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“Ohhh.” I arched and slithered to bite his exposed neck, tasting the bitterness of his fragrance on my tongue and teeth. “This is insane.”
“Why does he call you Gidget?” Trent asked, strumming on every nerve in my body like a violinist. A hot wave of pleasure was brewing in me, ready to crash. My toes curled.
“Huh?”
“Bane. He calls you Gidget. Why?”
“Why are we talking about Bane?” My annoyance almost caught up with my tone. Almost. I knew Trent. He was a stubborn jerk. He wasn’t going to back off. If anything, he was going to deny me another orgasm, and this time I was going to kill him for it. No one in the world other than Jesus Christ himself was going to deny me this orgasm. Especially not some rich jackass in a suit—someone I’d promised myself I’d never be associated with in the first place.
“Gidget is a term for a small female surfer,” I bit out, as his fingers started slamming into my G-spot brutally. He was relentless. True, Trent didn’t kiss me, but his whole body did. It was glued to mine, and I felt him everywhere. The orgasm claimed me like a storm, starting from the bottom and working its way up until every hair on my arms stood on end. I clutched his broad, muscular shoulders and squeezed his waist between my thighs, the intensity of my climax momentarily blinding me.
But he wasn’t done.
Trent grabbed the back of my knees and raised me flat on the printer, my back against a warm stack of papers. He spread my legs wide, throwing them over his shoulders and nudged my panties aside, not even bothering to remove them.
“What are you doing?” I murmured, horrified. I was still coming down from the high. It was difficult to find my footing when every organ and system in my body was still busy recovering from what might have been the most brutal orgasm I ever experienced.
He didn’t answer me. Just stared intently at my bare pussy, slowly pushing his forefinger into me. He then pulled it away, coated with my lust and wetness, and sucked on it hungrily, his eyes still dead on my pussy.
“I ask myself the same fucking question every time I touch you,” he muttered to himself.
He didn’t look horny. Or delighted. Or turned on. But disturbed.
My already cherry cheeks reddened further. He’d shoved his whole hand into me less than five minutes ago after blatantly breaking the company rules by shutting down the security system on one of the most sensitive floors in the building, and he was bothered by this?
“You just fingered a teenager to orgasm.” I licked my lips, taking control and nudging his hand away from my pussy. I yanked my underwear back in place and jumped down from the printer. My panties were soaked and uncomfortable.
He matched my steps easily as we walked to the door. Before we got out, he switched the cameras back on and punched his phone screen a few times. “Joe? Yeah, Trent Rexroth. I think the CCTV system shut down on the fourteenth. Need you to check it. I just passed by the security monitor and saw that it was blank.”
Oh, God. He was such a sociopath. And I was in so much trouble.
We walked to the elevator together.
“You go first.” He shoved his phone into his front pocket, his cool tone and fuck-everyone attitude on full display now.
“Where are you going?” I asked, walking into the open elevator.
As the doors started sliding shut, he said, “I’m going to jerk off until my dick falls off. With you in my mind, on my fingers, and my lips, Edie. Teenager or not, you’re about to do a lot of grown-up stuff with me.”
SEVEN DAYS HAD PASSED SINCE the mail room incident. A whole week without Trent’s hands on my waist, spreading my legs, twisting my hair, claiming my body in ways I hadn’t known were even possible. After that Monday, I’d spent all Tuesday with Camila and Luna. Jordan seemed content with this arrangement, immediately reading between the lines and wanting in on the conspiracy. We girls went shopping for clothes for Luna, and even though Camila cringed at the girl’s tomboy tendencies, I was actually pretty impressed with Luna’s individualism and encouraged her to try on the silver Converse she eyed with a smile or those little black jeans that were ripped at the knees. Trent couldn’t meet us, not even for lunch, because he was in meetings all day out of the office. The thought of waltzing into his office after I came back from my time with Camila and Luna occurred to me, but I dropped the idea, knowing for a fact now that he had cameras around the place. And it wasn’t just that—it was also the guilt. The nagging, awful guilt that told me there should be a separation between when I hung out with his beautiful daughter and when I let him finger me until I reached ecstasy…to when I stole from him, handing my findings to my father.
