by Max Monroe
When she didn’t say anything back for five minutes, I knew I couldn’t sit in my car anymore and wait. Things needed doing, and I was the man to do them. That’s what I told myself, anyway, as the longing built to a completely uncomfortable level. When I’d woken up to an empty bed, I’d thought it was over. The sex, the employment—fucking everything. It all seemed inevitable after making someone uncomfortable enough to flee their own room.
But then I’d climbed the steps to the plane, and she’d been there. Keeping mostly to herself, but not making any noise about never seeing my face again or suing the company or anything like that.
It was ridiculous, but it’d felt like a win. But now, thoughts of her and that night and everything it meant for me and us cluttered my mind.
Shaking off my thoughts, I kicked open the door to my car and climbed to my feet. I wouldn’t really know anything until I saw her face again, looked into her eyes, and none of that would happen until I got my ass inside.
Plus, I had a meeting in five minutes that started ten minutes ago, and I didn’t want to be late.
Taunting. Teasing. Fucking flirting.
I’d spent basically every second since I’d left Winnie Winslow’s bed falling more and more interested in her. The sex had been explosive and unexpectedly good, but more than that, the playful innuendo and teasing had become a form of verbal foreplay in the last couple of days.
But this morning, when I’d texted her and not gotten anything back—and had several hours of tortured silence for the feeling to linger—I’d realized something that scared me.
I was getting attached.
Not just to the sweet silk between her legs, but to her. Her laugh. Her jokes. Her goddamn salty attitude.
And I didn’t have time for a relationship. Not a real one anyway. I was horrendously selfish, completely unreliable, and one hundred percent happy that way. I didn’t want to change. Not for her or her kid or for any-fucking-one.
That’s why I liked easy relationships of companionship and sex—exchanges that ended in my mind the minute the actual exchange ended.
I didn’t want to be followed everywhere by the ghost of wanting a woman, of needing to see her, breathe her, talk to her—fuck her.
And sitting here right now, thinking all these things, was exactly what I was trying to avoid.
Work never turned off for me, never shut down, and one round-the-clock job for my brain was enough. I didn’t need more.
I didn’t want it.
You don’t fucking want it, I ordered myself.
A knock on the door woke me up, startled me even, and I looked down to see that my fists were clenched.
Slowly, I unfurled them from around themselves and steadied the anger right out of my voice.
“Come in.”
The door opened instantly, and I knew who it was before the frame revealed her. The memory of her smell mixed with mine formed a phantom cloud between us and slightly modified the peaches and coconut of her perfume or lotion or whatever the fuck made her smell that way.
“Win,” I greeted, determined to keep my mind focused on work. That had to be the reason she was here anyway. Winnie Winslow wasn’t the kind of woman to come knocking on my office door with the intent to sink to her knees behind my desk and suck me off.
Oh, fuck.
You really are an idiot, my hardening dick chided. You’ve done this to yourself.
Her eyes searched mine briefly, and I raised an eyebrow as though my mind wasn’t racing around unwanted arousal, spanking, and the very powerful image of her mouth around my dick.
I wasn’t about to talk first. She’d been the one to approach, and if I opened my mouth now, no doubt I’d say something stupid as fuck.
Something Thatch would be able to mock me over for years to come. Something like, Lie back on the desk and spread your pretty puss—
“I think we should fuck again,” she blurted.
My blink was languid, sluggish even, as it forced its way through the air, thick with disbelief. I knew I wasn’t dreaming, the piercing tension headache in the base of my skull a better reminder of reality than any pinch to my skin would ever be. But fuck me every Friday, this was some serious yank-my-dick-and-slap-me-upside-the-head unbelievable shit.
Her spine got straighter as she surveyed the absolute mindfuck disaster that had to be written all over my face.
“Right now.”
The perfect, wet silk of her pussy and the openly honest look in her eyes when my cock had been inside her flashed violently into my mind.
She’d been magnificent. Responsive and aggressive, completely turned on by every nuance of my answering control—and altogether too real.
One night I’d had her, and she was already like a highly addictive drug, calling to me with such intensity that it seemed like a good idea—genius, even—to let my entire life implode if only for the chance to start and end my days between her toned legs.
But we would be a train wreck. I knew it with absolute certainty. I would hurt her beyond repair, and when I got done doing that, she’d mutilate me.
Forcing my face to stay carefully blank, I spoke slowly to ensure my voice didn’t betray me. It’d gone full Judas, holding the knife to my back and pushing it farther into my skin with every passing second.
“I don’t actually think that’s a good idea.”
You are a fucking idiot, my throbbing dick protested.
Do you ever shut up? I asked him back.
Winnie’s eyes lit with something I knew I wasn’t ready for—roguish determination. I actually held my fucking breath as she spoke.
“Oh, I get it. You’re afraid you won’t be able to make me climax again.”
My eyes narrowed, and the sudden rush of my blood made all sound seem muffled—and all the air I’d been holding rushed out like steam from a pot. But as much as I wanted to prove her wrong, in several, excruciatingly complicated positions, I knew enough about reading a woman to know that was exactly what she was after.
