My fingers hover over the phone. I text Turner.
Me: Status, please. Don’t fuck this up.
Seconds pass. No response.
I shove the phone in my pocket and stand, my spine crackling under the motion. I stretch, rolling my neck, then move to the window and peer out over the empty driveway. My mind mentally places Dr. Willliams’ SUV back where it was parked, and then places her back at my breakfast table.
Bent over. Ass up. Which I know would be agreatfucking view.
My hands fist at my side, the primal, unfiltered part of me angry that I don’t already have her fucking bent that way. I lean my forehead against the cold glass for a second and let the hurt get burned off by the shameful spike of that image.
It could maybe be just sex…That’s all it ever is for some, with women who can’t get close enough to hurt them. But something’s different with me. If it doesn’t mean anything, then it’s not worth the effort.
And that’s why I’ve been alone so goddamn long.
But I still can’t stop thinking about her, and I don’t want to admit it, even in the privacy of my own head. I can’t let myself become one of those pathetic divorced assholes who catches feelings for the first semi-pretty woman to walk into their kitchen.
Though, I’d hardly say she’ssemi-pretty.More like a fucking knockout.
I angle my chin up, catch the icy black reflection of myself in the glass—a man with too much mileage, his jaw set like concrete, every line in his face the result of some fight or somesleepless night. I look like a man locked out of his own damn house. Or his own life.
But goddamn, my dick is rock hard anyway. I storm back to my office and shut the door, letting out a heavy breath as I unzip my jeans.
Don’t be a fucking perv, Cal.
But I can’t help it. I can’t stop the image of Jenna from filling my head again, this time, those tight jeans dropped down around her ankles. Precum oozes from my tip, and I wrap my hand around my shaft.
I stroke myself slow at first, thumb circling the head, mind replaying the way her hair slipped from its clip, the way she bit her lip and stared at the table instead of me. Every part of me wants to bend her over my desk and fuck her until she breaks.
And then begs me for more.
I pick up my pace, my hand working up and down, picturing those stormy eyes finally looking up at me, the resistance gone. In my mind, she doesn’t say some smart thing to escape the moment…
She just fucking kneels and opens her mouth, waiting.
I grunt, the sound punched out of me, and then freeze.
My phone blares obnoxiously in my pocket.
“Fuck,” I mumble, dropping my dick like a teenager caught red-handed and reach into my pocket. Turner’s number lights up the screen, and I swipe to answer, while using my free hand to put myself away.
“Uh, so,” Turner starts before I can even say anything, and I can already hear the defeat in his voice. “This got out of hand.”
I run a hand over my face. “How out of hand?”
“I don’t know…” He pauses. “Likereallyout of hand.”
Chapter 12
Jenna
If I haveto read one more illiterate, hack-job essay on Romeo and Juliet, I might actually stab myself and join the star-crossed lovers in hell.
My thumb flicks the corner of the next essay in the stack, but my mind is nowhere near the tragedy of Verona. My mind is in the cozy, pine-scented kitchen of the Bradford home, stuck on the way Calvin’s hands gripped a coffee mug, how his voice vibrated the stem of my brain, and how he stood behind me like a watchdog.
Fuck me, why is he so distracting?
I tap my pen against the desktop. My phone is already face up to my left. I’ve set it to vibrate, but I’ve got it close enough that if it so much as lights up, I’ll hear it. I catch myself glancing at the screen every few seconds, which makes me hate myself, but that’s nothing new.
