After Hours

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

  “Do you remember that first night?” he asked, his voice rumble against my legs.

  “Yes,” I managed to get out.

  “Sweetest fucking thing I ever tasted,” he said. “And that was even before you were mine. Now…”

  His tongue came up to graze me through my underwear. I couldn’t hold in a moan.

  “Now?” I whispered.

  “It’ll be even better. Lie down, Aysia.”

  I collapsed backwards on my bed, unashamed at how needy I was, unembarrassed by his chuckle.

  Marc dropped down on top of me, suspending his still-clothed body over mine for a moment before kissing my lips.

  “Mine,” he said with a wickedly sexy grin. “And this, too.”

  He nibbled an earlobe.

  Then my throat.

  His lips seared along my skin in a slow dance, his arms holding him up as he tattooed me with kisses. And with each little lip, each little tug, he declared aloud his claim. Finally, he reached my stomach a second time. There, he paused. But only long enough to slide to the floor and grab a hold of knees. He pulled me to the edge of the mattress, his mouth hovering just above me. When he exhaled, his hot breath made me ache. My hips wanted to lift already.

  “Tell me again,” he ordered softly.

  “That I’m yours?”

  “The other thing.”

  I didn’t have to ask what he meant. “I love you, Marc.”

  “I love you, too, Aysia.”

  Then his tongue plunged into me, and I lost all reason.

  Hours went by, some slow, some fast.

  We spent the rest of the day in bed. Or on the couch—which Marc swore he’d replace—or on the plush rug in front of the TV that I so rarely used. At one point, the maintenance guy came by to replace the door handle, and Marc dragged me into the bathroom. Later my mom called, and Marc took the phone to tell her that he loved me. I had no clue what she said back, because he hung up. Then pulled me to the couch once more.

  I didn’t think about work. Or if I did, I didn’t dare bring it up. But when the day dragged to evening, and evening became a too-late night that stretched into morning, I knew I’d have to deal with it. And with Marc sound asleep at seven a.m., I decided to do what I always did, and come at the problem head on.

  I placed a call to Mike Roper and asked him to meet me. I wrote Marc a note and signed it with a cheesy, filled-in heart. And twenty minutes later, I walked into my boss’s office at Eco-Go, and I blurted it out.

  “I’ve been dating Marc.”

  Mike’s mouth quirked up on one side. “Congratulations.”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “No?”

  “It goes against company policy.”

  “Okay.”

  I grabbed the chair on the other side of his desk and pulled it out. I sat on the edge. I took a breath. “There’s more.”

  My boss’s smile didn’t falter. “All right. Spill it.”

  I told him about Carl. About how it started and ended, and about the things he’d done over the past few weeks. I apologized for putting the company at risk by breaking the rules, and I told him I’d understand if he wanted to let me go. When I was done, he frowned at me.

  “So Carl’s no longer working here?”

  “No. He’s a liability.”

  “And you’re wanting to continue to see Marcelo?”

  “I’m going to keep seeing him,” I corrected.

  “You’re in love with him.”

  “Yes.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t see the problem.”

  “We have an anti-fraternizing policy in our employee manual,” I reminded him.

  “So?”

  “I’m acting manager of human resources.”

  “Manager.”

  “What?”

  “I got official word last night. Your predecessor isn’t coming back.”

  “But…” I trailed off, willing myself not to cry in front of my boss. Soon to be ex-boss.

  It was my dream job. Being handed to me. And I knew Marc wouldn’t dream of asking me to walk away from it. But there was no way for me to take it. If I had to choose, it would be him over work. There was no doubt in my mind. Other jobs would come along. But there was only one Marcelo Diaz.

  “I have to turn down the offer,” I said firmly.

  “Aysia. You’re the most qualified person for this job. You’ve been doing this job for months. It’s a raise. A renovation for your office. Isn’t it what you want?”

  “Yes. But how can I take the job and be with Marc and be an example to the company?” I shook my head. “I can’t. And I won’t be a hypocrite.”

  My boss pulled off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, and when he met my gaze, his eyes were a little glassy. “Ruby—my wife—is ill. I’m assuming Marcelo told you?”

  My chest ached immediately, and I nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too. And I wouldn’t dream of taking away a minute of happiness between you and Marc. Who wrote the policy, Aysia?”

  “I did. It was one of the first assignments I was given.”

  “So change it.”

  “For selfish reasons?”

  “Love isn’t selfish.”

  I blinked at him. “I…”

  He put his glasses back on. “The policy is there to stop personal relationships from interfering with professional ones. Reword it so that’s the only caveat. It’s your first official job as manager.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Hell, yes.” He tapped something into his desktop computer, then spun the screen my way and lifted the keyboard. “Do it here. Now. Before you talk yourself out of doing it.”

  With shaking fingers, I reached out to do it. Then paused.

  I lifted my eyes to meet my boss’s. “Can I print a copy of the old one and the new one?”

  “Sure can.”

