“Wait, what is it I’m supposed to be doing right now?”
Her nails dig into my knees. “Fuck me, Evans, please. Now. I can’t stand it anymore.”
So there in the dark, on the floor of the copy room, I do. And while I’ve got her legs spread in front of me, I find her clit and stroke it with my thumb. She rocks up as much as she can, which isn’t much, seeking my fingers. And it’s not so long before she’s bucking on top of my thighs and making those same short noises. She’s going to come soon, I know it.
And she does, crying out my name and all kinds of blasphemies. At least I think they’re blasphemies. With her pulsing orgasm clamping around my dick, there’s no way I can hold out any longer. I come, and my climax is like almost nothing I’ve ever felt before. Since last night. This is pretty much tied as the best sex I’ve ever had. I don’t want this to ever end, but I am starting to wonder how many earth-shaking orgasms a single person can be allotted in one lifetime. Maybe I get one more. Maybe. But if this is it, if this is all I get, I’ll die happy.
I grab her hips, clutching and stroking in time with this incredible feeling still pulsing through me. I’d like to collapse on top of her, bury my face in her hair that smells faintly of vanilla, but in this position I can’t. My knees are starting to smart from being pushed into the hard floor, so I have to ease back. And it’s awkward, so horribly awkward to scoot away from her while she lifts her hips and I want to grab her back.
One terrible thing about sex in the office is you can’t cuddle afterward, and I’d like to snuggle her. Because I bet she’s soft and warm and it would be the absolute best to have her lay her head on my chest and wrap my arm around her curvy waist and breathe together. Because I get the feeling Lucy and I are the same in some ways. Like we’re both nervous and shy and it’s hard to find a place in the world where that’s okay. But I feel as though it would be okay with each other.
And I bet if I’d had a hard day because India was being psychotic or if things had yet again gone to shit with my brother, she’d offer me comfort too. She’d press my head to where I could hear her heartbeat and she’d run her always perfectly done nails through my hair and say nice things to me. I’d like someone who would say nice things to me every day. And I’d say them back.
But at this very second, I’m not sure I deserve her. I don’t have enough space to give her what she needs, to give her what she should have. All I’ve got is a crappy car; an even crappier apartment; and a family who’s too consumed by the needs of my kid brother to spare a thought for me but still needs me and sucks up the time not devoured by my crazy job.
My job I might lose if we keep this up.
My eyes have finally adjusted enough to the darkness in here to see the outline of Lucy pulling on her clothes. I want to reach out to her, apologize because I can’t be the guy she needs, that she deserves. But admitting I’m not good enough for her and I was taking pleasure where I could because it’s in short supply around here… I don’t know if I could take that kind of abject humiliation and remorse. So I say nothing and reach my hands out toward where I’m pretty sure I left my pants.
How did this go from feeling so fucking awesome to feeling so utterly crappy in the space of seconds?
I’ve got to get going because if I don’t get home and get at least a few hours of sleep, I’m going to be useless tomorrow and I can’t be useless. I have to do my job and not let people down more than absolutely necessary. And to function, I need some sleep and I bet Lucy does too. I pull on my clothes hurriedly, nearly zipping my finger into my pants and crawling over to the trash to toss the condom I wrapped up in tissues I’d had the foresight to stuff in my pocket. The last thing I need is someone finding a used condom in the copy room trash bin.
She’s standing now, and before she can scramble out, I stand up too. “Are you done? I mean—” Crap. I know she’s done, she came like whoa. Could I not sound stupid for once in my life? “—are you finished working for the night? I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I can be anywhere near productive until I get some sleep.”
There’s a soft laugh from her direction, and I wish I could see her face because I bet she’s blushing and she’s so pretty when she blushes and her eyelashes flutter. How do girls do that, anyway? Do they have special girl classes? Of course not, that’s ridiculous. But it still makes me wonder. Is it somehow imprinted in their genetic code?
