by Kelly, Hazel
“What papers?”
“All the papers that should be covering your desk,” I say. “I thought you were a lawyer?”
He nods his head towards a door that blends in with the wall to my right. “They’re in there,” he says. “On my messy desk.”
“Oh.” So his office is even bigger than I thought.
“I can’t stand the constant clutter, though,” he says. “So I keep this room spotless.”
“I can see that,” I say, wondering if there are any personal effects in the other room or if he segregates every aspect of his life as effortlessly as he keeps this room stark.
“So,” he says. “I trust you and your clients have come to some sort of agreement?”
“We have.”
“Great,” he says. “I look forward to going over it.”
I pull a folder out of my bag and step up to his desk, realizing the windows behind him reveal the best view of the city I’ve ever seen.
“Not too shabby, eh?” he asks, catching me.
“I’ll say.” I slide the folder across his desk. “I don’t know how you get any work done.”
“I keep my back to the view,” he says, leaning back so his shirt pulls across his chest.
I immediately regret never having licked it. “I like your orchid, too.”
“Thanks,” he says, admiring it.
I look at his lips and remember our kiss. “I hear they’re quite difficult to grow.”
“They are,” he says. “But they say if you can manage an orchid, you can manage anything.”
I squint at him. “Who says that?”
“I can’t remember,” he says, reaching for the folder. “But I like it even more now that I know it matches your bra.”
My eyes go wide. “What the heck, Owen?!”
“Hey,” he says, raising his palms. “You’re the one that bent over right in front of my desk—”
“I did not.”
“You did,” he says. “When you were getting this.” He drums his thick fingers on the folder, and I remember how it felt to sit next to him while he played the piano, how it felt to let him play me.
“I shouldn’t have to beg you to be professional.”
“You lost me at the suggestion of you begging,” he says, walking around his desk. “That’s filled my mind with all sorts of filth.”
I clench my jaw. “Owen. I need you to take me seriously.”
“Oh, I take you seriously,” he says, stepping up to me.
I hold my ground despite the intense energy coming off him.
He lets his hips lean into my personal space, coming so close I find myself pinned against the desk.
“I take you so seriously I want you to go on a date with me.” His chest is so close to mine I can hardly breathe.
“What?”
“Let me take you out to dinner.”
I shake my head. “I came here to negotiate.”
“What do you think we’re doing?” he asks, pressing his hard-on against me and pulling my shirt from where it’s tucked into my skirt.
“This isn’t what I had in mind,” I say.
“No?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow and pulling my skirt up. “Cause it’s all I have in mind.”
“What about your rules?” I ask as his fingers slide between my legs. “What about no dating and no kissing and no mixing business and pleasure?”
“It’s just dinner, babe,” he says, sliding his fingers under my underwear and groaning when he feels that I’m already wet.
I spread my legs to make it easier for him and drop my head back when he forces his fingers inside me.
“You can suck me off for dessert,” he whispers in my ear, churning my insides until I gush over his fingers.
I grab his shoulders to brace myself as he drops his lips to my neck, biting my delicate flesh between kisses. I moan, and he freezes, covering my mouth with his hand and fixing his eyes on me. “That’s not allowed,” he says, pulling his fingers from me and reaching inside his jacket.
I only see the handkerchief for a moment before he shoves it in my mouth.
And by the time he’s pulled my shirt off over my head I realize I’m too turned on to object.
I fumble at his belt, shoving his pants and boxers down around his hips.
“Lie down,” he says, his low voice full of all the control I don’t feel.
I lean back and prop myself up on the desk as he presses his head against me.
When he sinks inside, I close my eyes and release a muffled moan into my stuffed mouth before my arms slide out from under me.
His desk is cool against my back as he heats my whole body from the inside out, holding my bent legs as he fucks me in front of his windows.
I know I’ve let things go way too far, but I’m too far along to stop him. He feels so good I can’t get enough, can’t keep from going closer to the edge.
He flicks my heels off and straightens my legs against his solid chest, lifting my ass off the desk so he can work a new angle.
I cover my mouth with both hands, desperate to cry out, desperate to finally say his name.
He comes a moment later, and I feel the force of his desire explode inside me a moment before my body curls up and breaks into spasms on the desk.
I’m halfway dreaming as he rubs my swollen clit, smiling every time my body jolts at his touch.
He takes hold of my wrists and pulls me upright again. Then he pulls the handkerchief from my mouth and kisses me deep.
I put a hand on his cheek and kiss him back, feeling everything it’s not okay to feel.
He seals the deep kiss with a gentle peck, and I feel so high when he pulls away I half expect him to be wearing armor when I open my eyes.
“I’m going to take that as a yes,” he says, pulling his pants up and refastening his belt.
“I really don’t think dinner’s a good idea,” I say.
