“Ah.”
I point at the door to the supply closet, next to the laser printer.
She sashays over to the supply closet. In that flouncy black mini skirt and those knee-high leather boots and those blue socks that go over her knees. The socks match her bra. What the fuuuuuuck? That is so witchy. Now even when I can’t see her bra I’m still thinking about her bra when I’m looking at her socks.
And I have never seen her sashay before, but she is definitely sashaying now. There’s a jingle-bell rockin’ sway to her hips. Those fucking hips. I’ve touched those hips. She clearly wants me to touch them again. I really want to touch them again too.
Butafterwe’ve made some headway on the script notes.
Right?
After I’ve had my call with Paxton.
After we get the good sticky notes.
Or maybe we should get the sex out of the way first?
Clear my head?
Empty things out…
Cleo has disappeared behind the door of the supply closet, so I can’t see her bending over or reaching for things, and that is unfortunate. “Is it the hot-pink sticky notes you want?”
“Do I look like the kind of guy who wants hot-pink sticky notes?”
“Well, they’re definitely good—you said you wanted the good ones. I need you to give me more information!”
I’ll give you more information.“I want the lined ones. They’re yellow sticky notes with lines on them. Blue lines.” I huff.Not the same shade of blue as your bra.She’s never going to find them. If I didn’t find them there the other day, there’s no chance she’ll find them. But I might as well look again before having her order more. I stomp in there. “Let me look.”
“Oh. Okay.” She steps to the side.
This closet is about five feet on all sides, with shelves along three walls. I’ve never been in here with another person before. It’s roomier than I thought. Plenty of shelf space for thousands of pads of sticky notes—but are there thousands of the good kind? No. There are not.
But fuck, this woman smells amazing.
“Why are you so fucking fragrant?”
“I think what you’re smelling is my deodorant spray. I made it last month. I am so glad you enjoy it.”
Why does that make me angry and horny at the same time? Why does almost everything about this woman make me angry and horny? “You make your own deodorant? Why?”
“Because I’m good at it and because I enjoy it,” she states very plainly.
This makes no sense to me. I grunt while aggressively rearranging boxes of pens on the shelf in front of me. With her brilliance and skills she could be making millions. Why does this infuriate me?
“Would you like me to leave?” she asks calmly as she leans back against the wall next to the open door.
“Yes.”
She slides her hands behind her lower back. Her white top is see-through, her blue bra is not padded—I can see her nipples through them, and they are hard. They are reaching for me. I want them.
“Fuck. No. Yes. Fuck.” I take one step toward her, cup her face in my hands, and kiss her. “You’re making me crazy.”
She pulls her head back and says, so innocently, “You’re making yourself crazy.” And then she proceeds to suck my thumb into her mouth while staring up at me, flicking her tongue against the tip of my thumb and then licking the length of it as she smiles.
“Oh, fuck.”
Curly Jones is a bad, bad girl…
