by Poppy Dunne
I think we’re both calling out sick from work. This is going to take all day, and I can’t wait.
While I sit there, mesmerized as I run my hands over him, Rafe reaches around and undoes the clasp of my bra. It falls away, and I’m one scrap of now thoroughly damp panties away from sitting completely naked before him. With a groan, he lays me down and covers my body with his. He kisses me deeply while his large, wonderfully rough hands cup my breasts. My nipple peaks under his attentions as his thumb trails around and around in a teasing, artful circle.
“Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted this?” He pulls out of the kiss to look down at me, his eyes liquid and simmering with desire. I gasp as he leans down to take my nipple in his mouth, his tongue rolling around and around my peak until I’m on the verge of climaxing. Gasping, I run my fingers through his hair.
“Longer than six months?” I mutter. God, why am I so dopey when I’m this turned on? Actually, I’ve never been this turned on before. Rafe laughs against my skin, kisses me again.
“For five damn years. Since the moment you walked into my office for your interview.” He breathes against the hollow of my throat as his hand trails over my stomach. He toys with the edge of my panties. “I’ve wanted you so much I could taste you.” He slides my panties down and over my thighs, leaving me entirely bare and at his mercy. Which is right where I want to be.
“Now you can, I mean.” I close my eyes, kicking myself for not being eloquent enough when I’m in the most erotic situation of my life.
“Taste you?” He laughs huskily, claims my mouth even as his hand spreads my legs. “I will. Believe me.”
He groans with pleasure as his finger slides inside of me, my slickness easing his passage. I’m so aroused that my pussy clamps down on him, desperate to keep him inside. His thumb taps gently on my clit, and I thrash beneath him, my nails digging into his back.
“Yes?” he whispers against my lips, his thumb tracing languorous, thrilling circles around and around the small, perfect spot between my thighs.
“Yes. Please,” I moan, my teeth grazing lightly over his lower lip. Rafe gasps, his breath fanning hot against my ear. He raises himself up on his elbows and looks down at me, taking in the sight of me as I’m undoubtedly flushed and wanton right underneath him. He watches with rapt, forceful attention as he inserts a second finger into me, pumping at a steady rhythm. I grind against his hand, moaning and gasping as his thumb presses on my clit again…and again…and again.
I kiss him, and he responds, but I can tell that’s not his focus right now. He wants to watch me as fire flows through my blood, as tension builds in a cunning little point at a spot between my legs. He wants to see my face go slack with desire, to watch my forehead crease, to listen as I start to moan his name, to feel my entire body tense as his fingers ease in and out of me and his thumb rubs the hooded crest between my thighs and…
“Rafe.” I don’t know how many times I whisper his name. I dig my nails into the couch, raise my hips to take his fingers as deep as I can. “Please. I.”
“I want you to come for me,” he whispers against my lips, his words grazing light as kisses. “I want to watch you. Tessa.”
It’s hearing his voice in my ear as he rubs and circles my clit over and over that finally undoes me. The orgasm unspools through me, so intense that I lift off the couch and feel his arm wrap around my waist. I shut my eyes, white explosions brilliant as fireworks against the blackness. His mouth finds mine again, and he kisses me deeply while I cry his name and buck against him. Rafe lies down on top of me, his warm, heavy body pressing on mine. He breaks the kiss.
“You sound fucking incredible.” His voice is hoarse with need, and he kisses down the length of my body, licking and then biting his way from one breast to the other. I watch him go, already spent and stupid from my orgasm. I have to return the favor. I have to taste my way down his body, undo his pants, and pull him rock hard and wanting into my hand. I need to lick and suck and take him all the way to the hilt, every way he wants it. I need—
To get up, because something is vibrating beneath my ass. Cursing, Rafe rolls me over and pulls his phone out from between the cushions. He blinks at the caller ID, his face going ashen in seconds flat.
“Fuck. It’s Scott.”
“Are you sure?” Goddamn, how is Scott McCarthy calling right now? He never calls Rafe personally. Part of me wants to pick up the call, tell Scott, “Can’t talk, riding your pretend son,” and then put the phone down the garbage disposal while Rafe thrusts inside of me from behind. The other, saner part of me knows that’s a bad idea.