“You’re right,” he says, handing me my shirt. “It’s a great one.”
My mind is reeling with how I could’ve lost control so quickly. What is it about this guy that makes me feel all woman and all stupid at the same time? I press my lips together, determined to find a way to say no that seems genuine, to find an excuse he might actually take seriously.
He fixes his hungry eyes on me. “That’s my final offer.”
I smooth my skirt down and keep my eyes on him as he walks back around his desk.
“You negotiate with me,” he says, laying a hand on the proposal I brought. “And I’ll negotiate with you.”
N I N E
Owen’s already waiting at the bar when I walk in the dimly lit restaurant.
I press my glossy lips together and wonder if I should’ve worn something less revealing, but surely he deserves a hint of cleavage after how sexy he’s made me feel…even if this whole thing is terribly inappropriate.
“Cassie,” he says, his eyes lighting up. “You look—”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Good enough to eat.”
I’d say the same about him, but his head is full enough.
“Your table is ready,” the hostess says, interrupting our staring contest. “If you’ll follow me right this way…”
He extends his hand, gesturing for me to go first, and I can feel his eyes start on my bare shoulders and drip down my back as he follows me. His attention excites my whole body, and for a moment I wish this were a regular date instead of a deal struck to get him to negotiate.
Of course, I’ve already decided I’m not going to.
If he so much as tries to back out of my ambitious terms, I’ll take him to court, where he won’t stand a chance unless he’s willing to fight as dirty as he fucks. But that’s a risk I have to take.
Sure, I’d rather take him to bed, but after thinking about it long and hard, I know it would be foolish to think a guy like him would stick around. And since it’s inevitable that he’s going to lose interest in me eventually, I might as well focus on my promoti
on, which is far more likely to keep me warm at night in the future.
But how attracted I am to him isn’t making it easy to play hardball. In fact, just the way his suit fits tonight and the way he keeps twisting his left cufflink makes me want to drop to my knees.
Being so close to him is just as surreal now as it was the first time I met him, back when I had no idea I could want someone so bad, no idea a man could make me feel so good.
I used to think Tim Gaier made me a woman on my eighteenth birthday, but I know better now. These days, I’m walking taller than ever, and I owe that to Owen Morgan, champion of my fantasies and nemesis to my professional goals.
“Thanks for joining me tonight,” he says, spreading his napkin in his lap after asking the hostess to bring two glasses of prosecco.
“You’re welcome,” I say, pushing my softly curled hair behind my shoulders.
“I’ve been looking forward to it.”
“Me too,” I say, casting my eyes down at my menu so he doesn’t see me blush.
“And I know you’re eager to talk business,” he says.
I lift my gaze.
“But I was hoping you’d agree to save it for after the meal.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
“So we can just enjoy ourselves.”
I shrug as if I’m not delighted, but part of me definitely is. After all, this is the kind of restaurant I’ve always wanted a guy to bring me to. It has tablecloths and finely dressed staff and three courses to whisper over. It’s a more real date than anything I’ve gone on recently.
Not that I blame the men I’ve gone out with. Dating is so transient and accessible now that I can understand why guys aren’t willing to invest in a girl until they know there are at least a few nights out in it for them. Still, it’s nice to be treated like a lady…especially by someone who’s seen how much of a lady I can fail to be in the right circumstances.
“So,” Owen says, eyeing the menu. “What made you want to become a lawyer?”
“I thought you didn’t want to talk about work?”
“I don’t,” he says. “I want to talk about you.”
“My parents are lawyers,” I say. “I’ve never known anything else.”
“Interesting.”
“I’ve had to be good at arguing my case from a young age.”
“I can imagine,” he says, smiling at the waitress who brings our drinks.
“Obviously they didn’t want me to become a lawyer.”
“No?” he asks, raising his brows.
I shake my head. “They encouraged me to pursue a career with regular hours that attracts happy people.”
“Like what?”
“Teaching, for example.”
His dark eyes flash. “I assume you didn’t say that to fill my mind with role playing ideas.”
“No. I didn’t.”
“So why go against their wishes?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I think it was an act of rebellion on my part.”
He laughs.
“What about you?”
He lays a hand across his chest. “Why did I become a lawyer?”
I nod.
“For the paycheck,” he says.
“I see.”
“And before you decide I’m a miserable prick, I assure you that I’m well aware that money can’t buy happiness.”
“Agreed.”
“But I’ve understood for a long time that it can buy freedom, and as far as I’m concerned, it’s my duty as an American to hold freedom in high regard.”
“I suppose we all have to have something that gets us out of bed,” I say, cocking my head. “But I’m curious what exactly your freedom is good for.”
“It’s not my freedom that concerns me, really.”
“Oh?”
“Though I do enjoy having nice things and traveling to interesting places when the mood strikes,” he says.
“Sure.”
