I feel my blood start to flow downward and I quickly lock those thoughts down. Whatever plans my dick has for while she’s here need to stay far, far away. She’s a co-worker. That’s beyond unprofessional. No one said that would be easy, though.
I clear my throat, crossing the room and picking up one of the extra room keys the front desk gave me. “Here. Room key.” I point through the archway. “The extra room is in there.”
“Thanks.”
I can’t help watching her walk, the way her hips move. What on earth is wrong with me? She’s gorgeous, for sure, but I don’t need to be watching her every move. And despite what she says, I don’t think I’m going to change my mind about her ability to do her job. I need to get some stress out, and I can’t do that in this room. I grab my small gym bag from my suitcase and lean my head into her room, where she’s opening her suitcase. “I’m going to the gym,” I say. “Our meeting tomorrow is at nine. Please be ready by eight.”
She nods. “Sounds good.”
I force myself not to look back as I leave. The gym in this hotel is very good. It’s one of the reasons I make Ellison put me up here whenever I come to New York. I suppose things could be worse right now. The hotel could have a conference full of body builders that would crowd the gym to capacity. As it is, it’s practically empty. I guess dental hygienists are less interested. I change my clothes and hop onto a treadmill, pushing my speed until I’m going my limit. I pour all of my frustration from the day into the pounding of my feet. The lukewarm meeting at Colson Foods, the incompetent hotel staff, Ellison sending me inadequate help, and my own traitorous body. I make every one of them pay in the miles I sprint out.
There’s no better cure for frustration than pure and unadulterated exhaustion, and I make sure I achieve that. By the time I’m finished, I’m covered in sweat, my clothes soaked through. I’m panting for breath, having pushed myself far beyond my normal boundaries. I can feel a twinge in my back and thighs, and I know that I probably overdid it, but right now, I don’t care. I feel better than I have all day. Except for one thing—Scarlett.
Every time I think about her my body jumps into action like a damn teenager. Go figure: the one time I feel this level of attraction it’s to a woman I absolutely cannot fuck. I slip into the room, and I don’t hear any sound. Looking at the clock on the microwave, it’s later than I thought. I was at the gym for a little over two hours. On the way to the bathroom, I glance into Scarlett’s room even though I know I shouldn’t. It’s entirely dark, and all I see is a lump of blankets.
I shut myself into the bathroom, my dick rising to attention as my brain wonders what she’s wearing under those blankets. Is it as delicious as the black lace bra she had on today? Turning on the shower, I stop trying to fight the hard-on that’s been trying to show itself since she stepped into that room. I let it come, let my mind go where it wants to. I imagine that she’s not a coworker. That I helped her up from her fall and asked her out, that I took her to dinner and brought her back to this room where I peeled her out of her clothes one piece at a time.
I take myself in my hand as the scene plays out in my mind, that sexy as fuck black bra the only piece of clothing left on her as I worship her body. I would have made her body sing with my tongue and my fingers, making her moan loud enough for those prudish dental hygienists to here. And by the time I’d finished with her, she’d be begging me to fuck her. And fuck her I would.
My hand moves faster on my cock as I imagine slipping into her sweet heat, plunging all the way in and not stopping. Fucking her until the bed is rattling and we’re both blind and speechless with pleasure. I grit my teeth, containing my groan as I come, spilling myself down the drain of the shower. The relief of pleasure shudders through me, and I lean against the wall of the shower, letting it take me. The feeling fades, the warmth of the water reminding me that I’m wasting water. But I feel so much better. More settled. Orgasms and exercise will cure just about any problem you have.
But I don’t have a problem. This isn’t a problem. I just took care of it. Now, tomorrow will be easy. If she doesn’t trip over herself again, we’ll be on our way back to Seattle in no time.
3
Scarlett
Well, now I know how he has time to go to the gym. Last night he was gone for way longer than I thought he would be. I know that he thought I was asleep when he came back to the room, but I wasn’t. I didn’t want to deal with the awkwardness of it.
Plus, going to bed allowed me to finish that fantasy that started in the conference room. Yeah, he’s a bastard, but he’s still a hot bastard and I have no doubt that he knows his way around the bedroom. I almost had to go again when he came out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel. I could stare at his body for days, exploring every beautiful inch. But clearly my fantasies are just that. Fantasies. He doesn’t want me here.
And even if he did want me like that, we couldn’t. Office romances are hard enough as it is. Getting involved with someone as important and visible as Chris? Yeah, that would be bad news for me. Probably worse than if he just got me fired.
He’s still sleeping as I creep to the bathroom for my shower—and I know he actually is sleeping. His breathing is too deep for him to be awake. I can see the smooth planes of his back in the semi-darkness, rising and falling. My glimpse last night and my glimpse right now are probably the closest I’m ever going to get to seeing him naked. That’s fine. But I take an extra minute to memorize this image so I can bring it back with clarity.
My shower is quick and by the time I slip back into my room, I hear him stirring. There are the sounds of coffee and the rustling of clothing. I washed my coffee shirt and bra yesterday, draping them over the heater to dry. Luckily it looks like I was able to get most of the evidence out, and luckier for me I packed multiple backup outfits. Today’s bra is one of my favorites—maroon and silky, it’s comfortable and sexy. Even though I know no one will see it, I still love the way it feels to wear it.
I slip on a pencil skirt and my shoes, and then head to the mirror for make-up. My shirt today is a sleeveless button-down. It’s a navy blue that complements my skin, with a collar and neckline that make it cute rather than boring office wear. But because of the dark color, I really don’t want make-up on it. I don’t want Chris to accuse me of being sloppy again if there’s powder stains on my blouse.
I have my make-up routine down pat, and it doesn’t take me long. I’m putting on my finishing touches when I hear Chris’s voice. “Scarlett, would you like some coffee? It’s almost done—”
His voice cuts off, and I suddenly realize why. Chris has stepped through the archway into my room, and is now staring at me. I have no shirt on, just my maroon bra. His face goes red, and he opens his mouth only to shut it again. His eyes rake over me, and I can feel the heat in them. It stirs the heat in my own body, and I feel a warming between my legs. I know I should be embarrassed by this, but the way he’s looking at me right now—a mix of lust, hunger, and embarrassment—I’m not.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, suddenly turning.
I try to keep my voice calm, though my body is suddenly shaking with the shock of adrenaline. “I’m almost ready,” I say. “I’ll be out in just a minute.”
“Coffee?” he asks, his back still turned to me.
“Yeah that would be great.”
I pick up my shirt from where I’ve laid it over the back of a chair, and tug it on, smoothing the buttons together. Well, I guess I was wrong about nobody seeing my bra today. I can’t help but give myself a little smirk in the mirror. Even if nothing happens, at least I have the satisfaction of knowing that my body does to him what his does to me. There’s a great satisfaction in that.
I gather my things: coat, bag, folders, and there’s a cup of coffee waiting for me on the counter when I step out of the room. Chris still seems flustered, which both unnerves me and makes me smile, because in all the time that Christopher Flintlock has worked for Ellison Media, I’ve never seen h
im get flustered. Not once.
“I really am sorry,” he says. “I should have knocked—announced myself. I shouldn’t have barged it.” His face is red and he’s fidgety.
I take a sip of my coffee, pretty good for hotel coffee. “It’s fine,” I say, giving him a smile and a shrug. “Things happen, right?”
“Right,” he says. “Ready to go?”
I nod, putting on my coat. I give one more glance around the hotel room to make sure there isn’t anything else I need to take to the meeting, and I pick up a folder I forgot on the counter. That should be it. “Lead the way,” I say, and follow him out the door.