“One second,” Rafe growls, taking the call. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he tries to get his breathing under control. “Yeah. What?”
When you are interrupted mid-foreplay, you are not pleasant on the phone. That is a universal truth.
I watch, my gut sinking, as the look on Rafe’s face goes from “pissed” to “blank” to “fuck me and not in the way we were just doing.”
“It’s not even nine.” Rafe grits his teeth, rubs his forehead. “What the hell do you need me there for?” Cursing, he rolls off of me completely. The air is suddenly cool against my skin, and I get an objective look at myself: naked and lying on my boss’s couch while he takes a work phone call. This is not a pretty picture once the rosiness of the orgasm fades. “Last night. Sure. Tell Brad to fuck off from me, too.”
Hanging up the call, he leans over with his head in his hands.
“I…I’d better get dressed.” I fumble for my bra and panties, reaching around him to get to my jeans. I imagine this whole situation looks fantastically stupid. “What happened?” I pull on my clothes as Rafe stands, running both hands through his hair.
“The world’s ending. Other than that, everything’s great.” He looks down at me, his fists balled at his sides. He’s trying to breathe the fire out of his veins. “I have an emergency one-on-one meeting with Scott. And Brad. One-on-two. Well, it’s Brad, so more like one-on-one and a half.”
“How’s that the end of the world?” I ask as I slip back into my shoes.
“Because.” Rafe’s gaze pierces me to the core. “Scott said the two magic words: ‘I know.’”
The air leaves me. I slump back onto the couch, deflating like the world’s least sexy balloon animal. Or blow-up doll. Or something.
Scott McCarthy knows what Rafe’s been up to. He knows what Rafe’s plotting. How? It doesn’t matter. Point is, the jig is up. Way up.
I don’t want to think about what’s going to happen next.
Nine
Rafe
I leave Tessa to man the desk as I stride to Scott’s office, ready to meet my fate. He can’t kill me—I mean, I almost want him to try. I could claim my actions were in self-defense, though the cops would probably be suspicious as to how Brad ended up locked inside an office drawer.
I pull open the door to Scott’s office, ignoring his assistant telling me to wait. Scott sits behind his massive, man-of-war size mahogany desk. His workspace is almost freakishly free of clutter; I’m near certain he organizes his paper clips by size and then stacks them. There are no plants or artwork in here, but there’s a lot of Scott. Pictures of him line his office walls: him shaking hands with presidents, with Fortune 500 CEOs. The walls and carpet are gray, to match his personality. I always hated coming here, even as a kid. It was a void from which no laughter or human warmth ever returns. Plus, I couldn’t eat chocolate in case I messed up the furniture. The man is Satan.
Scott’s not alone in here. Brad slouches in the corner, glaring at me with only one good eye. The other’s swollen and a shiny purple, the calling card I left last night. Aw. Wonder if he needs a hug.
“Whatever could this be about?” I drawl, hands casual in my pockets. If I’m going down, I’m not giving them the satisfaction of seeing me nervous. Scott, meanwhile, picks up a newspaper and slams it on the desk. New York Post. I read the headline, nodding solemnly. “I see.
New Jersey politician caught in sex-scandal ring. And I quote, ‘What a bozo.’ You can’t buy finer journalism, can you?”
“Page six.” Scott steeples his fingers as I flip through. Ah, there we are. The McCarthy brothers beating the shit out of each other. Nice to think that in a couple of days these pictures will be used to line people’s birdcages. I like to think of a parakeet shitting all over Brad’s face. Gives me inner calm.
“To be fair.” I look up at Brad and give a respectful nod. “You look a little more muscular in this picture. Must be the angle.”
He scowls at me, then rubs tenderly at his jaw. Oh, right. I knocked into him by accident when he took me down. Sorry about that.
“I got a call from Daniel early this morning.” Scott’s voice is venom. “He saw the paper.” Daniel is, of course, Daniel McCarthy, governor of the great state of New York. My “uncle,” and John’s father.
