by Paige North
Part of me is tempted to drive all the way back just to get it, but I convince myself to stay put. It’s just after nine PM. There’s no way he’s still in the office—since I’ve started working for him, we’ve never been there that late, as he often opts to take work home with him and finish up there. I’m being paranoid. Besides, my building pass won’t work to let me back in after six PM, so I can’t sneak in anyway.
The die has been cast, and I just have to hope that everything’s safe.
That night in bed, I lie awake for hours until sleep’s seductive pull finally tugs me under. The last thing I imagine is Dane’s face, disgust and disappointment deep in his eyes over what he read in my journal. Right before he fires me from my job.
7
Dane
“Emme,” I holler as I carry a filled-to-the-brim mug of plain black coffee, turning the corner to head back to my office. “Will you bring the specs for the Sanderson remodel?” I blink when I see her desk is empty.
Did she leave? I didn’t tell her she could go.
I bite back my sudden flash of frustration and glance at my watch. It’s already well after eight. I didn’t mean to stay at work this long; time slipped away from me while I had my head buried in design work. Still, it’s not like her to leave without a note, especially since I didn’t dismiss her for the day. Maybe there’s a message for me on her desk.
My dress shoes clack across the tiled floor as I stop in front of her tidy work area. The lamp is still on, and there’s a red, leather bound book sitting on a stack of papers. I push it aside and see the Sanderson paperwork right on top. My mug of coffee is put down so I can scoop up the papers.
My eyes are drawn back to that red book. What is it? Did she leave some of her homework behind? I flip it open to a random page.
walked in yesterday wearing a pair of black pants that molded to his ass…and huge package. I couldn’t stop staring at him. I thought he busted me in the afternoon looking at his crotch when he got up from his desk, but I don’t think he did. Close call, whew!
I blink in surprise, pausing. Is this…a diary? Innocent, sweet-faced Emme Williams, writing about checking out some guy’s dick? Something about the shock of that realization makes my own dick stir, even as my stomach gives an uneasy surge.
I should stop. This isn’t any of my business, and clearly it’s personal. Some niggling part of my conscience pokes at me, tells me I should walk away and pretend I never saw this diary.
But ignoring things didn’t get me where I am now.
Plus, she left it on her desk, where anyone could pick it up and look inside. Who’s the guy she’s talking about? Someone at school? Could very well be…or a coworker here.
A mental image of her hunching over the journal, writing about some asshole in the office, soft brown curls falling over her brow as she tucks a strand behind her ear with her slender fingers, makes my chest tight. I shouldn’t care that she has a crush on someone. She’s my assistant, for fuck’s sake. She’s barely twenty-five, still in grad school, quiet and polite, practically fresh off the farm. Totally not my type.
None of that keeps me from grabbing the journal and adding it to the top of the Sanderson paperwork. I tell my conscience to shut the hell up and slam my office door behind me.
I manage to focus on my work for another good half hour, but the red journal keeps drawing my attention. All her secrets, right there and ripe for the plucking.
What do I know about Emme, other than she’s a hard worker? She’s in grad school for business administration after getting a Bachelor’s in interior design. She’s small and curvy, with a mess of brown hair that never seems to stay restrained. Her lips quirk in one corner, and she has deep dimples. She’s quiet but her eyes convey thoughtfulness, and I can tell she’s a quick learner.
And she’s spilled her guts in a book I can’t stop myself from reaching over to grab.
After a furtive glance at my office door, I open the diary and start to read.
A half hour later, my dick is so hard it’s screaming to be released from my pants. The blood is roaring in my veins, and my heart won’t stop racing. Holy fuck, the dirty shit Emme’s written about me…who knew? Who knew that quiet young girl has such intense fantasies?
Has anyone ever expressed such brutal, gut-wrenchingly honest feelings about me in their entire life? Sure as fuck not my ex-wife, or any of these women I date on and off. They’re always far too restrained, always so careful not to give their real selves away, not to drop their guard. No one pierces the façade; no vulnerabilities leak through.
Sounds familiar. Sounds like my people. We are smooth and polished and charming. Something I always praised myself on.
But not Emme. She bleeds her heart right on the page, no fears, no shame. Just raw emotion, right there in the smooth curves of her inked lines.
I’ve learned more about Emme and her life in these pages than I’ve bothered to learn about any other woman in ages. And the sudden numerous realizations about myself and the many flaws in my character humble me.
Bring a fresh stab of guilt.
Of course, a small part of me wonders if she left this on purpose for me to find. Perhaps this diary is a message to me, or whatever. But I don’t think so; it’s too illogical for her to do so. If she is sending me a message, I don’t believe she’d leave it out for anyone in the office to stumble upon. Not to mention the HR complications that come from her sharing such intense, sexual thoughts with her boss. She wouldn’t risk her job this way—I know that much.
Yeah, I really shouldn’t have looked, shouldn’t have invaded her privacy like this. Hell, I never even allowed myself to think about her like that—like…a flesh-and-blood woman. Anything other than just an employee. The office is not a place for fooling around; you don’t shit where you eat. After growing up and watching my dad stick his dick in more secretaries than I can count, I took that motto to heart.
