Thoroughly Whipped

As the elevator rose to each floor, jerking as it stopped to let people out, I fought back the wave of nausea threatening to project from my mouth a la The Exorcist. I could still feel the vodka, wine, and champagne sloshing around in my empty stomach, reminding me of my stupidity in getting that drunk on a work night. That, paired with a sex dream about Harry Sinclair, was enough to make anyone sick. I practically cried with relief when the elevator landed on my floor. I rushed to my booth. Novah was there already and immediately helped me shed my jacket and purse.

“She has a meeting in twenty minutes. You’d better hurry if you want to catch her.”

I kissed Novah on the cheek and sprinted for the elevator. I pressed the button repeatedly until the doors opened, and I rushed inside. I took a deep breath, grateful it was empty, and pressed the button for the tenth floor. Just before the doors began to close, someone slipped inside. The minute I smelled a familiar addictive cologne—fresh water, mint, sandalwood, and musk—I knew exactly who it was. Despite myself, I couldn’t help but bask in the scent. Why did the asshole have to smell so damn good? And all I could see in my mind was me pressed up against the wall of his office, him plowing into me like his life depended on it. I cleared my throat when it became too hard to breathe at the memory.

“Miss Parisi,” Harry said, and I begrudgingly lifted my head. He glanced back at me over his shoulder. The doors to the elevator closed, and it began climbing to the tenth floor.

“Viscount Sinclair,” I said as cheerily as I could muster with a drumline marching in my head. At this moment, I was at a solid minus three out of ten on the happy scale.

“Harry,” he corrected curtly. “No need for titles.” His shoulders tensed. “But if I were being pedantic, I would inform you that my current title is Viscount Sinclair, but I am addressed Lord Sinclair.”

There was no fucking way I was ever calling him Lord. “I’ll stick to calling you Viscount, if that’s okay. It rolls of the tongue better.” Harry sighed, I presumed at my stubbornness. I couldn’t help but childishly stick out my tongue at his broad and ridiculously muscled back. Then I waved two raised middle fingers in the air in an impromptu and highly juvenile rhythmic dance.

I quickly dropped them when he glanced over his shoulder again and asked stiffly, “I trust you had a good time last night?”

My lips kicked up at the side. “I sure did.” What would Mr. Prim and Proper say if I told him I had been invited to a sex club after we’d talked? The girl with vodka-flavored nipples had been asked to the most prestigious underground adult playground, despite her clumsiness. He’d probably choke on his own prudishness. Then again, if he fucked anything like my dream, maybe he’d fit right in.

Harry glanced down at my skirt and shook his head. “Seems you have had another accident, Miss Parisi. Tell me,” he said smirking. “Do you actually imbibe the beverages you purchase or simply prefer to wear them as outfit accessories?” My eyes fell to the coffee stain that graced the front of my lilac pencil skirt and the flecks of latte on my nude heels. At least my jacket had protected my white silk shirt, so I would be half presentable to Sally.

“Fluids are the new black, Mr. Sinclair, haven’t you heard?”

Harry raised a dark eyebrow at my retort. “Is that so?” I caught the mirth in the slight lilt in his deep tone.

Fluids. I’d just said fluids. Jesus H Christ.

“Not bodily fluids,” I said quickly. Harry’s head tilted to the side as I tried to remove the epically sized shoe that was currently jammed in my mouth. “I mean, we all saw how Monica Lewinski went down when she showed the infamous dress to the world.” My eyes widened. “Not literally saw how she went down.” I pointed my finger at my crotch, circling that general area to exaggerate my point. I snatched my hand back and forced it to my side when I realized I was guiding my boss’s eyes directly to my vagina. “I mean, she did literally go down on old Bill, you know, to get the bodily fluid on her dress in the first place and all, but—” The elevator suddenly dinged and the doors opened, saving me from falling further down the fluid-themed rabbit hole. “Oh, thank God!” I said, breathless from the train wreck my verbal drivel had become.

“Miss Parisi,” Harry said, something like amusement glinting in his eyes, as I collapsed against the back of the elevator, exhausted from all the talk of fluids. He stepped out onto the tenth floor and walked off toward his office.