How about Emmett, though? I wonder if my boss texted or called—and dread the possibility. He has reason to, and not just because of the sex. He could be thinking about the Excel model. After all, the man’s a workaholic slave driver.
But—nothing from him. Something cold slithers its fingers along my should
ers and neck. What does this silence mean? Is he busy filling out an HR complaint form? Did he decide to take the call and then treat himself to another orgasm? He was hard when I ran out on him.
I press the heels of my hands against my temples and choke back a scream. Sasha’s undoubtedly sleeping in her room, and I don’t want to wake her up. For my own sanity, I’m just going to pretend that everything after eleven fifty-nine p.m. never happened. No matter how surreally weird and inappropriate it was, it’s true that I did barge in, so it isn’t one hundred percent Emmett’s fault I got to see his penis…and everything else that happened.
On top of that, he spoke to me like he always does when he has his dick tucked appropriately away in his pants: annoying and sexy at the same time. So I’m going to assume he didn’t particularly care about the whole…impropriety of the incident. In the nearly two years I’ve known Emmett, I’ve never seen him do anything inappropriate. Not a single whisper of a scandal or interoffice dating talk. The only thing I know is he is a workaholic, and since he spends almost every waking minute in his office, he probably does a lot of personal tasks there. It even has an en suite shower.
Yeah, but you had to kiss him!
I had to show him…then things got out of control. Oh my God. I can’t think about that right now. The only thing I’m clearheaded enough to do is stick my phone into the charger and make a mental note never to sit on that couch in his office ever again.
I go to the bathroom and reach for a makeup wipe. The mirror shows an exhausted woman. I didn’t bother to freshen up my makeup after Emmett asked me to redo the model, and my foundation and concealer no longer hide the dark circles.
Ah well. At least Dad won’t know. As far as he’s concerned, I’m super happy, super healthy and super awesome—enjoying life to the fullest.
Dad thinks not having a mother around left a mark on me, some kind of hole he can’t fill. I know the idea gives him anxiety, which is why I date even though my life would be easier without a boyfriend. I want to show Dad that not having a maternal figure hasn’t done me any harm.
Of course, that doesn’t mean he’s going to quit worrying or approve of my dates. He thinks I can do a hundred times better than the guys I’ve been with. Most men simply are not good enough for his little girl. He even said I’m dating down, and I really should date up. Aim high. Just like I aimed high when I applied to Harvard, went for Goldman Sachs and entered Wharton.
He doesn’t buy my explanation that men aren’t like schools and jobs. Having the stability of a family and the devotion of a man who loves me above all else is something Dad has always wanted for me. As far as he’s concerned, I can have that with the Harvards and Whartons of men, not the “averages” I’ve been “settling for.”
Whatever. I run the wipe over my face, then take a quick shower to wash off the sweat and…other gunk. Then I put on a nightshirt and fall into bed, kill the bedside lamp and hug my teddy bear. Okumasama, who was given a butchered Japanese name because I was too young and didn’t know any better.
One sheep… Two sheep…
My eyelids grow heavy. I close my eyes and sigh softly…
“Amy…”
The guttural moan tickles my senses. I imagine the scene…
Emmett. Reclining on a leather couch in his office. His cheeks flushed, his eyes glazed with desire.
“Amy…” He can barely get the word out amid his rough, uneven breathing.
His hand fists around his cock. His shirt sleeves are rolled; tendons flex under the taut skin. The muscles in his jaw bunch as he inhales, his hand moving faster. The buttons on his shirt are undone, revealing his gorgeous chest, which rapidly rises and falls.
I should be scandalized. Outraged. But I feel neither. He’s raw and hedonistic as he chases his pleasure, my name nothing more than a soft moan tearing from his chest.
I walk into his office, his domain, licking suddenly dry lips. I can’t look away from the tableau before me—lusty and sensual.
Our gazes collide. His mouth parts and his eyes darken.
A hot tingling sensation starts in my chest, making my nipples bead, and streaks down my torso. A whimper rises, and I press my lips together. But when the sensation ends at my clit, I can’t contain the sound anymore. The flesh between my legs slickens.
“You’re supposed to work in your office.” I try for a reprimand, but my voice is too uneven and husky to be taken seriously.
“Work hard, play hard.” He winks.
“Is that the rule?” I keep my gaze on his, then deliberately reach under my skirt and pull my underwear down my legs.
The hand around his shaft stops moving, but the muscles in his forearm quiver. I slowly skim my hands over my breasts, down my torso. The touch is light through my clothes. I shouldn’t feel much, but hot shivers shimmy through me anyway. It’s Emmett who’s amplifying my pleasure, his increasingly rough breathing urging me to push boundaries.
“Do you want to touch me?” I whisper, mischief in my tone and a dare in my stare. The fact that I can sound like that surprises me. I’m never like this in bed.
“Yes.” His eyes are pools of jet. “I wanted to touch you the second we met.”