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“Yeah?”
I ignore his weary tone. “I’m going through the contracts for our recent acquisitions. Where are your notes?”
“Fuck.” There’s a few scuffles and curses. “Shit, I must have given Lainey the wrong file.”
“You dick.” I stand, gathering up the contracts. “I’ll have Gina bring them back.” Dropping the phone into the cradle, I pace across my office and swing the door open. No Gina. My shoulders drop. “What’s with everyone today?”
I stride toward Sal’s office, but come to an abrupt stop just past the printer room.
Oh boy. Keep walking, Christianson.
But I don’t. Instead, I reverse my steps and slowly turn my eyes. Lord, give me fucking strength. I bite down on my teeth as I stand in the doorway, my eyes rooted on the smooth expanse of a pretty fucking amazing arse. She’s on her knees, her backside jutted out, her hand reaching into the bottom section of the photocopier machine. For the first time since I’ve set eyes on this woman, my instant reaction to her presence is anger. Deep-seated, pure, uncontrollable anger. Because I fucking hate her. Hate her for ruining my sex life. Hate her for being so fucking beautiful. Hate her for having an unreasonable, unrealistic romantic notion of Mr. Fucking Perfect. Hate her for making my heart ping. Hate her for reminding me of my dad with her mushy words. Hate her for being here and not calling in sick so I can’t fire her gorgeous arse and then fuck her in apology.
“What did you do to it?” I ask, forcing my feet forward to join her at the machine. She looks up at me, her mouth hanging open. There’s something rather subservient to her being on her knees before me.
Christianson!
“I did nothing.” Her eyes drop to my crotch, and my anger diminishes in a split second, turning into fear. Fear that my dick isn’t just pulsing, but evidently pulsing. She coughs and darts her eyes away. “There’s a paper jam.”
In an attempt to distract myself, I drop to my knees beside her and muscle her out of the way. “Let me,” I order harshly, frowning at the mass of mechanisms before me. I see no paper jammed.
“Good night?” she asks.
“Pleasant,” I reply shortly. “You?” Why the fuck did I ask that? I snarl as I push and pull at something big and important looking, but the damn thing doesn’t shift.
“Pleasant,” she murmurs, and I see her drop to her arse, her legs bent back, her palm planted in the carpet to prop herself up.
“Always pleasant,” I mutter, just as something I’m tugging dislodges and I fall back, landing on my arse too. “Fuck.”
Lainey starts laughing, and I look at her, pissed off, but the sight—the vision—it sends my forced cold approach plummeting into awe. Shit, I swear, I could listen to her laugh all day long, and watch her for longer. There’s something pure about the sound, something rare, as if she doesn’t do it often. “I’m here the same time tomorrow,” I quip.
She gathers herself and casts her stunning blue eyes onto me, the aftermath of her chuckles still present in the form of a heaving chest. Or is that something else? My gaze drops to the plunging neckline of her pencil dress, watching as her breastbone rolls heavily. “Me too,” she answers quietly. I flip my eyes up and catch hers, the sparkle dizzying. Oh fuck. Every fucking fantasy starring the goddess before me is currently dancing before me. Vividly. Erotically. And then she blinks and inhales, as if catching a breath, and my heart, my stupid, motherfucking heart, folds in half and compresses.
I. Am. Dead.
“Lainey,” I whisper, swallowing as I study the perfect form of her lips.
“Ty,” she replies, low, husky, and full of want.
Our eyes meet, and silence stretches. And before I can stop myself, I’m moving forward, closing the distance between our mouths. I’m done with restraint. Go to hell with it. I just want to kiss her. So much.
But she’s an employee! I shoot up from the floor, trying to breathe through my instant panic. I think about the other week, how I couldn’t reach climax with Pamela. How I saw Lainey’s face as she rode me. How I imagined it was her fucking me and not Pamela. And then with Polly last night. My distress. My desperation to just fucking come already. What if I can never orgasm again? What if Lainey’s gorgeous face taunts me constantly while I’m screwing women, reminding me that I can never have her? And I can’t, as long as she’s working for me.
“Ty?” Lainey whispers, and I blink, looking down at her crouched at my feet. “Okay?”
Do I fucking look okay? No, I expect I look like a man on the edge. And I’m going to plummet soon. “I need to sort this out,” I say to myself, determined, marching off on heavy feet, leaving a startled Lainey behind.
