide my own trembling. My cock is already half-hard, insistent, an ache that won’t recede no matter how I grit my teeth. The women who approach me, who want to play the cat-and-mouse game, now seem painted and shrill, their beauty cartoonish compared to the natural golden glow of the girl in the server uniform.
The men are worse, all slaps on the back and “Good man, Tom!” The Head of Development, sweating through his shirt, congratulates me on “rescuing the college.” The board chair, a balloon of a man, wants me to run for Governor of Minnesota. They talk about legacy and leadership, but I know what they really want: more money. More opportunities. More everything. But it bores me because I have other fish to fry.
Across the floor, the blonde is at the bar, bent over a ledge, pouring refills with hands that still shake. Once, she wipes her cheek with the back of her hand, and I realize she’s probably exhausted. She’s here to work, and yet I’m ogling her like a lech. Hell, I am a lech.
I want to go to her. I want to kiss her neck, whisper into her ear, and then bend her over the table and take her right here, in front of everyone. I want her to moan my name as she pulls her ass cheeks apart, allowing my dick into her secret space. The fantasy makes my vision go sharp at the edges. Instead, I move through the crowd with the discipline of a sniper, tracking her by peripheral vision.
We play our game. She pretends not to see me, I pretend not to see her. She darts away if I get too close. It’s a ballet of avoidance and approach, a ritual as old as the building itself. But every time our eyes meet, the current between us doubles in voltage.
The other women—Candace, the redhead, the president’s assistant—try to intercept. I give them polite smiles, nod, never quite say no. I’m sure they’ll find other men. I’m sure their husbands don’t care, and frankly, neither do I. Because the real quarry is the blonde, and every second I’m not with her is wasted.