To make matters worse, Liam was a real piece of work today. First, he jumps down my throat for being late once—once!—then he’s tearing into my recruitment strategy only to pull a complete 180 and green-light the whole thing. And some of his weird comments . . .
Make it make sense, man.
I hate this hot-and-cold bullshit. It’s like he gets off on jerking me around. Maybe it’s some kind of twisted power play, a way to assert his dominance and remind me who’s boss. Well, newsflash,asshole, I know you’re the boss. No need to mindfuck me to prove it.
I grab my wine and head into the living room, Winnie hot on my heels.
Maybe I should book some time off. But who am I kidding? I’d probably end up on some overpriced beach, one eye glued to my work phone as it buzzes with endless “Hey Gemma, sorry to bother you on holiday, buuuut. . .” messages. And they’re never really sorry, are they?
With a groan, I flip open my laptop and dive into the tech team’s latest intranet updates, which, of course, include yet another round of workplace policy changes for me to review. Another ball dropped.
I’m skimming through page after page when McLaren’s face pops up. Even in his sterile company headshot, he’s not smiling. His lips are twitching like someone tried to teach him the concept of joy, but it looks more like he’s in physical pain.
He’s wearingthatvest. That vest that clings to his muscles, like it was specifically designed to make ovaries release eggs on sight.
All right, I’ll confess. Fantasizing about McLaren is my guilty pleasure.
If that headshot was a Tinder profile, I’d swipe right so hard I’d get thumb burn.
Not that I’d ever breathe a word of this to another living soul. I’d sooner streak through Oxford Street on a Primark sale day than admit to anyone that Liam McLaren stars in my personal spank bank material. I absolutely loathe myself for it.
I must be ovulating. My cursor hovers over “next,” but I can’t click. My traitorous body is responding to his digital presence like he’s right here in the room with me, those piercing eyes burning into me.
I side-eye Winnie, who’s giving me a judgmental stare right back. She knows. She fucking knows.
I have work to power through here. But . . . maybe it’s time for some self-care first. A little “me time” to take the edge off. God knows I’ve earned it after the day I’ve had.
“Winnie, I need some private time for about . . . seven minutes,” I announce, shooing her judgy ass into the kitchen and closing her in. “Then we’ll cuddle up and watch whatever you want. Even that David Attenborough mouse documentary you’re obsessed with.” That cat has a weird fascination with watching her prey in high definition. It’s like she’s studying up on their habits.
She lets out an indignant meow that sounds suspiciously like “you disgust me.” I ignore it. She’s just jealous because she’s been spayed and can’t get her rocks off anymore.
I head straight for my bedside drawer, rummaging through the graveyard of tangled chargers and those useless under-eye oil rollers that promise miracles but deliver disappointment until my fingers close around my new vibrator.
“Hello, friend. Ready to escort me to Pound Town once again?”
The vibrator, being an inanimate object, doesn’t respond. But I like to think it’s just playing hard to get.
I return to the living room. Yes. I should be masturbating in my bedroom, but the sofa is really comfortable.
I sink back into the couch cushions, flicking onEastEndersand cranking the volume up loud enough to drown out any unseemly noises that may ensue. The last thing I need is a noise complaint from the neighbors. “Yes, hello, police? I’d like to report a woman having a very aggressive wank next door. It’s disturbing my peace.”
As the raucous tones of angry cockneys shouting at each other and beating each other up fill the air, I close my eyes and let mymind drift to deliciously panty-dampening places as I switch on my special toy.
I apply it precisely where I know it needs to go, because I’m all about efficiency. Though in my current worked-up state, I may have overestimated with that seven-minute timeline for Winnie—this could be a five-minute job. Three, if I really put my back into it.
I turn it on to the first setting, and yes, that’s the sweet spot right there.
I picture McLaren—no,Liam, looming over me in that glorious vest, his muscles tugging against the fabric.
He’s got this nose that’s all kinds of wrong but so very right—that sexy bump giving it some rugged, masculine edge. Maybe it’s been broken once or twice, and he probably deserved it.
And those full, lush lips look made for wrapping around a girl’s clit. Throw in those brooding features—the heavy brows, the piercing eyes, the shadowy stubble perpetually dusting that chiseled jaw—and you’ve got a man’s man if I ever saw one.
Fantasy Liam rips open his vest and shirt like some kind of superhero, too wild with desire to care about his custom-made suit. I greedily take in the dark hair that trails down, down, down to the promised land.
His eyes dark with desire, his voice all Northern guttural growls as he pushes up my pencil skirt and stretches me over his desk and . . .
Oh. Ohhh yesss.
