I lean forward on my stool and wait for her to continue.
"After we'd been working together and dating for about three months, a position came open in our department," she says. She keeps her expression neutral. "I thought I was the only one going after the position, but it turns out, Howard had been dating Mr. Mathers’ niece, also on the down low. I wanted to impress my bosses, so I volunteered to work on a pitch for a new client. The day of the presentation, I somehow lost the electronic version of the presentation. Alicia Mathers, Mr. Mathers’ niece, was also on the pitch team. Howard got a copy of the presentation, and took credit for it, and of course, we broke up after that betrayal. That’s when I found out he'd been dating Alicia all the time that we’d been together. Howard got the promotion and I tried to make lemonade out of the lemons Howard handed me, but I was managed out of the organization within a matter of weeks. I'm pretty sure I was blacklisted by Howard and/or Alicia because I couldn't find another position at an agency no matter how hard I tried, and how many interviews I went on. I decided it was time for career change, and here I am."
I am quiet, absorbing her words. Her eyes are far away as she tells me this story.
"I would never do that to you," I say. I feel a mixture of emotions: protective of Samantha, angry at Howard Becker, but I also admire how strong she is.
"I had so much respect for you before, and now even more so," I say. "Not many people would turn that disappointment into an opportunity to thrive as you have."
She gives me a wistful smile. "Thank you," she says. "I appreciate the sentiment, but I'm really not looking for a relationship. What I said before is true. I can't put my eggs in one basket when it comes to my livelihood, and I can't get involved with people I work with."
In retrospect, what came out of my mouth next was undoubtedly the worst thing I could've said. "Maybe I should fire you."
Her eyes widen in alarm, and she sucks in a breath.
"That was a joke," I hasten to add. I roll off the stool and approach her with the intention of giving her a hug. She holds up a staying hand.
Being around Samantha at times had me behaving like a blithering idiot, and often, stupid shit came out of my mouth with hardly any encouragement.
"Not funny," she deadpans.
I stand looking at her, wanting to go to her, heartbroken she doesn't want me near her. Once again, I run a frustrated hand through my hair.
"It's Sunday afternoon," she says, fiddling with the front of her robe. "I'm sure you have lots you still need to do today. I know I do."
She is kicking me out. I have no choice but to admit defeat for the moment. But I'm still getting a hug.
I wrap my arms around her, stroking the rough material of her robe and breathing in her scent. She feels so good in my arms, so right. I let go of her with great difficulty. Part of me feels like this is a break-up, but I refuse to accept that.
I decide the best thing to do is to leave, regroup, and strategize. This cannot be the end of us. I won't let it be.
I bend my head to whisper in her ear.
"I'm still coming for you, sweetheart," I say. When I pull back to look at her, her brows are furrowed and her lips are set in a line of resolve. None of this does anything to dampen the bone deep desire I have for this woman. It's not over. It couldn't possibly be over.
"You have a good evening," I say, brushing my lips over her cheek. She self-consciously fingers her hair, as if just now realizing how disheveled she looks.
I gather my things and leave her condo.
Tomorrow is another day.
Chapter Twenty: Samantha
I am back at Cooper's the following Tuesday, ready to pretend the last few days didn’t happen.
Lincoln and I did not have sex. My two-timing ex Howard Becker did not show up at my place of work. I did not get sick over the weekend, and Lincoln did not nurse me back to health.
What's more, the messages from Howard Becker that have been blowing up my phone since yesterday until I blocked his number?
Figments of my imagination. Not real at all.
I decided before leaving my condo this morning that I was in dire need of a reset in my personal and professional lives. I am committed to the reset. I even rehearsed how the morning would go. I'd arrive, Dunkin' Donuts coffee in hand, laptop tucked into my favorite bright green tote, which would be slung over my shoulder, with my thumb hooked in the strap of the bag. With both hands occupied, I would simply nod at Lincoln, assuming I ran into him right away. Then I'd sit at my desk and get to work, having a good excuse for ignoring him.
