Page 22 of Lucas

Stop being ridiculous. No way she could know what’s going on with me and Lucas. How could she? I’ve been very discrete.

“Come on, the suspense is killing me,” Liz says.

“Nope, just something to do with a story I’m working on,” I say, hopeful my quivering voice doesn’t betray the lie. “I think it’s some old court documents relating to the housing crash in ’08.”

Liz’s shoulders drop. “Damn. Thought maybe you had a secret admirer.”

I duck my head to hide the blush. “Nothing so exotic.”

“Too bad,” she says, and strolls across the office, her heels click, click, clicking on the concrete floor. “We could all use a little special attention after the past few weeks.”

My guilt is all consuming. When I should be thinking about strategy, creative ways to keep the business afloat, my mind drifts to Lucas, the feel of his tongue deep inside my pussy, his cock thrusting between my legs. I shift in my seat to tamper the uncomfortable thrum of desire that always seems to come up at the most inopportune times these days, and reach into the envelope.

My eyebrows lift.

Two tickets to a Metallica concert in Boston? For tonight.

I’ll pick you up at 6. Be home by 4:30 or your clothes will be delivered to the office. I doubt you want your business partners to critique your new lingerie. Not that you need it.

I glance over my shoulder, relieved to see both Marnie and Liz engaged in other things. Tucking the tickets back in the envelope, I crumple the letter and toss it through the paper shredder, destroying the evidence. Tonight’s first order of business will be to warn Lucas to never—ever—send anything to my office again.

* * *

Correction, the first thing I’m going to talk to Lucas about is his taste in lingerie. I slip into the cleavage-plunging bodice, and pull the garter halfway up my thigh. It’s all black, and lacy—slightly cliché. Still, I hardly recognize my reflection in the mirror.

The designer jeans slide easily over the fishnet stockings, peeking through the strategically placed rips on the knees and upper legs. A faded Metallica T-shirt stretches tight across my chest, giving my breasts an impressive lift. My eyes are drawn to the sharp “V” of cleavage where the edges of the thin bodice peek through.

Whoa.

My nipples go taut.

Tall boots and an expensive leather jacket complete the ensemble, somehow giving me a sophistication that doesn’t scream “groupie”—which is good, because the truth is, I’ve never listened to a single Metallica track in my life.

What if they suck?

I consider downloading a few songs, but there’s no time. My cell phone pings, alerting me that Lucas is waiting downstairs. With one last glance in the mirror, I gather my purse, spritz on some perfume, and jog down the stairs, my stomach fluttering with fresh anticipation.

Lucas stands outside the door of my apartment building. He gives my attire the full appraisal, before taking my hand and leading me to the silver sports car parked illegally at the curb. When he opens the door, I slide into the leather seat, savoring the delicious new car scent.

I gave up my old Pontiac Sunfire when I moved to New York, knowing I’d never comfortably navigate the city’s busy streets—but it wasn’t exactly new when I bought it, the “fresh scent” long ago giving way to the previous owner’s junk food habits.

Still, it was my first vehicle, and I racked up the miles before passing it like a baton to another high school student, who didn’t care about the strawberry milkshake stain on the backseat. I can’t help but wonder if she changed her mind in the summer, when the sun’s heat would curdle the milk and I’d have to roll down the window to mask the stench.

At the memory, a shudder rocks through my body.

“What the hell is this vehicle?” I say, admiring the sleek curve of the hood, the streamlined body, the shiny details on the blue-tinted dash. “A Lamborghini?”

Lucas’s hand drafts between the gearshift and my knee as he navigates through downtown traffic. He’s smooth, knowing the exact pressure points of both the clutch and the gas. “Porsche Carrera GT, brand new off the lot. Yesterday.”

He speeds up to weave in between two taxis, and my stomach does a flip. I grip the edges of my seat and hold my breath.

He looks over at me and grins. “Nervous?”

“Terrified.”

“You should be,” he admits. “This thing tops out at 230 miles per hour, and can go from zero to sixty in three point nine seconds. It’s a fucking rocket.”

I can feel the color drain from my face. “If you’d hoped to make me feel more comfortable, you’re doing a lousy job of it.”