Her Intern

by Anne Marsh

  I’m fucked. Or rather, not fucked. Cold water doesn’t make anything clearer, so I turn the water off, grab a handful of paper towels and concentrate on scrubbing away the visible evidence of our dirty lunchtime encounter. I scowl. I have no idea what we’re doing, although I’m now perfectly clear on what we’re not doing. I’d had a plan. I was going to find out who’d pirated my software, exact appropriate vengeance and walk away. But then my boss bounded in, all clingy yoga pants and sexy little tank tops, and I’ve somehow gotten lost between her spectacular ass and those big hazel eyes that both look through me and yet see me at the same time. She’s annoying as fuck, vague and way too hippie for her own good. I mean, she still believes that hard work and good intentions can make the world a better place when I know it takes cold, hard cash and the threat of serious consequences.

  Noise filters in from the other side of the door, a wave of chatter that sounds like a horde of seagulls. My coworkers are returning from lunch. What do I do about Lola? I’ve had my fingers in her pussy. She’s had her hands on me. We’ve seen and touched parts of each other that are never, ever supposed to be visible at work unless your place of business is a strip club and I can’t unsee her.

  I could walk away, but that means admitting she’s won. She won’t know it, but the final score will be in her favor. Plus, if I leave, whoever stole from King Me will be free to do it again, and next time the thief might score something even more valuable. Vigilantes-R-Us, that’s me. Nobody touches my shit. I need to understand how someone got her hands on my private code and shared it with someone else. Imagine you took naked selfies for your lover and then found out random strangers were getting off to your dick or your tits on a revenge porn site. It’s like that.

  Worst case, if Calla launches with my software, there’s the Trojan option. It would rain dildos on her site. I still have a problem with my own clients, the ones I’ve promised an exclusive new e-commerce suite to, but I can code them something new. Something bigger and better, slicker and with more bells and whistles. Four weeks is enough time to develop it since I rarely sleep more than a few hours a night. Nevertheless, pulling the plug on Calla is the smarter decision, a business-oriented call—not an asshole one.

  Why can’t I keep my hands off her? I pull my T-shirt on and then shrug into my shirt, doing up the buttons. I’m still running scenarios in my head when someone bangs on the door.

  “Are you dead? Trapped? Reading War and Peace?”

  “Reviewing your convoluted-ass code,” I yell back. “Come back tomorrow.”

  Someone mutters “Gross” on the other side of the door. As if I care.

  I can do this.

  Or not do this.

  This being Lola Jones. It would be just like high school. I was a late bloomer and super skinny. With three older brothers, I hadn’t worried about getting teased to my face or beaten up, but I hadn’t been a social butterfly, either. I’d gotten on with the business of getting out of school (valedictorian, naturally) and into college and on my way to financial success. Sure, I loved sex as much as the next guy, but I hadn’t felt the need to woo every girl I met, and they’d found it easy enough to resist me until I’d had a growth spurt and a come-to-Jesus moment in the gym my freshman year of college.

  So this should be easy.

  Just concentrate on the million and one ways Lola annoys me.

  I’m at my desk, working, when Lola wanders by. A familiar flash of blue and white catches my eye. She has my tie wrapped around her waist like some kind of trendy trophy.

  She wants to play.

  A few minutes later, I saunter up to her desk.

  “What?” She’s already lost in her code, not looking up. I don’t even think it’s on purpose. She’s just that into her work.

  I drop her new panties on her keyboard.

  “Oh my God.” She slams the laptop closed, sandwiching her panties between the keyboard and the screen. Nice save.

  I smirk at her. “You lost those. You’re welcome.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Dev

  THE DOOR TO the conference room is shut when I return from my Wednesday morning coffee run and three suit-wearing strangers are facing down my darling Ms. Jones. Her back is to me, preventing me from seeing her face, but the suits wear an expression I’m very familiar with. It’s a combination of no fucks to give and a sadistic pleasure in knowing that they’ve screwed you, at an exorbitant cost to you, and you haven’t enjoyed the experience, the business world equivalent of anticipating the world’s biggest banana split with whipped cream but instead getting an iceberg salad.

