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“And your information came from…?”
“A puck-bunny romance with very detailed sex scenes.” Her brows wiggle over the top of her mug as she takes a drink.
My mind drifts with her words, and fuck, if I can’t still feel Dan’s breath on my skin, and his deep voice vibrating in my ear as he arrogantly demands I follow his every command.
And I had. Every. Damn. One.
Looking up at my best friend, I frown. “What if a fling isn’t enough?”
“Please, great sex is awesome, but it’s not everything. You really think this jock will stimulate your mind as much as he stimulates…” She looks down, jabbing her finger to gesture below the desk.
“Blanca, I obeyed him without question, and it felt so fucking good. I never get to let go. Not here at the office, not with my family, and definitely not in my social life.” I let my head drop forward into my hands. “Wearing jeans, drinking in a sports bar and playing pool with a bunch of blue-collars last night was pushing the line as it was.” When I look up at her, she’s staring at me. “But Blanca, in his hotel room, I gave it all up and became Elle, the submissive puck bunny, and it was the best night of my life.”
“So Cindi, the future president’s daughter, what are you going to do?”
I close my eyes, grimacing. “I’m seeing him again in a few hours.”
She sets her cup down too quickly, sloshing coffee over the side. “Holy shit! You weren’t kidding when you said he was under your skin!”
I mop up her mess, shooting her a look of annoyance, and she grabs my design papers. “What’s this?”
“Nothing,” I blurt, snatching them back.
“It’s a design, Elle. You haven’t done any designing in years. What brought this on?”
Shoving the drawings in my drawer, I set my hands palms down on the desk. “I don’t know, but remember when I carried a sketchbook everywhere? I’d doodle constantly, on the backs of envelopes, scraps of paper, hell even on napkins and I loved it.”
She nods. “I remember.” Leaning forward, placing her elbows on the desk, she says, “Maybe a night of fulfilling your sexual desires woke up your passion for other things.”
I nibble the inside of my cheek, considering her words.
“You knocked the competition away and brought this company to the top, becoming the It Girl of corporate girl bosses, but it doesn’t really fulfill your artistic side, does it?”
“Right.” I shrug. “Either way, I was just fooling around.”
“When you were a designer, you didn’t have to oversee an entire company. No wonder you’re stuck on the bossy hockey player, you need a break from making all the decisions around here. Go enjoy yourself. Get him out of your system. Call it staycation sex. Like vacation sex but you’re staying here. And like a vacation, you’ll have an end date.”
Maybe Blanca is right. I don’t need to overthink it. I definitely deserve a five-star getaway under my bossy hockey player. My pussy clenches just thinking about it.
And when Blanca leaves, I waste several more minutes fantasizing about round two with Dan. Him pushing my boundaries even more, and me a very willing participant in the debauchery.
“Jesus! Stop!” I say aloud, scolding myself. I should be preparing for a board meeting full of gray-haired old men, not fantasizing, but I can’t concentrate with my panties damp and my clit throbbing, so I open my drawer and stare at my designs instead.
The stupid glass shoes are stunning. High-end. Runway shoes. The sort of design that could make or break my already successful career. But the runway was about all they were good for. But still… they were gorgeous.
Take a risk. Make the leap. You never know until you ask. Always my cheerleader, Blanca’s voice resonates in my head. I glance longingly at the rolodex on my desk thinking about last month’s red-carpet event where I’d met and networked with a few designers. Including the freaking genius, Ignacio Bonetti!
These shoes would be perfect for his winter line and he might be the one man crazy enough to try it.
Pulling the card file toward me, I let my fingers linger on the B tab.
And then I picture him laughing me into the middle of next week.
With a resigned sigh, I let my fingers walk to the front of the file, to the A section and I pull out the name of one of the designers I work with regularly.
It's really too early to make the call with the concept being nothing more than a few sketches on paper, but I do it anyway, mostly to distract myself from my wet panties, the ticking clock, and the intoxicating, off-limits, hockey player.
My proposal is met with a gasp of disbelief and a tinkling laugh. “How… how would you make them? How would people wear them? Is that even safe?”
