But Owen wasn’t being so careful.
That’s disappointing, he wrote back right away. She pictured the exact look on his face as he was typing, that satisfied grin as he tugged on his beard and waited for her to respond.
Oh? she finally asked, not sure what else to say.
I was hoping you’d demand I come back and take care of you. ;)
How the hell do you think you’re going to take care of me? LOL.
She pictured more wine, takeout, foot rubs. Actually, Owen’s caretaking was pretty damn good.
I’ll make you forget the marks, he wrote.
What if I don’t want to forget?
It seemed a daring admission, and she held her breath waiting for his response. What if he wasn’t as into it as she was? What if it had been fun to try, but things were already starting to cool off and soon he’d be done?
I was thinking more like…forget because I’m giving you so many more orgasms, he wrote, and she actually had to glance around quickly and make sure no one had heard her yelp.
She sank lower into her office chair, biting her lip. What was she supposed to say to that?
Gives a new meaning to losing my mind… she wrote.
Losing your mind…giving me your body… he said.
That doesn’t sound so bad.
You’re always so understated, lol.
Me?
“Not so bad.”
I’m trying not to overinflate your ego.
Please, he wrote. Stroke my ego.
Stroke something else, you mean. ;)
I like it when you stroke that, too.
She crossed one leg over the other under her desk, squeezing her thighs together. Was she seriously sexting with some guy who wasn’t her boyfriend, definitely wasn’t her fiancé, and was more than familiar to everyone in this office because of the list hanging right down the hall?
But all she could do was tell him to be careful—he was making her crazy.
How crazy? he asked.
Too crazy.
Crazy is a good thing.
Not if I can’t concentrate and mess something up and get fired.
Then maybe you should take care of your crazy.
???
So you don’t get fired. I have only your best interests at heart.
She snorted at the phone. Yeah, right. He had his dick on his brain and not much else.
But it wasn’t like she could claim to be much better—not while she kept crossing and re-crossing her legs under her desk, squeezing her thighs. She didn’t know if the pressure helped relieve the ache or made it worse. All she knew was that she couldn’t stop.
And what’s in my best interests? she asked. Even though she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
Close your office door, he wrote.
LOL at you thinking I have an office.
Is there a bathroom for just one person?
Maybe… She definitely wasn’t going to answer the question outright.
But Owen had his own ideas anyway.
Go lock the door and rub one out, he texted.
She’d made the mistake of taking a sip of water and spit it all over her keyboard.
You still there? he asked. Or did you make a beeline for the bathroom?
She wiped up the water with tissues from her purse. Now you’re the crazy one, she wrote once she could control herself again. Thank God no one had walked by in that moment to ask what she was doing.
It’s not crazy to know what you need, he wrote.
Very funny.
I’m not laughing…
She stared at her phone. Lifted up out of her seat to look over the cubicle walls. Sat down and stared at her phone again.
The office was humming along, everyone at their computers or in meetings. But she was delusional if she was even thinking about what he’d just said.
Just because her body was on fire and she couldn’t think of anything but his touch…didn’t mean she could dream of acting on it.
You can do it, he wrote her.
I wouldn’t even know what to do.
You just go to the bathroom, lock the door, and call me. I’ll talk you through it. You won’t have to say a word. No one will know.
She inhaled. Let her breath out as slowly as she could, until she couldn’t stop from inhaling again.
What would you tell me to do? she asked him. Even though she knew it was a thousand kinds of wrong. Somehow, when it came to Owen, she never wanted to do the right thing and be done with him.
His texts came close together, one after another:
I’d tell you to close your eyes.
Unbutton those stylish pants I’m sure you’re wearing—the ones that make your ass look great.
Then I’d tell you to slide your hand down your pants.
Under your panties.
I know you’re already wet.
I’d tell you to use a finger to feel how soft you are, how slick and ready.
Then touch yourself and imagine it’s my hand doing it to you. My tongue tasting you.
Of course, this is all hypothetical. You’d have to actually call me to find out.
Ho-ly. Shitballs. She gripped her phone and pinched her eyes shut. But when she opened them again, the texts were still there. She hadn’t been making it up.
She shifted again on her chair. But knowing she couldn’t do anything about the ache between her legs only made it worse.
It’s a good thing I don’t have a dick, she wrote.
Uhhh, excuse me?
I have a meeting in five minutes. If I had a dick…there’s no way I’d be able to get up from my desk right now.
Fuck, I love knowing you’re turned on. It’s a good thing I’m self-employed …
Are you hard? she asked. Some part of her was shocked that she’d write that. But it didn’t take much for her to hit send instead of delete.
There’s a fucking hammer sticking straight out of my pants, he wrote.
She bit back a laugh—afraid it might turn into a moan at the thought of his hard cock straining against his fly. Him unzipping his pants, taking it out, thinking about her…
Take care of it yourself, she told him, heart pounding. Then tell me all about it when I get back.
