Breaking All the Rules

by Cynthia Sax

  I tap on the keyboard and access his schedule. The security issues that have him concerned don’t include his account. His password, MoneyMan7, remains the same. I add “Think about Camille’s breasts” to his to-do list.

  Mere minutes pass before he checks this line item as completed. Nathan Lawford is thinking about my breasts. This lifts my spirits and I hum happily as I examine the next expense report.

  Is he stroking himself while he fantasizes about me? Has he closed his office door, unzipped his pants, and curled his fingers around his thick cock? His shaft will be as straight and as rigid as he is, the hair around his base blond, fine, and neatly trimmed.

  I shift in my chair, my pussy moistening. He’ll pump himself vigorously, in sure up-and-down strokes, as unrelenting with his own body as he is with the expense reports. A dab of pre-cum will form on his tip. I lick my lips.

  Will he taste as clean and as fresh as he smells? I’ve hacked into his medical records, the escort company he favors requiring regular checkups. Nate is healthy, virile, a male in his prime.

  And he’s thinking of me, quirky, crazy Camille Trent. I unclip my phone from my waistband, open my blazer, and take a photo of my breasts. The black corset I’m wearing contrasts vividly with my ivory skin and the overhead lights deepen the shadow between my curves, making me appear even better endowed than I already am. I send this naughty image to Nate’s personal e-mail account, giving him more to think about.

  Teasing my sexually frustrated executive brightens my otherwise dull day. I smile and apply all of my attention to the stack of expense reports, determined to follow the rules for once in my insubordinate life and give Nate the perfection he requires.

  Chapter Two

  * * *

  BY NOON THE numbers on the expense reports blur, the lines running together. I set the stack aside, remove my lunch from the backpack, and saunter to the break room. The space is empty, my coworkers preferring to buy food from the company-subsidized cafeteria.

  The meals served there are good, but not as good as my beef panang curry, a recipe I learned from Auntie Ratana, one of my mom’s best friends. I warm up the dish and carry it back to my desk, looking forward to enjoying this little taste of home.

  The pinch-faced lady seated one row away from me complains loudly about stinky foods. She must be complaining about her own dish. She’s eating steamed broccoli, and the scent of flatulence hangs heavily in the air.

  I ignore her grumbling, open my data donation program, and eat slowly as I code, savoring the flavors of curry paste, coconut milk, lime, and basil.

  The program I’m crafting is my gift to the world, a means of sharing unused data and voice capacity. The less fortunate often receive free used phones, but not the plans needed to utilize them. My program will fix that problem.

  There’s no money in it. When it goes live next year I might snag a Blaine Technologies’ Change the World grant. The mentoring provided is direly needed. The funding, however, will only pay for additional business expenses, not for my rent or my grocery bill. Nate would call my project’s lack of profit unsustainable.

  I peruse his schedule. He has booked a lunchtime meeting with Mr. Blaine. My friend Anna’s desk is situated outside of her enigmatic CEO’s office, and I should drop by, see Emily, the adorable heir to the Blaine Technologies’ empire. If I bump into Nate as he leaves his meeting, I can claim it’s a coincidence.

  It wouldn’t truly be a coincidence and this would violate the rules of my game. Nate must choose to see me outside the confines of our morning elevator rides. I can’t see him. I force myself to remain at my desk, to concentrate on my project, to not think about the object of my doomed and completely absurd obsession.

  My progress is slow. Coding is natural for me. I’ve been taking programs apart and putting them back together since I was a child, computers being a necessary evil at the commune. Designing the site is more challenging. I stress over every marketing decision, every color choice, every graphic and text I utilize.

  The small hairs on the back of my neck rise and my body hums with awareness. Only one man has this effect on me, but it can’t be him. He has a meeting. I glance upward and my jaw drops.

  It is him. Nate stands at the end of the row of empty cubicles, his expression blank, his back straight, and his feet braced apart. His fingers clench into fists and release, clench and release. He’s the Iceman, renowned for his restraint, yet he’s struggling with his control. This is how much he wants me.