“No, I can’t work anymore. You fucked me stupid, Evans.”
Best compliment ever.
“Then can I, uh…” No, don’t ask, just do. I plant my feet a bit apart and stand up straight. But then I feel stupid because I must look as though I’m trying to strike a Superman pose and in the dark, which is… Wow, am I a mess. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
“Yeah, okay.”
It’s possible there’s a note of disappointment in her voice, and I want to invite her to come home with me. Except my apartment is a piece of shit and I don’t want her to see that. And if she’s not disappointed, then I don’t want to be that guy. The guy who thinks because you’ve had sex with someone a few times it means you’re all, you know, together. Which we can’t be anyway, so says the Burke Consulting Group employee handbook.
I open the door and the light floods in, and Lucy looks amazing. She always looks good, but I’ve got to say seeing her hair mussed and looking less put-together than she usually is, is damn sexy. Partly because I made her that way.
I hold out my arm in what I hope is a charming gesture. “Ladies first.”
She pokes her head out of the door and looks around before she walks out. I follow her to her desk where she gathers up her things and then we walk out together. When we get to her car, she does the same thing she did last night—gets into her car straight away. I’m a little relieved because it saves me the embarrassment of going to kiss her or at least give her a hug and having her turn her cheek or pull away. Even though I’d like to. Kiss her. Not furtively and not in the dark and not because we’re so consumed with need there’s nothing else we could possibly do. I want to because I like her and I want to kiss her.
But there’s no space and she doesn’t want that anyway. Tonight, when I close her door, I manage not to catch anything in it and I thank the gods of suaveness for at least allowing me that. She doesn’t roll her window down, but fumbles with her seatbelt before offering me a wave and pulling out of the space.
I stand there, watching her headlights twist and turn in the dark until she rounds a corner and I can’t see her any more. Tomorrow. We’ll go back to being nice, polite Lucy and Evans instead of furtive sex fiends tomorrow.
Chapter Seven
‡
December 20th
Evans
The office gets quieter with every day closer we get to Christmas. India came in for a while in the morning, but Cris picked her up a couple of hours ago, and I’ve heard the open and close of the door from down the hall. Muted, but sometimes with the added confirmation of someone calling a goodbye to me because they see the light spilling out from my office into the hallway.
I’ve started getting a handle on this project India threw at us. I’m not surprised Travers and Ellington screwed this up; they tend to do best on smaller, bite-sized projects, not sprawling ones like this. Not to mention they also tend to perform better when it’s something they’re interested in. Ellington likes managing trainings and public meetings, and Travers…well, Travers is smart but lazy, and if a project doesn’t involve flirting with clients, it’s not his jam.
And this—acting as a municipal advisor and putting together an official statement for the PRA for the bonds they plan to issue in the coming year to finance a new mixed-use neighborhood—is not sexy. It’s not flashy and people’s eyes tend to glaze over when I talk about it, but this stuff is my bread and butter. It’s the unassuming, devalued detail work that makes the world go ’round. Airports, stadiums, hospitals—these are the things that can get built because of the drudgery of
boring ass municipal bonds.
I would’ve taken this project on from the start, but India needed me on other things so she gave it to Ellington and Travers. Whenever I can, I assign people to projects that will play to their strengths, although that makes India roll her eyes. She seems to think everyone has the same constitution she does: You have a job, fucking do it. But it doesn’t quite work that way for us mere mortals.
Speaking of mortals and their very human impulses…I haven’t seen Lucy at all today. I know she’s here, have heard the sweet low murmur of her voice as other people have talked to her, experienced a smidgen of jealousy they could chat her up without all that…stuff in between them.
I could’ve gone to see her before, tried to play it cool, but knowing me, I would’ve been anything but cool, so I’ve been avoiding her. My body’s pretty unhappy about that, though, and not just my heart that misses her sunshiny face and not just my dick that misses…well, all of her. My stomach is unhappy too, because avoiding Lucy has meant avoiding the kitchen. And coffee for that matter.
