My woozy head drops back onto the pillow, mind racing with questions of where she could possibly have gone at this time of day. I can only come up with one answer: the married douchebag.
I don’t like it at all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Grant
THE SECONDRAE WALKSin on Monday morning, I know I’m screwed.
She’s wearing her hair up, and I don’t mean in a casually thrown-together bundle like before. No, today, it’s styled into a glass-smooth roll, so intricately twisted up on the back of her head that there is no doubt the move was purposeful.
“Good morning, Grant,” Rae says as she sails into the office, smelling like fall and flowers and the exact scent of woman my body’s aching for. “I brought you a coffee.”
Her smile is sharp. It saysI’m done with your bullshit. It saysI came to get spanked. It says that I am in deep, deep trouble.
She sets the coffee on my desk, turns, and walks over to the closet, her coat falling from her shoulders in a long, slow slide that shuts down at least half my brain.
“Thank you,” I manage, sounding strangled.
It would take a team of wild horses to force my eyeballs not to stare at her full breasts, round ass, and soft belly, all lovingly encased in something I can only describe as a long, skintight sweater with a row of buttons down the front.
The way it highlights every gorgeous curve and also manages to be work appropriate is some kind of witchcraft. Between that and her hair and the velvety-looking scarf wrapped around her, she is an autumn goddess. All she’s missing is a crown of orange and red leaves.
“What are we celebrating?”
“Oh, you know. Just got a coffee for my office roomie. Figured we could start the week off with a peace offering.”
Is that what this? For some reason, I doubt it.
With a flourish, she removes the scarf from her shoulders, revealing the back of her dress, which swoops low. Very low.
My mouth goes dry.
“What uh…?”
She turns with a bland smile. “Yes, Grant?”
“What, what is that you’re wearing?”
A torture device, designed to crush my innards and turn my brain to mush.
“A dress.” She blinks with pure, sweet innocence. “Like it?”
Yes. The answer is 100 percent yes.
Swallowing provides absolutely no lubrication for my parched tongue. I open my mouth to speak. Close it again.
There is nothing for me to say right now.
Because she’s just thrown down the gauntlet.
And I am in no way prepared.
Throughout the longest day ever, she bends over, twice. Once to open a low desk drawer she could absolutely have reached from her seat. The second time, she drops a sheet of paper, I am pretty sure on purpose. Both times are pure hell, especially when, upon closer inspection, it becomes crystal clear that there is not a single panty line on her body.
Do nothing. Don’t react.
It’s what my survival instincts scream each time Rae moves. Or breathes. With every single inhalation.