  “I thought you had a meeting with your boss.” I issue this statement as a challenge. He’ll know I checked his schedule, accessed his account.

  “I canceled the meeting.”

  He canceled his meeting with Mr. Blaine. Nate never cancels meetings. His schedule once drafted is set for the day.

  “Did you?” I ask.

  “Yes.” Nate’s gaze meets mine and I suck in my breath. His pale gray eyes are turbulent with stark, raw emotion, his need calling to me, seducing me.

  “I see.” I stare at him. He stares back at me, his square jaw jutted and his lips pressed together. Tension radiates from him, heavy waves of desire dragging me down, down, down.

  “Okie dokie, then,” I concede. He came to me. He canceled his meeting for me. I can do the rest.

  I push away from my desk and walk toward him, my hips swaying, my soul filled with purpose. Nate watches me, not moving, not speaking.

  “Come with me.” I cover his fists with my fingers. Energy surges from his hands to mine, the connection instant and intense, shaking my soul.

  “Come,” I repeat, leading him toward the shredding room, grabbing a box of tissues as we pass an unoccupied desk. Nate follows me, issuing no protests, offering no resistance.

  I want resistance. I want push back, challenge, him. Nate’s unbending personality is an integral part of him and I don’t want him to change, not for me, not for anyone.

  We enter the shredding room, the space soundproof, private, utilitarian. A monstrous machine is bookended by two stacks of folded cardboard boxes. Shelves line the perimeter. White dust hangs in the stale air and covers the gray frayed carpet.

  “This isn’t posh, but it will do.” I set the box of tissues on a nearby shelf and close the door, blocking the outside noise and hiding us from curious eyes, creating a secluded office oasis for the two of us.

  “We’re not doing anything, Miss Trent.” Nate stands dangerously close to the exit and watches me warily, prepared to leave at the slightest provocation. “I only deal with professionals.” The erection tenting his black dress pants belies his words.

  He wants me, needs me, yet he fights me, his continued resistance presenting a challenge I’m driven to accept. “I can please you as well as any professional can.” I lean into him and cover his impressively large cock with my hands, feeling the length and width of him through the fabric.

  He jerks. “No.” Nate catches my wrists, drawing my hands away from his groin. “I pay for sex.” His fingertips press into my skin, his palms surprisingly rough. “I have to.”

  He has to. I tilt my head back and read the determination on his face. This isn’t negotiable for Nate. If I want to touch the man of my dreams, I have to be paid for it.

  I can’t figure out why this is a bad thing.

  “First clarification: I’m giving you a hand job. We’re not having full-blown sex.” I twist my arms, easily breaking his hold on my wrists. “Second clarification: of course you’re paying for this.” I roll my eyes. “You didn’t think you were getting a freebie, did you?”

  “You don’t need money.” Nate steps backward.

  I follow him, not allowing his retreat. “I don’t pay my landlord in peace signs and rainbows, sweetheart.” I plunge my hand into the pocket of his pants. My fingertips touch soft cotton and my heart skips a beat.

  My fastidiously neat man hasn’t discarded the handkerchief I used this morning. He has kept the soiled fabric, carrying it around with him as he moves from meeti
ng to meeting.

  My chest warms. Nate cares for me. I’m not just any woman for him. This encounter is more than a businesslike exchange of money for sex.

  I remove his wallet, giving no indication I’ve discovered his secret, and fan through the contents, acting cool and detached, professional.

  “Dollar bills; how quaint,” I quip, selecting a single twenty-dollar bill, thinking this should be payment enough. The hookers on TV charge by the hour and Nate won’t last long, his body already primed for my touch.

  I slowly slide his wallet into his pocket, pressing my fingers against him, teasing him, tormenting him. Nate shudders, his reaction immediate and gratifying.

  “Don’t come yet.” I grin as I withdraw my hand. “I want you to get your money’s worth.” I unbutton my blazer and tuck the twenty-dollar bill into my corset. “There are no refunds.”