Since my ten o’clock yogurt, I’ve subsisted entirely on gum. I even thought about swallowing the last piece to get something in my stomach, but that seemed gross, so I didn’t. Then I’d never be able to talk to Lucy. Evans, the gum swallower. I may as well eat paste. Which makes my stomach grumble even louder. It’s a sad state of affairs when your internal organs are all, Yes, let’s eat school supplies, because that’s better than what’s been on offer for the rest of the day.
So I spit out the last piece of gum, a white wad of tasteless rubber by now, and head toward the kitchen. Lucy’s sitting at her desk as I thought she would be, a pencil stuck through her twisted-up hair, which means she must’ve worn it down this morning and changed her mind at some point.
I can tell she’s so absorbed in what she’s doing she hasn’t heard me, because she takes another pencil out of the cup on her desk and bites on it before stuffing that one in her hair too and blowing her bangs out of her face.
Not wanting to startle her, I backtrack a couple of steps and try to make my footfalls heavier. It feels like stomping and it makes me cringe because I don’t like calling so much attention to myself, but better to make myself uncomfortable for a few seconds because I feel like an elephant than to scare Lucy.
My ploy works, because she looks up at my overly loud approach and immediately flushes. Should I feel good about that or not so good?
“Hey, Evans.”
“Hi, Lucy.”
I’ve never been great at small talk or been able to make friends at the drop of a hat like Darren, but I can usually do better than that. Apparently Lucy has a similar thought because we both start to talk over each other and then fumble and blush and stammer. How are we the same people who had epic sex twice in the past two days? We can’t even coordinate a conversation.
I finally muddle my way into getting her to accept the conversational chalice, and she seems to set her face deliberately, flattening usually generous lips into a straight line, her brows coming together enough to make a line in the skin between them. This is less than ideal. And gets even worse when she speaks.
“We can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what? We’re just…” She narrows her eyes, giving me a meaningful glare. “Oh, right, that. Well, yeah, of course not.”
My heart sinks through the soles of my shoes and into a sad puddle on the floor, but am I surprised? No. I was lucky to get what I had, and I shouldn’t be so greedy. Of course Lucy doesn’t want to keep having some sordid breakroom affair. And I don’t want her to. She deserves way better, and that’s all I can offer her. But it’s still a bummer.
Weirdly, she looks disappointed when I agree. Is that not what I was supposed to say?
“Yeah, of course not,” she echoes and looks askance. Like maybe she’s looking for another possible answer, because she doesn’t like it either. “We should definitely not do anything remotely like that ever again.”
That level of insistence seems excessive, especially since I’ve already agreed: this can’t keep happening. But the look on her face has shifted, as has her voice, and it’s starting to sound more like a challenge. I dare you.
“Yep,” I begin, trying to match her tone, which I’m still working out. Is this a flirting thing? Because I feel like it might be, but I’ve never been a gifted flirt. Or one at all. Too afraid I’m going to say something stupid or insulting. But I’ll give it a go, just in case. “We should absolutely, positively never even, like, look at each other again. Never mind…” If I were braver, I’d go for it, because her eyes have got that luminous thing going on, and her lips have parted. I may not be an expert, but I’m pretty sure she wants me, but if I’m wrong… My stomach shrivels, and I take the easy way out. “Kiss. Nope, certainly not.”
Her lips purse in a contained laugh, and she blinks at me, those long lashes framing her verging-on-hazel brown eyes. Maybe one of these days, I’ll get close enough, not in the dark, to figure out what color they are or if they’re made up of a spectrum. I want to know. “Yeah, kissing is definitely not allowed. Or touching.”
My mouth goes dry when she says it, her tongue pressing against her teeth to form the words that sound so delightfully lewd making their way out of her mouth. She may as well have said “fucking” for the way it takes my breath away.
“No. And no licking.”
“Or sucking.”
“Or biting.”
