When my shirt is open, her hands find my belt and she begins to unbuckle it. I hear the clink of metal when she releases it, and it brings me back to the present. I break our kiss and move my nose to her jaw, breathing her in as I pepper her skin with soft kisses. “Poppy, we should stop,” I whisper, but make no move to do so.
“Shh,” she tells me. “Don’t ruin it,” she whispers, digging her nails into my stomach as she slides her hand down the front of my pants. Her fingers lock around my hard cock and I’m too far gone.
Her touch is like burning fire on my skin after craving it for so long. My eyes roll into the back of my head and a whimper leaves my lips as I move them back to hers. With each stroke of her hand, I feel as if I’m clinging to the side of a cliff, each stroke only making me slide down a little further no matter how deeply I dig in with my fingertips. Every muscle in my body is begging me to pick her up and carry her into my bedroom, but there’s something holding me back.
Will she consider this a mistake tomorrow? Does her sober mind want this—want me? Or is this some kind of drunken confusion? Those are the only thoughts I need in order to muster the strength to do what I have to do. I break our kiss and pull away. I take her wrist in my hand and pull it off of me, in spite of how badly my body craves it. “I’m sorry, Poppy, but we can’t do this. Not like this. Not tonight.”
I take her hands in mine and pull her to her feet. Her eyes meet mine in the darkened living room and I can see the fire dancing in her irises. They narrow slightly, confusion pumping its way through her system. Her lips part like she’s going to say something, but then she quickly snaps them shut.
She spins around and looks over her shoulder at me. “Unzip me?”
Slowly, I raise my hand to the zipper on her dress and lower it. It opens like a butterfly, giving me a full view of her back—down to the top of her ass, where I see the black lace thong she’s wearing. My stomach tightens as another wave of need washes over me.
“Thank you,” she whispers, taking her first step toward her room.
I stand there in the darkness alone, looking after her until she steps into her room and is no longer in sight. I hear the soft click of her door shutting, and suddenly I’m wondering if I did the right thing. I had my shot. Why didn’t I take it? This whole damn ruse was nothing more than a way to watch her suffer—all while trying to get the one and only thing I wanted: her in my bed for one night. I was there. The opportunity was right in front of me and I didn’t take it. Why?
I shake my head at myself. Taking her tonight would’ve been too easy, I tell myself. Where’s the fun in that? If I’d gotten what I wanted now, there’d be no point in keeping up with this bullshit lie. I would’ve had my taste and been done with her. But this way, the game continues. We get to play a little longer. There’s nothing wrong with letting her think she’s winning for a little while, all in the name of making the game last.
I wake in the morning and have a feeling today is going to be different from the last few. I don’t know exactly what I’m walking in on. Will she be happy that I stopped what was starting last night? Will she be angry that she didn’t get what she wanted? Will she feel embarrassed—like I rejected her? I’m not sure, but there’s only one way to find out.
I throw the blankets off and go to the bathroom to shower. I dress in a pair of jeans and a sweater. No sense in dirtying a good suit when I’m not needed in the office. I walk out of my bedroom and find her already up, dressed, and at the table. I step into the room and freeze, looking over at her. She hasn’t realized I’m standing here yet as she looks intently at the newspaper. She has a little crease between her brows as she pops a grape into her mouth.
“Morning,” I say, finally walking in to take my seat.
“Morning,” she replies, not pulling her eyes away from the paper.
“How are you feeling today?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” She still doesn’t look at me and her tone is clipped—straight and to the point.
“I was a little worried last night. I’ve never seen someone get drunk on so little alcohol before.” I wait for a reply but there is none. She only raises her eyebrows.
I make my plate and notice that hers is now completely empty. She picks up her juice and finishes it off.
“Are you finished?” I ask, picking up my fork to begin eating.
“Yes, I have a busy day. I have to get going.” She folds up the paper and stands.
“Do you need a ride?” I ask, watching as she makes her way out of the dining room.
“I’ll Uber. No worries. Enjoy your day.” She turns to go to her room and I’m left alone.
I wasn’t expecting that. I figured she’d yell at me, or bring up that she was drunk and didn’t know what she was doing. I wasn’t prepared to ignore last night altogether. That only leads me to believe that maybe she’s embarrassed I rejected her.
I stand up and walk to her room. The door is open as she gathers her things. I knock once on the open door and she looks over at me.
“Can we talk for a moment?” I ask, walking into the room.
She shrugs. “I’m kind of in a hurry. Don’t want to be late.”
“It’s about last night,” I say, crossing my arms.
She’s bending over the bed, putting her phone into her purse. She stands upright and her shoulders fall. “Do we have to? I think we both know what a mistake it would’ve been, and I’m glad you had the sense to stop it.”
“Really?” I ask, stepping closer, feeling as if she’s drawing me to her.
Her brows furrow as she watches me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I shrug, letting my arms fall back to my sides. “I don’t know. It just seems like you’re hurt or embarrassed or something. And if you are, that wasn’t my intention.”