“Really?” I lean in. “Does he know the bozo sex-scandal New Jersey politician personally, or?”
“You are such a fucking asshole,” Brad mutters. It sounds a little syrupy, like he’s about to drool.
“I’d like to thank you, Rafe.” Scott closes the paper, tosses it to me. I let it drop by my feet; I’m not catching anything this bastard flings. “For years, I’ve known there was something you were holding close. Some way to get at you. But of course, you do such a good job of looking worthless, I couldn’t quite hone in on it. Nothing seemed to matter to you. But I know now.” He places his palms flat on the desk; I’ve never seen such an evil bastard look so blissed out before. “I know what you’ve been hiding.”
Here it comes. I’m not going to fall at his feet and beg, or explain. I’m just going to let him lay it all out for me, so I can at least attempt to deny it. Did he get the zip drive? How’d he manage it? Then, a flash of red: did he break into Tessa’s place? Take it from her room? The idea of Scott anywhere near Tessa—near her books, her poetry fridge magnets, the little scrap of world she’s made her own—makes me want to let loose on him.
“Tessa,” he says. I’m about to shout what about her, you fuck when I realize…he said Tessa. Not “Tessa’s zip drive” or “your plans to oust me” or “world domination.” For a second, I can hardly believe my damn luck. But then I realize…
I know, he said on the phone. He knows about Tessa. About what I feel. And if he’d seen the state we were in when he called, he’d know just how far I’ve allowed myself to fall for her.
“What about her?” I curse myself for not being able to keep absolute control of my voice, but I can’t help it.
“I know she’s your weakness.” He leans back in his chair. “I guessed at it the other day, when Brad mentioned her in a rather…uncouth manner.” His gaze flicks to Brad, who doesn’t seem to be celebrating my ass-kicking. Instead, he looks kind of sullen. “The way you reacted spoke volumes, but I couldn’t be sure. However, when you attacked Brad last night—”
“He’s the one who attacked me, really. Words hurt. My reflexes were all drunken instinct. You know. The punching hand had been asleep for a while. Needed to let it loose.” Is there a way to salvage this? I taste my fucking heart in my throat. If he does anything to Tessa, I’m going to prison for murder. I know it. I’d like to spare myself the orange jumpsuit, though I’m pretty sure I’d get even more ripped than I already am, what with working out and stop rambling about prison, Rafe, holy shit.
“You attacked Brad when he made another uncouth comment about her. He told me.” Scott looks like he just relaxed into a steaming hot bath of widows’ tears. Pretty sure he gets a case of that imported from France once a month. “She’s your weakness. I always knew you had one. You have no idea what a pleasure it is to finally discover it.”
There’s no way I’m going to be able to lead him completely off the scent. Maybe I can mitigate it. “She’s the only person in my life who isn’t either a repugnant piece of shit or John. Of course I hate it when a hooded dildo like Brad talks that way about her.” I shrug, blinking as if in confusion. Good. Keep pretending, asshole. Pretend for her, if not yourself. “That doesn’t mean she’s a weakness.”
Scott huffs, then nods. “Fine. Then you won’t mind if I switch things up around here. I’ll assign Leticia to your desk and transfer Tessa over here.”
It’s too late. Before I can tell myself he probably won’t follow through, that it’s a hollow threat to see how I react, I play into his hands. I feel every muscle in my body clench, my hands ball into fists. I look him straight in the eye, and the carefully cultivated façade of my indifference shatters like glass. I get to see the expression on his face when he catches my horror, when he sees what he’s always wanted to see: my weakness. My need.
Now he knows how to get to me. I finally gave him everything he’s ever wanted, except perhaps a sudden end to my existence, and maybe an Hermès tie.
And the thing is, I don’t give a damn what he does to me. It’s the thought he’ll hurt Tessa that murders me, and the knowledge that he’ll do anything to her without breaking a sweat or losing a single REM cycle. If I can’t protect her from him, I’ll hate myself.
