by Brock, V. L.
From the opposite side of the desk, I offer the papers to him. His eyes search mine, crystal blue into hypnotic, full-bodied brown, and I am briefly pinned by his intensity. The familiar throbbing deep down in the confines of my panties threatens anew. Squirming inwardly, I force a swallow.
“Thank you, Miss Kennedy.” His eyes deter from mine as he redirects his focus toward the papers in his hands. “Well…” he sets the parchment onto the surface then presses himself back into his seat. His elbows are on the arms of the chair. His fingers locked and his index fingers steeple. He presses them against the stubble along his chin. “Two weeks you have been with us now, Miss Kennedy. How are you finding it? Settled in well?”
Oh, if only you knew, Mr. Wentworth, if only you knew.
I lower myself into the burgundy seat.
Before I can even filter what comes out of my mouth, it’s, too late. The words pour out of me with the velocity of an unsuspecting landslide and it’s too late to retract them.
“I am so grateful to you, Mr. Wentworth for providing me this amazing opportunity, to be a part of all of this,”––I wave my arm in the general direction of the room––“But I don’t feel as though I can be what you need me to be.” My voice cracks, my heart thumps rapidly against my ribcage, and my chest feels constricted with the overpowering sense of longing, and a form of regret for opening my damned mouth in the first place.
If I leave, I will never see him again.
Bewilderment is evident in his enthralling eyes. He listens to me closely, gliding his tongue across his lower pale pink lip at a languid pace. Enticed, I’m powerless to do anything other than stare unreserved. I wish he was running that tongue over me.
“What, exactly, Miss Kennedy, is the problem? Is it Chloe?” His eyes are grave and his voice is doubly serious.
I hang my head, listening to the vibrating throatiness of his voice but not hearing his words.
“Is there tension between the two of you?”
I risk a peek up at him, the steeple of his index fingers leisurely tracing across the seam of his lower lip. He’s angled his chair so his right elbow is practically touching the edge of the desk as it rests on the armrest. Although his voice is considerate and bewildered, his body language screams a thousand words, all of them aimed at my libido.
I part my lips and flagrantly suck in strenuous breaths.
“No, sir, there is no tension. Actually…” my voice is small and hesitant. Should I say this? Could I say this? Three words, Samantha, Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda, my subconscious sings while Mr. Wentworth observes me, waiting patiently for me to delve deeper into my mounting self-doubt.
I bite my lip as anxiety piques. I cannot resist those eyes, those penetrating eyes that he’s burning into me, searching and attempting to read my mind.
“Sam?” he pleads.
“It’s you, sir,” I breathe. There, is he happy now? Are you happy now?
The weight of the last two-sexually-charged weeks is removed from my shoulders, and I visibly relax. I feel strangely liberated.
Liberated, not satisfied.
He cocks his head, his brow knits together. “What are you saying, Samantha?” Studying his profile, I discern his adorable creases at the edges of his eyes and the V in the center of his forehead.
I hang my head again, focusing on an invisible spot on my shoe.
“If I have done anything to offend you, please, believe me when I say I am truly sorry.”
In the periphery of my vision, I notice him pressing his right hand against the center of his chest. His once relaxed and husky voice, now shaking and broken.
Okay, Samantha, you’ve come this far. Let it all out––gut yourself open to this man. Just be prepared for some form of sexual harassment claim, and he’s a lawyer. Kind of ironic wouldn’t you say?
“Can I speak justly with you, Mr. Wentworth?” I peek up at him, wincing as I prepare to give voice to my private musings.
He nods heartily, and his floppy hair bounces. I love his hair.
Swiftly crossing my legs, I wrap my hands around my upper knee, locking my fingers into place around it. Incapable of look him in the eyes I aim my focus towards my sealed fingers.
“Since I set eyes on you…I haven’t wanted anything else.” I hear him gasp, and peek up at him just to make sure he’s still conscious. “I can’t sleep, I can’t eat. I look at you and my body screams for your touch.”
