Honestly, I don’t even recognize myself. Who makes a decision like that? Obviously, someone with the blind confidence of a woman who’s never met shame.
I was possessed. Rabid. Possibly concussed. Drunk. Tipsy?
Nope. Horny.
No doubt about it. There’s nothing else I can blame this on except raging hormones. And maybe that dimple.
Definitelythat dimple.
Groaning, I slump over the tiny café table outside my office, my forehead thunking against the cold metal. I deserve punishment. If karma had any decency, a sink would fall from the sky and crush me on the spot.
Of all my problematic life choices, this one ranks somewhere between giving myself side bangs in ninth grade and telling my grandma her famous potato salad tasted like feet. I’ve never actually tasted feet, but I’m confident they would’ve been less… rubbery
Clutching my latte like it’s my emotional support beverage, I sip. It’s useless. Caffeine can’t compete with lust-fueled psychosis.
I’m sitting here like an over-sexed feral goblin, replaying it all on a loop, dissecting every sound, breath, and whimper like it’s the goddamn Zapruder film.
Did I moan too much? Or too little? Was the finger fucking supposed to ruin me like that, or am I over the top fragile with a clit that knows no chill?
Dear God, the dry humping! Was it enthusiastic or just... tragic?
Is there a proper technique I missed in health class? Because if so, I need the syllabus and a certified instructor immediately.
Shit, what if I peaked in that bathroom?
Taking another long, shaming sip of my latte, I close my eyes.
I am never recovering from this.
I should be thinking about high-level meetings that could make or break my career. Or the literal job that pays my bills.
But no. I’m sitting here wondering if Nolan is also experiencing a post-hump existential spiral. Is he sitting in his corner-office throne, staring out the window like a man who’s known my thighs? Who’s tasted sin and can’t go back?
Jesus. I need therapy.
“Get it together,” I mutter. “You are a smart, competent woman. You are not going to be undone by one man’s hands. Or mouth. Or cock. Or—ugh—those unfairly hot forearms.”
I groan again, because I’ve officially become the problem.
He could ask me to burn my career to the ground in exchange for one more round against that sink, and I’d be asking if he wanted matches or lighter fluid.
My phone buzzes. Laurel.
Come see me.
I toss my latte in the trash like the broken woman I am and stand up.
Time to pretend I’m not absolutely incinerated inside.
The invitation rests on Laurel’s desk, printed on thick ivory cardstock with a foiled teal border and embossed rose gold lettering that catches the light like it’s been kissed by ambition.
Everything about it screams important right down to the velvety texture of the raised font beneath my fingertips. It feels like success. Like pressure. Like déjà vu.
I should be ecstatic. This is exactly the kind of opportunity I’ve been chasing. A dream client. A high-stakes pitch. A chance to remind the industry that Rorie Adams still knows how to win.
But instead of excitement, my chest is tight. Because I’ve stood herebefore. Dressed up in potential. Full of promise. And I walked away empty-handed.
Thanks to Big Stream.
