Fling (Wrong 2.5)

“Mr. Laurent,” she starts and I interrupt with a soft laugh.

“What happened to Gabe?” I ask her. I know she called me Gabe the other night and twice now she’s called me Mr. Laurent. I’m not complaining, it’s a little hot.

“We’re at work.” She hisses it in a soft whisper, as if someone else might hear her.

I do laugh then, loudly. “You’re cute.”

“I’m at work. Oh, my God. I just had sex at work.” She’s talking to herself now, I’m pretty sure. She’s not looking at me, instead sliding into her heels and straightening her dress, smoothing the knit fabric under her palms several times. “Oral sex. Does that make it better or worse? Oh, my God.” She’s flushed and spinning around, looking at the floor. Spotting her notepad and pen, she scoops them up and heads for my office door. I follow her, placing my hand on the door when she reaches for the handle.

“Wait,” I tell her and she stops. I straighten her just-fucked hair with my fingers, brushing it out of her face and over her shoulders, lingering as long as I can, the strands soft between my fingers. “You’ll cancel whatever you have planned with Dave.”

I meant to ask it as a question, but it comes out as a statement. A flash of bewilderment crosses her face, quickly replaced with determination. And then she says one word before opening the door.

“No.”

Eight

Sandra

I yank open the door and stride through, Gabe on my heels. This is a place of work. I have work to do at my desk—not on Gabe’s. What was I thinking? I wasn’t, obviously. I was blinded by Gabe and his perfect face. And tongue.

Oh, God. I—I forgot Preston was out here. And I know there’s not a chance he hasn’t taken note of how long I was in Gabe’s office with the door closed because he’s got his chair turned in the direction of Gabe’s office door and he’s eating popcorn. Literally. He’s got a bag of microwave popcorn in his hands and he’s kicked back in his chair with a shit-eating grin on his face. He glances between me and Gabe, then looks at his watch while tossing another kernel into his mouth.

“You’re late for the Hanover meeting,” he tells Gabe with a barely restrained smirk. “They’re waiting for you.”

Behind me Gabe sighs, his steps faltering while Preston swivels in his chair and calls out to me, “Don’t lunch without me, Sandy!” while I hightail it back to my own desk.

I drop into my chair and nudge the mouse to wake my computer screen. Underneath my desk my foot is bouncing so hard that my leg is shaking. I blow out a breath and try to calm the adrenaline running through me. Just breathe, just breathe. Act normal. Act like Gabe Laurent did not just lay you across his desk and go down on you. At work. In broad daylight. Oh, God. And the finger thing. I’m squirming in my chair at the memory. Because it felt good, and I liked it. I liked his finger in my ass. I came hard when he put his finger in my ass. My hands fly up to cover my face in mortification. That cannot be normal.

So I’m not normal. But I’m supposed to be acting normal. I drop my hands from my face and place them on my keyboard. I’m just going to work. That’s what I’m paid to do, work. Not let Mr. Laurent sexually pleasure me during the business day.

Wait. Does that make me a prostitute? Except sex isn’t in my job description, it was more like a bonus. Wait, that’s not any better. Never mind, I’m being ridiculous. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

“Good morning,” comes from behind me and I nearly jump out of my chair. It’s Sawyer and he looks surprised by my reaction.

“Sorry, you startled me.”

“You were pretty focused on your work,” he says with an easy smile. “I said good morning three times before you heard me.”

“Yeah, I must have been,” I agree quickly, grateful for the excuse.

“What are you working on?” he asks, taking a glance at my monitor.

Frick. What am I working on? He never asks me that. Sawyer is not a micromanager. And I know he’s not questioning me right now, he’s simply making conversation, taking an interest in what I was supposedly so focused on. I don’t want to talk to Sawyer about what I was so focused on. “Um,” I start, scrambling to come up with something. It’s the Monday after a long holiday break. What the heck am I working on?

“Are you okay? You seem a little flushed.” His eyes narrow on my face.

“I, um, yeah.” I wave a hand to dismiss his concerns. “Fine,” I add, but he’s not looking at me anymore, he’s thumbing out a text on his phone. Then he tells me he needs me to attend an off-site meeting with him for the rest of the day.

****

I manage to make it through Tuesday avoiding Gabe and Preston. Only because they’re both out of the office all day at a meeting in New York. My luck runs out Wednesday morning though, when Preston corners me at my desk, demanding gossip.

“Give me the blow by blow,” is what he actually says, drawing out the word ‘blow’ and making a lewd gesture with his tongue and cheek.

“Shh,” I whisper, eyeing Sawyer’s open office door behind me then glaring at Preston. “Hush.”

“Oh, are we pretending this isn’t happening?”

“Nothing is happening,” I insist.

“Mmkay,” he retorts, grabbing a nail file/buffer I keep in my desk drawer and taking a seat on the edge of my desk. He files a single nail then examines it before continuing to the next. “Well, this is dull,” he murmurs, giving me a pointed look. “But I can wait. I’ve got all day.”

“Preston.” I sigh.

“Great. So we’ll discuss Gabe over lunch. Eleven-thirty. We’ll go to that new bistro down the street. Your treat. Pick me up at my desk.” He hops off my desk and takes off down the hall before I can say no. It’d be pointless anyway, Preston is a pro at getting what he wants.

At eleven-thirty I grab Preston and we leave the building, walking a block over to the bistro that he likes. Once we’re seated I stick my nose into the menu to avoid Preston’s interrogation. That buys me about four minutes. When the waitress stops at our table I try to stall by claiming I don’t know what I want, but Preston snatches the menu from my hand and orders for me then shoos the waitress off.