  “What’s up with the suits?” I drop off Cara’s triple espresso, waving off her offer to pay.

  She makes a face. “Production issues. Those guys are management from the factory that’s manufacturing our tampons. There’s some delay and they can’t start shipping until August, so buh-bye July launch.”

  I’m headed toward the conference room before I realize it. No product means a delayed launch, and Calla has an expiration date that’s fast approaching.

  Lola slams into me as she barrels out. My fingers curl around her arms, steadying her. Damn it. I’m touching her again.

  “What did you tell them?” I jab a finger toward the departing suits. “Did you give them a pass on their deadline? A pat on the head and a try harder, guys?”

  “Let me guess. You’d have done it all differently.” She growls the last word, clearly itching for a fight. I can certainly help her with that. She hasn’t spoken so much as a word to me since our Monday lunch encounter.

  I’m delighted to get in her face. “You’re too goddamned nice.”

  “And you’re a goddamned grumpy bastard. I’m building a team here. I don’t have to be a bitch or a bastard to win at life. Believe it or not, my way is effective.” Her eyes narrow.

  “Mine is better.”

  “Really?” Her hand slashes the air. “Because as far as I can tell, everything is a game to you and your brain is one big score card.”

  “Believe me, I take shit seriously.”

  “Not that kind of game.” She sounds frustrated. “Nothing’s fun and easy with you. Instead, everything is about winning. It’s one big competition with you keeping score.”

  “While you want everyone to hold hands and sing church hymns.”

  She heads up the stairs to Calla’s unused second floor. “I believe I can learn something from other people and that they’re worth listening to.”

  Uh-huh. I tag along.

  The view as she bounces up the stairs in front of me is rewarding—her yoga pants hug her ass with each step—but I’m still not sure why we need to make the second-story trek.

  “Are you just in the mood for a change of scenery? Feeling the need to burn off the morning muffin? Why are we up here?”

  She heads toward the far corner. “I’m up here because I’m putting our new test box in the server rack. You’re up here because you can’t take direction.”

  “This is what you have Cara for.”

  “Cara has an appointment and I like doing this.”

  There is something fundamentally satisfying about bringing a new server online. Given the small size of the team here, everyone sits downstairs. This floor is mostly storage—and the server closet in the back corner. When Lola opens the door, cool air hits us first, followed by the steady hum of the hardware stacked inside.

  The new server waits on the floor. Lola gets to work immediately, unscrewing bolts in the rails and tightening screws. I help where I can, holding bits of hardware and tools. The rack has been loaded with textbook precision from the bottom up and the empty slot is at the top, so when it’s time to lift the server into place, she starts issuing directions.

  “Take the front end.” She points to the server. “I’ll do the back.”

  I lift, she lifts, and togeth
er we slide the server into the rack. It’s a small space and we end up stuck together, legs touching, hands brushing as Lola finishes the install. It also starts to sink in that we’re alone. I keep my eyes fixed on the blinking lights of the nearest server because this keeps me from looking at Lola. She has a freckle in the shell of her ear, a soft, velvety spot of brown that I’ve never noticed.

  Lola shuffles, I shift in response, and we do the age-old dance of two people in close quarters who are trying very hard not to touch each other’s good parts. Except we fail. Her hand brushes my hip and my own curls around her shoulder. And our mouths—well, our mouths are so close we might as well be kissing.

  Guilt flashes through her eyes. “We can’t do this.”

  Lola’s honesty is one of the things I like about her. She won’t pretend that she’s not attracted to me. She’s completely up-front about what she wants, even if she dislikes wanting those things. I know I’m not good for her, for so many reasons, but I also don’t want to move.

