I want that yearning to build slow and low in my belly, the kind that threatens to crawl up my insides and claw out of my mouth with pleasure. The one that makes me soft, open a bit more, the slide against the bundle of nerves before the glide inside to an even greater one. I want the swell of the tidal wave crashing over me only to suck me into the depths, hoping I can still breathe when I surface from wave after wave of carnal bliss.
Soft and lazy eventually becomes faster, more aggressive, an insistent finger pressed firmly onto my clit when what my body screams for is less not more.
Until I topple, sucked under by the flood of pleasure surging through me.
“Yes. God, yes.”
I lie there, feeling my heart pound at the race we just ran and won. My breathing finally catches up. And much to my chagrin, Ifeel an emotion swelling that I’ve known all too well since I landed in this townhouse. Fear.
Isolation.
Uncertainty.
I’ll see my family in a couple of weeks. How am I supposed to keep a straight face when they ask how I am?Oh, I’m fabulous, thanks for asking. I’m on the verge of life-altering discoveries that my company doesn’t want to make. I was almost raped or murdered, maybe worse, or maybe merely kidnapped. Merely being the best-case scenario. I’m marrying—or married to, by that point, who knows?—a man who, along with me, is being sued, and we’re committing fraud in order to effectively fight lawsuits, plural, against us. Have I mentioned I’ve stolen corporate intellectual property? Good times.
It’s too much. And I’m too alone in all of it. My sister would tell me to smoke a bowl and chill. Nothing is worth this kind of emotion.
My parents would worry, come to Denver, camp out in my living room, and have the authorities on speed dial.
And Strider? My protector. He would be pissed and go all big brother on me. He’d insist I move home, my job and home be damned, and stay safely, firmly ensconced while managing the customer service team at Electric Peoria.
Tears start to fall and I have to wonder, is it worse or better that Liam’s siblings want to get to know me?
Is it worse or better that they treat me like family in a way my own cannot?
Is it worse or better that for some unknown reason, with absolutely no reasonable basis, I trust that mountain of man with my life?
I fall asleep after I’ve cried myself out.
Nothing’s changed, but I’m far less emotional, or at least melancholy, when I wake.
My parents, and Strider and Sam for that matter, will never know the depths to which I’ve stooped. Not the scary, not the ethically questionable, or the morally bankrupt.
It doesn’t really matter, does it? It needs to be done. Andersons do the right thing because there’s intrinsic value in having done it. I’m intentionally putting the fraud and the thieving on the back burner. It wouldn’t take much to have me convinced that stealing that data isn’t actually the right thing anyway.
Right thing by Platt BioPharma? Maybe not.
Right thing by humanity? Definitely.
A chime on my phone surprises me.
Liam: Dinner tonight at Cian and Sariah’s if you’re available. 6:00 p.m.
Liam: Are you allergic to anything?
Grrr. Rum balls!
How do I explain the annoyance of that man swiping my phone, programming himself in, and setting a distinctive alert? Let me count the ways.
No. He saved me. He’s not throwing it in my face. He’s not insulting me. He’s not belittling me.
He’s asking me… on a date?
Does it count when it’s at his brother and sister-in-law’s house? Should I bake something to take with us? That’s probably only polite, come to think of it.
Sliding out of bed, I pad to the kitchen and flip through the pantry. I have everything I need for one of my favorite Amish recipes, Sand Tarts, and begin prepping. They’ll be done and cooled in time to package and take.
Not that I’ve agreed… Nor do I plan to respond right away. The man can wait. He’s the kind of guy who gets what he wants—I can tell. And I don’t feel like making it easy on him. The man literally took me through the hardware section of The Home Depot and smirked as he had me try on nuts. For that, he could’ve gone even cheaper—why not a washer? They’re a dime a dozen. Or one of those rubber O-rings.
