Before She Was Mine

by Amelia Wilde

  “Sweet thing, I would never do that.” The instant the words are out of his mouth, his hands increase in pressure, two fingers slipping into my wet channel. My pussy clenches hard around them, and I gasp at how good it feels to be reacting to his touch, how good it feels to have something inside of me, even if he won’t have me yet.

  He comes to stand behind me, the other hand sliding around the front of my hips and pulling me back a few inches, making space. His fingers find my clit, and the moment they do, my head falls back and I cry out. “Oh, fuck—”

  “Do what you need to do, sweet thing.”

  As soon as I have his permission, I give myself over. I give myself over to the fact that he’s fucking me with his fingers, sliding another one in, twisting them and hooking them to find parts of me that send searing jolts of pleasure so powerful through every nerve ending that the desk is all I have grounding me to the world. I’m pulsing around those fingers, as he circles my clit with his fingertips in a relentless rhythm, my hips jerking forward to those fingers and then back onto the others, and all of it is slick and hot and I’ve never been to such dizzying heights of pleasure in all my life. The orgasm that hits me in the next moment is so powerful that I scream, realizing too late that someone could hear, but I can’t stop, I can’t stop the heat pouring over me, burning me, making me new.

  When it’s over, Dominic is there, whispering sweet nothings until I catch my breath.

  But I’m not done yet.

  I straighten up, leaving my black panties around my ankles, and turn to face him. A twitch in one of the muscles near his mouth gives him away, the look in his eyes, a barely controlled burning—

  I move before he can stop me, before he can say no.

  I drop to my knees, reaching for his belt buckle, undoing the clasp in an instant, and pull his zipper down. His cock springs free as soon as the zipper stops containing it, and I can’t help but gasp again. It’s thick and perfect and ramrod straight.

  “Vivienne—”

  “It’s your turn.” I inject every ounce of firmness into my voice, and then I take him in both my hands and lean forward, sucking the head in first, softly, delicately, and then swirling my tongue around his shaft, taking him in inch by inch until he’s pressed up against my throat, the sensation slightly alarming and unbelievably hot. I suck and swirl, his hands coming down heavily on my shoulders, until he explodes into my mouth, hips jerking, teeth gritted, his own low guttural moan reverberating in the confines of the room.

  My entire body is warm and loose as I stand up, tugging my panties back in place, rising up on tiptoes to kiss his jawline, watch him try to catch his breath.

  “Okay,” I say, and his eyebrows raise in a question. “Now I’m ready for lunch.”

  22

  Dominic

  The call from Chris O’Connor comes only moments after Vivienne steps into the elevator, and for a split second, I think it’s her, calling to murmur something dirty into my ear before she goes back to Overhiser’s office for the rest of the day. My heart sinks when I see the number on the caller ID.

  “What happened?”

  Chris wouldn’t be calling me direct for nothing.

  “Hey, Dominic.”

  “Start talking, Chris.” I’d forgotten about the FBI business during that lunch break, and I’d been planning to sit in front of the fireplace for a good fifteen minutes with a glass of something dark and alcoholic and lose myself in the memory of Vivienne’s lips wrapped around my cock, her hot wet mouth working me until I came…and more than that, the fiery determination in her eyes that we be on the same level, that I get at least what I gave…pleasure.

  It makes my heart ache.

  She was practically glowing at lunch, beaming, and I felt the same way, like I’d finally found someone who’s an equal despite our vastly different job titles and net worth, someone who’s concerned about fairness, of all things, and isn’t here to leech off of me.

  Or, maybe I’m being a fool and she is someone I can’t see through. Maybe she is playing some kind of game to get rich from dating a billionaire, but I don’t think so. She might have other secrets that can only be revealed with time, but Vivienne Davis isn’t a gold digger.

  So it’s not Chris O’Connor I want to be talking to right now.

  “Testy, testy,” he says, sounding a little hurt.

  “I’ve got a busy schedule. Do you have news for me?” He could be calling to tell me the investigation is off, in which case I’ve been a total asshole to him for nothing. The beat’s worth of silence tells me everything I need to know. “Where do you want to meet?”

  “Same bar as last time?”

  No. Too risky. I don’t want this to become a habit—for Chris’s sake and mine.

  “Where are you?”

  “A block away from HQ.” He names a street and cross street.

  “One of my drivers will pick you up in five minutes. I know where we can go.”

  Twenty minutes later, we’re seated in a private room of a club with such a high membership price tag that most of New York—even its elite—doesn’t know about it. I rarely put it to use—I’ve spent most of the last few years in my office, so there’s been no need for confidential meetings in a place like this—but in a pinch, it’s nice to have a secure location that isn’t a dive bar.

  Chris shifts in his seat. The room we’re in features a picture window that doesn’t offer much of a view, but at least it lets in streams of daylight. A waitress in a form-fitting uniform has swept in with a tray, setting out various appetizers—delicately crafted sushi rolls and other small bites that I want despite having finished lunch very recently—and backs out again without a word once she’s set two tumblers of whiskey in front of us.

