SEX LUST LOVE HATE: An Enemies-to-Lovers Office Romance Standalone

by Mika Jolie

Are you fucking kidding me? That is the cheesiest line ever. River excuses himself, leaving Garrett with us. Great. I glance down at my whiskey glass, suddenly wishing it was full again.

  “So,” Garrett says, turning toward me, “are you her plus one?”

  My gaze meets Charlotte’s. There’s something in the way she’s watching me with interest as if she’s waiting to see how I answer the question. Normally, I don’t mind playing a flirtatious game here and there but not with her. So I say, “No, man, we’re colleagues.”

  “We just ran into each other here,” she adds.

  I take a swig of my whiskey.

  “Good to know.” He’s practically drinking her in with his eyes. “So, what’s it like working in marketing?”

  “It has its moments.” She brings the glass to her lips and finishes off the dregs of her champagne. Then she’s back to flirting. “Although it’s probably pretty boring in comparison to the NHL.”

  “I don’t know about that.” He laughs. “There’s not much to it. I stop little pucks from getting past me and try not to get the shit kicked out of me in the process.” He gives an overly modest shrug, and Charlotte laughs.

  Technically, I can walk away. Come up with some bullshit line and let them continue their cat and mouse chase, but the cheesiness is too amusing to miss.

  “But it’s not a bad gig, all things considered. Listen,” he starts, taking a step closer to her and putting his hands in his pockets. “I know this might be a little forward, so please let me know if I’m overstepping here. But there’s this new tavern opening up in the Flatiron District tomorrow. I was thinking of going by myself, but if you’re interested…” He lifts his wide shoulders. “I could tell you about hockey. You could tell me about marketing. Could be fun.”

  Charlotte considers the offer for a moment, glancing at me briefly. Our eyes meet for a split second, and something shifts in the pit of my stomach. Then she turns back to the hockey player and flashes him the sexiest smile I’ve ever seen. “You know,” she says, “that sounds like fun, Garrett. Count me in.”

  7

  Jagger

  Okay, so maybe I’m a bit of a hypocrite. I’m not one of those weird, socially inept guys who lay claim to a girl who isn’t even interested in them, who thinks about her day and night while never making a move.

  I’ve had girlfriends in the past, and I’m well aware of my looks. The difference between me and guys like Garrett is that I don’t feel the need to throw empty lines at women.

  My thumb clicks the top of the pen over and over. No, I’m not jealous. If anything, call that feeling curling in the pit of my stomach annoyance. Charlotte was supposed to get here five minutes ago, but she hasn’t shown up yet. No surprise there, I guess. It’s bad enough that I’ve spent my whole weekend preoccupied because of her; now she can’t even be bothered to show up on a Monday so we can get back to work on our campaign.

  Why are you so hung up on what she does during her free time, anyway? a traitorous voice whispers in the back of my mind. It’s not like she means anything to you…right?

  I shake the thought away before it can take root. Charlotte is too self-absorbed, not my type.

  But.

  But...there’s something about her that I can’t seem to shake, like a burr that’s caught onto my clothing, as persistent as it is annoying. I don’t know if it’s the way we interact, tossing jabs back and forth like we’re in a fencing match, or the fact that her sense of humor is so dry that it’s almost undetectable. I think, more than anything, it’s that she isn’t afraid to go toe-to-toe with me, or anyone at the company, for that matter. The reasons for her boldness aside, she has no problem telling it like it is, whether to me or, more surprisingly, to her father.

  Their last interaction left a lot of questions whirling in my head. I was under the impression that she was a daddy’s girl who got whatever she wanted, but seeing the way they interact has thrown me for a loop. It’s almost like she resents him for something. Everyone knows the man goes through women as often as the seasons change. She mentioned something about her mother. Could that be the reason for her strained relationship with her father?

  I hate that she’s becoming more dynamic in my eyes, almost as much as I hate competing with her for this job. And I think we shared a moment the other night at the auction until Mr. I’m-a-hockey-player came over with his bullshit lines.

