The Devil Wears Black

“Is this HR-manual appropriate for Black & Co.?” I murmured into his lips. “Because it sure as hell isn’t allowed here in Croquis.”

“I’ve never read either, but if it isn’t, I am liable to buy Croquis just to make it so.” He kissed me again, not a trace of sarcasm in his voice. I laughed into our kiss, biting his lower lip softly.

“I should feed you more often,” he said.

“You can take care of my dinner.” I kissed him again. I knew we were treading dangerously close to getting caught, but for the life of me I couldn’t stop.

“It’s a date.”

“We don’t do those,” I reminded him. “Remember the rules?”

He pretended to roll his eyes, grabbing my ass and grinding me against his erection. “But we still do this, so let me ask you again—where’s the restroom?”

“Someone might catch us.”

“They won’t.”

“How do you know?” I nearly purred. I reminded myself of a virginal, marginally uneducated teenybopper listening to the high school’s handsome quarterback explaining to her why he could use the pullout method and not get her pregnant in the bed of his truck.

“Simple. I know everything,” Chase snapped, his face masklike.

“You’re not—” I started.

He cut me off. “A little faith, Mad. You only live once.”

Ain’t that the truth. Chase must’ve gathered his last sentence had gotten to me, because he smirked. “Come on. We don’t have long.”

I didn’t know whether he meant my lunch break or at all. More than likely, he meant both.

We raced to the restroom hand in hand. Chase banged a stall door open and tugged me inside, kissing me everywhere. I murmured something about the HR manual of Croquis and my concerns about the lack of hygiene in doing what we were about to do. Then lust won over, and before I knew what was happening, I was pressed against the door, Chase between my thighs. He unbuckled and pressed himself against me, nudging my panties away under my dress.

“I love that you wear dresses.” He kissed my nose. I snatched his lips before he moved away, devouring him passionately. “It makes you fuckable not only theoretically but logistically too. Thing is, I don’t have a condom,” he whispered into my mouth. “But I’m clean.”

“I’m on the pill and clean,” I said.

“Well, I’m about to dirty you up.”

As he entered me, the thought that I was breaking one of my very own rules occurred to me. Having sex without a condom was most definitely real-relationship territory. Then again, not having sex with him right now would likely kill me.

He entered me deeply, grabbing one of my thighs and stretching it along his body.

I threw my head back, banging it against the door, then whimpered. “I’m going to die.”

“Be a good sport and wait a few minutes. I’d really appreciate coming before I leave here.” He pushed into me harder. I laughed. He laughed too. Was it weird that we were laughing while having sex? Probably. But it was the essence of Chase and me. Whatever we had with each other was always dipped in something crazy.

Bathroom sex proved to be less sexy than advertised on TV. For one thing, we were both sweating. The industrial AC didn’t extend to the restrooms. My dress clung to my flesh like wrapping film. I looked up at Chase, surprised by the boyish vulnerability I saw on his face when he thought I wasn’t looking. The orgasm built inside me. Every time he entered me, the tip of his buckle hit my clit. I was shaking all over, not exactly sure what suspended me in the air from falling flat on my butt. Physics aside, I didn’t want this to end. Ever. And that frightened me.

“Come, Mad,” he groaned.

“No.” I kissed the curve of his jaw. “No, no, no. I want to continue. Can’t you hold it a little bit longer?”

“I can,” he said painfully, but he was losing himself, I could tell. His eyes were hazy, the first tremors of him coming undone, making his tight muscles dance. “But the time . . .”

Just as he said it, I came apart, letting out a loud moan, clutching his shoulders. He held me in place, but instead of pumping inside me and searching for his own release, he cupped his hand over my mouth.

I heard the door to the restroom flinging open, then slamming shut. It felt like a bucket of ice water was dumped all over my orgasm. My eyes flared, my mouth pursing behind his hand.

No, no, no, no.

He lowered me down to my feet, helping me smooth my dress over my thighs, still hard and unsatisfied. I slapped his hand away, feeling the tears stinging the backs of my eyeballs. Of course he’d said it would be okay. And of course it wasn’t. I was such an idiot to trust him. But I couldn’t deny my own responsibility. I was the bubbleheaded cheerleader who’d agreed to go bareback in that imaginary truck bed. Hell, I’d let the quarterback take a shit all over me.