I even have an agenda. Late last week, before I was felled by my 24-hour fever, I made a few inquiries to business school contacts who might be interested in investing in an exclusive, established restaurant brand. When I checked my email Sunday evening to plan my upcoming week, I was delighted to find an email from Tamara Knowles, my roommate from business school. If my interaction with Lincoln somehow veers into personal territory, I can throw out the enticement of potential investors to steer the conversation back to where I prefer it to be.
When I arrive in the office, Lincoln's door is closed. I creep toward his door and turn my head to listen. I hear nothing but muted voices, and I have no idea who's in there with him, or if anyone is. It could be his basketball friend, or Howard, or the Pope, for that matter. He could simply be on a conference call. None of it makes any damned difference because my plan for the day is a hard reset.
These self-chastising thoughts float around my head like cartoon thought bubbles, distracting me from the sound of footsteps approaching on the other side of the door. The door swings open, and Lincoln stands in the doorway. I startle with surprise, clutching my coffee cup jerkily. My coffee lid, apparently not completely secure, dislodges. I wind up splashing the front of my polo shirt. Oddly enough, the white jeans I decided to wear today remain pristine.
"Shit!" I say, dismayed at my clumsiness. Lincoln's hands shoot out to steady me, concern registering in his features.
The coffee leaves a brown streak down the front of my top, starting at my shoulder and ending at the tip of my breast. Lincoln takes in my mishap, turns back to his desk to grab a couple of facial tissues, and proceeds to dab at my wet boob.
My hands are occupied, and I cannot fend off Lincoln's "helpful" attentions. I'm forced to simply stand there as the man low-key mauls me. He smells so good today. He must have spent some time in the kitchen, because he smells of marinara sauce and garlic. And if that isn't bad enough, the food scents are layered with Lincoln's wonderful man scent. It's a little woodsy, a little musky, and as I recall, the musky scent intensifies around his groin area. I'd nuzzled my nose into the thatch of man curls at his groin and sniffed like some kind of a pervert. I'd even buried my nose in his armpit, which was weirdly nice-smelling.
He has a bit of scruff on his chin, blond with a hit of red, and I know exactly how it feels when it brushes against the tender skin between my thighs. His Caribbean blue eyes crinkle at the corners as he stifles a smile.
I frown. This is definitely not professional.
"I'm going to get cleaned up," I stammer. I blush and snatch the tissues from him. I blink, square my shoulders, and go to set my things on my desk.
"Fine," he says. "You can use my private bathroom." He nods at the door in the corner of his office that leads to his executive bathroom.
I go into the bathroom, lock the door, and pull my light pink branded polo over my head. I have a supply of these, but that doesn't mean I want this one ruined. Branded polo shirts are not exactly cheap. I run the stain under the cold-water faucet, scrub it with the hand soap next to the sink, and curse my clumsiness under my breath.
"Way to go, Samantha Mack," I grumble. My triumphant return to the office has been thwarted by who else? Me, myself, and I.
I mumble, scrub, and wonder if I have something in my truck that I can wear for the rest of the day, since my polo is the worse for wear. There is no way I can wear this the re
st of the day.
As I talk to myself, out of the corner of my eye I see the door—which I'm certain that I locked—open, and to my horror, Lincoln's attractive blond head pokes through the gap.
"That door is locked!” I exclaim, though clearly, it is not locked.
But of course, Lincoln has a key. A key, and apparently, very little respect for boundaries.
"Do you mind?" I glare, clutching my sodden shirt to my chest.
Although the words "executive bathroom" sound posh, this particular one is tiny. Nothing more than a sink, a shower, and a commode. Lincoln and I are both tall. Consequently, there is precious little room in the bathroom clearly designed for one body at a time. Lincoln seems not to mind the close quarters as he pushes his way inside. The room has no window, and my back hits the cold glass of the shower door.
His sexy mouth twists into a smirk. "I brought you something," he says. He holds up a maroon tee. A Texas A&M T-shirt, in size gigantic, the better to accommodate Lincoln's ridiculously wide shoulders.
"You expect me to put that on?" I snap.
