by Sara Forbes
Jake's image pops up on my screen, making me yelp. He wants an actual voice call? WTF?
He either wants a favor or he wants to rub my nose in it. Either way, I'd prefer not to deal with him in real time. Especially right now when I'm feeling so wobbly. I let it ring off.
But I'm still curious. I wait for the inevitable buzz of the text which comes two minutes later.
Hi Jess, we need to talk.
My stomach clenches. I know what this is. He's going to announce he's engaged to Eloise. Maybe they've even skipped off to Vegas already and done the deed though that wouldn't be his style. The question is, do I want to hear it from him direct or in a text?
I shoot him a text before I can agonize too long. What about?
No answer.
I sit there staring at the phone for a full minute, then two. So typical. Damn, I should have just called him instead of leaving it up to him to contact me, as always. When will I ever learn?
Suddenly Jake's next message is there.
Nice bumping into you. Who's the guy?
I should have known he wouldn't just let it pass. Typical of him to wait a few days before asking, but he must be dying to know. Me with an alpha male who outsmarts him and outperforms him in every department—looks, clothes, manners? Jake can't allow that to happen without getting to the bottom of it.
I decide to let him stew. Let him wonder how I could actually snag someone like Egan Harwood. Let him feel outclassed for once.
With a sigh, I toss the phone into my purse and start the engine.
***
It's our admin morning in the office, a change of pace I usually enjoy. But right now, I wish I could lose myself in some hard, repetitive, physical labor so I can clear my head. My head is so full with Egan, it feels like it's going to implode. I'm re-playing our kiss, and every gesture that passed between us from yesterday, trying to find favorable interpretations. like a love-sick teenager with a bad crush.
Luckily Martha's preoccupied with stories of her kids. I nod along as she explains how Charlie is doing extra math grinds, and Lily has started reading the classics. They're really going all out for this scholarship and good for them.
My hands are shaking and I think my heart is beating way too quickly. Sleep came only at 4 a.m. I tossed and turned the hours before that, trying to figure out what the hell Egan was thinking taking a Russian dissident out of Moscow and hiding her in an empty office building!
And, again, that kiss... With the promise of so much more to come. Pretty soon, I'm lingering on the inevitable, maddening question—is he thinking of me? Is it possible that I can be thinking so hard about him and he not thinking about me? No, it's not possible.
It would help if I could just talk to Martha. But I can't tell. I swore to him I wouldn't. We never keep things secret from each other so I feel pretty scummy.
Cyber-snooping doesn't ease my jitters. I can't track him online. There's not a single trace. It's baffling. That level of anonymity takes a lot of effort and connections to achieve. It's so annoying—I really yearn to cyber-snoop if only to have something to occupy my mind.
"So how was it with Harwood?" Martha asks out of the blue. I didn't notice she'd stopped talking about her kids.
I knock over my coffee mug. "Oh crap," I say and dash for a cloth to wipe it up.
She's looking at me in quizzical amusement. "Everything okay with you?"
"Oh yeah. Okay." I keep my focus on my hands. "Everything's fine."
"Does he have you working hard? You look tired."
"No," I say breezily, "He mostly leaves me alone to get one with things. He seems quite busy himself."
"Well, milk him while you can. Something tells me he's not going to be around for long."
I glance up. "Why would you say that?"
"I don't know. He doesn't suit that building. You know what a terror it is."
And that gets me to thinking. When the safe house takes Natasha, will he up and leave then?
***
Everything's different when I walk up to the back door of the Platinum Star building the next day. I've brought clean clothes and bed things for both him and Natasha. The goods are stuffed in a box of detergents in case anyone, or any CCTV cameras, are watching. I feel like I should be in a thriller movie.
I put down the box to press in my code. The same code works as last time. I take it as a good sign—a sign that he trusts me now.