  Again, not jealous.

  Anyway, at this point, I’m not quite sure what is going on between us.

  Bad blood?

  Enemies?

  Something more?

  Hell if I can figure it out. All I know is that I spent longer than I would care to admit thinking about her this weekend. Just out of professional concern, of course. Garrett could have turned out to be a serial killer, for all we knew.

  Yeah. Yeah. I know what you’re thinking. He’s a professional athlete. As if athletes have never done dumb shit before.

  Okay, fine. So maybe I’m a little curious how their date turned out.

  Did they hook up?

  Every muscle in my body tenses up. I relax my shoulders and blow out a breath as the office door swings open and Charlotte strides in, looking damn near radiant in a clingy blue dress that accents her tiny waist and brings out the emerald of her eyes. My dick twitches in my pants, and I tell the asshole to chill.

  She stops in the doorway, crossing her arms. “Okay, what?”

  “Hello to you too, Charlotte.”

  “You’re looking at me like you’re already itching for a spat.”

  I bristle at that but find my angry retort stifled when her eyes meet mine, freezing me in my tracks. “I was just doing some initial copy for the Instagram ad.”

  She raises a questioning brow. “You’re a copywriter, now?”

  “Hardly.” I shake my head, snorting, then tip my chin in the direction of the laptop screen. “I just figured I would start on some samples since you can’t be bothered to show up on time.”

  There, we’re back on familiar territory, bouncing remarks between us like a red rubber ball. I can handle the verbal banter between us, but the unexpected compliments, the teasing, or was it flirting?

  Not that it matters.

  The point is that when Charlotte and I are going at each other, I’m not looking at her lips and wondering how beautiful they would look wrapped around my—

  “Five minutes late, Jagger.”

  My brows pinch. “What?”

  She shakes her head and walks past me. “I’m five minutes late. When do you arrive, anyway? Five AM?”

  “Very funny.” I nod in the direction of the desk. “Do you want to get started, or are we just going to keep insulting each other?”

  She saunters over to the other side of the desk and sits on the empty chair across from me, leaning forward to get a look at the work I’ve done so far. I catch a whiff of her perfume—a delightful feminine scent that makes my skin heat up just from being near her. At that moment, something—actually two things—occur to me as she reads my writing.

  I care what she thinks and I want to fuck her.

  The realization smacks me hard. I shift uncomfortably in my chair. What is happening to me?

  Finally Charlotte leans back and gives me a long look. “Well, it’s not the worst thing I’ve ever read.”

  “Are you allergic to giving compliments or something?” I demand, not sure why I’m so bothered but unable to help myself. Oh, wait, I want to bend her over, lift her dress, and—

  At this point my dick is ready to pop out and salute her.

  “As if you’ve ever said anything nice to me in the entire time you’ve known me.”

  She has a point. We don’t give each other accolades. In fact, for the three years we’ve been working together, we’re either disagreeing or avoiding each other.

  “We should get to work.”

  Her gaze roves over my face, almost as if she’s drinking in my appearance, then her lips curve into a smile. “I said
I liked your painting the other night, that’s a compliment.”

  See what I mean?

  She’s too much.

  She makes it very hard not to think about what she’d look like on her knees with me in her mouth. Thank you, brain, for never being afraid to go there when it’s least appropriate.

  I give myself a mental shake, fighting the urge to haul her into my arms and kiss her. “Yeah, I guess you did.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest, arches one brow, and continues to watch me.

  I scratch the back of my ear. “What?”

  “Your turn.” She makes a tsking noise, drawing my attention to her lips. Full, pink, and glossy.

  It’s an extremely sensual, begging to be kissed, mouth.

  Must stop thinking about Charlotte’s lips and all the magical things they can do. Frowning, I say, “I’m confused.”

  “I gave you a compliment,” she says a matter-of-factly, “now it’s your turn to give me one.”

  So, we’re playing a game. “Okay,” I concede. “I read the notes you sent to me for the campaign. All valid points.”

