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She does.
Good Lord, she does.
I’m halfway down her throat when I wake up. I’m covered in sweat and my dick is tenting the sheets, heart hammering inside my chest.
Fuck.
Fuuuuuuck.
I don’t know what the hell that was about. But I do know I need to take care of this woody or I’m never going back to sleep.
I try not to think about Nora as I wrap my hand around my length. I try very hard not to think about her tits as I tighten my grip and work myself over in tight, hard strokes.
I fail on both counts. But I do come, hard.
@WSBathroom 2/6
Calling all Middle Earth nerds: a hobbit was spotted on A&T’s trading floor this morning, complete with pointy ears.
* * *
@WSBathroom 2/6
According to our sources, the hobbit is Nora Frasier in High-Grade sales. We’re hearing she lost a bet to none other than Theo Morgan on his first day at the southern investment bank.
* * *
@WSBathroom 2/6
Also according to our sources, Ms. Frasier apparently rocked said pointy ears. No word yet from Gandalf on the veracity of this rumor, but we in Mordor believe it to be true.
Chapter Six
Nora
I walk onto the floor the next morning with my head held high. Yes, I’m dressed in a hobbit costume, but it turns out even hobbit clothes are more comfortable than women’s. No Spanx are required with breeches. But it’s my flat brown booties I can’t get over—I lucked out finding them at Target last night, and they’re so comfortable I keep forgetting I’m wearing them.
The best part? It took me all of seven minutes to get dressed and get out the door this morning. I imagined the ladies in Bilbo Baggins’ circle went for minimal makeup, so I did too. Some foundation and a swipe of mascara did the trick. Getting dressed required no brain power whatsoever: breeches, shirt, belt, boom. Considering it usually takes me a solid hour-plus to get myself together in the mornings, dressing like a mythical Tolkien creature almost feels like a gift.
“Whoa whoa whoa,” Danish says as I pass his row. “I heard about this bet you made with Theo Morgan, but I didn’t think you’d follow through. Dang.” His gaze moves slowly over my outfit, taking in every detail. “You make hobbit clothes look good though.”
I fight the urge to squirm and manage my friendly grin. “Thanks. They’re very comfortable.”
“Where in the world did you find hobbit ears on such short notice?”
I gently tap a finger against my rubber prosthetics. “Morris Costumes over on Monroe. Their ear selection is second to none.”
“Good to know. My wife complains about finding stuff like that for our sons. Kids always have to dress up for something.”
“Aw. Sounds fun.”
“I don’t get involved. I just pay the bills and keep my mouth shut.”
My grin is starting to hurt. I’d kill to have a beautiful family like Danish’s. Does he get how lucky he is to have a partner who holds down the fort at home so he can come to work in his freshly laundered shirt and slacks and not have to worry about anything but bonds? I don’t think the guy has a freaking clue.
Because I didn’t have to go through my usual shower-shave-blow-dry-curl-prime-paint-powder routine, I’m early. But Theo is already at his desk, typing maniacally as a Bloomberg message on his screen fills up with axes.
He’s wearing a green shirt again. And he’s rolled up the sleeves. Again.
Prick.
Ignoring the way my stomach does a neat little somersault at the sight of his naked forearms, I walk past him and round the row, heading for my desk. Am I pissed I lost the bet? Yes. Am I even more pissed Theo cheated? Absolutely. But I’m an expert at being the comeback kid. Just ask the twenty recruits in the Sales and Trading Analyst class I started with at A&T ten years ago. I ranked dead last in every metric: test scores from our months-long training, presentations we did in front of high-ranking managers. And now I’m one of three from our class still left on the trading floor, and the only one up for promotion to MD.
I’m shrugging out of my coat when I catch Theo glancing up from his screens. He’s trying to be discreet, but he does a double take when he sees me, coughing on the sip of coffee he’s taking.
I tilt my head and bite back a grin. “You okay there, Morgan?”
“What the fuck is that?” he asks, staring at my outfit.
I hold out my arms and spin around. “It’s my costume. The one I promised I’d wear if you won the bet, even if you did cheat to win it.”
“I did not cheat. Middle Earth people don’t wear their shirts like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like”—he swallows—“buttoned that way. And the tie thing—no.”
I gesture at the cute little knot I made with the hem of my polyester hobbit shirt. “It’s the only way I could make it fit.”
