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"This was like six years ago," Tuija says with a shrug. "Maybe the rehab actually worked."
"Maybe. Huh." Then I remember my bag. The gift. And the time. "Let me know if anything else comes in."
"Enjoy stalking Leontine all day," she says, turning back down the corridor. Her usual mocking tone is decidedly absent.
"I'm looking after my investment. Are there shareholders I have to consult before I fuck someone, too?"
Nothing. She bursts into her runway walk, probably off to multitask by sulking and bitching in the newsroom.
With the hallway empty, I take the opportunity to sneak into Leo's office. It's even tidier than the last time I visited; the boxes are gone, and her sleek plastic-topped desk is clear but for an iMac, a neat stack of papers and a bottle of cinnamon-scented hand lotion. I'd be rethinking my opinion on her alleged OCD if the upside-down roses I sent weren't stuffed under the desk at a crumpled, awkward angle.
Well, well. Hardly a display of gratuity, is it, sports fans? Anyone might think her ashamed of them. But not angry. If she were angry, she'd have just thrown them out.
This sends a ripple of heat down my spine, diffusing through my ass cheeks and warming my thighs. Other places. Heh. Little lion's taking to hoarding her obsessions like I do mine. Those chocolates came straight home.
I wonder what she'll do with this particular gift?
The black box is so smooth beneath my fingers. In some places, its pattern is slightly raised; velvet and bumps like skin under duress. Under fear. I wind the scarlet ribbon around my finger, enjoying the sight of the package beside her keyboard and the contrast between necessity and luxe.
"Can I help you?"
I jerk up, only to see Leo standing in her doorway. She's carrying a clear crate full of plastic and wires—more prototypes, perhaps—and has teased her hair back into a French braid. Shove a pair of glasses on her and she'd be some kind of Big Bang Theory porn fantasy. Not usually my type, but damn...you know how I like exceptions.
I give the gift box a pat, smiling faintly. "I wanted to leave this one myself."
"I'm not going to thank you." She eyes the box with disdain. "Also not sure how you can out-dark your previous efforts, if I'm being honest." Then she walks through, pushes me aside, dumps her crate on her desk and starts fishing around in one of the drawers, as if I'm not even there.
"Sounds like a challenge."
"Oh, goody." The sleeve of her red dress catches my bare wrist; she reaches to switch on her computer and then lingers, waiting for it to load.
She's so close now, my chest just an inch from her back. Her grown-up, spicy perfume infiltrates every breath I take and the warmth radiating from her body suffuses into mine. I bend slightly to blow along her exposed collarbone.
"Meeting later," I tell her.
"I can hardly wait," she says tonelessly. But she doesn't step away. In fact if anything, she tilts back into me, eager for touch. "Am I demoing the new camera?"
"If it works, yes."
"It's getting there. Still working on the Wi-Fi issues for streaming."
This isn't sexy conversation. There's nothing arousing about tech talk, or with watching Leo type her password in on the computer. Nevertheless, our bodies suck at each other in this hot little bubble, and seduction waits at the edges, its fingers splayed. Already, I'm hard, and I know she can feel it; what else is a man to do pressed against that gorgeous heart shaped ass? My greyest gift yet awaits her, and if she accepts...God. Rage and tension chew at my nerves.
"Aren't you going to open your present?" I ask.
"You're doing that thing again," she mutters, "where you're in my personal space."
"I like your personal space."
"So I gathered."
I breathe down on her again. Watch goose bumps spring up beneath my trail of warm air; buttery braille on her skin. "You have personal spaces that like me a lot, too." I'm tempted to hike her dress up, get my fingers inside her. Show her exactly what I mean.
She tips her chin to glance up at me. "Subtlety isn't really your forte, is it?"
"I prefer plain old lying. I'm a philistine."
"Ha."
"You say that far more than you laugh. I should be immensely annoyed by it." It's no good—my willpower this morning is absent. With light fingers, I reach down and brush the stockinged inside of her thigh. "Why am I not annoyed?"
She goes rigid. Pauses. Exhales with the weight of the world.
I step closer, cocooning her body with mine. The same fingers that caressed the top of her stocking find their way to the crease between her thigh and panties, probing until she gasps and falls back against me.
"Admit it, Leo," I murmur. "You love it when I touch you."
"I...I hate you..." she whispers.
"You don't hate me nearly enough."
Her hand finds the stiff bulk of my thigh and she squeezes, sending shocks of pleasure and adrenaline to the firm rise of my cock. "D-don't stop."
"You want me to play with your pussy, right here in the office?"
"I'm doing what I want," she breathes. "Not what I should."
I find her clit beneath the warm, damp mesh of her panties and press two fingers either side. Roll them each way, very slowly. "Open your gift, Leo."
She whimpers. "Right...now?"
"I want to watch." I drop my mouth to her throat, eager for the taste of her anxious sweat. "Do it, and I'll take your panties down."
As I continue to roll her clit, she pats her hand around on the desk.
"By the keyboard. That's it—good girl."
The scene that plays out before me is delicious: Leo, her smoked honey hair all soft and sweet under my jaw and her tight body hot against mine, makes frustrated sounds of pleasure as she scoops up the gift box and tugs at the ribbon. Her breath grows harder; her breasts rise and fall right beneath my eye line like some kind of swollen offering.
"Come on," I coax, half to her and half to the slick bud of flesh between my fingers. She keeps bucking forward, pushing herself harder against me, and I pull her clit into a pinch of a warning.
"Ow." She grinds her heel into my foot.
"Open the damn box."
After our heated discussion last night, it doesn't escape me that this might as well be makeup sex. I don't even know what to think about that.
The ribbon comes loose, drifts to the floor, and then she's folding the black lid away while I hold her clit firm and still. Then she's dropping it on the desk. Teasing aside the layers of black tissue paper I used to encase her treat.
"For my special girl." My words are muffled by her hair.
"There's nothing. I can't find—oh my G—fuck." The box falls, banging the desk on its way down and spewing its contents over the carpet. Leo jerks from my grasp in a single burst of movement, already sucking at her split finger. Wide black eyes stare at me in accusation. Not far behind her, a sliver of silver winks in the morning sunshine from its nest of shredded black tissue, a thin film of crimson dusting its blade.
"You asked me what I want," I say. "There's your answer."
She shakes her head, still suckling her index finger.
"Think about it, sweetheart. I don't go half way. But if it's what you want...I'll give you everything."
Poor girl. Her clit must still be throbbing, but she already looks drunk on the shock of her cut. Of course she knew all along what I wanted, but thinking it is one thing and seeing it is quite another.
"I can't," she murmurs. "I can't, not that..."
"What, you thought you could fix me instead?"
She yanks her desk drawer open again and wraps her finger in a tissue. "I don't know what I thought."
"Then I guess we're done here." I go to leave, but she grabs the sleeve of my shirt.
"Take it with you. I can't look at it."
"It's a gift, Leo."
"But I don't want it," she says through gritted teeth.
"Well I'm not fucking Target, and I don't do returns."
"I'm already bleeding. Isn't that enough?"
She's not even talking about her finger.
Things go a little blurry at this point. I'm not sure if she moves; all I know is she seems to rush up in my vision—probably because I practically throw myself at her. I'm aware of three things: the box lid crunching beneath my shoe. My pulse's raw stutter. And Leo, Leo gasping for breath and writhing in my forceful hands.
