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We dress in silence, neatening each other up. I straighten his tie and push back his hair; he pulls my skirt up over my shirt, smooths it down my thighs, and wraps his arms around me to zip it up at the back. When his lips touch my jaw, I giggle because it tickles and immediately feel shame for finding joy with him after such a sordid act.
He kisses my lips, biting and sucking at my lower one, smiling too like he never has before.
“I adore you,” he breathes, kissing me firmer immediately afterwards. “Everything about you.”
“I adore you too,” I reply, feeling my eyes fill with tears again.
“We’ll talk later, okay? After work.”
I nod, pulling him back to me for another kiss. I don’t want to lose this feeling yet, not yet. The euphoria of the most incredibly intense sex I have ever had in my life and probably ever will have is still lingering and though the shame is there it doesn’t outweigh how amazing I still feel.
He hums against my mouth, gripping the curve of my back. He’s hard again, his cock throbs impatiently between us.
There’s a knock at the door forcing us to rip apart.
I open it, smiling at his business associate. After I’ve greeted him, I turn back to Mr. C and watch him tear up the envelope that I put back on his desk after helping him pick up his belongings before we dressed. He said he wanted to see me in my lingerie for as long as possible. I granted him that wish.
He tosses the remnants of my resignation into the trash and winks at me after looking me up and down with heavy eyes. I feel thoroughly undressed and caressed again.
“Morning, Mr. Freeman. It has been a while.”
I leave his office, leaving them to their business.
I’m still throbbing between my thighs. How is that possible?
Chapter Twenty-Five
Our bodies fit perfectly together.
“Hungry?” Ezra asks after leaving his office with his briefcase in his hand and his jacket slung over his arm.
I nod. I’m not actually all that hungry but we do need to talk.
He winks at me and nods for me to follow him.
I was going to anyway, he’s my ride since I have no car.
We walk side by side to the elevator, I tap on my phone, finishing a few things that I didn’t get a chance to finish today.
He doesn’t stand close to me, doesn’t touch me, doesn’t speak to me. It’s as though now that we’ve had sex, everything has become taboo in public.
“What do you feel like eating?” he asks, and desire flares up in me again.
“I don’t mind. I’m not really hungry.”
“I’m starving,” he answers, grinning at me. He looks so content and boyish, like he just had the best birthday of his life, age nine. “Tacos?”
“Sure,” I murmur, and the elevator doors open. He guides me out with a hand on the small of my back and even just that touch feels so forbidden and arousing. As if sensing it too he glances at me, his smile gone, another more feral look in its place.
“Or we could skip dinner,” he suggests as we walk through the crowded lobby. Everybody is leaving for the day.
“We should discuss the… umm… offer that we received today. Dinner sounds like a good place to discuss it.”
“Okay, Miss Cryptic,” he mutters in my ear. I shove him away from me, laughing, feeling a little bit more like the version of me before I had sex with my married boss on his desk like so many fucking fantasies on the internet. “Should we make our own code?”
“Absolutely not,” I hiss, feeling panicked. I bite hard on my lip and click my fingers continuously. He allows it, likely daring not to touch my hand in front of everybody who knows who he is and that he’s married. Before, when we casually touched, it was innocent, there was nothing going on so if people questioned it our answers would be genuine. Now though… now if people question it, we’d have to lie.
It’s insane how just one action can flip your entire relationship into something totally different.
We make our way to his car in silence which is parked at the front of the lot. He has his own reserved space by the building. I have my own next to his. Or I did, when I had a car.
He opens my door for me and waits for me to climb inside, then rushes around to his. We sit for a moment, watching other cars line behind us, their headlights blinding me in the rearview mirror.
“You look distraught.” And he has finally broken the silence, with the wrong word.
“Confused,” I correct, “conflicted, ashamed, angry, sad…”
His face falls. “That bad, huh?”
“But also, elated, relieved, passionate…”
“I th—”
“I’m terrified too. Of you. Of me.”
