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There’s a damp patch on my shirt. She’s crying? Fuck.
I really am clueless about women.
“Talk to me, sweetheart. Tell me how to fix this.” Her blonde hair is so soft beneath my palm, still warm from our time in the sun. “Was it the ice pack thing? Because I can learn more about periods. I’ll go on web MD right now.”
Georgina laughs wetly, shaking her head. It’s worth playing the fool when it makes her laugh.
“I’m the worst,” she says with a sniff. “That’s the problem. Not you.”
And I stiffen against the chair, back straight, offended on her behalf. “You arenotthe worst. You are perfect, Georgina, my personal miracle—”
She sits back, wipes her face, then grabs my tie like she’s hanging on for dear life. Gives it a terse yank. “You talk such shit, Mr Laurent. Did you know that?”
Then her lips are on mine, and I don’t care that my heartfelt confession fell so flat; don’t care that she’s my assistant and kissing her could end my whole career in disgrace. Don’t even care that she’s kind of sticky.
All that matters is the warmth and weight of her in my lap. Her mouth moving against mine. The way she tugs on my tie, squirming closer, her breath quickening.
“Georgina.” Her name wrenches out of me in a tortured groan, and she whimpers in response. Kisses me harder, the chair creaking beneath our shared weight.
I’m—god. When did I put my hands on her? I’m squeezing her waist, kneading her hips. Stroking up to cup her breasts, the mounds so soft and pliable under her thin cream blouse. The fabric is tucked beneath her skirt waistband, and I tug it out without thinking, then spread my palms over her hot, bare stomach.
We shouldn’t do this. Not here. Not now.
But can I stop? Not for anything.
Not when our tongues move together, breaths mingling in the quiet air, and she’s all I’ve thought about for the last month. Not when I’m soaring, giddy, light-headed with triumph, and nothing else exists except her mouth against mine.
I worried that she hated me, honestly, butthisdoesn’t feel like hate. Even when she bites my bottom lip, she’s gentle.
“Shit,” Georgina gasps, tearing her mouth away to stare up at the ceiling. She’s rocking in my lap, the rhythmic squeak of the chair so loud in this empty room, still clinging to my tie. I trail kisses down her throat, and god. Can’t believe I get to touch her this way.
What else would she let me do? Could I—would she let me taste her?
Period.The word clangs into my brain and I huff against her throat.
Right. Not today, then, but maybe… soon.
“You’re mine,” I growl. My heart thunders as we kiss again, hard and desperate, and when she sucks on my tongue my whole body turns rock hard.
Mine, mine, mine.
Nothing else matters. Nothing at all. But when the phone rings, loud and shrill, we both jolt like we’ve been electrified.
That interview. The Tribune. Shit.
“Ignore it.” I’m already cupping her neck, guiding her lips back to mine. And Georgina sighs into the kiss, rocking one more time over the hard bulge in my lap, before she breaks away and sits back.
“No, wait. Levi. You can’t fall behind again.”
It’s true—the last month has been disastrous. Georgina has had a front row seat to the worst weeks of my career. Am I really going to mess up this interview? By choice?
“Answer it,” she says softly, smoothing down my ruined tie as if the journalist could see it through the phone. Her blonde hair is wrecked, her eyes bright. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”
Merde. Okay.
“Wait.” One arm wraps around Georgina’s waist, holding her in place. “This will take fifteen minutes. Twenty, tops. Stay with me? You can nap on my shoulder, or make a mess of my desk. Whatever you like.”
The sweetest smile passes over her face, and Georgina snuggles down. Gets comfy in my arms. My hand shakes as I reach for the trilling phone.
