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I mean, really. The guilt is almost nonexistent lately. Maybe that’s because, ever since that one crazy Wednesday night where I jumped on a jet in the middle of dinner, Ben and I haven’t spent any time together.
That needs to change, I think to myself Sunday evening as I’m gripping my phone tightly awaiting yet another flirty text from Ben while watching my roommate kick some poor guy’s ass online on his Xbox.
The flirty text comes just as certainly as the last fifty did.
I’m unstoppable, I’m shameless, and I have no regrets.
No regrets at all, even when Monday rolls around and Ben innocently slips into the copy room to check on one of the fax machines for no reason at all. Well, for one reason: me.
“Excuse me,” he grunts under his breath as he reaches across me—obviously just to torment me with his mere proximity—to check a cable that runs along the copier table. “Totally don’t mean to invade your space,” he assures me casually as he gets on his hands and knees and follows the cable under the table.
Which brings his face right around my crotch.
I bite my lip and pretend to ignore him.
He pops up at my other side, still following the cord. “Thanks for your patience,” he mutters into my ear as he leaves.
“No problem, boss,” I toss over my shoulder, catching him just before he vanishes. Was it as good for you as it wasn’t for me? I think to myself with mounting sexual frustration.
He’s making me so infuriatingly hot and bothered at work.
I can’t go much longer without having another night at Ben’s house. I’m going to have to think of something—and soon.
Y’know, before my nuts swell so big that they collapse into a black hole and swallow Earth intact.
It’s Wednesday morning when half the interns are busy at the computers googling clients. Two have been sent on an errand in the city, last I heard. And remaining at the intern table, Elijah and Ashlee work with me on sorting articles by date.
Did I mention I’m right between them in a very leave-room-for-Jesus sort of way?
When Ben enters the office, I’m the first to notice. At least, that’s what I tell myself every day as I lift my eyes from the table and watch him strut by in his fitted blazer, black dress shirt, and hot pink tie. His cocky smirk is so up-to-no-good that he’s popping a dimple, and as he passes by, his scorching eyes flick over to our table and meet mine powerfully and knowingly.
Then in a voice as smooth as silk, and without interrupting his sexy strut, he greets us: “Elijah. Trevor. Ashlee.”
“Sir,” mutters Elijah, wide-eyed.
“Morning, Mr. Gage,” returns Ashlee brightly.
Our eyes never unlock from one another as he passes. I give him just a curt nod. “Boss,” I mutter for a greeting.
Ben’s fierce eyes twinkle with amusement as he continues on, making his way farther into the office. Rebekah and two other supers find him, and then he’s followed by a cloud of questions and reports as he circles around the cubicles, patiently addressing each of them as he goes.
Yes, I watch him long after our eye contact is broken.
“He remembered my name,” whispers Ashlee at me excitedly.
“Mine too,” boasts Elijah, having overheard the whisper, “but I wouldn’t expect anything less. Boss man knows what’s up in his house,” he adds with a sassy accent. “He knows who the cool cats are.”
Ashlee snorts at him. “Is that so, Elijah? Is that why you haven’t been called to participate in one of his meetings yet?”
I chuckle and put out a hand for a low-five, which Ashlee is all too quick to give, smiling cheekily and letting out a tiny bark of victorious laughter.
Elijah smirks sourly at both of us. “Yeah, yeah, you two can laugh all you want. He’s just saving the best for last.” He puffs up his chest as he shoves an article into the June folder.
Ashlee leans into me and pokes a thumb toward him. “Watch out for this one. Mini Brady-in-training over here.”
“Do not compare me to that cherry Pop-Tart,” Elijah sneers.
My pocket vibrates—a text message from my phone. Since I’m sandwiched between these two (and am fairly certain who the sender of the text is), I can’t safely look at it. Even though I just abbreviate him with a “B” in my phone, my fellow coworkers can still read its contents and might be able to deduce a few things. Just that slight, terrifying possibility makes my butthole pucker.
Even though Brandon also begins with a “B”. And Brady.
And Ben.
While Elijah and Ashlee continue to tease each other, I feel the buzz from Ben once again. I know it’s a total figment of my imagination, but the vibration from each text he sends seems to get more urgent. By the time he shoots me a third text, I shut my eyes, feeling like he’s causing my pocket to vibrate on purpose.