“Initially it was my grandparents’ freedom that most concerned me.”
I perk up my ears. “Your grandparents?”
“Yeah. They raised me, and I always felt I owed them for that.”
I take a sip of prosecco and let the bubbles roll down my throat.
“I never wanted them to be sent to a home they didn’t want to go to, for example, since they saved me from the same fate.”
“Can I ask about your parents?”
“My dad was killed on the job. He was a police officer in the inner city and took a call on his way home one night thinking it was a simple domestic. Apparently he bled out before the ambulance arrived.”
“And your mom?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “She left me on my grandparents’ doorstep and was never heard from again.”
I blink at him.
“I don’t mean to depress you.”
“No, I know. It’s just…sad.”
“She was really young at the time,” he says. “I don’t think she was ready to be a widowed mother. I don’t even think she would’ve married my father if she hadn’t gotten pregnant. His death was her chance to start over. Or at least, I like to think she’s alive and well somewhere, living the life she wanted to have.”
“That’s gracious of you.”
“Yeah, well, it’s the kind of grace that takes time,” he says. “Trust me. I put my grandparents through hell as a teenager in some fucked up attempt to test how easy it was to pass me on.”
“But they didn’t.”
“Not only that,” he says. “The worse I acted out, the more love they showed me.”
“Wow.”
“They were saints,” he says. “I’m not a religious person, but I’d say their wings were on hold long before they died.”
“Which was…?”
“A few years ago, within a few months of each other.”
“At home, I presume?”
He nods. “They needed help in the end, but I was able to hire full-time care for them so they could stay at home.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Owen.”
“Don’t be,” he says. “I spent the last two years being sorry enough for both of us.”
“You’re not so bad, you know that?”
“Can’t say I get that a lot,” he says. “Most of the time, I’m a complete bastard.”
“That may be so,” I say, letting one corner of my mouth curl up. “But obviously it’s in you to be kind.”
“Let’s not get carried away,” he says. “I’m kind to people who deserve my kindness.”
“You’re kind to me.”
“That’s different,” he says. “I have ulterior motives when it comes to you.”
“To freedom,” I say, lifting my glass.
He clinks his against mine, keeping his eyes on me as he takes a slow sip.
The waitress arrives a moment later and takes our order. I order the sole, and he gets a steak and an order of calamari to share right away. He insists we need more time to consider the desserts, but I definitely don’t, and I wonder which dishes he’s torn between.
“So,” he says. “Tell me about the last idiot that blew it with you.”
I scrunch my face. “I’d rather not.”
“At least tell me what went wrong between you.”
I bite the inside of my cheek and recall my ex, who I can only seem to picture in wrinkled dress shirts. “We fought a lot.”
“About what?”
“He thought I worked too much.”
“Which I’m sure you do, but I would never judge you for that,” he says, smiling.
“At the same time, I thought he lacked ambition. But I couldn’t exactly hate him for that when I knew that about him from the beginning, so I found other things to be annoyed about.”
“Like what?” he asks.
“Like his inability to do anything right the first time and his dated perception of gender roles.”
Owen tilts an ear towards me. “Meaning?”
“Mea
ning I’m not the barefoot and pregnant type, and if I wanted to clean up after people, I’d change jobs.”
“I bet you’d look sexy as hell if you were barefoot and pregnant.”
I scoff.
“Especially if I were cooking and cleaning in nothing but an apron while you had your feet up.”
I laugh. “I feel like you understand my wildest fantasies even better than I do.”
He smiles. “Unfortunately, that one wouldn’t happen because I can’t clean for shit,” he says. “But there is no freedom like an honest cleaning lady.”
“You’ve never been more attractive.”
“And I do cook a bit,” he says.
“Really?” I ask. “I’m surprised you have the time.”
“I don’t,” he says. “But my grandma had this horrible fear that I would starve to death if she didn’t teach me how, so I can whip up a few classics.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’m mostly a one-pot-wonder guy,” he says. “Stews, soups, pasta bakes, casseroles—”
I furrow my brow. “You can make casseroles?”
“Surprised?”
“Pleasantly.”
“What about you?” he asks.
“Sandwiches are really the only thing I make with confidence.”
“You’re only saying that to get me hard.”
My mouth falls open. “Does your mind never stray from sex?”
“Not when you’re around.”
“I’m flattered, but you need to learn to control yourself.”
“I’d rather practice controlling your pleasure.”
I blush. “I’m not sure you need any more practice. That encounter in your office was…”
“Hopefully the first of many,” he says.
“I don’t get it. There are women all over the place, and I’m the least convenient of all.” I turn a palm to the ceiling. “So why the interest in me?”
“I don’t know,” he says, leaning back as the waitress sets a pile of calamari between us. “But as soon as I figure it out, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
T E N
I insist on walking home through the park even though Owen offers to flag a cab.
