And what is that top, actually? It’s much shorter and looser than what I’ve seen her wear. Every time she moves, it slides to one side, baring a round, freckled shoulder.
Still typing, she shimmies it in place, bends to grab something from a low desk drawer, and goes back to the wiggling.
Then there’s the coffee. Every time she takes a sip, I could swear she sings. There. That little sound. Was that a moan? Is she truly moaning over pumpkin spice?
There is no way the woman’s not doing it on purpose. The shimmy, the bare stripe of lower back. The peekaboo shoulders and the pleasure sounds. She’s got to be taunting me.
My brow wrinkles as I watch her move, her round figure so soft looking that my mouth literally starts to water. I’m breathing hard, thinking about the ass she’s got hidden under that pile of fabric. My palms itch to cup that curve, to absorb the jiggle from a good spanking.
After an especially enthusiastic shoulder shimmy, her curls tumble partway down, and I almost order her to put them back up. Because that throat was made for a collar. For my teeth. The way her tender ass was made for the light slap of my palm, not too rough, enough to make her gasp and make the warm place between her—
With a stunning suddenness, Rae simultaneously taps a pile of papers on the surface of her desk and spins in her seat, throwing a glance my way and catching me, hand in the cookie jar. Or rather, palm, teeth, tongue…
Shit.
My eyes flick quickly away from her magnetic body to my screen. I blink.Concentrate, asshole!Finally, it comes into full focus. Numbers, letters, lines of text.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the prim, closemouthed smile she gives me before traipsing over to the walnut cupboards on the back wall.
She opens the door that contains the Rules—the one that’s actually a mini coat closet with a rail I added after polling my Off the Cuff friends on what’s missing in most offices. The entire wallof cabinets is made of walnut I reclaimed from a famous hotel that went out of business downtown last year. Half the wood in this place came straight from the Old Coles Inn.
None of that matters right now, though, because all I can think about is the damned list, taped up on the inside of that central door.
Did she add a rule while I was away? I didn’t even think to check.
Forget it. With considerable effort, I ignore the sway of Rae’s hips and focus back on my review of internal security policies and procedures. On the surface, Dorothy’s team is as feral as the cat who ruined my three-hundred-dollar shoes. Hell, Rae here is the closest thing I’ve seen to the kind of type A personality necessary to run a profitable company, and she’s an enabler. As the one responsible for hiring, she should have reined her boss in, not egged her on while Dorothy populated her office with this ridiculous entourage of court jesters. With hiring practices based more on gut feelings, Magic 8 Balls, and mood rings than actual skill, I expected to find one issue after another.
Everything I’ve looked at thus far, though, appears to be industry standard. Clean. They have processes in place, which is better than a lot of businesses I’ve audited. Despite how out of control they are in person, their work is professional. Which makes the security breach all the more surprising. If it’s even real. I’m beginning to think it’s just a rumor started by Dorothy’s son-in-law as an excuse for the power grab he’s planning.
The quick look I cast Rae’s way stutters to a stop when I catch the tail end of a mighty, extravagant stretch, one arm in the air, her other hand massaging her neck. I go completely still. In a flash, I’m back at the club, my fingers digging into the muscles of that neck, those shoulders, that tender-looking back, my mouthdrawn to the sweet curve of her ear, the smell of her deep in my lungs.
She swivels her hips as she lowers herself into her chair, and I lose my last thread of control. Before I know what I’m doing, my earbuds are out, and I’m halfway across the space that separates us, cracking my knuckles, my eyes on that neck. I know exactly where to stroke to make her open that plush mouth and moan. I know how she’ll sigh when I—
What… the… literal hell are you doing, Bowman?
I can’t touch her. Not only would it be inappropriate. It also happens to be literally rule number one.Myrule.
Completely unaware that I’m hovering back here, Rae stretches again, letting out a sigh that strums every cell in my body. Halfway through the stretch, she stops abruptly and turns as if she’s just remembered that we share an office. Except I’m not sitting six feet away, like she expects. I’m standing right behind her.
Our eyes meet, hers wide. I’ll admit this looks very, very weird.
My mind scrambles for something to explain my lurking presence. Anything to offset the kind of creeper vibe that would absolutely get someone kicked out of Off the Cuff.
I’ll add a rule to the list. That should fix it.
Rules are what make BDSM safe—possible, even. Rules keep businesses running and networks online. Rules are what we need. What this whole batshit company needs.
In a split-second decision, I veer left toward the closet door, which is halfway open by the time it occurs to me that I don’t have anything to write with. I’m about to head back to my desk when my eyes land on the list—unchanged—and beside it, a pen, stuck to the inside of the door with what appears to be Velcro. I hesitate for a few seconds before yanking it off with a loudscritch.
She pays no attention as I scrawl a new line in shimmery purple ink.
When I shut the door and return to my seat, I am significantly calmer. Much better. All she has to do is follow that rule, and we’ll make it through the next twenty days without a hitch.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Rae
WHAT DIDGRANT JUSTadd to the rules?