"Only if you prefer not to walk to the dining room shirtless," he is still smirking, the bastard. Also, he smells so good. So, so good. I'm not entirely sure he is wearing his customary cologne. I might be smelling his raw, awesome Lincoln smell.
I sigh. "Fine. Give it to me," I say. I hold up a hand in a "gimme" gesture. I use my other hand to preserve my modesty by holding the wet polo shirt over my breasts.
"You're not very nice to me, are you?" he says. I stare at him, mouth agape, not believing he is actually withholding his tee from me.
"How nice am I supposed to be?" I say. I reach for the shirt. He casually plays keep away, holding the shirt just out of my reach. He grins at me.
"For starters, a 'please' and 'thank you' would be nice," he says casually, mischief glinting in his pretty blue eyes.
I am seething. How dare he! I proceed to give him a piece of my mind.
"This is highly unprofessional," I sputter. I feel my face getting warm.
"Really?" he says, cocking an attractive blond eyebrow.
Then he gets waaaay close to me. So close his minty fresh breath fans across my face. So close his body heat warms my skin. So close we can't be more than a hairs breadth away from each other.
My eyes stretch wider the closer he gets to me. He licks his lips, and my eyes track the motion like an owl tracking a field mouse. I find myself licking my own lips, mimicking his motions. Judging by the wolfish expression in Lincoln's eyes, he is all for it.
"You know, I think it's unprofessional that you would come into my office, wearing those sexy white jeans that are designed to do nothing other than make my dick hard." He inches forward, his eyes on mine the whole time. He places his hands on my hips, and I freeze.
"Um..." I say, my mind whirring furiously to come up with an appropriate rejoinder. I close my mouth with a snap to stifle the desire to chew on Lincoln's full, highly attractive and kissable lips. Suddenly, I want nothing more than to feel his lips on mine. I want to feel the burn of his bristly face against my mouth. I want his large hands all over me, I want his large dick filling me up, and I want his hips grinding into me, sending me on an orgasm spiral.
I am weak. I am weak for allowing myself to actively fantasize about fucking this man again, something I vowed not to do.
"Remember what I said to you Sunday night?" he asks, giving me a seductive smile.
I'm still coming for you, sweetheart.
Oh yes, I remember.
We stare at each other for long, long moments.
"Well," I finally say. "You should probably lock the door, shouldn't you?"
His smile is wolfish. Triumphant.
"Already done," he says. He hoists one of my legs to wrap around him, and he does a slow grind into my core. His dick is long, hard, thick, and raring to go. He grabs my hair, tilts my head to the side, and feasts on my neck.
I scream—a long, plaintive cry of pleasure, as goosebumps break out all over me.
He clamps a hand over my mouth.
"Shhhhh...." he whispers.
He picks me up, carries me out of the tiny bathroom, and sets me on the edge of the desk, then his lips crash into mine with bruising force. Our teeth bump, and I taste blood on my tongue. He rains kisses all over my face, pulls my hair, and plants himself between my legs. We dry hump furiously, hands travelling over each other, grabbing, scratching, pulling until I'm breathless.
"Up," he pauses and gives me the command to get to my feet. Confused, I stand on wobbly legs, and he frees himself from his button-fly jeans.
I blink. "Off," he says, with a nod, indicating I need to take my jeans off. I lean a hip against his desk, go for my own fly, and begin to peel my jeans down my legs. I get one leg down, and brace myself against the desk to keep my balance so I can remove the other pants leg. But then his hands are on me again. He turns me to face him. When I face him again, his eyes burn with need, and he has somehow gotten his jeans open, freed himself, and covered his dick with a condom.
"You're taking too long," he says. He turns me to face the desk, grabs my hips, nudges my legs apart, and plunges into me. He fills me up. He overfills me, and I bite my already sore bottom lip to keep from crying out. But inside my head, I'm screaming in pleasure. I'm screaming because he's holding my hips hard, his fingertips digging into my flesh, his body slamming into mine, over and over, brutalizing the spot inside me he knows drives me fucking crazy. Lincoln is not taking prisoners, his motions insistent as he pushes my body to extremes.
I push back at him, my hands gripping the edges of the desk as he fills my empty spaces passionately. Roughly.