  Nate frowns, his gaze lingering on my breasts. “The others charge—”

  I cover his grim lips with my right index finger. “I don’t want to hear another word about the other women and what they charge or what they do.” His eyes flash, bolts of lightning surging through his darkened irises. “They run their businesses their way. I run my business my way.” I sweep my fingertip over his lips back and forth, back and forth. His breath blows tantalizingly hot against my skin. “This is a deposit. I’ll collect the remaining balance after the transaction is completed.”

  I drift my hands over his suit-clad chest, relishing his firm muscle and solid form. “There will be none of that pay-in-sixty-days nonsense either.” I swirl my fingers over his slim sleek belt buckle. “I expect immediate cash.” I release his belt and he inhales sharply, his body shaking.

  “I want cold hard cash.” I stroke Nate through his pants, the rigid proof of his desire giving me confidence. He leans against the wall, pushing his hips forward, silently granting me permission to touch him.

  I unzip him, the rasping sound loud in the quiet room, a declaration of erotic intention. He’s mine for now, this stern serious man. I push his black pants and pristine white boxer shorts down to his knees, revealing the bloom of his cock head and his slightly curved shaft.

  “Ahhh . . . so this is the true you, Nate.” I trace his cock and he bobs. “You’re not as straight as you want everyone to believe.” I close my fingers around him, his veins pulsing under my fingertips. “You have some kink in you, don’t you?”

  His gaze lifts to my green hair. “Yes,” he admits, his deep voice making my stomach flutter.

  “I thought so.” I pump him slowly, firmly, relishing the control I have over him, over his satisfaction. “Does it arouse you, knowing that outside this room employees are sitting at their desks, making business calls, sending e-mails?” I lean into him, lowering my voice. “They have no idea their CFO is being sexually serviced by a cock-loving intern, that my small pale fingers are wrapped around your big hard shaft, that I’m fucking you with my hands, wishing you were inside me.”

  Nate groans softly. “I won’t last long.” A bead of pre-cum forms on his tip.

  “I don’t expect you to last long this first time.” I brush my thumbs over him, spreading his essence, his skin glistening, his scent musky and male. “In the future you’ll come only when I tell you to, understand?” He doesn’t answer, his big chest rising and falling. “Understand?” I squeeze his base, my punishment pulling a sexy rumble from his lips, unlocking his last mental door.

  “I understand.” His eyes blaze with unguarded desire, his emotions opened to me, his soul exposed.

  “Good.” I run my hands up and down him, rewarding him for his concession. “You may be paying me, but I’m in control of our fuckfests. You don’t know what you need. I do.” Nate rocks into my hands. He needs to be pushed and I’m the woman to do it, to free him from his self-imposed incarceration. “I’m a professional.” I smile at him, enjoying this new game, my authority over his body making me hot.

  Nate grunts, the veins on his neck lifting, his golden skin covered with the sheen of perspiration. His hands are clenched into tight fists, his arms remaining by his sides.

  “You can touch me if you wish.” I arch my back, drawing his attention to my breasts. They ache for his fingers, my nipples painfully tight.

  “Can’t.” Nate grimaces, moving faster against me, the muscles in his upper thighs flexing.

  He can’t touch me without losing control. This is how much he wants me.

  “That’s too bad.” I roll his balls with my fingers, feeling strong, powerful, womanly. “My pussy is slick and wet, yearning to be filled with a big hard cock.” I rub my thighs together, skin sliding over skin. “Can’t you smell my need?”

  “Yes.” Nate inhales deeply, his nostrils flaring. “God, yes.” He thrusts his hips again and again, humping my hand with an exciting savagery, his eyes feral and his motions erratic.

  I match his intensity, tightening my grip on his cock, and this makes him wilder, his rhythm becoming grueling and harsh. Everyone else sees the cool, passionless Iceman. This is the true Nathan Lawford, this hot ardent man struggling to reach sexual satisfaction.

  “Can’t last,” he huffs. “Need.”

  “Then take what you need.” I grab a couple of tissues and cover his tip. “Come for me, Nate.” I close the fingers of my left hand around his balls, ruthlessly pushing him toward completion.