She snorts. “Are you apologizing because you think you hurt my feelings?” She waits but I don’t answer. “There’s nothing more between us than this arrangement, Matthew. I wasn’t looking for more. I’m not expecting more. I was just drunk and got carried away with the pretense. I know you don’t like me like that and I feel the same about you. It’s a good day if we can make it a few hours together without ripping each other’s heads off.” She brushes past me, leaving me alone once again.
But I do like her like that, and I have a feeling she likes me just as much. So why keep up the charade?
Nine
Poppy
When I woke this morning, memories of last night flooded my brain. I could still taste his lips on mine and feel the heat of his body pressing against me on the couch. I could still remember the feeling of his silky softness in my hand—how hard and big he was, and how I wished we could’ve gone further. And even though I knew what I was doing and wanted it, I’m glad it stopped. Had it continued, I’m sure I would’ve fucked up and confessed my real feelings for him, and that can’t happen. He doesn’t see me as someone he can spend his life with. No, he sees me as the woman who beat the shit out of his expensive sports car. The one who was always late to work. The woman he hates more than anything else. This little game is his way of torturing me. He wants to see me uncomfortable under his thumb. He wants to watch me suffer just like I caused him suffering over his precious car. Getting mixed up in any other way is not acceptable.
I go outside and find my Uber waiting. I climb in the back seat and say a quick hello before popping in my AirPods, not wanting to have to deal with unnecessary chitchat. I look out the window as we speed through the city. My thoughts, as always nowadays, go back to him. Fucking Matthew Lewis III. It’s still a ridiculous name no matter how good-looking he is. No matter how good of a kisser he is, no matter how big his—no, don’t go there, Poppy. You’re only torturing yourself. But dammit, he’s such a good kisser. Not too much tongue . . . just the perfect amount. His hands felt so good on my body—knowing when to caress and when to squeeze. Just thinking about grinding myself against his hard length has a chill racing up my spine.
Before,
it was easy to escape him and my thoughts of him. I just left work and kept myself busy with my life. But now, escaping him is impossible because not only do I work with him, but I also live with him. I have to see him in the morning at the breakfast table. I have to see him at night in his thin pajama bottoms, always noticing the outline of his manhood beneath. And even now as I sit in this uncomfortable chair with more foil on my head than can be found at any backyard barbecue, I still can’t escape him. My thoughts range from everything to yelling at the bastard to watching as I slide down his length. How can one person be so perfectly right in one way and so completely wrong in another? It’s beyond infuriating.
I spend the whole day at the salon/spa. The highlights they add to my auburn hair light up when they catch the sun. I get a manicure and a pedicure. I have a facial and more spa treatments than I even knew existed. And now, I’m lying on the table, prepared to have every hair yanked from my body. I’ve already had my face waxed of all its peach fuzz. My legs and downstairs area are next. Lord, help me.
The legs are a breeze and that part goes by pretty quickly, but when it’s finished, I’m asked which style I’d like for my lady bits. I’m confused by that. I didn’t realize there were different styles.
“What do you mean?”
“Would you like all of it gone? Or would you like to leave a patch down the center? We can do anything, dear. Hearts, stars . . . hell, even lightning bolts.”
I smirk. Have my pubic hair waxed into a lightning bolt? Hell yeah! “Lightning bolt, please.”
She nods and goes about her work. I have to admit, the warm wax feels nice, but then she rips it away without warning and I let out a string of curse words as my hands wrap around the edge of the table, squeezing it through the pain.
“Only a little more, dear,” she insists.
Every time I think she’s done, she keeps going and going and going. She’s like that damn pink bunny on all those commercials. I’m about to take the wax paper out of her hand and say “enough!” but then she wipes the area with a cool, wet cloth and says, “All done.” She hands over a mirror and I check it out. I smile at its awesomeness.
Now alone, I stand up in the room as my dress falls back into place. I go to put my panties on but decide against it. I need some cool air on all these hot patches under my skirt. I leave the salon and head out to get in the Uber I’d already arranged. He drives me back across town and I notice the time on the dash. Looks like I’ll make it just in time for dinner. I didn’t make it to the shopping part of the day since everything else took so long. I guess I’ll have to go in the morning before my gym session.
I want to be mad about the gym, but the truth is, it’s something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time. I just couldn’t afford it. Living alone meant I had to pay for everything myself: rent, food, personal necessities. There wasn’t a whole lot of wiggle room, and most of the time, I found myself broke by the time my next paycheck showed up. At least now I can save all that money I would’ve been spending. Maybe by the end of this, I’ll be able to afford a better place. Or I can stay where I’m at and live in comfort for a while. I just hope I don’t get too spoiled with all the gourmet meals and that deep bathtub.
I walk into his apartment and find him in the dining room, where I knew he’d be.
“Hey, how’d it go today?”
I take a seat beside him. “It went,” I breathe out, making my plate of grilled chicken and salad.
“Your hair looks nice,” he says, eyes drifting over my face and upper body. “Nails too.”
“Thanks.” I hold out my hand, looking at the nails. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to do anything with these damn things on.”
He chuckles. “Then why’d you get them? You could’ve just painted your real nails.”
“I know. Just wanted to try something new,” I say fanning them out and staring at them again.
“How do you like your hair?”
