“Oh. Right,” I say. “So you knew.”
“Is that why you don’t expect a second date?”
“Mr. Fowler—”
“Colt. We’re not at work anymore. Call me Colt.”
“Colt,” I correct myself, staring into those honey-brown eyes as I shrug. “People don’t want to be with the sick girl.”
“Frogs?”
I smile, feeling some of the tension roll off of me. “Frogs.”
4. None of the above.
I give him my address and we cruise through the parking lot. I watch him as he drives – his left elbow propped against the door of the car, hand resting against his chin. His right hand controls the wheel, his hand moving flat against it as he makes turns. Those veins in his arms flex androll against his skin as he moves. I can’t help but imagine that hand wandering over to me, squeezing my knee, trailing over to my thigh. Moving up, up, up until his fingers…
Oh my god, Rowan, he’s forty.
I cross one leg over the other, squeezing my thighs together, and I force myself to look out the window, away from those arms. My own arms wrap tightly around me as we cruise down the streets.
Pulling up to my house, I sigh when I realize that Dad’s car is in the driveway, parked off-center and almost sideways. He’s drunk again.
“Thank you,” I say to Colt, reaching for the door handle. He opens his door and steps out, and I try to stop him. “Colt—”
Before I can even finish my sentence, he’s already run around the front of his car, opening my door for me. I smile as I take his hand and let him help me down, then grab my stuff in my arms and start toward the door. I can feel him behind me, walking closely enough to be on the lookout, there if I need him, but not so close that I could have reason to file a complaint at work.
I turn to him at the door and say, “Thank you…sorry I called you a frog.”
He laughs, just a little. “I’m glad that you did. I was being a frog.”
“Well, this rescue mission was very princely,” I tell him, heat rising to my cheeks in a flush.
“Goodnight, Rowan.”
“Goodnight, Colt.”
As he walks back to his car, I fumble to get my keys in the lock.
I beeline straight for my room, not stopping to find my dad or check on him. He’s not going to ruin this feeling for me. Not tonight.
Flopping down on my bed, I grab my pillow and stuff my face into it, letting out a squeal. God, I feel like Ihave a schoolgirl crush on this guy. Myboss. A man only a few years younger than my own father. But the feeling of his finger under my chin, the way his eyes sparkled into mine, I didn’t make that up. My mind drifts back into that car, the thought of those strong, veined arms touching me. Warming me up. Teasing me.
Alone in my room, I let that fantasy take over. I let myself imagine him keeping one hand on the wheel, his focus on the road ahead of him as he puts a hand over my knee. I think about a thumb lazily drawing circles at the side of my knee, taunting, teasing, until he slides that hand slowly up my thigh, playing with the hem of my skirt. In my mind, his fingers find home between my legs, seeking me out as pressure leads to a throbbing need for his touch. I slide my own hand into my panties as I think about his hand doing the same, fingers toying at my clit as it throbs, and I let out a soft moan into my pillow, sliding a finger inside.
“Colt,” I gasp, “oh, that feels so good.”
I work my finger, matching pace with Colt, until my hips start to rock against my hand, sending lightning through every nerve in my body as I pant into the soft cushion of the pillow. He feels so good, he knows exactly what I need and his only goal is to make me feel good.
His fingers would be bigger than mine – I need more. I slide in a second finger, joining the first, and groan at the sudden fullness of it, giving myself a few strokes to adjust to it before I find my rhythm again. As I reach the edge, pressure building inside me like a volcano ready to blow, I think about those eyes on me. Watching me as I coast over the edge, letting the eruption rock me as I come, moaning and crying into my pillow.
Still catching my breath, I hurry to change out of my clothes and bury them in my hamper – not that anyone but me will see the evidence of my orgasm, but I’m suddenly full of shame. He’s my boss. He’s forty years old. This is so wrong.
EIGHT
Rowan
The sound of the fire alarm screaming through the house yanks me out of my sleep and I jolt out of bed, barreling full-speed down the hallway and into my sister’s room.