He doesn't meet me on the ground floor. Well, I know what I'm doing, I don't need him to tell me how to do the job I've been doing for five years. And his admission of the truth yesterday gives me license to roam freely, unless I've misunderstood it. This is a much better way to approach work.
I survey the ground floor. It's spotless because there hasn't been a horde of employees tramping through it. There's no point even cleaning it.
The second floor is the same, the only difference being that Egan is there in his usual spot.
I watch his broad back hunched over the desk. I can't run to him like I want to. He's deep in conversation with someone and seems excited about some time-based indicators on the market—something about the "ten-week average" crossing the "twenty-five-week average."
I stand there, giving him a chance to notice me which he eventually does and gives me a wave and a broad smile. He pats the air, indicating I should stay where I am, then turns back and continues talking. Oh, so calm, like there isn't a mystery Russian woman traipsing around upstairs, like we didn't kiss yesterday.
Seeing as I'm hanging around the kitchen area, I get busy wiping down the stainless-steel surfaces so they shine, half-listening to a conversation that revolves about Bitcoin exchanges and "altcoins" and complaints about people "pumping and dumping." Jake did some investing so I understand the lingo, or the gist of it anyway—he's making money just by entering the right figures at the right time. Or getting someone to do it for him. He seems to talk mostly to a guy called Paul. Paul seems to come up with lots of ideas and Egan vets them, rejecting some for not being prudent and others for being downright dickish.
He also mentions the name "Sean" with a note of irritation from time to time. That must be someone who's able to keep him on his toes.
Suddenly it's quiet. He rips off the headphones and strides over to me.
"Egan, I—"
He doesn't let me speak. His palms slide under my ass and he lifts me, supporting my full weight. He props me up against the wall, his arms secured around my waist.
I'm wide-eyed, panting as he shifts his body between my legs. My jeans grind against the sculpted, hard muscle of his thighs.
"Finished work for the day?" I ask.
He doesn't answer, just moves his face in closer, his forehead grazing mine. His torso presses into the meeting point of my thighs sending a delicious jolt through my core.
I slide my fingers into his hair. "Natasha, will she—?"
"Don't care. I need you."
I fist his shirt either side of his neck, pulling him in. "I need you, too." It feels so good to say it loud after so many nights thinking it.
His lips meet mine. He kisses me deeply, turning me into a puddle of goo.
"She doesn't have the key," he says.
"So...we're alone then?"
"Yes. I couldn't hold out another second. I've been watching you."
"When?" I ask.
"When you cleaned. When you swung that vacuum cleaner back and forth, the day before yesterday. When you reached up high to dust the high shelves. When you went berserk about Natasha's bedclothes. All the time, Jess. I can't stop watching you."
"I know...I couldn't stand to let you go yesterday, to leave you here."
"Then don't today," he growls. "Today, stay."
My lips part. A buzz begins in my stomach and travels all the way down to my pussy. I love his authoritative tone which is mixed with so much neediness it transfers his power to me.
"I didn't have it easy either," I said. "I went home and..."
His hand goes to my waist to hold me in place as he presses my spine against the wall. He grabs the back of my neck with his other hand and pulls me closer, right up against his chest, squashing my breasts. "What did you do when you got home?" He focuses on me like he's seeing me after an eternity. "Tell me, Jess."
I trail my tongue along my dry lips. He homes in on that tiny movement. "It's not the first time either, thinking of you...thinking of you doing it to me."
His thumbs hook under my jaw. He swoops down and kisses me hard so that my head presses back into the wall. I wrap my fingers around his neck pulling him in, feeling the downy hairs at his collar.
"How exactly do I do it?" Egan moves his hand to my chin and forces me to look into his face. "How?" he asks. "I need to know."
Meeting his heated gaze, I say, "like this. You pressing me back against the wall, then under the table and..." I peer up at him though my eyelashes, "over the couch."
An expression flashes across his features, like an electric shock. His hips jerk, his hard cock hitting me right where my body wants the friction most.
