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At least, that’s what I called it when we were at Knightsblood together. One day she’d be colder than frostbite to me. The next, one could almost say she was flirting. Then, inevitably, the switch would flip again, and she’d go right back to being that psycho winter witch from Narnia.
To be fair, I probably wasn’t much better. But the more time I spend working with her ten years later, the more I notice that switch.
One day, she acts like she wants to cut my dick off. The next, she’s allowing—more like begging—me to finger her dripping wet pussy before going down on her with her ankles up on my desk and her fingers tangled in my hair.
But then comes “the switch”. Not twelve hours after the aforementioned ankles-on-desk incident where she humped my tongue so greedily and eagerly, she was right back to being the Snow Queen of Narnia again.
It’s not even the switch, or the back-and-forth, that annoys the fuck out of me. Because I do not give a fuck about games.
But that is precisely what’s fucking me up when it comes to Eloise’s mood switches: I suddenly find myself giving a fuck about them.
Which, much like the random rock-hard erections the very scent of her keeps eliciting in me, is very inconvenient.
Anyway, once again, the switch has flipped. For a week or so after the incident in my office, she was giving me a shoulder colder than Sir Edmund Hillary’s or Tenzing Norgay’s when they were scaling Everest. But now?
She’s all fucking smiles. All batted eyelashes. All blushing cheeks whenever I glare at her. It’s fucking with my head.
…Both of them, actually.
And the real problem is, as suspicious as I am of her mood swings to the Dark Side and back again, I’m also fucking addicted to them. Worse, I can’t even tell anymore if it’s her suddenly being all smiles, or the head-fuck of the switch itself that I’m addicted to.
And that, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is my current headspace as I make my way through the Crown and Black offices. I suppose to most of my employees—guessing from the looks on their faces when they pass me—I look like I’m about to go waterboard someone.
The truth is, I’m thinking about Eloise. And not about waterboarding her, either. More like about clamping my lips and teeth around one of her nipples as she bounces up and down on my cock.
Which is how it is that I happen to walk right past Conference Room B before my brain catches up to what my eyes just fucking saw in there. Every muscle tenses. Stone-faced, my mind now clear, I turn and stalk back to the wall of windows looking into the conference room.
Mother. Fucking. Fuck.
Roughly seven seconds later, Gabriel looks up with a start as I barge into his office with murder on my face.
“What the fuck is that?!” I snarl, jabbing my thumb back vaguely in the direction of the conference room.
My brother arches a brow that screams “now what” as he sighs and collects some papers into a file before tucking it under his arm.
“I can’t believe I’m even entertaining this, because I have a meeting in two minutes,” Gabriel sighs. “But could you possibly be slightly more specific?”
“Happily,” I snap. “I would, specifically, like to know why the ever-loving fuck Ansel fucking Albrecht is sitting in Conference Room B.”
That’s the motherfucker I just saw sitting in one of the four-thousand-dollar, custom-upholstered chairs in the conference room.
He doesn’t deserve to be sitting in one of those chairs. Honestly, I think he’d be far better suited to the kind of chair that’s connected to high voltage wires, and instead of custom upholstery, you get a prison warden and a priest giving you last rites.
Because of all the things about Eloise to be “reminded” of, this is one I’d never need a reminder for.
He’s a part of her story I’ll never be able to forget. And I fucking hate the anger that even seeing him stirs up in me, because of what that says about me giving a shit when it comes to Eloise.
Gabriel nods carefully. “Look, I know he was a douchebag at school?—”
“Douchebag would have been an improvement.”
Gabriel chuckles, which almost makes my temper boil over before I remind myself that my brother doesn’t know anything about that night, and what I saw.
No one does.
No one but Ansel.
“Well, douchebag he may have been, and, okay, probably still is, he’s also a potential new client ready to commit five mil a year.”
