And I’ll know if she wants to sleep with me now. Because as fun as the fuck on my desk was, it wasn’t enough. I need more. I haven’t slated my thirst for her yet, not by a long shot.
Brittney
Okay, so it’s been three weeks, and I’m not above admitting that it feels like for-fucking-ever. When I left Kaden in his office, his pants hanging off the filing cabinet in the corner where I’d shucked them in the middle of our fuck-a-thon, I’d thought he’d, you know, come after me. Maybe not that day, but soon afterward. I wasn’t used to fucking a guy, and then not having him chase me. The chase was most of the fun.
But…Kaden somehow didn’t get the memo. How was it that he wasn’t calling me? He hadn’t even added me as a friend on Facebook yet. For being a stalker, he sure was falling down on the job.
Maybe he’d gotten me out of his system. Maybe he’d just wanted a quick fuck and then he was ready to move on. Maybe I’d somehow gotten more attached to him than he’d gotten to me.
The thought makes me uber depressed and I decide to eat a pint of ice cream when I get home tonight. There’s this chocolate gelatino that is to die for that I’ve been hiding in the back of the freezer for just this kind of occasion. I can wear my Donald Duck PJs and my floppy pink bunny slippers that even my sister doesn’t know I own, and just eat ice cream while watching reruns of Gilmore Girls on TV. That sounds suitably cliché enough. I might even dig out my copy of Pride and Prejudice and get my Austen on.
"What’s a beautiful lady doing in a place like this?"
I hear his voice before I see him, and I whirl around in my office chair in surprise, almost falling out of it in the process. Like summoning a genie in a bottle, here’s fucking sexy Kaden Charles himself.
"Oh hi!" I squeak out. I clear my throat and try that again. "Hi." I lean back in my chair casually, trying to act as if I had not just been mentally drooling over the very thought of him, but I let my eyes rake over him, taking in his dark blond hair, and curling over his forehead, down past his Salvatore Ferragamo shirt and tie all the way down to his Sutor Mantellassi shoes. He’s looking good, real good, and I mentally forgive him for taking three weeks to finally contact me.
Although, I am surprised he just waltzed in here like this. How did he even get back to my desk? Usually security doesn’t allow people in back here. He must’ve greased some palms.
"So I’m buying Atlantic Trading Group," he says, leaning against my desk. I have to crane my neck back to stare up at him, and I wonder for a moment about telling him that he has to sit on the floor so I don’t get a crick in my neck. But I decide to let it go for the moment. Some things are worth suffering through, know what I mean?
"Yeah, I saw that deal come through. And you just happen to be using Carter Jeffries to help you put the deal together?"
He grins, unashamed. "Well, I thought I’d use the best. I’ve heard at CJ, there’s this brilliant investment analyst who knows it all, so I figured why not use her services, right?"
"Right," I say, trying to quell my laughter. I really shouldn’t be egging him on. He’d taken three weeks to show up here, after all. I should make him pay for that somehow.
"I’ve been thinking after our last…meeting, that what I really ought to do is take you out on a little yacht that I have, and we can just hang out for the day on the water."
"Really?!" I can’t help it – I am shocked. Most guys think that to impress a girl, they need to take her to the fanciest restaurant they can afford, and pour as much wine down her as possible. I don’t know if I’ve been ‘wined and dined’ too often, or what, but that just doesn’t do much for me anymore.
"Yeah. Just you, me, and the ocean for a day. Or a week. Do you have any vac
ation time coming up?"
"A little." Truth? My boss has been on my ass to take at least a week’s vacation, or corporate will have to pay it out to me in cash, and they hate doing that. It’s gotten to the point that my boss has started putting brochures for five-star resorts on my desk every day.
I don’t want to go to a resort, though.
But a week on the ocean? That sounds like…heaven.
I run my hand up his thigh, letting my fingernails scrape along until I get dangerously close to his dick. His eyes flare with desire and internally, I grin in triumph. So maybe he’s made me suffer for the last three weeks, but he still wants me.
He asks, "Want to go out for a drink tonight? At Bungalow 8 again? I can show you some dance moves out on the floor."
God, I love guys who can dance. If he can really dance, I may melt into a pile of goo into my stilettos, like a non-witch version of the Wicked Witch of the West. So many guys think that going out onto the dance floor and waving back and forth, feet firmly planted in place, somehow counts.
Not even close.
A guy who can dance, and wants to take me out on a yacht and is an amazing fuck and loves libraries and is worth about a gazillion dollars? Oh, and is drop-fucking-dead gorgeous?!
What isn’t to love?
I open up my mouth to reply when—
"Sir, you aren’t supposed to be back here," a security guard says at my elbow. I jerk my hand back down into my lap and my face flames a brilliant red. Goddammit, now I look like an idiot to my co-workers. I had really thought he’d gotten the okay to be back here.
"You are supposed to be in the Creaking Maple conference room, not back here among proprietary trading technology," the security guard continues, pompously. I have to wonder how he’s able to say that with a straight face, especially the Creaking Maple bit. I don’t know who named the Carter Jeffries conference rooms, but they have fuck-awful names. I usually snort coffee up my nose every time someone says XX SEXUAL REFERENCE.