Turned out I hadn’t enjoyed it because I hadn’t been doing it with Gage.
It was nothing short of life-changing.
The utter and complete control I wielded over the strongest man to enter my bed, my life. One of the strongest men in the most ruthless motorcycle club in the United States was at my mercy.
Yeah, I liked it so much that I finished myself with my hand while I finished Gage with my mouth. It was safe to say he’d liked watching me do that. And that it had driven him insane.
Hence me being three hours late in walking out the door, Gage’s hand on my ass.
And however long we’d been outside, leaning on his motorcycle, making out like teenagers. But teenagers didn’t kiss like Gage.
The Devil didn’t kiss like Gage, and I bet that guy was the king of seduction and eternal damnation. Gage had him beat on both.
So no, I didn’t care that I was late.
Didn’t care that Abagail knew why.
And the whole office, based on the sly looks. No one was pissed. Not even Niles, who merely raised his coffee—probably his fifth of the day—at me in a salute and then resumed reaming an intern for some “colossal fucking fuckup.” It was only Jen who regarded me with something that looked like contempt. Like fury. It was so deep and uncomfortable that it crawled at my skin. But then she jerked a little and that look melted away, warmth spreading in her eyes as her mouth turned up into a sly grin.
The change was so drastic, so quick, I must’ve simply imagined the pure hatred on her beautiful face. Maybe it was my mind twisting things, because it had too many good—freaking amazing—moments happen at once that there couldn’t possibly be more. Like me making new friends.
And that’s what Jen was. A friend.
She stood from her cubicle, picking up a cup. “Got you this,” she said, nodding down to the cup in question. “But I’m thinking it’s going to be cold now, since I got it for you precisely when you arrive at work. A time, I’m told, you haven’t deviated from in almost six years,” she continued, voice teasing.
I took the cup off her, smelling the liquid that was resoundingly peppermint and realizing that it was indeed cold. I grinned, walking over to our small kitchenette, and poured the liquid down the drain. “I’m sorry you wasted a tea on me,” I said, throwing the cup in the trash. I turned back to Jen, who had a slightly puzzled look on her face, eyes still on the trash. I hope I hadn’t offended her.
I could’ve just microwaved the tea.
Shoot.
“How about I buy you a coffee to make up for it?” I asked, hoping to remedy the situation.
Her face jerked up in surprise. “A coffee? Now? You’re late to work and you’re playing hooky?” Strange look gone, her voice was playful again.
I grinned, thankful I hadn’t offended my one new friend. “Yeah, I totally freaking am,” I decided, walking forward and hooking my arm through hers. Her sharp and floral perfume overpowered me as soon as I did. It itched my nose, but I ignored that. “It’s a morning of trying new things. It seems only apt.”
“Well, well, well, look who finally decides to show up,” a terse voice said as Jen and I arrived back in the office, laughing about an ex she had who “got what was coming to him.” I didn’t even know why I was laughing, but it was just the mood I was in.
The mood that only improved at the sound of the reproachful voice.
And not because it was coming from my pissed editor.
No, it was coming from the woman who was sitting in my chair, her heeled shoes propped up on the draft of my latest story. One she’d helped me research—in secret and not getting stabbed or anything. “I’ve already done that, so I’m an expert at knowing how to avoid it” were her words on the phone a couple of days before.
“Lucy!” I yelled, surprising myself.
I didn’t yell or scream at the sight of old friends.
Maybe because I didn’t have old friends, not counting my grandmother, and she’d skin me alive if I called her old.
But talking to Lucy, realizing how important she had been to me, how much she’d known and chosen not to pry about, how much she’d helped me with, I couldn’t not yell and beam and damn near sprint over to the beautiful and glamourous pregnant woman pushing out of my chair.
Even at what looked to be six months, she was polished, wearing her signature Breakfast at Tiffany’s all-black elegance. Her turtleneck was skintight and showed off her beautiful baby bump, the rest of her tiny body encased in skintight leather pants.
The woman was noticeably pregnant and still pulling off leather pants. And bright red Manolo mules.