His jaw subtly drops, his smouldering stare makes me tremble like a terrified child in the darkness, but I am far from terrified of this man––of my feelings, definitely.
He slowly rocks against the backrest, making it bounce.
“I have never, had to battle with feelings like this. Yet…you…” I trail off, and offer a weighed sigh. “I am battling so, Goddamn hard, Hayden to quite frankly, keep my panties on when I am around you.” I’m calmed instantly as I hear the strength and resolve lacing my words, reminding me once again of the person I am.
Mr. Wentworth traces the seam of his lower lip with his finger, while scrutinizing me with confounding emotions in the dangerous depths of his chocolate and caramel irises.
“Lust, desire and passion are a cocktail that I can cope with, when I cope with it in the way I know how. But if you add frustration and longing into the equation, it becomes so much more…it becomes consuming, dangerous, and a nightmare to quench.
“I see you and all I can concentrate on is slowly ridding you of your clothing. Your mouth on mine, our bodies tangled together, searching for an outlet.” I dash my tongue across my drying lips, and take an overdue gulp of air.
His expression remains passive.
“I have been powerless when it comes to sating and move on from this––from these emotions, these wants––because you are the only person that can satisfy my hunger. If I left here now and attempted to satisfy that need, to free it from my system,”––I shake my head minutely, more to myself than to him––“It wouldn’t warrant me with the sated, quenched feeling that I desire, that I crave. It would leave me feeling ashamed and dirty,” I whisper my last few words, my voice cracking under the realization of my feeble prior attempts over the span of two-pathetic-weeks.
Fully absorbed, I steadily hold his gaze, observing his expression. “The only person who can nourish my desire, who can fulfil that craving––is you.” I peek down as I unlock my fingers and place them onto the arms of the chair. Feeling emotionally exhausted, I haul myself up.
The office is shrouded in silence. Mr. Wentworth peeps down into his lap, his dark hair bounces faintly as he continues to rock in his chair. His lips pursed.
“I don’t expect you to understand, but it’s for that reason, that I have to leave.”
He lifts his head and dashes that gorgeous tongue over his gorgeous shaped lips once more.
Then it’s my turn to hang my head. I vaguely shake my head, focusing on the floor.
Deflated, I mutter, “I cannot suppress these feelings, I have tried, and its killing me––” I gasp and with beaten, clear blue eyes I burn my stare into his, while inadvertently burning his profile to memory. “But I cannot surrender to them either.” The sincerity of my voice is marred by my bleakness. “I’m sorry,” I whisper before turning on my heel.
And I begin to walk out of his office, as I dismiss him from my life.
HAYDEN
I subconsciously pinch my forearm. It looks as though you have also found a place under her skin, Hayden, my subconscious peeks at me over his rectangular framed glasses.
Every hair follicle prickles as exhilarating shivers pave their way down my spine. My stomach roils with anticipation and enthusiasm. Adrenaline floods my veins, and my body rapidly heats. I detect my pulse thrumming through my fingertips. Yet strangely––I feel liberated from her revelation.
I cannot let her leave, not without offering her the same courtesy. I will regret it for the rest of my life, I know I will.
I push myself up from my chair and dash
out of my office and down the corridor to stop her––to free myself from my own inhibitions while I still have the chance.
Following the corridor around the right corner, I stand at the opening to the reception area. Samantha is stood behind the main desk rummaging through her purse. I take a moment to observe her, absorbing every movement. The way her tongue darts over her lips, the way she repositions herself after every motion, the way her posture sags when she redistributes her weight. The way her dark auburn hair shines in the dim light, with mahogany and fiery tones laced through strand for strand.
I stand with my feet placed shoulder-width apart, my hands resting in my black pants pockets. Rocking back-and-forth on my heels, I focus on my black Italian leather shoes.
“You’re right, Samantha, I don’t understand…” I mumble. My voice is deep and thick with skepticism. I peer up at her shyly, but she refrains from looking back at me, all of her attention fixated on her purse.
I deliberately pace toward her, each step delivering me to most possibly the worst situation I can muster, or the best. Prowling like a predatory animal, my hands remain embedded in my pockets as I speak.
