by Ivy Carter
“Dane,” she says into my ear, her tongue reaching out to lick the shell. Her body has melted against mine, and a sweet feeling of possessiveness fills me. I might come in my fucking pants if I don’t have her right now—
A knock on the door makes us both go still.
Shit. I freeze up, one hand gripping her ass, the other against the scorching heat of the apex of her thighs. It takes every ounce of strength within me to remove my hands from her hot and willing body. I smooth down her shirt, her hair, then my own clothing.
Emme steps away from me, keeping her eyes locked firmly on my desktop. Her cheeks are still glowing, but her back is straight, and she’s standing tall.
What the fuck am I doing? I didn’t lock the door; I didn’t even plan to kiss her. Instead, I got too caught up in her and lost my senses. That’s so unlike me.
Carl walks in after I tell him to enter, a half smile on his face. His pants are slightly too tight, and his belly is pressed against his strained white dress shirt. The sight of him is like a bucket of ice water splashed over my head, enough to help my dick deflate. “Morning, boss man,” he says in a false jovial tone. “Wanted to drop off that important stuff we talked about on Friday.” He plops a stack of papers on my desk like he’s presenting me with the Holy Grail.
“Got it, thanks.”
Carl shoots a sideway glance at Emme, one brow raised. It’s clear he wants me to tell her to go, so he looks like he’s more important, like I’m booting her out to make time to talk to him.
“I’ll read this over sometime today and talk to you later, Carl,” I say firmly. I give a purposeful nod toward the door.
His lips thin and he huffs, but he turns around and leaves. Thankfully, Carl’s too wrapped up in himself to notice the sexual tension between me and Emme, which is strong enough to slice with a butcher knife.
When he’s gone, her shoulders relax. “I…guess I should go too,” she says. “I’ll email you about the schedule conflict.” Then she’s out the door before I can respond.
Probably for the best anyway. I’m starting to lose my careful control with her, and that can’t lead to anything good.
Emme
My legs are shaking like crazy as I make my way back to my desk, and my heart is pounding super hard. I don’t know what just happened in there, but that was utterly unexpected. Not that I mind, of course—I want so very much for him to touch me every damn chance he can. But one minute we were talking about work issues, and the next I was practically begging him to take me on his desk. Startling how fast that escalated.
If only Carl hadn’t come in…maybe I could finally have shown Dane how badly I want to make him come. Despite appearances, he’s still controlling these moments we’re having together. And there’s something about it that frustrates me. I need to touch him, to make him explode the same we he’s done to me.
I want him to think about me long into the night, the way I do about him.
The craziest thing is, I haven’t written about what’s happened between us in my journal. In fact, I haven’t written in it at all. For some reason, I feel like putting it down on paper takes away the essence of what’s happening. Words can’t quite capture the depth of my feelings, the sensations, the sensory details the way I want them to.
This thing with him is moving way too fast, and yet I can’t seem to muster any desire to stop or even slow down. I’m in a free fall, and I know it’s gonna end hard, but right now I don’t see the bottom and I’m not even looking for it. Just that delicious rush of weightlessness that makes every nerve ending in my body hyperaware.
I stare blankly at my computer, my lips almost bruised from the hardness of his kiss. I can still feel him imprinted on me. It takes Herculean effort to shake off the distraction and focus on work. I type up an email to Dane, careful to keep my wording professional, and let him know which two clients are double booked.
Then I move on to answering other client email.
After a few minutes, my inbox pings with a reply from him.
Keep Sanderson on the books and reschedule Bateman’s call to next week whenever I can fit him in.
~D
Will do, I respond, then start to send the email but pause. I add another sentence: How was your weekend? And hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
I’ve never just chatted with Dane before, always keeping my messages to him on whatever business topic is being discussed. Will he ignore the question? Will he give me a curt one-word answer? Or will he actually respond?
Suddenly this simple email exchange has far more importance to me than I first anticipated. We’ve moved beyond the words of my secret journal into a whole new territory, but what are the boundaries here? Is this really only a sexually driven connection? Or is there more to us than that?
Because God help me, I want there to be. Which is insane, I know. But I can’t deny that having tasted his mouth, I crave more of him. And not just sexually. I want to know everything—what he thinks and believes, how he spends his time.
What he feels for me…
But if he isn’t interested in that stuff with me, well, I’ll just learn to stuff those desires to the back of my mind, my heart. Somehow.
No response to my email yet. My stomach sinks, and I turn away from my computer to focus on the paperwork on my desk. It was a crazy impulse to push the envelope. He’s made it clear this is just physical, nothing else. I need to accept that and be good with it. Because I can’t just quit this thing now, even if I’m putting my heart at risk.
My email dings, and my heart lurches in response. I try to tell myself not to expect it to be him. When I see it is, I can’t fight the nervous roil in my stomach. I make myself read the message slowly.
My weekend was…well, not the best, not the worst. Had to do some family things I really didn’t want to do. But sometimes you have to suck it up because you have a responsibility.
You?
