She would build an entire security protocol for my company and forget to fuel herself.
I hear movement upstairs.
The shower is still on, but something shifts. A bottle knocked against tile, maybe. A drawer opening. Small sounds that put images in my head I should not allow.
Her wet hair sliding over bare shoulders.
Her hands moving over her own skin.
My cock hardens so suddenly, so brutally, that I grip the edge of the counter and blow out a breath.
“Cristo.”
This is going to be difficult. Impossible.
I want to go upstairs.
I want to open the bathroom door, step into the steam, and find her flushed and wet and furious with need. I want to press her against the tile and put my mouth on every part of her. I want to hear what she sounds like when she loses control.
I want to make her lose the ability to speak.
I want to force-feed her.
I want to take everything.
I want to care.
Both needs war within me.
My phone vibrates.
Armando.
Twenty minutes.
Good. Enough time for her to finish showering. Enough time for me to regain enough sense not to drag her to the floor and take her right there.
I walk back into the living room and notice her briefcase where it ended up near the entry.
I pick it up.
The weight surprises me. Documents, laptop, chargers, probably more work than one person should be carrying after a week like this. I set it beside the sofa, then pick up the papers that slipped partway out and see the notes in her handwriting. Neat and clear, even when written quickly.
She has made more progress in a week than most people would in a month.
I knew she was good. I did not know she would be relentless.
That should please me only professionally.
It does not.
It makes me want to reward her.
It makes me want to strip her out of that armor she wears, lay her down, and show her exactly how pleased I am.
The water stops upstairs.
Every muscle in my body goes still.