“Or…squeezing.”
“Or…thrusting.”
Oh my god, how many words are there to describe sex acts? I feel as though we could keep doing this all day, except I’m pretty sure my pants would not survive. They’re straining at the zipper some already, and this entire episode is painful in so many ways. Also we’d eventually start venturing into ridiculous euphemisms, and while that would be entertaining, I’d rather do that on some Sunday morning, lying around in bed with coffee mugs on the bedside table, not here, now.
She blinks at me, her eyes wide, her cheeks flushed, and then she clears her throat. She’s going to tell me to go, because she’s right, we can’t keep doing this.
“You, um, have something on your face.”
Crap. I want to retreat to the bathroom because that is embarrassing. Even for me. “Where?”
I swipe at one cheek and then the other, the corners of my mouth, but Lucy shakes her head and gestures me closer. “No, you missed it.”
What did I miss? It’s not like I’ve eaten anything since going to the restroom a couple of hours ago, and I didn’t even dare drink coffee so what the hell is it? Pen? That’s it, isn’t it? I have accidentally drawn a dick on my face while I was trying to figure out whether there’s a mechanism for the PRA to issue the required continuing disclosures.
I lean forward, half-expecting her to lick her thumb and wipe off whatever schmutz I’ve gotten myself into. Instead, when I’m close enough, she reaches out and grabs my tie, yanking me down hard across her desk, and her mouth crashes against mine. Our teeth gnash together and I’m almost positive I’m bleeding, but I don’t care.
This thing—this thing we were not supposed to do, ever again, is happening, and despite its awkward beginning, has melted into one of the dead sexiest kisses I’ve ever had. Lucy tastes sweet, as if she’s been eating candy. She keeps lollipops in one of her desk drawers, but she only eats them when India’s away. The last one must’ve been cherry. Not usually my favorite, but it tastes amazing mixed with Lucy’s breath and her mouth. I suck at her bottom lip and nip before sliding my tongue against hers while her hand holds my tie fast.
Lucy’s desk is at an unfortunate height, the top grinding into my crotch as I devour her. I don’t want to pull away, but if I don’t, I might bruise, and Lucy’s counting on me to provide a certain level of service. I don’t know if I could do it with a bruised dick.
“Luce,” I gasp between our mouths meeting. “Luce, we have to stop.”
She lets go of my tie, and the loo
k of betrayal on her face is soul-crushing.
“Not for good! I just had to—” I make a frenzied gesture between the desk and the tented front of my pants. “It was…uncomfortable.”
“But you’re probably right.” Her tone is slow, but steady, and I don’t want her to talk herself out of this again. “We could both get fired and neither of us can afford to lose our jobs, and—”
My brain is spinning because she’s not wrong, but god what I wouldn’t give to have something for me. To have something good and bright in the black and white of my days. Something bright red and cherry-vanilla flavored. To have Lucy.
I’m a decently smart guy, which sometimes gets overshadowed by my undeniable awkwardness, but I should be able to figure out how to let us enjoy this. And that’s when it comes to me.
“Wait, Lucy, hold up. I have an idea.”
My hands come up, index fingers pointed toward the ceiling and my other fingers curled toward my palm, and I start pacing. I used to do this when I was on the debate team or when I was studying for a big test. Something about it helps me think better, and I kept it up even though Darren used to call me Super Chuck when I did.
“Well?” she demands, and I want to hand it to her on a silver platter, this brilliant idea that’s going to enable us to keep doing this thing we both clearly want to do, but are too responsible to go for without fear of the repercussions.
“Let’s compromise, okay? This doesn’t have to be all or nothing, right? I mean, the odds of getting caught go up the longer this goes on, but what if we didn’t do it for very long? Hardly anyone’s gonna be in the office for the next few days because of the holiday, so how about…how about until this project is over, we can fool around? And then after the holiday when everyone’s back, we’ll stop.”
Due South (The Compass series Book 5) Page 7