  “Why, thank you, Jagger,” she says in a Southern accent that one might hear from a television show. It’s terrible and cute at the same time. “Maybe I didn’t give you a fair shake before.”

  “You’re clearly intelligent, even if you are chronically late.”

  “Wow.” She plants her palms over her heart. “I’m touched. What else have you got?”

  I can’t help but chuckle. “Now you’re just fishing.”

  “Okay, maybe a little.” Her delightful laughter slices through the room, then she eyes me for a moment. “Maybe this won’t end up being a complete disaster, after all.”

  As she turns back to my computer, I nearly have to pry my eyes away from her. I’ll analyze this attraction later. Right now, we have work to do.

  Together we begin breaking down the strategies we’ve laid out so far. Charlotte has some ideas for content, while I’ve been trying out some visuals for the Instagram campaign. Time ticks away as we fall deeper into this project. She slides her chair around to my side of the desk, and I am very aware of how close she is to me, every little accidental touch practically lighting me on fire as I try and fail to concentrate on what we’re doing. Eventually, my mind wanders back to Garrett, and I glance over at her slightly parted lips, her brows pinched in concentration, one slim finger tracing over the words on the screen.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” she observes, turning to me.

  I shrug. “Don’t want to step on your toes.”

  “How very chivalrous,” she says, her tone coy as she leans back in her seat. “And here I was, thinking all the good men were gone.”

  “That’s odd. I seem to remember you flirting pretty hard with that Garrett guy back at the auction.”

  “Oh?” Charlotte raises her eyebrows. “I’m surprised you gave him that much thought. Did he intimidate you, Jagger?”

  Here goes the sexual tension again. “It’s hard to be intimidated by someone whose flirting sounds like something out of a seventies porn.”

  She actually laughs at that. “Well, you’re not wrong.” That makes me chuckle too, and for a moment our eyes lock once more. My dick responds hopefully.

  “So, what happened?” I ask, hoping I sound indifferent. “Did you go on a date with him?”

  “Didn’t your mother ever tell you a lady doesn’t kiss and tell?” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Relax, Jagger. To answer your question, yes, we went on a date.”

  My stomach drops.

  “And it went about how I was expecting it to,” she adds.

  I’m on the verge of asking her what that means, but I hold my tongue, instead saying, “Doesn’t he have kind of a reputation of sleeping his way around New York?” That came out more defensively than I’d intended. And that makes me sound like a possessive ex-boyfriend or someone pining for her affection. I fall in neither category.

  Forest-green eyes sweep my face. “Jealous, Jagger?”

  I scoff. Thinking about fucking someone doesn’t mean I want to be with them.

  She holds up her thumb and forefinger, showing a sliver of space. “Just a teeny tiny bit?”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “You can admit the idea of me going on a date with Garrett bothers you just a tiny bit.” She leans forward, elbows on the desk, hands folded under her chin, eyes intent on me. “I won’t tell a soul.”

  She’s killing me and she doesn’t even know it. That question was the dumbest one to ever come out of my mouth, and trust me, it’s had lots of competitors. But I can’t back down yet. “My question was simply out of courtesy.”

  “Oh?”

  “As much as I want this job, it would be a shame if the only reason I got it was because you ended up getting murdered on a date,” I say with a chuckle.

  “You’re too kind,” she retorts, sounding amused. “For the record, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m a big girl, Jagger. I can handle my personal life.”

  “I never said you couldn’t,” I tell her. “I just would’ve thought that kind of guy wouldn’t be the endgame for someone like you.”

  “Who said anything about endgame?” she shoots back, her tone suddenly serious. “I’m not in the market for a relationship.”

  I’ve always thought that Charlotte is a spoiled princess who dates a different guy every week and lives for fun. But now that we’re spending more time together, something tells me there’s another layer of her I’ve yet to discover. “Why not?”

  “Because.” She pauses for a beat as if searching for the right word. There’s a hint of pain in her voice. “I’m all about the fun part.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “You don’t have to. I’m aware of your opinion of me.”