And I’ve never been more tempted to break it than I am right now.
My gaze goes to a recent entry as I reread it, let the words soak in.
My fingers just can’t seem to satisfy me the way I need to be satisfied. It doesn’t help that when I’m at work and I see Dane’s hands, I pretend he follows me to the bathroom and locks us in a stall and shoves his hands in my panties while I bite his shoulder to stay quiet. And he makes me come and come all over his fingers, and then licks them clean.
Am I crazy or weird for wanting him so much?
The thing is…this isn’t even just physical. I mean, don’t get me wrong. He’s so hot. But he’s so damn smart too, and I find that just as sexy as his looks. He’s well-read and interesting, plus he has an intuitive sense of design that is flawless. Everyone wants to be the center of his attention, the object of his praise. Who can blame them? When those eyes focus on you, you’re swallowed whole by his intensity and intelligence.
Is it any wonder he’s always on my mind?
What I wouldn’t give for his attention to turn to me, just once. For him to tell me in that low, sultry voice of his all the wicked things he would do to me. From watching him, I can tell so much about him, how thorough he is in everything he does. I bet he’s like that as a lover. Methodical. Intense.
I bet he’d make me feel like the woman I am on the inside, not the one everyone sees on the outside.
I feel her emotion, her longing, pouring off the page, and my heart squeezes in discomfort. This is dangerous stuff I’m starting to think here. Because I can’t possibly be entertaining the idea of having sex with Emme. Of making her feel the way she deserves to feel. Beautiful. Wanted.
Has no man really taken the time to give her what she needs? What a damn shame. A crime, really.
I might be a nosy bastard for reading this book, but I’m a very good lover, and knowing I can give Emmy what she wants and needs—perhaps even more than she bargained for…stirs something deep in my chest.
“No,” I say under my breath, closing the journal. No fucking
way. I’m not going to have sex with her. It’s unprofessional. It’s unethical. I’m her boss, for fuck’s sake. I can’t take advantage of her like that. She knows it, and I know it. Hell, she doesn’t expect it to ever happen, and rightly so.
Even though her words are practically begging me to give her everything she craves, show her how good it feels to have hot, dirty sex. For the rest of my life, I know I’ll never forget the things she’s written in here. The fantasies she’s had about her and me. Am I really supposed to be strong enough to resist such a delicious temptation?
Is this the struggle my dad faced? For the first time in forever, a part of me views him in a slightly less disdainful light, wondering if maybe we have more in common than I thought.
Then I remember the tear-stained face of his last secretarial conquest when he broke up with her—and subsequently fired her—and my stomach sours. Even my mother doesn’t know the extent of his philandering, though I bet she suspects. Just one of the reasons I quit working for his design firm and started my own several years ago. I couldn’t be dragged into his sordid life choices anymore.
I swallow a big chug of coffee as my brain wars with itself on how to handle the situation. My email dings and, speak of the devil, there’s an apologetic email from Emme, explaining she had to leave early due to a sudden situation at home. No mention of the diary, not even a hint, and the explanation makes me believe her leaving the diary was accidental. Although perhaps unconsciously, she did want me to find it…
I huff a big sigh and rake my hands through my hair. What the hell am I going to do?
A gentleman, and honorable man, would put the journal back and pretend he never saw it. He’d go through each day with her, being polite and distant as usual. Or maybe he’d reassign her to another department in the company so there was no possible temptation to break all his important, self-imposed rules.
I want to be a gentleman, an honorable man.
But staring at the cover of the journal, I just don’t know if I am. Or if I really want to be in this specific case.
Still, I rise from my desk and put the book back on her desktop. I might be a snooping bastard, but I’m not a thief. I’ll sleep on the issue tonight, maybe let a nice glass of Scotch at home help me decide what to do.
I shut down my computer quickly, exit the building, and pull out of the lot, flying down darkened local streets to my condo. The whole time, Emme’s wicked words haunt me. I can’t get the images of us having sex out of my head. Bending her over her desk. Fucking her mouth in the conference room, fingers digging in her scalp, her curls twined around my hands. God, the dirty shit I want to do to her now…funny how I didn’t think about her to this degree, but seeing all her wicked thoughts on paper opened the floodgates of my own latent, surprising feelings.
There’s no fucking way I can go back to viewing her the way I used to. I know what simmers below that smooth, quiet surface of hers now.
And even more uncomfortable, she seems to know exactly what simmers below mine, or at least has a clue that there’s more to me than what I show everyone.
Scotch doesn’t help. Not one bit.
I kick my feet up on my ottoman and take a deep swig from my glass, savoring the burn as it slides down my throat into my stomach. The light in my study is dim, with soft jazz playing in the background. This is my normal routine after putting in a long day to wind down and shift out of the work zone, but it isn’t working. I’ve sported a semi for the last hour, and needless to say, it isn’t the most comfortable thing ever.
“Fuck,” I mutter as I stand and shove my dick to the side so it isn’t pinched in my pants. This is stupid. I refuse to let her get under my skin.
Stick to the plan. I can’t afford to get distracted or divert any of my attention to something that has the potential to throw me off track. I will not be like him.