His response is vague, yes, but I guess I can’t fault him for that—family issues are hard to open up about, especially if it’s something that’s extremely unpleasant. He also asked me about what I did this weekend, which gives me a warm, tingling sensation in my chest. He does want to know me more. I type my response.
Sorry to hear that. I’ve been in situations like that too, so I know what you mean.
I pause. Should I open up to him? He kind of cracked the door a fraction for me to see inside him, hinting there’s more to his personal life than what I normally see—a perfect family, a perfect dynamic. And hell, he already knows all my dark secrets from reading my journal. It’s a bit too late to close that barn door, I suppose. I bite my lip and press on.
My brother—I love him, but he can be difficult. Since his accident, he has these occasional severe mood swings. Most of the time I can deal with it fine, but sometimes…I get tired and stressed, and I lose my patience with him. Then I feel guilty for not being supportive enough. After all, what he went through was traumatic. He lost part of a limb and has to relearn how to do so many things in life that we take for granted. Tying shoes, getting dressed, using a computer. It’s no wonder he’s struggling with dealing.
Anyway. My weekend. I mostly hung out at home. Had a friend come over—we drank wine and watched Footloose. It was a lot of fun, actually. I don’t get to relax enough, so I’ve been working on that more.
I’m sure you already know that much though, from…well. Yeah. lol
I guess I’ve rambled on enough. Thanks for listening.
I hit send before I chicken the hell out. I didn’t even let myself reread the email. No guts, no glory, right?
A few minutes later, I get a response from him.
I’ve never experienced a trauma like that. I can imagine it’s hard for him to cope. But I’m sure he appreciates all you do for him.
My family tension is nothing like yours, though it’s certainly dramatic in its own way. My brother and I…we have issues. And they’re cropping up right now, and I’m strug
gling to deal with them. It doesn’t help that it’s causing a rift in our family, something I feel increasingly guilty about, though it isn’t actually my fault this happened.
Anyway. That’s life, right? Sometimes we get dealt a shit hand and we have to play those cards.
His words are simple, but I can feel the ripple of pain behind them. The vulnerabilities he’s revealing to me, despite all the things he isn’t saying, despite the way he tries to sound flippant in that last line. What happened between him and his brother? I want to ask but I’m afraid to push too hard. I don’t want this conversation to stop. Not now, when I’m starting to learn about him.
But I do want to lighten the mood some and coax a smile to his face. I send a quick one-liner email.
Tell me your favorite way to relax when you get stressed.
A minute later, his reply comes in.
I can’t type that in a work email.
That makes my cheeks flame. Instantly I think about his face between my thighs, his tongue stroking me until I came all over his face. And now I’m throbbing in my lower belly, pressing my legs together to fight back the Pavlovian response I seem to have far too often to Dane. But he’s pushing the envelope here with such a suggestive line, and surely he knows it.
I want to push back.
Can’t, or won’t?
My inbox pings back instantly.
Both. Some things are better explored offline.
That’s fair; I guess I understand that. Before I can answer, another email crops up from him.
I’d venture a guess as to how you like to relax, but I think I already discovered it…
That makes my lips quirk. Bastard. I know exactly what he’s hinting at. You know so much about me, I type in reply. That journal of mine…I might never live down those erotic, vulnerable words I wrote. And yet, do I really want to? After all, it brought me here, to this place with him. If he hadn’t read it, we would still be stilted and polite, and I’d never have experienced what I have over the last several days. But I know so little about you, I add. It feels unbalanced.
You know more about me than you realize, his quick response starts. You’ve seen things in me that no one else has, long before last week. Give yourself more credit on being insightful, Emme. My secrets rest in your hands, just as yours rest in mine.
My heart is pounding so hard it threatens to burst from my chest. He and I, we’re intricately tied now, our hushed activities twisting us around each other. No one else can know, a fact that only heightens the sensations I’m feeling.
And given what he’s writing in these emails, I don’t sense the same level of hesitation on his part that I did before. No, he’s slowly dropping the walls and letting me peek beneath that glossy veneer. Showing me his true depths, the thoughts that occupy his mind. It just makes me want more of him, as much as he’s willing to give…something that could prove to be dangerous to my stupidly hopeful heart.
I fear I’m starting to fall for this man.
Emme
By Wednesday morning, I’m ready to scream of frustration.
It’s been two days since he kissed me in his office. Two days since that email exchange, which I’ve read and reread. Two days since I started to let myself think Dane might feel more for me than just sexually.
And yet...nothing. No more calling me into his office. No private time alone, even. Hell, he’s barely spared more than a passing glance at me, choosing instead to bury himself in work. It’s like the Dane I thought I was seeing never existed. Instead, it’s been all professional, polished Boss Dane, with the smile that doesn’t reach the eyes, with the voice that never stirs too loudly.
With the demeanor that shows no passion.
This morning I put on a dark purple skirt with a dangerously high slit up the thigh, paired with a tight black shirt that makes my breasts look bigger, in an effort to get his attention. Yeah, I went there, with zero shame.
I felt the compulsive need to see him look at me like he wants to consume me.