  He takes a deep breath, then picks up the glass and sips at it. “I thought you meant another bar.”

  “Are you going to complain, old friend?”

  One corner of his mouth rises into a smile. “No, but this kind of place—”

  “Is the kind of place you should get to know, if you’re going to keep giving me confidential information I shouldn’t have.”

  “Fair point.” He draws one of the appetizer plates toward him and chooses from the serving plates in the center of the table. “I wanted to stay in contact.”

  I pick up a slim section of sushi and pop it into my mouth. The flavor explodes onto my tongue, the fish so fresh it was probably swimming around moments ago. “Do you not have any new developments?”

  He flicks his eyes upward, then back down at the food. “The department isn’t very interested in you anymore.”

  “Good. I’m not selling tech secrets to the Chinese government, so that makes a great deal of sense.”

  “Unfortunately, our undercover agent isn’t making much headway. It might—it might take a little longer than I thought, and I wanted to keep you in the loop. Even though I shouldn’t.” He gives me a pointed look, like he needs to remind me that he’s doing me a favor.

  “And, what, you missed our little chats from college days?” This is all information he could have given me over the phone—not nearly the caliber of what he told me in a bar not too long ago. “Jesus, Chris. I thought this was a real update.”

  “It is, in that we’re moving on from you as a prime suspect. You should be relieved. Selling information like this when you have government contracts is a huge deal.”

  I sigh. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ve had some different things on my mind lately.”

  Chris’s eyes light up. “Damn it, Wilder, did you meet a woman and not tell me?”

  I narrow my eyes, appraising him from across the table. I shouldn’t be telling anyone about Vivienne, but how far could it possibly go? It’s Chris, for God’s sake, and we’re within the walls of one of the safest rooms in the city. “You could say that.”

  “Is that why you’re suddenly irritated to find out more information about the FBI investigation that’s happening right under your nose?”

&nbs
p; “Hell yes,” I tell him with a stupid grin. “I was thinking about her when you called. You interrupted me.”

  “She must be pretty special if she can take your mind off an FBI investigation. You were pissed as hell when I first told you.”

  “She is. She—” I can’t find words that do Vivienne justice. “I only met her a few weeks ago, but man—”

  “Who is this woman?”

  I raise a finger into the air, chastising him. “No details.”

  He scoffs. “Oh, come on. Like I’m going to know her.”

  For an instant, I debate telling him Vivienne’s name, that she started at my company a few weeks ago, that I want her badly, that right now the only place I want to be is in her arms.

  I shake my head. “Not until we’ve…figured things out.”

  “Oh, it’s like that?” Understanding settles over Chris’s face.

  “It’s like that.”

  I take another bite of sushi. My heart is warm at the thought of Vivienne, but I’m not filled with rage. I’m not anxious to get back to the Wilder Building and stalk the halls until I find whoever it is that’s stealing from me. Instead, I feel…calm. I feel willing to let the FBI do its job, to let my friend on the inside keep me updated.

  The realization is like a shock of cold water. For the first time in years, there’s something more important to me than Wilder Enterprises.

  And it’s Vivienne Davis.

  “So—is that all the news?” I’m ravenous again, suddenly, wholly, and I lean forward and start loading an appetizer plate with some of everything.

  “Yeah…” Chris looks at me with wide eyes. “You okay, man?”

  “More than okay. Let’s drink.”

  23

  Vivienne

  The lunch date with Dominic unleashes a torrent of text messages that last all weekend—the kind of questions I would have asked a high school boyfriend, my heart beating fast awaiting every answer. We trade them in rapid-fire bursts, though he doesn’t suggest another date—not yet. I get the impression we’re sandwiched between playing the anticipation game and getting serious, and I can’t get enough of it.

  But I cut myself off at intervals during the day, because the weekend is my best shot at finding out what Mr. Overhiser is really up to.

  I send some of the data to the team at FBI headquarters, but I sift through the rest myself. Someone else might not understand everything that’s being discussed in these messages, and I want to nail this. I scour hundreds of emails and flip through log after log of websites pulled from his browser—even those he deleted—looking for any connection to someone outside the company, any information being exchanged with a person who shouldn’t have access.

  It’s a little like being in the Executive Support Department again, only I’m doing it in sweatpants and running clothes, allowing myself breaks only to eat and run through Central Park when I’m feeling at the end of my rope.

  What’s your favorite color?

  The message from Dominic comes in while I’m eating a bowl of Lucky Charms over the sink. I crave them when I’m in the middle of time-intensive projects, and this one definitely qualifies.

  I don’t want to say…

  I’m not really embarrassed about it, but when I’m not up to my eyeballs in an old man’s emails, I’m letting myself get swept along by the open, flirty tone of the texts. I’m bathing in it, basking in it. The only thing that could be better would be to whisper these questions directly into Dominic’s ear.

  Are you…are you serious?

  There’s something about his personality via text that makes me like him. I was attracted to him the moment I saw him, even though I knew it was a mistake, and the way I feel when the sensation of his hands on my body comes to mind. Through the phone, I’m seeing his playful side, and I really, really like it. I like him.