I rock my core against his hardness, needing it. I need him to touch me, to fuck me, right now.
"Jess—"
I cut him off by planting a kiss on his mouth. "Stop talking."
I grind against him and he grunts, capturing my lips in a kiss of his own, deep and lustful. But I need more now, so I sneak my hand down and grip his erection through his pants. He rips his mouth off mine and hisses out a breath.
Reaching down, I caress and squeeze his length, feeling him throb in his pants. Is he oozing pre-cum just like I'm oozing out juice below?
His face is drawn tight with the sheer force of his need. I lose my breath hearing his breath hitching as he tries to control his desire.
His gaze is hooded as he growls, "I want to do all those things. Exactly like you thought them up. What happens next in your dreams? Do I undress you?"
I nod.
He unbuttons my overall and it falls to the ground. He moves in and nips my lower lip while his fingers unbutton my jeans. He slides the material over my hips and shoves the crotch of my panties aside, baring my pussy to the air.
I gasp at the suddenness.
"Like this?"
"Oh God, yes, like this." I shiver and clench my eyes shut. My hips rise to meet him. He's slanting his finger up and down on my wet folds. It's slippery, I'm so turned on.
Before I lose myself in my own greedy desire, I reach to his waistband and undo his belt. My fingers slide down the front of his pants and I wrap my hands around his cock which is large and hard but also silken. His pants slide down his legs to the floor. He steps out.
I squeeze him. His hips start pumping.
"God, Egan, we have to—"
"I know. I know. I have protection."
"Me too."
We smile.
"Well aren't we prepared? Where are yours?" I ask
His gaze jerks to the pants on the floor at his feet.
"That's nearer than my purse." I take my sticky hands off his cock.
We rock against each other for one moment. The head of his erection is so ready to slip inside of me. I know he won't though. It's funny, I know this about him even though I know so little else about him. We thrust against each other his bare, most intimate skin rubbing against mine, grinding in a perfect rhythm. My blouse has ridden up my midriff, all crimpled and sweaty. His shirt hangs from him messily, so unlike him.
I'm so brimming over with lust, that I know I can't hold on. Wave follows wave of light headedness and I start to shiver. My abdomen tightens and I lurch toward him, bumping my clit against his wet tip.
My need builds into a volcano inside of me, just waiting to release, my limbs are shaking, grasping at him, trembling. "I...can't hold it," I tell him.
"Then don't," he says in my ear, his breath hot. His fingers make sudden contact with my clit and I nearly die with sheer sensation. His fingertips take over from his cock, moving with defter, stronger, deadlier strokes. I swell up around him.
I climb and climb seeking that ultimate pulse of pleasure, that utter blankness of release. And just when it seems out of reach, it comes. The orgasm hits me and hits me, wave after wave and I lurch blindly toward him each time, gripping his shirt like my life depends on it.
My final shriek is swallowed up by his mouth covering mine in a kiss. My head gets heavy and lolls back against the wall. He holds my face in his large warm hands, his fingers splayed across my burning cheeks, and I spasm once more.
"Oh God." I try to focus my woozy eyes on his face. He's grinning.
I reach down to his pants and fumble for the condoms in his pockets.
When I rise back up, he places kisses on my lips. I kiss him back, violently. Our tongues battle and we suck on each other.
"Just keep doing that," he says in a hoarse whisper.
I look down. My hands are wrapped tight around his cock. He's so hard and cum seeps out. I move up and down his shaft, intensifying the grip and the speed until he groans. Keeping this rhythm, I watch his face go through changes, the sharp features softening, the veins in his neck straining. He lurches and I feel the beginnings of a pained groan in his chest. I'm mindful of Natasha upstairs, afraid he'll roar, so I clamp my mouth to his, hoping to smother some of the noise.
He goes still and I feel the hum of his orgasm rip through him. He's shaking. His cum splatters on my thighs, on his shirt and some on the carpet.