The inner rims of her irises darkened to midnight in frustration that I hadn’t taken the bait.
I shook my head but said nothing, afraid—knowing—my mouth would betray my carefully crafted calm. Every inch of me wanted to bend her over my desk, hike her skirt up around her ribcage, and tear her panties in half, but that was just the hormones talking. The sane, adult, controlled part of me knew it wasn’t a good idea. Not in general, and especially not here at work.
Two days ago, you thought it was the best idea on the goddamn planet, my subconscious reminded me. With every flirtation, I’d pictured all the perfect secret rendezvous locations throughout the stadium in explicit detail. All it took was one day of not hearing from her to point out the error of my ways. Yeah, but that was before I realized how addicted I am to her already, I said back.
It didn’t listen.
That was the fuck of it with stupid inner monologues—they always had all kinds of fucking shit to say but never listened when you wanted to say something back.
I had agreed with Wes one hundred percent when he’d said we shouldn’t let sex happen between us again. I knew he was right. I knew it would only complicate things, and it was vital that we maintained a professional working relationship.
Sex wasn’t something that allowed for healthy boundaries.
Sex made things messy.
It convoluted everything.
But good Lord, I shouldn’t have watched him working out with the guys during practice. I shouldn’t have watched the way his biceps flexed as he tossed the ball back and forth with Bailey. I shouldn’t have watched the way sweat dripped between his pecs and down his defined abs until it got lost in the faint happy trail that led to the one place I shouldn’t have been thinking about.
I’d spent several hours this morning talking myself out of answering his suggestive text message, telling myself that we were going way too fast down a dangerous, curvy as fuck road, and then thrown it all away in the blink of an eye becaus
e of one sexy display of athleticism.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I shouldn’t have been thinking about any of those things. And I sure as shit shouldn’t have been in his office after hours with the intention of seducing him into another amazing round of hot and sweaty and delicious—fucking incredible—sex.
But I was only human.
And horny, obviously.
I was a woman who spent most of her days prioritizing work and home life, always putting my daughter first, and very rarely doing anything for myself.
I was a woman who hadn’t had sex for an entire year before Wes, and I had given in to marathon sex in my hotel room in Miami.
Hell, up to that point, I had never had marathon sex.
There was a lot to be said for marathon sex, by the way.
But mostly, right now, what I had to say about it was that I wanted it. Again. And I wanted it from Wes Lancaster. He made me feel good without instruction or guidance, and I desperately wanted the freedom from being in charge. I wanted to not think. To just feel.
And if I was honest, it hadn’t been some instant craving spurred by watching him at practice today. I’d come to work prepared— dressed like a high-priced hooker underneath my simple, knee-length black pencil skirt and white silk blouse. Said premeditation also probably explained the fuck-hot stilettos I decided to toddle around the field in. I mean, no one in their right mind wore stilettos to a job that was spent on the football field or in a locker room ninety percent of the time unless she was trying to impress someone into screwing her brains out again.
Before I go any further, just remember the whole no-sex-for-a-year thing.
Also, don’t judge me by my hormones.
And, now, after all that effort, he didn’t think it was a good idea? Well, he could join the fucking club. But if I didn’t have control, he wasn’t going to have it either.
“Fine,” I ground out, trying to sound flippant and failing miserably.
“I’m sorry.” His hazel eyes softened around the edges.
Oh, gross. He was sorry. Fuck that.
“Let’s just forget it, okay?” I offered, and this time, I managed to sound unfazed. His eyebrows pulled together at the sudden change.
“Winnie—”
“We have different things to discuss anyway.”
“We do?” he asked, sitting up a little straighter in his chair. “Work?”
“Yes,” I confirmed.
“Okay, what’s going on?” he asked, shedding his shield and settling into the work with a tug of his tie. I almost smiled at how easily I’d managed to lower his defenses.
“I think Mitchell should sit out the next game,” I lied. “He looked like shit in practice.”
“You have got to be fucking shitting me,” he said on a near shout. Calm—gone.
Okay, so I was partially right on the fact that Mitchell hadn’t looked fantastic in practice, but he also didn’t look like his hamstring was bothering him one bit. And even though he was just coming off his second hamstring pull, I knew he didn’t need to sit out any more games. He had rehabbed his leg through aggressive PT, and his last MRI had shown a remarkable improvement.
So why was I acting like he needed to sit out again?
Strategy.
And downright nymphomania.
I hadn’t been diagnosed, but I was a medical professional. I was calling it.
Wes riled up generally led to an argument between us, and an argument between us generally led to some insane sexual tension.
My vagina was really hoping this time wouldn’t be any different. I wanted him angry. Preferably in his office. On his desk. Against the wall. Basically, anywhere. I wasn’t picky.
He furrowed his brow when memories of conversations past overruled irrational panic. “Wait a second. You said he was doing well. Actually, I recall you saying his last MRI looked great and we didn’t have anything to worry about.”
I shrugged and slowly walked toward him. “I just don’t want to take any chances,” I said as I stopped right beside his chair and rested my ass against the edge of his desk.
