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And how can my heart race in anticipation when there is absolutely, positively, no way in the world this is going to happen? It’s wrong.
Damn it, it’s exciting. And what’s the worst that could happen?
Am I actually entertaining this idea?
“How often are you in town?” I ask.
He chuckles at my sudden question before lifting one muscular shoulder. “Rarely. I don’t normally show up in person for meetings, but I had a few things I wanted to work out in person. Otherwise, I’ll dial in through Zoom if I have to dial in at all.”
He tips his head to the side, chuckling again. “You want to make sure we’re not going to run into each other after this?”
“What about it?” I demand, lifting my chin. “What, you think I want to bump into you after this?”
“You just might. You wouldn’t be the first woman who couldn’t forget me.”
Forget him? That would be impossible, but he doesn’t need to know that. He’s already full of himself as it is. “You’re underestimating me.”
“Am I?” Though he’s not wearing a watch, he checks his wrist. “The clock’s ticking. This offer’s only good for another thirty seconds, so you’d better make up your mind or else get ready to be kicked out on your ass.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “And there are so many other things I’d rather do to it.”
Damn him. And damn him for making me seriously consider this. What is wrong with me? I should slap him across the face, then drive straight home.
But that would mean admitting I failed, and I can’t fail. Not when I came so close to having everything I wanted.
And the more I look at his body—how can I help it?—the more reasonable the whole thing seems. Isn’t this what they call closure? It could mean getting him out of my system once and for all. Not like I’ve been obsessing over him for eight years, but let’s face it: working for his company, even if I don’t see him face-to-face, I’ll still have reminders of him. Why not have a few good memories to look back on?
I’m trying to convince myself. I can’t believe I’m actually trying to convince myself.
“You are a terrible person,” I tell him as if he didn’t already know.
“I like to see myself as persuasive.”
All I want to do is wipe that arrogant smirk off his face. Instead, I suppress an eye roll. “Fine,” I blurt out before I lose my nerve. “Okay, I accept.”
His laughter is rich, almost enough to get me to laugh along with him. “There you go, acting like you had any choice. But fine, if that’s how you want to play it, thank you for accepting.” There’s still humor in the way his lips twitch, but I have to ignore that, or else I’ll risk ruining all of this. I can’t believe I’m letting him do this to me.
Who am I kidding? I want this just as much as he does. When he narrows his eyes and purses his lips thoughtfully, just the idea of the filthy thoughts that could be running through his head right now is enough to spread warmth through my core. My pussy starts to moisten, and my nipples go hard in what I’m glad is a padded bra—he’s already got me at a disadvantage. I don’t need him seeing the very obvious effect he has on me.
How does he do it? He hasn’t laid a finger on me, but I’m already yearning. It’s like the years between then and now melt away, and I’m that nervous, shy, nerdy girl with a crush on the most unattainable boy imaginable.
The only difference is the hunger in his eyes. The way his towel shifts, and heat flares in my face when I realize why. He’s getting hard. For me.
“So? What happens now?” I ask with bravado I don’t feel. “What do you want from me?”
“That’s what I like. Somebody who’s ready to get down to business.” I only blush harder, which makes him laugh. “Relax. I’m not going to ask you to do anything you won’t enjoy.”
So he says.
“Take off your clothes.” My heart skips a beat at the sudden seriousness in his voice. Joking time is over.
“All of them?” I ask after gulping.
“You’re going to take a shower. And I’m going to watch.”
He wastes no time, does he?
I could still back out—no, I can’t because this job means everything. It occurs to me I should have had him put something in writing, but we’re past that point now. The tension in the room is so extreme I can hardly breathe as my trembling fingers begin working the buttons on my blouse.