“I don’t understand why after eight months’ worth of nightmares and waking up in cold sweats, you walk into my Firm––my office, and suddenly those nightmares are substituted with vivid sex dreams.
“I don’t understand why as soon as I open my eyes in the morning, it feels like I’m about to sit an exam, with butterflies beating around in my stomach, unable to quell the anticipation of coming into work just to see you.” I make contact with the end of the desk.
Samantha still refuses to focus on anything other than the inside of her black holdall purse.
“I don’t understand why emotions that I have not borne in months have resurfaced and are manifesting in a fashion that I find…disconcerting.” My voice is laden with sincerity.
I step closer to her rigid and guarded body; the familiar, undeniable charge rushes between us as our proximity closes. I regard her with an unfathomable, enlivening expression.
“I don’t understand,” I whisper, “why I constantly crave a moment of privacy with you. To have you in my office and look at you, all the while visualizing what we succumbed to in my dreams.” Placing my index finger under her chin, I coax her head up. Her crystal blue eyes examine mine as I pinion her with the intensity of my stare.
“I–I,” Samantha stutters barely audible, her eyes shimmer as a wall of moisture gradually assembles. “I am so frustrated with the feelings that I hold for you and being unable to yield to them,” she shakes her head. “The ache is literally nauseating; the tightening in my gut, the butterflies––”she adds urgently. Wrinkles discreetly appear at the corners of her eyes as she scowls. “The longing is the worst. It’s something that I have never had to contend with and it’s so…overwhelming. I’m physically and mentally aching for you.” Her eyes fall away from mine as she flails her head. She sniffles quietly, her tongue skimming across her drying lips.
With her hand resting undisturbed on the lip of the desk, I warily adjust my left hand and position it over hers. She flinches when my fingertips finally make contact with her flesh, however, she stands paralyzed. She feels so soft, so warm. I want to feel and study every inch of her body, the neediness that possesses me is so profound that I have to place a blockade in front of me and my urges to not smother her body in erotic, wet kisses and tantalizing caresses.
It feels…surreal as she inspects me with those eyes; conflicting eyes that silently scream what the hell are you doing? But quietly begs me not to stop.
I slip her hand from the surface, gliding and weaving my fingers through hers as I gradually advance to the sensitive flesh on her inner wrist. Her fingers mimic mine as she flexes them around my hand, grazing the center of my palm and the cuff of my shirt.
The rasping sound of our heavy breathing plays as a commentary and fills the silent rift between us as lustful gazes deviate from eyes to mouth’s, and back again.
I lean into her, our lips barely touching.
“I. Want. You,” I enunciate darkly, abounding with passionate intention.
Samantha gasps and parts her lips. The scent of full-bodied coffee travels along her breath which is feather-light against my heated skin. I soon fall victim while my body conforms and tenses as frustration, aspiration and lust swells mercilessly through our demanding and rebellious bodies––screaming and goading us to become one with invigorating, stimulating gratification.
She gasps when I press my lips at the left side of her mouth. She smells like raspberries, candy and coffee.
Reluctantly tearing myself away from her sweet captivating scent, I regard her deeply, a salacious grin cloaking my features, betraying the passion which burns wildly in my eyes.
Samantha tilts her head back as she steps closer to me, and pushes her body emphatically against mine. Soft feminine flesh moulded against taut muscle. She lets out an appreciative, long-overdue, liberating groan, and traces her tongue across the seam of her lower lip at a tempting, languid pace. Our focus is transfixed, assessing the affects we have on the other’s body.
She places her left hand against the side of my face, her touch gracious and indulgent. I close my eyes as she trails her fingers down to my jawline.
Come on, baby. If you want it, show me that you want it. I can’t make the first move on this one.
She pulls me down unexpectedly as she raises up, pressing against me further while our lips meld with no reservation. Our tongues massage, twist and stroke as we both release stimulating moans in each other’s mouths.