Wes slid his chair back a few inches and turned in my direction, his jaw hard and his voice unyielding. “Cut the conservative crap, Win. He’s playing.”
Temperament manipulation—achieved.
Way to go, Win, my vagina cheered.
Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, I answered back.
Hopping up onto his desk, I spread my legs just enough that my skirt slid up my knees, revealing a few inches of my upper thighs. My pulse thrummed at double the speed of normal.
I’d never in my life done something like this. I waited for men to make their moves, took what I wanted when they offered it. But this was a demand—backhanded and manipulative, sure, but that was just the most effective form of negotiation when it came to Wes Lancaster.
Right?
His gaze followed the line of my legs, moving down until he took in the black stilettos covering my feet, and then it moved back up again, pausing on the few inches of skin revealed by the hem of my skirt for longer than an unaffected man would have.
I smiled internally and released my hair from my bun, the strands falling softly against my shoulders.
“What are you doing, Winnie?”
“I’m talking to you about Mitchell’s hamstring.”
“No. That’s not what you’re doing,” he argued, pushing his chair back from his desk and several inches away from me.
I let a tiny smirk curve just the corner of my mouth. “What do you think I’m doing?”
He considered me for just a moment before answering. “I think you’re trying to seduce me.”
“Well, that would be quite bold of me, wouldn’t it?”
“We’re in my office. At work.”
“Everyone has left for the day.”
“The cleaning staff is here.”
“The door is locked.”
“This isn’t a good idea,” he told me what I already knew.
“I know,” I said and unbuttoned my blouse until the lacy white bra underneath was revealed for his eyes.
His eyes homed in on my breasts. “This probably shouldn’t happen.”
Probably. His protests were weakening.
“I know,” I agreed again, even though I was hell-bent on seeing that it did, in fact, occur. Scooting my ass across his desk until I could rest my heels on the armrests of his chair, I caged him in. My skirt slid up even farther, revealing the white garters connected to my thigh highs.
“Fuck,” he muttered and couldn’t stop his hand from trailing up my leg. “This is such a bad idea.”
“Uh-huh.” I nodded and removed my blouse, peeling it back slowly, inch by inch, and then my bra, leaving my breasts bared for his now heated gaze.
His gaze caressed every inch of my skin until he was sliding both hands up my thighs and pushing my skirt up with their momentum.
“Fuck, Win. You wear shit like this to work all the time?”
I shrugged. “Sometimes.”
Never. But I’ll wear shit like this to work every day if it leads to you and me fucking on your desk.
I lifted my hips so he could move my skirt out of the way, until it was around my waist and my bare ass met the cool surface of his desk.
“Garters and a fucking thong?”
“Uh-huh.”
He groaned long and low. “You’re trying to kill me.”
I shook my head. “No. I’m trying to fuck you again,” I admitted frankly.
His eyes never left mine as he scooted his chair even closer, so close that his mouth was mere inches from where I throbbed and ached for him.
“Fuck, you’re wet. I can tell you’re soaked through your panties,” he whispered, the heat of his breath on my thighs making me shiver.
“Uh-huh.” I spread my legs even wider and kept them firmly placed on his chair.
“You want my mouth, sweetheart?”
“God, yes.”
�
�Show me.”
“Huh?”
He slid my thong to the side with his fingertips and stared up at me. “Touch yourself. Show me what you want me to do with my tongue.”
I moaned in response to his words.
“Don’t get shy now,” he commanded. You wouldn’t take no for an answer, so now, neither will I. He didn’t say the words, but with the way he was looking at me, he didn’t have to. “Rub your clit. Slip a finger inside your pussy. Show me what you need.”
Holy fuck.
“Do it, Win. Now.”
God, he was demanding. And hot. So fucking hot.
I slowly moved my hand to my pussy. He watched as I rubbed soft circles against my clit. And he kept on watching until I slipped a finger inside myself, feeling just how wet and hot and fucking needy I was for him—not that I needed the proof. That memo was notarized before any clothing had come off.
“You’re dripping,” he whispered, reaching up to smear my excitement onto my thighs. “I can’t wait to lick every fucking drop of sweetness coming from that perfect cunt,” he told me. His eyes were hungrier than any big bad wolf.
“Please,” I begged.
“Two fingers, Win.”
I obeyed, but it still wasn’t enough. My two fingers pumping in and out of my pussy made me feel empty in comparison to the way I knew his dick felt inside me.
He forced my hand to a stop with a grip of my wrist and brought my wet fingers up to my nipple.
“Play with your tits, sweetheart,” he instructed.
Without any delay, he gripped my ass with his big hands and buried his face between my legs.
A guttural moan slipped past my lips as he devoured me with his lips and tongue. And my hips came off the desk when he slipped a finger inside me and massaged that perfect spot.
“You taste so fucking good,” he groaned against my skin.
“Fuck. Shit.”
“Don’t come,” he demanded, but then he sucked my clit into his mouth and flicked along the sensitive bud with his tongue.
“What?” I tried to retort, but it mostly just came out as an incoherent moan.