  I selected the original page, and seconds later, the printer came to life. Quickly, I deleted the four-sentence policy and wrote a new one. It was almost too easy. I inhaled, then hit the save-button. Finally, I printed out the new version and grabbed both sheets of paper. I couldn’t hold in a grin as I folded the pages and shoved them into my purse. “Thank you, Mike.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I pushed out of the office. I only made it two steps before smacking into a familiar, warm body.

  “Marc!”

  “Hi, honey.” He smiled his usual, heart-stopping smile.

  But I frowned at the single piece of paper in his hand. “What’s that?”

  He inched away. “Nothing.”

  “No, really. What is it?” I moved to grab it, and he danced out of reach. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Is Mike in there? I’ve got to talk to him. I’ll only be a minute.”

  “Okay.”

  I made as if to get out of his way, but the moment he sidled past, I snapped the page from his fingers.

  “Hey!” he protested.

  I scanned the paper before he could grab it back. “You’re trying to resign?”

  “Mike will understand.”

  “I know he will. But you don’t have to.”

  “I want to.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Aysia…”

  “Come with me.”

  I grabbed his hand and pulled him up the hall to his own office. I yanked him inside, then shut the door and pulled out the freshly printed pages from my purse.

  “Here,” I said eagerly.

  “What is it?”

  “The old dating policy. And the new one.”

  Marc read the first one. Then the second. And a smile just about split his face in two as he grabbed me by the waist and dragged me flush against his body for a deep kiss. B
ut after a few breathless minutes, he pulled back again, a tiny frown etching into his forehead.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Just one thing,” he replied.

  “Okay.”

  “Well. According to this old policy, we could’ve solved the problem from the beginning.”

  “I don’t understand. How?”

  “Simple. We could’ve just acted on the marriage clause.”

  And the serious look on his face made my heart thunder.

  THE END

  Keep reading for a special preview of Until Dawn, the next book in the Business or Pleasure series by Melinda Di Lorenzo!

  “Kiss the next man who falls into your lap.” When Mia Diaz agrees to the dare, she doesn’t expect it to happen so literally. But suddenly, there he is—stubble-dusted jaw, sexy half-smile, and lips that make her appreciate the benefits of acting on impulse. Her long-buried libido certainly thinks it’s the right move…as long as what comes next is strictly a one-night affair. Mia has dedicated the last few years to building her jewelry store. She’s not about to put her heart in a stranger’s hands, no matter how skillful they might be…

  Ethan has made his fortune by seizing opportunities. So when he finds himself tangled up in long legs, red hair, and satin bed sheets, he doesn’t complain—until he finds out the redhead in question is Mia Diaz. The same Mia who’s been dodging his emails and calls for weeks, ignoring all his offers to buy her out.

  Ethan is a master of the takeover. Mia refuses to give in. And what started out as a simple dare has become the ultimate challenge, where the only way to win may be to surrender…

  Available to order now!

  Ethan

  With a wordless growl, I stepped back on the sidewalk and scanned the row of boutique-style shops, trying to discern which one might be Trinkets and Treasures.

  It was an impossible endeavor. They all looked the same. BoHo-trendy. Brick fronts with varying shades of trim, no names hanging above the shops. I was sure the last bit was a trick. A subtle marketing ploy. The lack of signage forced the casual passerby to stop and look inside in order to figure out what the hell each store specialized in.

  Another damned good reason to do my job from behind my desk.

  I liked my desk. It had a nice, comfortable leather chair. It was in my office, which had a view. A panoramic one of Toronto. Nice, reassuringly solid concrete buildings as far as the eye could see.

  And very few bad omens.

  Which seemed to be plaguing me in droves since leaving the comfort of my office this morning.

  First came the accident on the freeway, which delayed me so badly that I had to run to make my flight. Literally run. Through a goddamned airport in a three-thousand dollar suit. Next there was a mechanical issue that forced us to change planes in Winnipeg. The flight in question had zero seats available in business class, which resulted in me being trapped between an asthmatic octogenarian and a woman with a none-too-pleased infant. After that, a lengthy stop on Calgary to de-ice, and finally a fifty-minute delay at YVR after touchdown due to staffing issues. I’d finally stepped onto solid ground in Vancouver a mere six hours behind schedule. My car rental had been given away when I didn’t turn up to retrieve it on time. Some kind of job action had the limo drivers running a skeleton crew, which in turn meant the taxi drivers were run ragged, and the wait to get one had been an outrageous hour and a quarter.

  Like living in the fucking dark ages, I thought bitterly.

  So why wasn’t I holed up in my five-star luxury suite at the Regent Inn? The answer was simple. Mia Diaz. The thorn in my side who’d forced me to leave Toronto in the first place. I fought a need to curse the woman aloud. After making initial contact three weeks ago – and receiving a flat-out rejection of my offer – I’d tried dozens of times to get in touch with her.

  The phone was a total no-go. Her business line was screened by some kind of answering service, and after putting me through just once, they’d subsequently rejected every call after. So I’d switched to email. At first, I’d been triumphant. Ms. Diaz sent polite, personal answers. To start, anyway. Then came the automated out-of-office replies. On my last attempt to get through, my email had been bounced. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that she’d blocked my address.