She wanted to know every detail about what he did to pleasure himself—no matter how much this wasn’t the right time or place for her to have sex on the brain.
She kept checking her phone as she gathered her papers for her meeting. She’d almost forgotten about it, but Jason had added it to her calendar at the last minute. As long as it wasn’t to tell her off for anything having to do with her bed—or her so-called boyfriend. Jason had been cold but civil since their encounter, at least.
She stood up from her desk and headed down the hall. It was all she could do to walk in a straight line without having her knees buckle. Owen had left her keyed up and turned on out of her mind. How was she supposed to think about furniture now—unless it was beds to fuck on, tables to bend over, sofa cushions to kneel on when she was on her knees?
Concentrate! I can’t sit across from Jason and keep a straight face with my underwear this wet.
But she had to. It was her job. It was her life. She had to stop goofing around with Crowley & Sons and get her head back in the game.
But she couldn’t help risking another glance at her phone as she headed down the hall. Immediately, she stumbled.
“Are you okay?” Jason asked with a frown as he opened the door.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “New shoes.”
But the whole time Jason droned on about ad buys and the new CUBE line, building up to some punch line Rose couldn’t possibly care about, she could only think of one thing: Owen’s last text and the electricity it sent shooting straight fr
om her brain to…other places.
No way, darling. I’m not going to touch it. This one I’m saving all for you.
Who cared about advertising? Who cared about CUBE? What was Jason even talking about, going on about “next steps in your career”?
She was clearly supposed to be paying attention to something. But all that mattered was getting out of there and into Owen’s arms.
Chapter Sixteen
Owen stayed close to his phone, waiting for a response from Rose after her meeting ended. He turned the ringer on so he’d hear it. Then added the vibration, too, so he wouldn’t miss the ringtone when he was using the saws.
But his phone stayed quiet.
He hoped she wasn’t in trouble for texting with him. And he really hoped she wasn’t off with some asshole bigwigs plotting the demise of Crowley & Sons.
Especially not some asshole bigwig she’d once been engaged to. Shit. Thinking about Jason made Owen go all hot and cold from head to toe. At least he no longer had a raging hard-on.
He needed to stay focused now more than ever, which meant keeping his mind clear and his work on track. He was almost done with the last commission. And there was more good news coming his way. The couple had swung by to check out his progress and were thrilled with what they saw. So thrilled that they’d told their friends…who’d called him to set up a consultation.
Spending hours daydreaming about the crinkle around Rose’s eyes when she smiled wasn’t going to change his priorities. When he finally put down his tools and went upstairs to check on his dad, his hand was cramped and his fingers sore—not from furiously jerking off like he’d wanted to all afternoon, but from getting things done.
“How’s it going down there?” his dad asked as he closed the workshop door.
“Okay, I think? It’s slow going.”
“Anything worth doing takes time.”
“Too bad time doesn’t pay our property taxes.” Owen opened the fridge.
His dad gave a small, rueful laugh. “But you’ve got work coming in now, and that does. This commission, and then the next one. Get one after that, and we’ll—”
The intercom buzzed. Perfect timing. Just thinking about all the “ifs” in his father’s vision for the future was making his palms itch. If the new commission went through. If there was another one after that. If this all didn’t fall apart in a matter of months.
If the woman he was sleeping with didn’t help drive away the last of his business altogether.
“You expecting anyone?” Owen asked.
Hank shook his head. “A package for you?”
But Owen hadn’t ordered anything. It was probably a wrong number, a delivery for somebody else. He pressed the intercom. “Hello?”
“Why, hello. Is this Owen Crowley of Crowley & Sons?”
Even through the garbled intercom, he could tell the voice coming from the sidewalk was chipper and cheerful. And decidedly feminine.
“Rose?” he asked uncertainly. His stomach somersaulted, and he glanced at his father, who raised an eyebrow in response.
“Oh, good. You’re home.” Her voice switched from her joking, official tone back to her usual self.
“Yeah?” Usually Owen liked living with his father. It was affordable, he didn’t have to worry about his dad being alone, and since he had so little free time anyway, it didn’t matter that they were packed in like sardines.
But in that moment, he would have given anything to not have his dad standing right beside him, listening in on every word.
“What are you waiting for?” Hank asked, a bemused glint in his eye. “Invite her up.”
“I’ll be right down,” Owen said instead and shot his dad a look.
“Is this the woman you’ve been seeing all these nights?” Hank asked as soon as Owen took his finger off the intercom.
“Who said anything about a woman?”
His father laughed. “I know you think I just fell off the turnip truck…”
Owen rolled his eyes like he was a teenager again. “Just stay here and don’t be nosy,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
He grabbed his keys, laced his boots, and went downstairs. When he opened the front door to the building, Rose was sitting on the steps with a large pizza box resting beside her and a paper bag shaped suspiciously like it was holding a bottle of wine.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
She stood up. “I Googled you and found the address for the shop. And since I knew you lived above it…” She raised her palms skyward, as if to say, What could I do?