Papers slide around the surface. A pencil cup capsizes and rolls off the desk, the contents skittering in all directions. Distantly, I hear the cup clatter to the floor. The open laptop scoots along the desk, all the way to the edge, then stops before it tumbles to the floor.
Behind me, Lincoln grunts as he fucks me.
"This pussy...this pussy..." he growls. He slaps my ass hard. "So pretty with my handprints on this ass. My ass...my pussy."
Huh?
I ignore the weirdly possessive mutterings, because he is fucking me so good. So damned good, the broad head of his dick pounding my g-spot ruthlessly, that I ignore what just came out of his mouth. Instead of objecting to his words, I encourage him.
"Fuck me harder," I scream, shocked at the pleading tone in my voice. I have never been much into filthy talk, yet, here I am, saying filthy things
"Your pussy is so hot," he grunts, his breathing shallow. "Tight, hot, and wet."
Something about the way he says this makes me hotter. He's fucking me like a barbarian. A barbarian who smells really good and can make egg drop soup.
"Fuck my pussy," I encourage, and my eyes nearly cross when he makes a subtle change in the angle of his hips, which deepens the penetration.
"Oh shit, oh shit," I blurt. Holy fuck, he's found some spot inside of me that feels so good, a previously undiscovered spot whose mysteries Lincoln now exploits.
"Like that?" he says, and although I cannot see him, I hear the gloating in his voice.
"Mmmm," I say, savoring the change in angle.
"Has any other man ever fucked you like this?"
"Mmmmm?" I say.
"No man will ever be able to please you like this," he says. "Because you're mine."
I frown at this declaration. As he continues to pound me, I blink rapidly, trying to parse the meaning of this inappropriate pillow talk.
"Stop thinking," he says, giving me another hard slap on the ass. He punctuates his arrogant command with rough jabs of his hips, and I realize I can always think about this later.
The room echoes with the sounds of our skin slapping together, the faint, cold whir of the air conditioner, our pants, and gasps.
"Fuck me, Link!" I beg.
"I am fucking you," he pants. "I'm fucking you; I'm fucking you so good that I'm ruining you
for anyone else."
"I'm coming!" I scream. He fucks me through my orgasm with a series of hard slaps that prolongs the experience. He runs his hands over my ass to soothe me.
He speeds up his pace, his strokes becoming unfocused, the grip on me harder, until finally, he grunts harshly through his own release. I feel his dick throb through the pulses of his orgasm, and this triggers aftershocks in my pussy. We hold this position for several long moments until the waves of pleasure subside.
Lincoln interrupts the silence.
"Did anyone ever tell you your ass is shaped like a heart?" he asks, running his hands over the warm skin of said ass. He helps me off the desk.
"You did, not that long ago," I say.
"You sure are sassy," he says, helping me get steady on my feet. He hands me a wad of facial tissues and waits for me to use it. My white jeans have been removed from one leg entirely, while the other leg is bunched down near my foot and resembles an elephant's ankle. One of my flats is on, while the other is nowhere to be seen.
I hand him the used tissues and rearrange my clothes. Lincoln heads for the tiny bath, and I hear water running. When he comes out again, he has rearranged his clothing and looks remarkably composed. As he straightens the desk, I freshen up in the bathroom. I look at myself in the mirror, and while my face is flushed, my hair is still in the twist I walked out of my condo with this morning.
As I study myself, I wonder where my stolid resolutions have gone. How have I done the exact opposite of what I set off to do? My shoulders sag, and I give myself a narrow-eyed stare of self-recrimination. Lincoln returns to the doorway, holding my missing shoe.
"This was under the desk," he says, handing it to me.
"Thank you," I say, still looking into the mirror.
I run the corner of a facial tissue under the faucet, wetting it to fix my smudged eyeliner. Lincoln watches my every movement, leaning casually against the door jamb. He looks pretty fucking pleased with himself; his previously wolfish expression settled into smugness. He looks like he's about to say something laden with innuendo, something pillow-talkish and sexy.
Tough Customer: A Hero Club Novel Page 15