He looked down at his desk and reached for some papers, shuffling them into a pile. "I've been busy."
"I texted you. We had plans. A schedule. I need to know when things change, Mr. Sullivan. You have to work with me here, not against me."
He met and held my stare for a long time before looking away. “I needed some space.”
God. What is it with this man and making me want to cry. As much as I tried to fight it back, my voice wobbled when I spoke.
"I did what you asked. I did my job."
He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Monroe."
"Sorry about what? Avoiding me all weekend? Canceling our meeting five minutes before it starts?"
"No," he set the papers down. And leans back against his desk with his fists grabbing the edge on either side of him. "I'm sorry I let things between us get out of hand Friday night. It was a mistake. It was also a mistake bringing you here."
He looks down at the floor, which makes it worse somehow. He can’t even look me in the eyes. "I'll speak with the board and make sure you're well compensated for your time, but it would be better for everyone if we brought in a different firm to take over from here."
The air went out of the room.
"Why was it a mistake?" My voice came out steadier than I felt. "I deserve an explanation, Bennet. I dropped my life for two months to be here. I moved across the country. I left my company in someone else's hands." I take off my suit jacket, drape it across the chair, and step closer to him. "And you couldn't even ride back to the building with me Friday night? We were going to the same place."
"I can't." When he looks up, his eyes go directly to my chest and stay there for a beat too long. I feel almost vindicated and more than slightly aroused by his perusal. He runs his hand slowly along his jaw, his tongue slipping across his bottom lip.
"Fuck," he says, mostly to himself.
"Excuse me?"
He closes his eyes briefly. "I can't do this, Blaire."
My first name again. But it’s different this time. No weight of an accusation. Just my name.
"Can't do what?" I ask quietly. Feeling much braver than I feel, I close a little more of the distance between us. "Did I not do a good job? Did I not look fuckable enough on your arm?"
What am I doing?
"Would I look more fuckable on my knees, Mr. Sullivan?"
No sooner than the words leave my mouth, his hand wraps around my throat and his mouth covers mine. He lifts me with one hand on my ass, wraps my legs around his waist, and sets me on his desk.
His mouth is everywhere; my jaw, my neck, my chest — and there's nothing controlled about any of it.
"Fuck you, Blaire Alexander." He growls it against my skin.
The use of my maiden name shocks me still for a half second, and I don't have time to process why before he yanks my blouse down and pulls my nipple into his mouth.
"Fuck — ohfuck!" I moan out and grind against him chasing friction he isn't giving me fast enough.
The harder he sucks, the closer my orgasm feels, heat building low and insistent, and I think distantly that I've never felt this unraveled this fast in my life.
"Please. Bennet, holy shit—"
He drags his tongue up my sternum, bites along my collarbone, then his mouth is back on mine, hungry and furious and nothing like we did for the cameras outside The War Keys.
This isn't performance.
I reach between us, pulling at his shirt, sliding my hand into his pants. The moment my fingers wrap around his cock, he groans into my neck and thrusts forward like he's been holding himself back from exactly this and has finally stopped trying.
“Fuck.Fuck.Stroke my cock, Blaire. Do your fucking job and make me come.”