I put another CD on, one with a driving beat and dirty metal grind, and pour two more fingers in my glass. I take a huge swig.
That does it. The alcohol finally seeps into my system, loosening my limbs and fuzzing my brain. Thank fuck. Maybe that will get thoughts of Emme’s sexy mouth out of my head. And with that, my dick springs back to life.
The temptation is too much. After putting my glass on a side table, I unzip my pants and fist my cock, pumping up and down. Blood pumps hard in my veins, and my breath begins to pant. My stomach clenches with need. I fantasize about pinning her to the wall in the bathroom, just like she wrote in her diary. Fingering her, whispering in her ear and making her shiver. Licking her juices after she explodes on my hand. My cock aches and gets even harder, and I tighten my fingers until it’s almost painful.
Electricity zings through me, fast and sudden, and my balls tighten.
Oh, the things I could do to that mouth…
So fucking close now. I stop breathing and pump more as pre-come coats the top of my hand, slicks across my dick. When I think about her on her knees, those wide eyes looking up at me as I penetrate her mouth and rub the head of my dick on the back of her throat, that does it. I explode with a loud groan, semen spraying in a strong arc.
It takes a minute for my body to stop shaking with need, for my cramped hand to loosen.
I lean back into the chair, body spent, but nowhere near sated.
Fuck. Emme might be a bigger problem than I ever would have dreamed.
8
Emme
I’m not sure I’ve ever been this nervous in my entire life.
My hand shakes so hard it takes three tries to get my building pass to swipe past the reader. Since my access won’t let me in until six, I had to wait to come in. I slept like crap last night and finally got up just before four, giving up the struggle. The last two hours have basically involved staring at the clock, checking my email to see if Dane was going to write me back (as if he’d be sending off emails to his goofy assistant at four in the morning) and willing time to pass faster. Yeah, that wasn’t nerve-wracking or anything.
Today’s gonna suck when my coffee wears off.
The floor is dim when my elevator dings open; only a couple of people, bleary-eyed and shuffling, are in the office right now, clutching mugs of coffee like lifelines. I make a straight line for my desk, and when I spot the red journal, my lungs exhale hard.
I almost drop to the ground in sweet relief. It’s here. I’m okay. The nerves that were eating me alive fade away, and all the knots in my back loosen. My secret is still safe.
After tucking the journal neatly in my purse and zipping it closed, I settle into my desk and open my email. My heart zips into a fast gallop as I see he finally responded. But when I open it, my heart slows, as Dane gave his usual abrupt reply to my message, saying it was fine. No mention of the journal. The last of my tension eases. For the next hour I dig through more email, answering random client questions, setting up meetings for Dane, until he strolls into the office, wearing a black suit that looks tailored for his lean form, as usual.
My face bursts into flames from residual guilt at the thought of my journal left here, exposed overnight. No, he might not have read my words, but I know what I wrote, and I know the way my body vibrates when I look at him.
“Good morning, Dane,” I murmur politely as he passes by my desk.
He flicks me the briefest of looks. “Morning, Emme.” Nothing on his face or in his body language indicates any weirdness. Okay, he seems a little more clipped than usual, but he’s often like that in the morning, when he’s in a hurry to get his day started. It could also be a hint of residual irritation at me leaving without letting him know last night, even if he said it was fine in his email to me.
Dane goes right toward his office without a backward glance at me, and the door clicks closed behind him.
My heart deflates a touch at the clear dismissal, and I instantly make myself shake that off. Just because I’m having these conflicted feelings for him doesn’t mean he feels anything in return or thinks about me in any other way than work-related. It�
��s ridiculous to hope for otherwise.
In fact, it’s good that he’s treating me normally. I should be happy for that.
I should be. But I’m not. Because deep down inside, a teeny, tiny part of me wondered about the possibility of him reading the journal and maybe feeling something for me too. Of him strolling in today and giving me all the things I’ve fantasized about non-stop for six months now.
The ways I torture myself sometimes are astounding.
I busy myself with emails and other administrative work until ten minutes before our morning meeting. Then I gather my iPad for record keeping and go to the meeting room to get it ready. I set out coffee and pastries, creamer and sugar, napkins and paper cups. Dane’s quite particular about preparation.
And I like to please him.
Once everything is ready, I settle into my seat on the far side of the room and quietly wait for people to arrive.
The stream comes in slowly. Lauren, one of the younger designers, enters the room, her fiery red hair twisted in a cute bun on the back of her head as her skirt sways to mid-calf from her stride. She’s talking rapid-fire with Carl, her free hand waving in the air, and they take their seats near the front of the room.
Lauren glances over at me and gives me a friendly, polite smile. “Good morning, Emme.”
“Morning,” I say back with a nod. Part of me wishes I were assertive enough to get to know her better, maybe take her out for a cup of coffee and pick her brain about what it’s like being in her position, doing what I hope to be doing after grad school, but I’m not quite there yet. I still feel the difference in our levels far too keenly to try to act like I’m on par with her. It also doesn’t help that I’m a little too shy to reach out to people—or even to speak up in our meetings and offer my thoughts on the subject matter at hand.