  A less determined person – a less successful businessman – might’ve taken that as a sign to let it go. I saw it as a challenge. My own company, Stuff, Inc., hadn’t become the third largest distributor of unique, handmade products in Canada through a willingness to give up.

  The last few hours, though, were a real test.

  That’s what makes it worth it, I reminded myself.

  It was true that most of the businesses I took over were parted with reluctantly. The owners knew their product had potential. They fully believed in it. The harder they fought, the more profitable it usually ended up being for me. In the end, the quick buck I offered – combined with the promise of improved distribution and potential popularity – always won out.

  Except with Mia Diaz and Trinkets and Treasures.

  The mental reminder made me grit my teeth and turn my attention back to the row of shops. I squinted against the dim sky and took a step closer to the buildings. Everything was dark. Which I supposed was to be expected at eight o’clock on a Thursday night. I’d assumed, though, that I’d be able to get a good look at the shop in question. Or at least enough of a glimpse to let me know what I was up against. Having an edge meant no surprises. So far, the edge seemed damned far out of reach.

  Then, as if to drive home the pervasive futility of my efforts, a car – the only one I’d seen since on this street other than the taxi that had dropped me off just a few minutes earlier – flew by and sent a spray of water in my direction.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I muttered.

  My gaze turned down in disgust. The mess wasn’t just wet. It was dirty. My suit was officially a total write-off, and I hadn’t even made it to the hotel yet.

  The hotel. My stuff.

  “Shit.” The whip of a sudden gust of wind carried away my curse as I spun on my heel.

  Sure enough, my small suitcase, which I’d yanked out of the taxi and unthinkingly set on the ground, was covered with the same garbage as my clothes. And the bag was wobbling. Hovering right over the edge of the sidewalk.

  Sensing its imminent demise, I took step forward. My reward was a soggy splash as my foot slammed into an ankle-deep puddle. The split second of ice-cold pant leg sucking against my calf was all the suitcase needed to complete its suicide attempt. It toppled over. It bounced. Then it sprung open. A crisp, white shirt tumbled out alongside a pair of dress socks.

  I narrowed my eyes at the ruination. “What? That’s all you’ve got?”

  The universe decided to respond with a metaphorical middle finger directed straight at me.

  A second heavy gust of wind kicked up and sent the top of the suitcase flying all the way open. A stack of paperwork – everything I’d collected about Trinkets and Treasures and its elusive owner, and that I could swear I’d secured – was loose. It lifted into the air, and before I could react, it sailed past me, hit the stream of water that bounced against the sidewalk, and started on a path toward a catch basin a few feet away.

  “Shit,” I said again.

  With my feet sloshing unpleasantly through the water, I dived forward and bent my knees in an attempt to grab the paperwork. I failed in an epic way. One foot caught on a rock. The other stretched out far enough that it made me close my eyes and groan in pain.

  “C’mon, Burke, get your shit together,” I commanded.

  Yanking as hard as I could, I pulled my foot out of my shoe and drew my sock-clad foot forward, stumbling a little as I did. Both hands hit the ground.

  “Fuck.”

  I drew in a shallow breath, and tried to get up aga
in. My body protested heartily, and it took everything I had just to keep from letting my chin slam into the concrete. All I could do was lift my eyes and watch helplessly as the precious sheets of paper danced over the grate, then slipped inside.

  This…I thought, dropping my lids closed again. This is why I like my desk. It’s why I leave the grunt work to the grunt men. It’s why I write persuasive emails and drink hot cappuccinos and –

  The silent tirade cut itself short, choked off by the fact that I lifted my eyes to find a redheaded woman in a slash of hot pink that could barely be called a dress. She was standing under an awning just a few buildings up, and as my gaze traveled the length of her body, I half-expected her to disappear in mirage-like fashion. She didn’t. Her mile-high heels and crimson hair stayed put.

  What was she doing there?

  It only took me a second to decide I didn’t even care. She was captivating as all hell. Long, slim legs that disappeared under the miniscule strip of fabric, and full hips that pressed against it at the same time. A slim waist showcased nicely by the dress, and a chest that rose and fell temptingly.

  Hell. She was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever laid eyes on, and I didn’t even have a clear view of her face.

  Forgetting my overstretched body, I righted myself and took an automatic step forward, trying to catch her features. Were they soft and delicate? Or classical and imperious? Did she have full, kissable lips? For no good reason – aside from lustful self-indulgence – I hoped to God the answer to last question was yes.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t get a chance to find out. She straightened her shoulders, shook her head a little, then spun on one of those tall heels of hers, apparently unaware that I was standing there gaping at her. I had a strange—and admittedly irrational—feeling that she was deliberately avoiding turning her head in my direction. Irritation niggled at me for second. Going unnoticed felt like a slight, especially considering how aware I was of her presence.

  I took another step forward, watching as she disappeared around the corner.

  What waited for her on the other side of that building? I felt compelled to know.