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My hands under that tiny crop top, pushing aside her bra, teasing her nipples until she's panting and groaning.
Until she's begging.
Until she's so fucking wet I can feel it through those tiny shorts.
Fuck, I come so hard I see white.
I don't want to break her heart.
But there's no fucking way I'm letting this end without getting her in my bed.
7
Lacey
All week, I try to keep Mal and the Hurt Me, Baby video out of mind.
I fail epically. Of course, Mal is texting me about everything and nothing.
I'm only human. I text him back during breaks and at night.
I text him at the gym.
I text him at red lights.
I text him between episodes of Futurama, during opening and closing credits of every old Hollywood film I watch, and during commercial breaks.
And when I'm supposed to be replying to Carrie.
And when I'm supposed to be working.
My job doesn't demand too much, mentally. It's mostly grunt work. Even so, I'm too far off in the clouds to do my best. I flip the caramel to vanilla ratio in Danielle's coffee. I drive to the wrong dry cleaner. I call a drama queen rapper by his rival's name.
Friday, I get to work determined to get my head in gear. No rock stars on my brain. Well, besides the one I have to research for Danielle today.
No thinking about Mal rolling around in that messy bed.
No thinking about Mal pinning me to the wall as his lips brush mine.
No thinking about his lips, period.
Danielle isn't here. She's at some meeting—she goes to a lot of meetings. It's just me and the computer and the big, empty room. The bed is gone. Everything is gone. Everything but this desk.
I try to stare at the monitor, but my eyes refuse. They want to stare at the footage. At Mal. I want him in my bed, stripping for me, kissing me, wanting me.
No pretending.
No business.
Nothing but our bodies.
Fuck, I need to get a grip. I suck down my iced green tea then suck on an ice cube.
Bad move.
It's only filling my head with delicious mental images.
Fuck it.