Our gazes lock. There are no words for this moment. He squeezes me like he never wants to let go. We both look down at the mess we've created.
"Wow, some poor cleaning lady is going to have to clean that up," I say.
18
EGAN
THIS WOMAN IS INCREDIBLE. I feel like my part of my soul has transferred over to her. And the weird thing is, I know she'll look after it.
After our breath returns to normal, she fastens her jeans saying, "Oh God, we need a shower."
"I know," I say ruefully. "This place leaves a lot to be desired. I can't even offer you a drink apart from a Coke I have sitting in the kitchen. I perfectly understand if you want to go home."
"No, we need a shower. Here, in this building." She points to the third floor. "I'll run down, grab the equipment and set that contraption up."
I stare after her in amazement as she marches to the exit. Out of curiosity, I follow her down to the basement and into the storage room.
She's rummaging in the back room where junk lies everywhere in a jumble that's hard for me to even look at. But she seems to know what and where everything is in the chaos. She emerges, after some banging and grunting, with a tool-box and hose piping, steel pipes...and a large, circular shower head.
"Tah dah," she says.
"Don't tell me you're going to rig that up?" I say.
"Needs to be done, don't you think? Don't worry, it won't take long. But if Natasha's asleep, it can wait until morning I guess."
"Let me help you," I say.
She gratefully dumps all the steel pipes into my arms. "Watch out for spiders."
I examine the pipes in my arms. I will drop the load immediately if I see as much as a hint of a hairy leg.
When we peep in the third-floor door, Natasha is far from asleep. She's crouched on her favorite chair, reading. She drops her Kindle and scuttles over to us in a billowing nightshirt that makes her look like a gothic waif who's about to be victim to some dreadful unknown. I can't help wonder if she heard us making out downstairs. We did try to be quiet but there was a point beyond which I didn't care.
Jess settles herself on the floor of the bathroom, arranging pipes and connectors on the tiles, frowning in concentration.
"How do you even know how to do this?" I ask, watching from the doorway as she tightens two pipes together. If this shower building project comes to nothing, I won't give her a hard time. It's the thought that counts.
"Larry taught me,"
"Larry Peters?"
"Yes." She smiles. "He's been like a dad to me. Taught me so much the last five years. You wouldn't think it now because of his dementia setting in, but he was a sharp cookie when we first worked together."
I nod, wishing I'd been a bit nicer to old Larry. "And your own father?" I ask.
"Didn't know much about anything practical," she says ruefully. "He's a lawyer. Left my mum when I was seven and lives in Wales. Don't see him much." She indicates to Natasha to pass a wrench. Natasha complies quickly. "How about yours? Your parents?"
"Coal miner and housewife. Live in Brixton still. They're good folk."
"See them much?"
"When I can, yes."
"And you, Natasha?" she asks.
Natasha glances up. "Both dead."
I exchange a look with Jess over Natasha's head. I should have told her this, but there wasn't time.
"That's rough," Jess says quickly and then proceeds to give Natasha a set of instructions, "Hold this, put that there, take the number five, I need that washer—-a bigger one."
Watching them interact, it's clear that not only does Jess have a way with plumbing and perhaps engineering in general, but Natasha does too. She even suggests the piping should twist another way at one point and she's right.
I stay in my position in the doorway not offering advice or commentary, hoping that my silence will be interpreted as wisdom. The fact is, I'm hopeless at engineering, or construction. Give me a set of the easiest IKEA instructions and I will fail. I manage people, not things. I watch them in awe as, together, they bracket the pipes to the wall and extend a hose pipe from the sink faucet.
When Natasha turns the faucet handle at first nothing comes out but then it gurgles and spits out some brownish water. After that, the water flows freely, beating down in steady lines of hissing, hot water.
Natasha claps her hands and prances around. I laugh as she hugs Jess and they spin round and round on the slippery tiles.
They're both wet. And happy. The sight of Jess's wet-shirt body is making me lose control again so I turn and get out of there.