  My mouth brushes hers. “Bad, bad idea.”

  “Help me out here. Give me the list.” She’s staring down at my dick—who is enjoying the attention—so I can’t be blamed for not understanding her.

  “The list?”

  She gestures impatiently. “The list. You have one for every situation, so tell me why we can’t have sex. Why hooking up with my intern is a horrible, awful, no good, very bad idea.”

  Oh. That list.

  “Alphabetical or rank order?”

  She grabs my tie. “You drive me nuts.”

  “Right back at you.” I take a step forward. Since the closet’s small, my advance means her back hits the wall. I reach between us and loosen the knot of my tie and hold it out. Play with me.

  She hesitates, and I count off the seconds in my head. One one thousand. Two one thousand. Her fingers close around the tie, tugging it through my fingers in a silken rush. Her upper teeth worry the cute pout of her lower lip. She’s thinking again, so I distract her with the list.

  “Item 1: You’re my boss, but I don’t take orders in bed.”

  I add a kiss. Kisses are punctuation.

  “Item 2: I don’t do relationships, but we work together, so we already kind of have a relationship.”

  Another kiss. This one steals the little, greedy gasp she makes.

  “Item 3: I think I could screw this up.”

  Kiss, kiss. If I was a better person, I’d add the last item, the one I’m thinking but that I’ll never, ever say out loud. Item 4: I’m not who you think I am.

  “Let’s hear yours,” I say instead.

  “Mine?” She sounds dazed, her mouth reaching for mine.

  “Your list.”

  “It’s short.” She presses her fingertips against my mouth. “You’re my intern. This is our workplace.”

  She thinks for a moment, tracing her fingertip over my lower lip, back and forth. Then she adds, “And you’re younger than me. I don’t think we’re in cougar territory, but it bothers me. I won’t take advantage of you.”

  “I won’t let you take advantage,” I promise her. “Everything else is just noise. Get naked.”

  Lola

  We’ve never done this, not all the way, not completely naked and not pissed off. This isn’t the right time, the right place or even the right people—but neither of us wants to stop.

  I press my fingertips against his mouth one last time. “Always with the orders.”

  “You like my orders.”

  I push gently past him, reaching for the edge of the door. I know he thinks I’m leaving. I should. Smart Lola mocks me, pointing out the ways this can—probably will—go wrong. I was honest when I gave him my list. He’s too young, too brash, too much of a player for there to be room for him in my everyday life. In my imagination, however, there’s all the room in the world. That’s how my crushes always work. I dream big, writing a thousand different endings for those not-stories, and in doing so, I realize that I’ve accidentally chosen not to live my life.

  The lock clicks shut and I turn to face him. He really is beautiful. Without conscious thought, my hand is already reaching for him, trying to pull him closer. My fingers brush his chest. He’s always so buttoned up, so confident, so I reach for the first button on his crisp dress shirt and slip it free.

  And then I do it again.

  Slowly, as if we have all the time in the world rather than stolen seconds in the hardware closet. He watches me, lips parted. Another button. One more. He stands there so casually, as if he truly is the king of his world. Part of me doesn’t mind that arrogance—that’s the part of me that’s fantasized about this moment a million times. Dev, however, doesn’t need to fantasize. If I ask, he’ll tell me he’s done this before and I’m the only workplace virgin here. He’s such a bastard, a beautiful asshole I intend to make mine for a few minutes. Almost angrily, I shove the shirt down his arms, yanking the cuffs over his hands and letting the expensive fabric fall carelessly on the floor.

  The T-shirt underneath is unexpected. I expected white cotton or an old university shirt, not a manga hero. I sort of hate him for being quirky and surprising. He’s supposed to stay in the box where I’ve put him, the box labeled workplace hookup.

  “Nice.” I trace the horned skull of the hero wizard on his chest. “The ancient and inhuman magus who buys a magically talented human slave girl. Are you imagining parallels between her career path and yours?”