I shrug, indifferent. “It’s fine. It’s not the first time I’ve had highlights.” I go back to eating, not wanting to talk to him since I’m still smarting over the embarrassment he caused when he rejected me.
He sets his fork down and takes a deep breath. “So you were treated well at the spa?” It’s clear he’s reaching for something to talk about.
I push away from the table, deciding I’m not very hungry. “Everything was great. I think I’m going to go shower. I still have sticky wax all over my body.” I stand and start toward the door.
He laughs. “How was the wax? Was it as painful as you thought it’d be?”
I don’t know what comes over me, but I spin around to face him. “The wax wasn’t so bad. See?” I flip up my dress, flashing him a peek at the lightning bolt.
I watch as he processes what’s happening. His eyes fall from mine down to the storm zone. His mouth drops open and his eyes stretch wide.
“Perfect, right?” I ask, turning and walking away—leaving him shocked. I have no idea why the hell I just did that, but I can’t help the giddiness I feel as I retreat to my room to be alone. The look on his face was worth it.
I shower quickly and get out to dry. I blow-dry my hair, feeling that I have time to put in a little extra effort. Blow-drying makes it soft and it lies down perfectly, unlike what it usually does since I always just go to bed with it wet. I smother my body in a thick, heavy lotion, wanting to soothe the ache in my skin from having my hair ripped out, and I admire my lightning bolt. I think it describes me perfectly—like the storm I am. Matthew doesn’t even know what he’s gotten himself into. By the time I’m done with him, he’s going to be paying me to get out of his house.
Late Sunday morning, I wake up to find him already gone. There’s no note anywhere that I can see. I eat breakfast alone, then decide I’m not up for the gym today. I’m tired from a lack of sleep last night. Every time I fell asleep, I only dreamed of how we got too close on Friday night. As if that wasn’t enough torture, thinking I was going to get what I wanted only to have it ripped away was just another embarrassing reminder. I really shouldn’t be surprised though.
What would a man like him see in a woman like me? We come from completely different worlds. He’s handsome, charming when he wants to be, rich, and has nice things. I, on the other hand, have always been broke. I’ve never been able to afford nice vacations—meaning I haven’t even managed to get out of the state of Illinois. He’s been places, seen things. He’s wise with his Harvard degree, and all I have is a degree I printed off the computer after finishing my online classes. Everything about him screams wealth and privilege while everything about me screams state-issued medical insurance and used clothing. Not that those things are bad by any means. I’m proud of myself and the way I grew up. He may have had money, but I had a family and friends who loved me. I worked hard for everything I have. And I’m a good person. Why wouldn’t I be proud of myself?
Instead of going out to shop for the gym clothes I’ll need then going to the gym, I decide I’ll hang out in the living room watching TV, eating snacks, and repainting these nails. I don’t know why I told the nail tech I was fine with the boring nude color she chose; it’s not my style at all.
I go to my room and change back into my pajamas: a pair of black cloth shorts and a tank top. I gather everything I’ll need for my little rest day: nail polish, remover, chips, soda, snack cakes, candy, and a couple of books. I have everything lined up on the coffee table as I sit on the couch and turn on the TV. I flip through dozens of channels, trying to find something that will keep my attention. I end up on some teen vampire movie and shrug as I drop the remote on the table. I start by taking off this plain nail polish. I do my toes first then start on my left hand. While it dries, I tear into a bag of chips. I’m sitting back on the couch with chip crumbs everywhere when he walks in.
He stops before he even sees me. “What’s that smell?” He starts looking around, finding me.
“Sorry, I was bored with the polish color the lady picke
d out, so I decided to do them myself.”
“Yourself?” he asks, face scrunching.
I hold up my hand and show him my black nails. “Much better, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t think. You just ruined a $200 manicure and pedicure.”
I wiggle my toes when he speaks of them.
“It’s not ruined. I still have the nails on. It’s just now they’re a different color. A much better color. I mean, who wants nude? So boring,” I mumble, shaking my head.
He grinds his teeth together, seething. “And what is all this shit? Aren’t you supposed to be shopping and getting ready for your gym session?”
“About that . . .” I curl myself up in a ball, wanting to seem smaller. “I’m kind of tired. I didn’t sleep well, so I thought I’d skip it. It’s Sunday, after all. A day of rest, not a day to kill yourself.”
His hands land on his hips and his jaw flexes. “You’re not skipping it. I’ve paid a lot of money for that membership and trainer. You’ve already ruined a $200 manicure and pedicure, so you’re not wasting any more of my money. Now clean this shit up and get off your ass!” he yells, storming off into his bedroom and slamming the door behind him.
I let out a long sigh. Oh, how I miss my quiet Sundays at home—the one day a week when I refused to leave my apartment or change out of my pajamas. I’d lounge around all day, eating and watching TV. I’d read, nap, and enjoy the silence.
I turn off the TV and start cleaning up my mess. I’m not going shopping today, but I will go to the gym. I’ll go there, blow off the trainer, and instead go into their spa. Another massage couldn’t hurt, especially with this now-raging headache.
Breaking up with My Boss: An Enemies to Lovers, Office Romance (Love You Forever Book 4) Page 6