In our late morning meeting, I strolled in and sat near him. Crossed my legs. Licked my lips. Drew in long breaths to make my breasts rise and fall. All lame attempts at seduction that fell flat. So embarrassing. He left the room without a spare glance my way.
Does he regret our email interaction, regret opening up even that much? I hate that his actions make me feel so insecure. I hate that I’m giving him this much control over me. I need to be stronger than this, to not let him and his level of attention determine my self-worth. I look good today, damn it. I know I do.
A few guys on campus after my early class shot me multiple glances, and Sidney told me this was the perfect time for me to ask our prof to regrade our quiz—which I got a C on—that if he got one glance at my legs, he’d cave and give me an A. I shoved at her shoulder but secretly I was flattered. Maybe I should try to dress cute more often instead of dressing to blend in.
Even Carl checked me out when I got to work, and he can’t stand me at all. That speaks volumes. It should make my ego feel better, but ugh, it’s Carl. A thousand times nope.
Right now I’m sitting in the lunchroom across from Lauren, nibbling on my sandwich and pretending everything is hunky dory. At least she’s entertaining—her running commentary on the creepy guys eating lunch with us has me snorting far too loudly.
“Don’t look to your right yet, but a guy from the second floor hasn’t stopped staring at your boobs since we got here,” she murmurs. “I think there’s drool dropping in his soup. Hold on…okay, look now.”
My lips quirk, but I do as she says. I whip my head around to glare hard at her. “Ew, he’s, like, ninety-five years old. I don’t think he’s drooling because of me. I think he might be having a stroke.”
She smirks. “Perhaps he just needs a hot young nurse to—”
“Stop that sentence right there,” I say, holding up my hand with a laugh. “I don’t think I can hear one more word about this. Gross.”
“Your loss.” She shrugs and spears a piece of lettuce covered in Italian dressing. “Maybe he’s really hung.”
“He’s got stuff hanging, for sure. All over his body, with all that loose skin.” I give a mock shudder. “I’m not that desperate for a date, but thanks anyway.”
Lauren shoves the bite in her mouth and chews fast. “Shit. I gotta go. I forgot I have a conference call in ten minutes. Can’t be late, or Carl will start seducing them out from under me. You’d think he’d get over that competitive streak by now, especially since we work for the same company, but no.”
“We can’t have that,” I say. “Go, run.” I wave as she leaves and linger at the table for a while longer. I’m not quite ready to go back to my desk, where I have to sit there with a polite smile on my face and pretend I can’t stop thinking about Dane. It’s easier when I’m not in his proximity to push him out of my head. Maybe I’ll luck out and today will be an early day.
Finally I make myself head back upstairs. I take the steps to give me a reason to linger a bit longer. When I get to my desk, his office door is closed, the light shining underneath the door. He’s in.
The rest of the day passes in a drudgery of work. I make copies, I answer emails, I chug coffee like it’s going out of stock. And I try to pretend like I’m not hurt by his extended silence. I feel like a total idiot, reading into the situation something that clearly wasn’t there.
Should I go knock on his door? Or should I make him come to me? I just don’t know what to do, and I can’t ask anyone for advice. Sidney already thinks I’m crazy for having a crush on him. If she knew the extent of what’s happened between us, she’d probably hemorrhage.
Maybe I’m nothing more than a guilty diversion for him when he’s not busy with work. The thought creates a low burn of anger in my gut. I don’t care what it is, I deserve to be treated better than this, and I’m not going to let him control my emotions.
He might know all my secrets, yes, but he doesn’t know my inner strength. I use the fuel t
o help me focus on work and shove him right out of my brain. I’ve dealt with far worse than this in my life, and I made it through.
The office gradually empties out as time ticks on past five. By six-thirty, it’s just me and that damned closed door, the golden slit of light at the bottom taunting me. He hasn’t left once—or if he did, it was while I was away from the desk for the occasional bathroom or coffee break.
The low burn of anger cranks up a notch. Pride has me stiffening my back, clenching my jaw. I need to go home. I’m tired of these games. I just want to crack open a bottle of wine and relax on the couch. Watch trashy TV and figure out what the hell I’m going to do long-term about this situation. I can’t sustain like this for long without something happening, like me marching in his office and demanding he looks at me—really looks at me. I refuse to.
Because underneath all this anger and hurt, there’s still that thread of desire for him, even though I don’t want to feel this way right now. No man has ever made me experience the intense things he has, and I don’t know how I’m going to stop wanting that.
Screw it. I’m going home.
After shutting down my computer, I gather my belongings and shove my arms into my coat sleeves, then drape my dark red scarf around my neck. I grab my purse and book bag and cross the tiled floor toward the elevator. It’s risky of me to leave without saying a word to him, but what’s he going to do? Fire me?
The heated bravado I’m feeling right now makes it worth the risk. I refuse to look back as I press the down button.
The double doors open, and I step inside the softly lit elevator, then press the first floor button. Before the doors can close all the way, a hand slams against the left door and pries it open.