  Nate throws his head back and roars, driving his hips forward. I gaze at him with wonder, the force of his release awe-inspiring. Hot jets of cum pulse into the tissues, every surge draining more and more tension from his body.

  Nate thrusts once, twice, shudders and stumbles backward, his shoulders smacking against the wall. He splays his fingers over the gray-painted surface, holding on, his eyes closed and his jaw relaxed.

  I clean him carefully, lovingly. My neat executive doesn’t like a mess. I toss the tissues into the wastebasket and pull up his boxer shorts and his pants, dressing him, restoring his armor of perfection, closing some of his doors.

  “There.” I pat his heaving chest. “You must feel better now, with all of that stress released.” My frustration remains, my body throbbing with need.

  Red streaks across Nate’s cheeks. “I lost control.” His voice is quiet.

  “Good.” I lean into him, pressing my hips against his. He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t wrap his arms around me. “That means I’m doing my job.”

  Nate opens his eyes, his expression glacier. “I never lose control.”

  He never loses control yet he lost control with me. I don’t dare show my jubilation. My inflexible executive is perilously close to walking away from me, the source of his forbidden feelings.

  “If you never lost control with the other women, then you never found true sexual release with them.” I flatten my fingers over his jacket lapels, touching him, savoring him, not knowing if I’ll get another chance, if he’ll ever allow me to handle his big body again. “That must have been frustrating for you.”

  Lines etch between Nate’s eyebrows.

  “You won’t have to worry about that with me,” I assure him, giving him a cocky grin, high on my success. “With me you’ll always lose control.” I slip my hand into the pocket of his pants. “I know what you need, what you want, and I’ll give it to you. Every time.” I caress him through the fabric, sweeping my fingers along his hip as I remove his wallet.

  “But my services aren’t free.” I study the wad of bills. How much money does an escort charge for a hand job? I chew on my bottom lip, having no idea. Twenty dollars hadn’t been enough. I glance at Nate, hoping to read the answer in his eyes.

  He sighs and takes the wallet from me, extracts an obscene amount of money. “This should settle my outstanding account.” He holds out the bills.

  I take the money, my heart pounding, and count it, curious about the amount. His outstanding account is more than I make in an entire day working at Blaine Technologies. I swallow my surprise and feign a frown. “You overpaid by twenty dollar
s.” I return one of the bills to him.

  Nate’s lips twitch as he closes his fingers around the money. “I can’t overpay. Pricing is determined by supply and demand. How did you pass your college economics class?”

  How does he know I took an economics class at college? I tuck the remaining bills into my corset. “I gave the prof the answers I thought a normal person would.” I glance at my phone. It’s five minutes to one o’clock. “You have a meeting now so I’ll forgive you this first time. But during future appointments I also expect to come.”

  Nate tilts his chin upward. “I’ve had no complaints.”

  “Until now.” I plant my hands on my hips and glare up at him, the thought of him pleasuring other women irritating me. “Did you even kiss me, Nate? Touch me? Hookers have needs too.”

  He frowns. “All of the other women asked that I not kiss them.”

  Don’t kiss the clients. Maintain some professional distance. I recall hearing that in a movie. “I run my business my way.” I struggle to maintain my outraged expression. “And I like to be kissed. I—”

  Nate hooks his arms around my waist, pulls me to him and captures my lips. I gasp, the force of his kiss driving my head back, and he surges inside me, sliding his tongue along mine. I cling to his shoulders as he explores, branding, owning my mouth, devouring me with an unmatched hunger, as though he hasn’t tasted a woman in years.

  Because he hasn’t tasted a woman in years, perhaps in decades. I soften against him, shocked by this revelation. Escorts prefer not to be kissed and Nate has never been linked to anyone else. I suck on his tongue and he groans, rubbing his hands over my back, pressing my breasts against his chest.

  I yield completely to Nate, giving him everything I have, the connection between us strengthening. This is why escorts don’t kiss their clients. This intimacy is dangerous, something to be feared. I know no such caution, my reckless heart pushing me forward. I thread my fingers through Nate’s short soft hair, and he cups my ass, lifting me into him, fusing our bodies together.