  “What’s not to like about magic?” He winks at me. “House Slytherin for the win.”

  I’ve seen this man’s penis. I’ve had him in my mouth and I’ve watched him come. And yet I suddenly feel like only now is he a real person. Or maybe it’s that—finally—he’s more than just my work crush.

  He abruptly yanks the shirt over his head. “Taking too long.”

  His words break the strange spell between us. He shucks his clothes and I do the same, arms brushing, legs bumping. It’s funny, more than a little cute and awkward, and I wonder if it’s okay to laugh during the hookup. And if I ever get the chance to do this again, I’ll do it somewhere with a bed. And room service. My stomach growls, reminding me I skipped lunch.

  I look at him, keeping my eyes on his face. I’m probably supposed to praise his penis or write a poem to its mighty manliness, but screw it. He gets me. “I don’t know how this is supposed to work. This is my first time doing it in the closet, so you’ll have to tell me the rules.”

  He’ll have them because he always does. His eyes darken and he steps into me. My heart pounds, and not just because I’m listening for sounds of unwelcome company on the other side of the door.

  His hands push into my hair, cradling my head. “First rule. You have to be quiet.”

  I can do quiet. I’ve never been a screamer or even a dirty talker. It spoils my concentration. His mouth covers mine, and somewhere in his kiss, I forget how awkward this all is. I forget I’m naked in front of a not-quite-stranger, about to have sex at work. It just feels...good.

  I arch against him, nothing separating us. I’m hardly a virgin. I’ve read books, done things, made fantasies into wish lists when I stumbled across something that made me think yes, do that with me. But nothing I imagined has prepared me for the reality of Dev. I whimper, leaning into his touch, hating myself for this weakness.

  “Tell me yes, Lola.”

  Because that weakness makes me mad, I tease him back, taking my time to answer, running my fingers over my own skin because it feels good. Finding the hollow of my collarbone, skating down and over my ribs until I shiver. And until I find his thick, hot penis and wrap my fingers hard around him. We both like it a little rough.

  “Yes,” I whisper finally, going up on tiptoe to kiss his ear.

  “Bite me,” he groans.

  I press my teeth against the smooth, hard flesh of his shoulder. No give. I mov
e lower, catching the flat brown circle of his nipple between my teeth and biting down. He jerks, a harsh sound hissing between his teeth. Devlin King definitely likes it rough.

  That’s okay, so do I sometimes, at least in my head. And it turns out that I like it IRL, as well. Plus, Dev really, really knows what he’s doing. He hardly needs directions at all. He picks me up and sets my back against the wall, his big hands cupping my butt. He’s thrusting against me, his penis hitting my favorite spots, and I wrap my legs around his waist. Then I wrap my arms around his neck and bury my face in his throat where he smells so good.

  “Don’t drop me,” I order against his skin.

  He says something, but I don’t really care what. I’m almost certain it’s a promise, and I know he wouldn’t hurt me, not that way, so it’s all good. Or bad. Bad, bad, bad because that’s almost the last conscious thought I have before he rolls on a condom and drives inside me. I take him, gasping and trembling and stretching to hold him.

  “You’re huge.” I may bite his ear as retaliation because he should sting the way I sting.

  He groans and then he starts to move. He doesn’t hold back, working me on his penis, his hips slamming into mine. It shouldn’t be enough, but it is. Or maybe it’s just that I’ve been thinking about this, about sex with Dev, for weeks, and now that I’m seconds away from coming—

  I can’t hold my orgasm in any longer. I ride him hard and wild, digging my nails into his shoulder as he slams into me. There are stars and comets—maybe supernovas, too, or even a black hole and a whole new universe—exploding behind my eyes. I come harder than I’ve ever come with anyone else in my life, and I feel him shatter inside me as I do. I need to remember each second, each step that brought us here, so I can re-create it, dream it later because—

  He’s ruined me for anyone else.