No longer able to endure the cocktail of heady covetousness, we relinquish ourselves freely to our long-overdue manifested sexual impulses.
FIVE
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SAMANTHA
Recovering my right hand from his sensual, weaving touch, I proceed to fist into his silken, rich chocolate hair, pulling him closer against my body as I push myself against his. Our tongues caress and glide as we relentlessly devour each other.
Damn, this man can kiss.
His hands slither unrestrained over the surface of my back, holding me still. I delight in his rough, prickly stubble that grazes against my mouth and chin.
Ensnaring me in his strong embrace, he steps forward and carefully guides me against the cool, smooth surface of the desk. Our deep fervent kiss becoming more vigorous by the second, while his hands reach down and grope at my buttocks greedily. Hitching up my black pencil skirt he bores his fingertips into the pliable flesh of my thighs leaving brief tingles and pressure shocks that deepens the pool of desire between my legs. He lifts me up onto the desk.
Roaming my hands voraciously over his upper body as our lips meet again I release a low, feral groan into his mouth. Desperation floods through my veins, heating my raging blood and firing my nerve endings. Besieged with urgency, my nails dig into his flesh as I clutch at his defined, muscular biceps and his broad shoulders while he occupies the space between my thighs. My lips are swollen and sensitive from the abrading of his stubble. When we pull away, we are both breathless.
I snare his face with both of my hands, before pushing back his floppy lock that hangs over the side of his brow like a chocolate curl. I search his dark, dangerously alluring, hypnotic eyes as his hands linger on my thighs. My, God he is the most gorgeous man I have ever laid eyes on. And he wants me. I never thought it possible that such a successful, sophisticated man would want me in this way––men that drink their own body weight in nightclubs night after night, and that grind up against you as if they are trying to reach an inaccessible spot inside you, then yes, I have had many––but San Francisco’s most renowned lawyer feels this way toward me? I’m shell-shocked. For a fleeting moment, it is I that is under his spell.
My expression softens as I feel something tugging at me internally, like a foreign force trying to annihilate its way through the toughest of steel. Before I can stop myself, I graze
my thumb over his lips with profound tenderness, and I feel my regard for him reach an unfamiliar level.
Loosening his blood red, woven tie, I pull it free from the collar of his white linen shirt, before carefully beginning to tackle his buttons. He gapes down at my fingers, watching attentively as I pull free each button. All I want is to grasp each side and pull the material apart and allow the buttons to scatter across the hardwood flooring, but for some unknown reason my compulsions are quelled by my want to savor the experience of undressing my boss; my exceptionally sexy, boss.
I gasp as I pull open his shirt and gape raptly at his appealing, smooth torso.
Wow…
A silver chain with a solid silver cross hangs around his neck. The sight of his tanned flesh and the dark brown hue of his nipples send me into overdrive. With my heart relentlessly assaulting my ribcage, the muscles within my body constricts and quakes. It’s Christmas and birthdays rolled into one.
“Oh, my…” I breathe instinctively and I sense rather than see his answering grin.
I press my hands against his defined pectorals, flexing my fingers, allowing the tips of my nails to graze along his flesh. I feel his body heating under my touch and he sucks in a deep breath, lulling his frustrating need to find instant release. I skim over each disc of his nipples at a languid pace and they instantly strain beneath my touch before I continue with my expedition of his beautiful, exquisitely carved body. My fingers dip over the warm, smooth flesh that covers each firm bulge of his abdominal muscles, sinking and bobbing between each valley before ascending the next, like a raft waving along the rapids.
His hands remain stationed upon my thighs, but I feel the stirring of his fingers as he squeezes gently, tracing diminutive circles as he rises higher and higher to his goal. I reciprocate and trace around his navel with a delicate touch. He tenses as my nails skim his surface before gliding along the edge of his pants that rests securely on his hips.
I peek up shrewdly as I acquaint my hands with the sensuousness of his body. His eyes are penetrative and he’s clamping his teeth down onto his lower lip. I never realized how Goddamn sexy a man biting his lip can be, how this single indication of his pleasure liquefies my insides.