I’ll hate myself as I Krav Maga his ass out the twentieth floor window. Then I’ll feel a little good about that, and go to jail.
“I think we understand each other better now.” Scott stands, hands in his pockets. He looks pleased, like I’m a kid who’s just done an exceptional drawing that he’s going to hang on the fridge. It’s a picture I like to call “I hate my pretend father, and also here’s a cloud.” “So from now on, I want you on your best behavior in the office. I want you to stop your snide bullshit with your brother and me. If you look at me in a way I don’t like—if you breathe in a way that bothers me—she’ll be out of this company. That, or I’ll see to it her life is hell.” He cocks his head to the side. “She has a sick family member, doesn’t she? Grandmother?” I don’t respond; I’m too busy wanting to beat the shit out of myself for fucking up so hard. “Whatever. This is a bad time of year to be out of work, especially for a breadwinner. And you know I can make it painfully difficult for her to get hired anywhere else.” He smiles, I am not kidding, like the fucking Grinch. Speaking of Christmas. “Besides, an assistant who fucks her boss for job security, well. That’s what a million common women do every day. I honestly thought she was better than that. She reminds me of your mother, I suppose. Cheap little blonde who has trouble saying no.”
I look at Brad for two reasons. One, I don’t want Scott to see the volcanic eruption going on behind my eyes. Two, to register how my brother reacts to hearing someone talk about his own mother that way. I will give Brad this one, tiny thing: he looks down at the floor and shuffles his feet. Okay, so he’s not the world’s worst human being. Which, incidentally, is a phrase I had put on a mug to give Scott last year for Christmas. Subtlety isn’t my strongest suit.
Neither is protecting the only person who means anything to me.
Scott hmphs, probably annoyed at how I’m not playing his game. “Go back to your office. Don’t get in my way. I hear a single noise of complaint out of you, she pays for it. Understood?”
“Yes.” I say it through gritted teeth, turn fast, and walk through the door. I manage to turn the handle in time to avoid colliding with the fucking thing, so I’m flawless. The blood’s boiling in my ears as I make the trek back to my desk. The world blurs at the edges of my vision.
I know two things as I finally get back to my office, storm past an open-mouthed Tessa, and slam the door.
One, there is no time left. If I’m going to bring the hammer down on Scott, it has to be immediately.
Two, I have to protect Tessa as much as I can. Which can’t be much.
I have to push her out of my life.
Ten
Tessa
When I push open Rafe’s office door, I’m holding a cup of coffee. Clearly I have learned my lesson about the tea. Also, I’m wondering if I should continue working at my desk, or if I need to gr
ab my bag before we both have to sprint for the elevator like we’re in a bad spy movie. Maybe Scott’s about to unleash a pack of attack dogs. Rottweilers, perhaps, or German Shepherds. Personally, I’d like to see a passel of attack corgis come scampering down the hall, but corgis are not a Scott McCarthy type of dog.
I’ve spent too long thinking about this.
“Hey.” I set the coffee on his desk and close the door behind me. “What did he say?”
Is it wrong that, even with the world potentially collapsing around us, I can’t take my eyes off Rafe? A few days ago, my crush on him was pretty big, but also shallow. After these past few days—this morning especially—it’s grown a lot deeper. Mariana Trench levels of deep. I realize now that I’d be willing to follow him into hell, provided he had a road map and wanted to keep seeing me naked. If he—
“I’m going to need the drive back.” He looks at me with a startling expression of blank indifference. The temperature cools significantly. I fold my arms.
“Oh. Sure. Isn’t that a bad idea, though? They know about it.”
“No. They don’t. Scott was playing his usual asshole games.” Rafe takes a sip of coffee, then boots up his computer. About thirty seconds pass in silence, enough time for my heart rate to slow and my annoyance levels to rise.
“Great. So why do I need to give the drive back?”
“Because I said so, and I’m your boss. Does the whole chain of command thing seem reasonable?” He won’t meet my eyes. I have to bite my tongue to keep from saying something too disagreeable.
“So did Scott implant a chip into your head to make you behave like this? Are you an android? Is this a Twilight Zone episode?”