Page 142 of Theta

I feel ya, girl. I nearly put my eye out on the treadmill the other day because I thought I could sprint.

Spoiler alert: I cannot sprint.

I'm sneaky, I'm silent, and I can steal your wallet out of your hip pocket while looking you in the eye. I can shimmy up and down drainpipes like a spider monkey, disarm laser tripwires, bypass alarm systems, hack into security cameras, and lay out men thrice my size.

I cannot sprint. At least not without knocking myself out, that is, and it’s kinda hard to flat-out sprint for your life while holding down several pounds of tit.

I'm only twenty-two percent into this audiobook, and the hero and heroine haven't even fucked yet, so I'm guessing this one is a slow burn. Which is good. I like a good slow-burn romance novel once in a while, mainly because I just don't understand it. If you want to bang someone, bang them. If you don't, don't. The whole will-they-won't-they thing is just confusing to me. But then, the will-they-won't-they part is really about the luh—nope. Try again.

Luh—I gag. Nope.

I can read about it, but I can't even think the word. Probably some sort of Pavlovian thing Bob put in my head through his Jedi mind trick psychological warfare bullshit.

Or maybe it's just me.

No, my boss's name is not Bob, it's Robert Antony Millpark Robards the Fourth. No, really. I've seen the passport and birth certificate, and it is his real name, because he's rich and powerful enough that he can do all kinds of totally illegal shit with complete impunity.

Such as employing me to do the shit he hires me to do…

Such as stealing a thumb drive containing half a billion dollars in crypto from a vicious, murdering, reputed-to-drink-the-blood-of-his-enemies Romanian warlord.

So yeah, I call him Bob because he hates it, as in with the fire of a thousand suns. And I live to annoy the ever-loving shit out of Bob, because I'm a tricksy, impossible, obnoxious bitch like that. He may have quasi-raised me, he may have let me live when he could have killed me, he may have given me not just a life but a career—of sorts—that I love and am damn good at…but my god is he an insufferably uptight son of an actual bitch.

I've met his mother, and she's the bitchiest bitch to ever bitch. Elizabeth Bathory, who? JKLOL…mostly.

I actually start to feel drowsy as I listen to my book, but then a bell dongs balefully somewhere in the house. Ionescu taps a key that puts his computer to sleep and pushes to his feet, muttering, “Finally."

He strides to the French doors of his office and throws them open, standing in the opening waiting. A few seconds later, a stunning woman appears from the stairwell, which I can just barely get a sliver of a glimpse of through the crack. She's tall, brunette, gorgeous, and has taken "improbably well endowed" to a medically inadvisable level. Or, at least, inadvisable according to the laws of physics. Although, based on how little those beach balls move as she playfully shoves Ionescu backward, physics doesn’t apply to that much silicone.

I can't not watch, okay? If you were stuck in this leather-stinking closet, you'd watch too. And by the way, who the fuck has a closet full of leather jackets in their office? That's just weird.

She shoves him backward, grinning like the cat who ate the canary, doing the whole silly catwalk strut where she dramatically places one foot directly in front of the other in her four-inch stripper heels. Six-inch? A lot of inches. Props to her for rocking them, though, and for being able to do that walk in stiletto heels like that.

I fall on my ass in anything bigger than a wedge.

Anyway.

Back to the show.

She uses a single index finger to shove him backward until he hits the desk, and then she does the whole overly dramatic porn thing where she pets his chest in a way that's probably meant to be sensual or something as she drops to a squat in front of him, unzipping his slacks—and damn, girl, drop it like it’s hot in those heels? Okurrr.

The obvious happens, then. She makes a hell of a production of it, and she was clearly trained in the fine art of fellatio by pornography directors, let's just put it that way.

Not gonna go so far as to say I'm better at it than her, but all that drama is just unnecessary, I've found. Every man I've ever gone down on has left singing my praises and begging for more. A little bit of plain old hawk-tuah and gobble-gobble does the trick just fine, I’ve found. I don't go in for all that nose-nuzzling-the-shaft and deep throating till I gag nonsense, and I really, really don't do the tongue-out-come-on-my-face-daddy bullshit. Fuck that. It's sticky, it smells weird, and the texture is…no. Just no. Nope. I'll swallow all night long, and you'll thank me for it. But facials like that? No way. Not this girl.

And my god, does she take a hell of a load; I mean, damn, Ionescu, lay off the horny goat weed. Her face looks like a milk commercial gone very, very wrong by the time she's done taking it—my hiding place has a side-on view of the desk, which means I can see him, her, his penis, and her mouth taking it, the hinky whole business.

The real irony is that my book is still going in my ear, and at nearly the same moment as Ionescu blows his wad, so does the vampire professor. Although his load goes on the plucky heroine's tits, which is something I don't mind allowing. I don’t love it, but if you really, really want to? Fine. But it's weird. How is that better? Does it, like, do something for you? Whether it's the face or the cleavage or wherever, why? Why on me? I don't get it. It obviously feels fucking amazing for you when I take you down my throat, so why would you want to pull out of my hot, wet mouth at the last second and finish anywhere but down my throat? Seems dumb to me, but then, I'm not a man. And men are, as we all know, exceptionally stupid whenever their penises are involved.

Which is all the time. Hopefully you got that joke on your own. If you didn't, you're probably a dude.

God, I'm bored.

The, um, festivities progress apace; to his credit, Ionescu returns the favor.

They fuck on his desk.

And the floor.