“No. Not even close, angel.”
She seems to like that answer.
I bring her to my private bathroom and let her clean up. When she comes out, her skirt is smoothed and her blouse is fixed—sort of—but her cheeks are still red, and her eyes are glazed and her legs look ready to give out at any moment.
“I should get back to work…” she mumbles. I watch as she goes back to her desk and sits down, crossing her legs. Then uncrossing them.
She presses her thighs together, and after a moment, she glances back at my office. The glass is still dark, so she can’t see in, but I can see her. Those beautiful hazel eyes.
And when she bites her lip in my direction, I feel myself getting hard again.
No panties.She’s sitting in the middle of my trading floor with a staff full of men that have no idea their boss just had his mouth between those satin thighs. No idea that she’s bare and swollen and dripping under that skirt.
And all because of me.
I pick up the coffee cup she brought me and look at the smiley face. Something moves in my chest.
I take her panties out of my pocket and set them in my top drawer. Then I look at my screen and close the contract she never read.
5
HAZEL
I tried touchingmyself last night.
I just need to say that upfront because it’s been consuming me since two in the morning, and I have nobody to tell. For some reason, explaining this to Cassi feels…wrong.
I was lying in bed in my tiny apartment, listening to the drip-drip-drip of the leaky bathroom faucet when I slid my hand between my legs and tried to replicate what Dominic did to me on his desk.
It didn’t work.
My fingers found the right spot—that tender nub he’d showed me. I replayed every moment in my mind.
His tongue, his groan, his fingers. The way he pinned me down like it was nothing. God, his strength. I can’t stop thinking about it.
And like when I sat at my desk, I was drenched, aching, desperate for relief. And I rubbed and pressed and circled that sweet spot until my hand cramped up and my sheets were soaked.
But nothing happened. No release, no explosion, just a pressure that built and built and ended up going nowhere. I covered my face with my pillow and screamed.
I guess my body has decided it belongs tohimnow—a man I’ve known for less than two days. And nothing else will do, not even my own hand.
When I get to work, there’s a pulse between my legs that won’t quit. I can barely focus as I step out of the elevator and walk to my desk. Every little movement sends a throbbing sensation through me.
The glass isn’t tinted as I sit down, but I keep my eyes off him—for now. I should at leasttryto get some work done. Try to do my actual job. But as I sit down, I canfeelhis presence.
I cross my legs and squeeze, trying to force back this feeling inside me. But it just makes it worse.
The friction from my thighs pressing together reminds me of the panties he took. I have another pair on this morning.
Will he take them too?
I can’t stop myself from thinking about him. About how I can still smell his cologne on my skin. About how stupid I feel still about drawing the smiley face on his cup. As I glance behind me, I can still see it sitting on the edge of his desk. My stomach twists as a warmth spreads through it.
There he is. He’s on the phone, pacing behind his desk in a charcoal pants and tailored shirt that fits his body like it was made to make every woman who looks at him suffer. His jacket is over his chair, and his sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, showing the muscles in his forearms, which flex and bulge every time he gestures.
He glances at me through the glass.
I look away so fast I nearly give my neck whiplash.
