Totally firing me.
“Okay.” I set my tote on the desk, trying to look casual.
“Last night.” He pauses, and his jaw tightens. “Is that going to be a problem?”
The question lands like a slap.
It’s the way he says it.
Like he’s asking me if I can handle a difficult client, not if I’m going to be okay after he made me cum two times on his desk last night.
“No.” My voice comes out more confident than I feel. “Not a problem.”
“Good.” He nods once, then opens his laptop again.
Dismissed.
Just like that.
I stand there for a second, blinking, before my brain reminds me to sit and start working.
So I do.
And the entire day is torture.
Because I’m aware of every movement he makes. Every time he shifts in his chair. Every time he reaches for his coffee. Every time his fingers brush the keyboard.
Aware of how badly I want him.
It’s like someone cranked all my senses up to ten and forgot to give me the manual.
We barely speak. Just the minimal necessary words.
“Can you pull up the Morrison contract?”
“Got it.”
“What’s your read on clause seven?”
“Unconscionable. We should challenge.”
“Agreed.”
That’s basically it. That’s the extent of our communication. All business. All of it.
No personal observations.
No coffee banter.
No accidental smiles.
It’s exactly what we agreed to, and I hate every second of it.
By the time I drive myself back to my resort in my rental car, I’m wound so tight I could probably snap in half.
Four more weeks until the contract ends.
Then we reassess, like I told him.