  We stare at each other for a full minute of awkward silence. An uncomfortable silence. She’s right. My opinions of her aren’t flattering, and they are based on my own prejudice.

  “I don’t know you Charlotte,” I finally admit.

  “It’s fine.” She waves a hand dismissing the topic. “You’d better be careful, though, Jagger, by the time this is all over, you might just warm up to me.”

  I don’t respond. She doesn’t need to know that’s already happening, whether I like it or not.

  8

  Jagger

  Six hours later, I collapse back onto the bed in my Clinton Hill studio, letting my eyes drift closed for a moment and willing myself to calm down as I listen to the sounds of fire engines and barking dogs out on the street.

  I didn’t even bother to get out of my work clothes, instead just kicking my shoes off and loosening my tie before throwing an arm over my eyes. My skin is overheated despite the air conditioning, and there’s a restlessness in me that I can’t put my finger on. It’s like an itch I can’t scratch, and it’s making me want to crawl out of my skin. My interaction with Charlotte this morning… What was it anyway?

  An argument?

  Flirting?

  A little of both?

  Whatever it was, it’s still fresh in my mind, and every time I think about it my stomach gives an uncomfortable little lurch.

  I can’t stop hearing the last thing she said, about how she isn’t in the market for a relationship. I didn’t expect it to bother me as much as it does, especially considering that until quite recently I didn’t want anything to do with her. But something changed, and there’s no use denying it any longer. What that something is, exactly, or whether it’s more than a passing interest, I can’t say for sure, but there’s no getting away from it.

  It’s those damn eyes—those damn, bright, hypnotic, gorgeous eyes. That was what did it initially, and the rest followed suit: her figure, as pretty as it is natural, her hair, like fire, and her devil-may-care attitude. It’s the way she wears my jabs like a badge of honor, the way she gives back everything she gets, and it’s all too much for me.

  This train of thought
stirs up a now familiar feeling in the pit of my stomach. Before I’m even aware of what’s happening, my hand is moving to my belt, tugging down my boxer briefs, and I grab my dick. My aching, pulsing, persistent cock.

  And it wants to be buried inside her.

  The traitor.

  Although me trying to convince my dick otherwise is a losing battle. Charlotte is everywhere. I can practically smell her perfume, and the thought of running my hands through her thick auburn hair sends a fresh shiver down my back.

  Shutting my eyes, I start stroking, imagining the feeling of her lips on mine, my tongue grazing hers as my hands roam her body, eliciting a breathy moan. I can picture pushing her onto the bed, our hands hastening to rid ourselves of the clothing between us, our hearts pounding. Her fingernails scraping along my back as I bury myself inside her, the heat that pours off her in waves, the little sounds she makes as I begin to move…

  I don’t usually release myself like this, not to the image of someone I work with, but I can’t help it. The pictures are too strong in my mind, bringing with them a desire I haven’t felt in months, if not years.

  My hand tightens around my shaft. I let out a groan as I pick up the pace, the vision of Charlotte so strong in my mind that it’s almost unbearable. I see her lips wrapped around my dick, her head bobbing up and down as my fingers tangle in her hair, guiding her motions.

  Jesus. All the things I want to do to Charlotte. Lick her. Touch her. Spank her. Taste her. Fuck her. Kiss her.

  But most of all I want to ask her what was on her mind the night of the auction. I want to get to know her. Find out what makes her tick.

  God, I want to slam her against a wall, tear off her clothes, and crush my mouth on her lips, suck on her neck, bite her, make her scream. I hate that I feel that way, but I also love how alive I feel too.

  I jerk faster, fucking my fist. Tighter. Rougher. Sinful pleasure floods my brain and my skin sizzles. Every muscle in my body burns. Seconds later, the orgasm hits me like a freight train, silver sparks shooting through me, leaving me shuddering and staring up at the ceiling as I come down from the high, my hand stained with my orgasm.