  I’m serious.

  My playful side can’t be contained with an iPhone in my hands, either.

  Is it something disgusting? Like the color of rotten eggs?

  Aren’t rotten eggs yellow?

  Green, too, probably. Not that I’ve ever seen any.

  It’s pink.

  There’s a long pause, so long it has to be purposeful.

  Pink.

  Yes.

  Your favorite color is pink?

  Sue me. No, don’t…I can’t afford a good lawyer!

  Mine is purple.

  I pause for exactly as long as it takes to send back five emojis that look like they’re laughing hysterically. He doesn’t answer.

  You’re serious?? Dominic Wilder’s favorite color is purple?

  I’ll buy you a thousand purple dresses to prove it.

  That doesn’t prove anything…but I’ll take the dresses.

  Is your closet big enough?

  Could you send a closet along with them?

  Your wish is my command, sweet thing.

  Heat comes to my cheeks at the phrase, and I put the phone down, finishing the last of the cereal in my bowl. Lucky Charms are amazing. I don’t know why I deny myself this small pleasure except during times of stress. Maybe I should stop. Denying myself pleasure, even when it’s risky as hell, has not been my number one priority lately.

  I rinse the bowl in the sink, looking over at the phone every few moments to see if Dominic has anything else to say, but it looks like we’re entering a lull.

  Which is convenient because I need a shower.

  I ran a hard six miles in Central Park before I ate the cereal, and my clothes are clinging to my skin. I strip them off and toss them into the laundry hamper in the bathroom, jump into the shower, and try to push Dominic out of my mind.

  What am I missing when it comes to Overhiser?

  After the shower, I spend another two hours in front of my computer, coming up empty-handed.

  I pop up a bowl of popcorn, grab a bottle of wine and a glass, and then stew on my couch for the rest of the evening, until, at last, as I’m falling asleep, I come up with another plan.

  I get to the office early on Monday morning, careful to arrange my face into a bit of a grimace, and hustle to my desk. The computer starts up with a hum, and as soon as I’ve signed in, I put a flash drive into one of the ports. It’s a different flash drive than I used on Overhiser’s machine—this one carefully marked with a red star on the side—and it breaks my computer.

  I let out a heavy sigh, dropping the flash drive back in my purse and putting the purse in my bottom drawer, which I lock before stalking back down the hall to the elevator.

  Tech Support is housed in the basement, which is no surprise. It’s the easiest space to control the temperature, and Wilder Enterprises, of course, has more than a few internal servers to power the company. Not that I’m an expert. I know enough to be dangerous, and hopefully bail myself out of what’s quickly coming to seem like a dead end.

  At first, when I step off the elevator at Basement Level 1, I think it’s empty. The silence is heavy, broken only by the whir of the stacks of servers positioned against one wall. There isn’t a single light turned on in any of the offices along the other wall, and I let out a little sigh, ready to turn around and head back up to my floor.

  I’m about to turn for the elevator when there’s movement at one of the doors. A figure appears out of the dark, and I stifle a gasp.

  “Oh, my God,” the man says, a shadow falling over his face. “I’m—I’m sorry. Can I help you?”

  My heart is pounding in my chest. Why the hell is he down here with no lights on? His hands are full of the kinds of blue folders we use up on the executive level.

  “I’m Vivienne Davis,” I say, trying to steady myself on the sound of my own voice. “My—my computer is having some kind of problem, and I was wondering if you could check it out from here…”

  I want to look over his shoulder while he signs in, but this guy is going to be a miss—I can already tell. He shifts the folders in his hands. “I can come up in a few minutes and look. That’s—that
’s usually the first step,” he says. I can’t quite see his eyes, and it’s unsettling as hell to me.

  “Okay. Thanks. I’m working for Mr. Overhiser.” I finish it off with a little laugh, like this whole thing is a little absurd, but the sound falls into more silence.

  “I’ll be there.”

  I turn on my heel and go.

  24

  Dominic

  My own game is working against me, because by Monday morning, I’m bursting out of my skin. The only thing that managed to slake my thirst for her was the fact that we texted each other constantly all weekend.

  Everything grates on my nerves all day. Every meeting drags on into eternity. Every point that my executives pause to discuss makes me want to pound my fist on the table and tell them to stop wasting my time.

  By four, I’m done.

  Something has to give, and I sink into the chair behind my desk and rub at my temples. Something has to give, because I can’t maintain this level of obsession with both Wilder Enterprises and Vivienne.

  But there’s a fine line to walk. I can’t let my attention waver. That’s what my father did, and that’s what got him a dead wife and ruined his reputation in New York City and, for all I know, the rest of the world. I don’t want that.

  I also don’t want to lose my tenuous grasp on Vivienne.

  Maybe it’s not so tenuous, though. Maybe what we have is the first real thing I’ve had in my life in years.

  I want to see her. I want to be with her, and I don’t want to play any more games. I’ve stretched the tension to a breaking point, and my nerves are beginning to fray. The text messages aren’t enough. I need to be with her, somewhere private, somewhere alone.