He twirled his keys around his finger. “I thought maybe I’d scared you off when I didn’t hear back from you this afternoon.”
She grinned, a sweet, naughty Cheshire cat grin that seemed to reveal everything and hide it all at once. “I had work.” She paused, and the grin shifted into something far less wholesome. “But now I don’t.”
He wasn’t sure which he liked better—Rose in her put-together work clothes, so that he got to peel away her perfect exterior piece by piece until he wound up at the warm, wet center of her, or this Rose, in dark jeans, slip-on shoes, and a striped shirt that hugged her curves like it was made to hold her.
“I wasn’t expecting you to just…show up,” he said, trying to remind himself there were a lot of things seen as acceptable on the streets of New York City, but running his hands all over Rose’s incredible body right this second probably wasn’t one of them.
Her eyes flashed with something positively wicked. “Two can play this game.”
He groaned. “I guess I deserved that.”
“You don’t think I can give as good as I get?”
“Oh, I know you can. It’s just—” His eyes glanced up at the second-floor window.
“Your dad?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Good thing I brought enough pizza for three of us,” she said. “Plus wine. I don’t know what he likes, but I got another red.”
She passed him the paper bag, and he pulled out the bottle as though he really gave a shit about the label. She was going to torture him, wasn’t she? As payback for the times he’d shown up unannounced at her place. And tied her down. And made her wait, and wait, and wait. She was going to sashay past him, checking him with her hip like the fucking pizza and booze delivery queen, and act like she hadn’t just gotten him all hot and bothered right there on his very steps, out in public, for all the world to see.
He’d created a monster. But there was no way he was going to turn her away.
It wasn’t like showing her where he lived would give her any dirt to help CUBE, right? Even if it did…he had bigger concerns right now.
She was actually. Meeting. His father.
He hadn’t brought a girl home since…he tried to think. Twelfth grade, before skipping prom? No, he’d gone to the girl’s house—not dressed up, obviously—and they’d hightailed it out of there. Had he ever brought someone home to meet his family?
But he couldn’t start freaking out over what a big deal it was. Because it was already happening, whether he liked it or not.
And maybe it wasn’t a big deal. With the way Rose was shaking his father’s hand, putting down the pizza box, and acting all chummy with Hank, it was hard to look at the kitchen and declare that the world was exploding because of these two people laughing like they’d known each other for years.
“So you’re the one who’s been eating up all of Owen’s free time,” Hank said, getting down plates as Rose poured the wine.
Rose glanced at Owen. “Uh, oh. Am I in trouble?”
Hank snorted. “I should be sending you flowers to say thank you for getting this kid out of the workshop.”
“Okay.” Owen swept in quickly, ushering them to all take a seat. “As much fun as this is—”
“So I don’t need
to worry about all his other dates?” Rose interrupted. She winked at Owen.
Screw. You, he mouthed when his dad wasn’t looking.
Hank roared with laughter. “Dates? I tried to get Owen to see a movie once. In 1999, it probably was.”
“Well, we’ve been having plenty of fun, so you don’t have to worry.”
Owen thought he was going to drop dead on the spot when she said it. But this was Rose, and she said it so primly, so perfectly, that there was nothing untoward about it at all. It sounded like she meant they’d been getting milkshakes and occasionally holding hands.
Only Owen caught the devilish wink she gave him when Hank’s back was turned. Jesus Christ, there was a reason he tried to keep his personal life far away from home and work. This woman was going to be his undoing.
But he had to at least pretend to keep it together as they all sat down and dove into the dinner Rose had brought. She seamlessly carried the conversation along even as Owen kept scrambling to come up with something not completely asinine to say.
“Wait—so he actually stole the teacher’s textbook?” Rose was practically howling with laughter as Hank launched into one of his eighteen thousand completely unflattering stories about Owen as a teenager.
“He had a test question marked wrong that he knew was correct.”
“So you stole the textbook,” she repeated, turning to Owen for confirmation.
He shrugged. “If she thought she knew everything…”
“Oh my God, you were such a jerk.” She covered her mouth with her hand, laughing.
“Thank you,” Hank said, tossing up his hands. “You can see what I had to put up with.”
“Hey! You knew I was right,” Owen said.
“I thought you were going to get expelled.” His dad shook his head at the memories. It certainly hadn’t been funny at the time. He’d thought his dad was going to bite his head off when he found out what Owen had done.
“What happened?” Rose asked.
“Suspended,” Owen grumbled. “I should have been so lucky to get kicked out.”
“Something tells me your parents didn’t have to field quite as many calls from the principal’s office,” Hank said to Rose, shaking his head.
Wrong Bed, Right Man Page 10
