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He doesn’t remove my underpants. He links both hands around them and pulls until they tear, dropping them to the ground.
I stare at them with surprise and impatience. ‘They were really expensive,’ I say darkly.
‘They were in my way.’
I hear him unzip his trousers, then the familiar sound of foil being torn, rubber being snapped onto his length, and then he’s inside me. No preamble, but—let’s face it—the whole morning’s been a total exercise in tantric delay. He runs his hands over my back as he thrusts into me and I splay my fingers wide against the door, my body taking his possession as though it’s what I need to stay alive.
I am hot and cold all over, and about to come when he pulls out. It is so like the torment of the day before—the utter outrageous shock of desolation—that I cry out hoarsely into the room.
‘You’d better not fucking stop,’ I say angrily.
He straightens me and turns me around, pushing me hard against the door and kissing me until my knees are about to give way.
‘Think of that as an IOU.’ He pulls away, his eyes meshing with mine. ‘One I intend to collect.’ He scoops down and grabs my underwear, dangling the scrap of fabric by one finger. ‘And no more of this.’
I gape at him. ‘Is that an order, sir?’
‘You’d better damned well believe it.’
‘Okay, I’ll call HR and have it added to my contract.’
He kisses me again and my body sways towards his; I give up the sass immediately.
‘Fuck me more,’ I say into his mouth.
‘Wild horses won’t stop me.’ It’s a growl. ‘Later.’
* * *
Five minutes later, I’m staring at my desk, a frown on my face.
What just happened?
It’s like some kind of cyclone came into the room and settled down on top of us. All that’s needed is for us to be close to one another and bam! The world loses its usual governance and we are wild, unshackled animals.
I tilt my head forward, catching it in my hands.
I’ve never felt like this.
I’ve always been able to control the men in my life, and I’ve always, always known what I want from them. Relationship decisions have, historically, been made by the same part of my brain that runs my career and all other aspects of my life.
I know some people talk about ‘love at first sight’, but that’s alw
ays been a good clue to me that those people are batshit crazy.
Oh, I’m not saying I think I’m in love with Jack! I’m sexually tormented, not a sadist, and loving Jack would be stupid. But I don’t have any brainpower or willpower around him.
He has all the power. Sex power. It makes me uneasy to acknowledge that and to accept that I would walk headfirst into whatever it is we’re doing just to be with him some more. He’s that good.
My body is a livewire, arcing through space, waiting to be grounded by him. But he doesn’t ground me—he flares me into a violent electrical storm.
I drive him crazy, too. I remember, in a drowning attempt to have faith in my own abilities, that when I went down on him he was mine. Completely.
I don’t think Jack welcomes this development any more than I do. I think his brain is probably giving him as hard a time as my own... What we had before worked. Sure, I pretty much had to pull up my big girl pants in the form of Maid Marian’s chastity belt to make sure I didn’t give in to the sexy man-pull of Jack Grant. But professionally we’re a great team.
And losing that is far riskier for him. I’ll get another job when I want one—I’m forever being headhunted, in fact.
My frown deepens as I open my second drawer and rifle through it, my fingers curling around the card of the most persistent caller. Andrew Long from Saatchi & Long. He’s offered me some seriously awesome job opportunities in the last year, and every time I demur he tells me I must be on an incredible package.
