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“You’re a dick!”
“As long as it’s a big one. Not even the Army could shrink my manhood, Snoopy.”
“Oh my God! Just shut up and let me finish or it’ll be dinnertime before we get anywhere, and I’m starving.”
His low, thrumming laugh drifts into the room, barely muted by the walls between us.
“As you wish. Get clean.”
He’s so dutifully quiet for the next five minutes that I’m almost suspicious. But I finish washing up and rinsing my hair and then make short work of wringing it as dry as I can.
I give it a quick run through with the blow-dryer so it won’t clump, leaving it loose and wild so the rest air-dries.
I’m reaching for the pile of my clothing when my heart stops.
Oh, no.
Oh, hell.
I didn’t.
But I did.
I forgot panties.
Craaap.
Everything else is there—bra, shirt, shorts, but no flipping panties.
“Um. Roland?” I clear my throat.
“Yes?”
“I’m going to need you to move away from that door and close your eyes.”
He lets out a barking laugh, short and startled.
“Move? Why?”
“Because I, uh, forgot something I need and I...I need to come out and get it. I don’t need my boss seeing me in nothing but a towel.” I’m almost snarling, mortification wrapping me in a chokehold.
“Tell me what you need,” he taunts. “I’ll pass it through the door without looking. I promise.”
“Oh my God, no!”
“So,” he rumbles slowly, a hot edge creeping into the laughter in his voice. “Panties or bra, then. Which is it?”
“Roland Osprey!”
“She uses my full name. I shiver,” he snarls back. “Would you like the middle name to complete the trifecta?”
“I hate you,” I grind out.
“Liar. You’ll have to do better.” He lets out another deep laugh. “My eyes are closed. I promise. And it’s Clarence, by the way.”
“You’re still too close to the door, Roland Clarence Osprey. And you’re still a dick to me.”
“Does it matter what I am as long as my eyes are closed?”
“...I’m going to kill you.” Groaning, I drop my face into my palm. “Fine. Whatevs. Just don’t open your eyes until I say so. If you peek, there will be bodily harm.”
He doesn’t say anything.
I have to assume he’s complying, but I still make sure my towel is tucked tight, hitching it up over my breasts and making sure the bottom covers other essential areas before I creak the door open and peer out.
And I nearly jump back like I’m on fire when I find him so close I’m almost nose to bicep with his arm.
He looks like dangerous, gravity-defying sex incarnate, leaning against the wall with his arms folded over his chest until the muscles strain.
I hate him.
I hate him with passion.
And I hate him even more when his head turns toward me with his eyes closed. Because I feel like his eyes are burning into me anyway as his lips pull up in a mocking, dark smile.
“Might want to hurry,” he teases. “It’s taking all my willpower to hold still.”
“Oh, screw you,” I gasp—and his laughter follows me as I scurry across the room to my bag, grabbing the first pair of panties in the side pocket.
Then it’s a wild scramble back to the bathroom.
In less than thirty seconds, I’ve shut myself back inside with a hard slam of the door, panting and clutching my panties to my chest like a marathon trophy.
Said chest nearly splits open and dumps my heart out when Roland’s voice slips under the door.
“Black lace,” he purrs. “Nice choice.”
“I—you—I said no peeking you, fucking snake!” I strangle out, hand over my throat, my pulse rabbiting wildly against my palm.
“Oops. I suppose you’ll have to punish me.”
The Iron Maiden. Plutonium poisoning. The Judas Cradle.
I can’t think of any punishment ever invented that’s worth spending an entire day with Satan—who now knows, in all his infernal wisdom, what color panties I’m wearing.
I need a paper bag to breathe in.
I don’t even know what to say.
I just don’t.
I’m hot all over, and I don’t think it’s all embarrassment.
I just...I can’t right now.
So I don’t.
Still tingling, I just get dressed, throwing on high denim cutoff shorts. They’re extremely short with ragged trails of scraps trickling down my thighs.
I pair them with a black lace bra—at least I accidentally match—in halter style. Comfortable, but with enough coverage to be decent.
My shirt is a sheer, mellow peach peasant tunic. Loose enough to slip over my shoulders to shimmy around my body, and translucent enough that the bralette’s meant to be seen through it.
A breezy chic summer look.
But suddenly, with a strip of my waist left bare where the tunic falls short and the outline of my body becomes visible past the sheer fabric, it hits me over the head.
I feel naked, knowing I’ll be showing this much to this maniac all day.
And I can no longer trust he won’t be looking.
Deep breaths.
This is just two colleagues hanging out for the day, even if I’m not sure what made him decide to give me the grand tour.
