by Jana Aston
I shrug. “Then why’d you text me?” I ask, pulling my cell from my pocket and waving it in his direction.
“When did I text you?”
“New Year’s Eve,” I reply, not bothering to keep the implication that he’s an idiot out of my tone. We both pause then, frowning as Sawyer picks up his phone and I scroll back through mine. I find the text that he sent shortly after I dropped Sandra off. I’d still been on the landing outside her apartment, surprised that she hadn’t invited me in, when my phone had pinged to alert me of an incoming text. Finding it, I verify that I’m not crazy and that it did come from Sawyer, then read it aloud. “‘You lazy fuck, she’s not going to ask you in. Man up and invite yourself. Then take off your pants. See you Monday.’”
I look up at Sawyer as I finish speaking to find him shaking his head with a big stupid grin on his face. “God, that girl. That text was from Everly. I don’t even know how she got her hands on my phone.” He’s still smiling, though.
“Ahh.” I nod in understanding. “Speaking of Everly, she’s something. A little young,” I add pointedly, reminding him that he implied I was too old for Sandra.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “But I’m going to marry her, Gabe, not break her heart.”
I’d already figured as much. I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at that girl. And I’ve been best friends with the guy for almost twenty years, so I’ve seen a lot of women come and go.
He glances at the closed door and back to me. “Look, Gabe, I don’t know what’s going on between you and Sandra, I don’t want to know, but you need to stop this before she gets hurt.”
“Yeah.” I shrug, noncommittally. “Yeah,” I repeat, blowing out a breath. He’s probably right. Sandra seemed cool with whatever the other night was. I should leave it at that. She seems like the kind of girl who’ll be picking out baby names and planning happily-ever-afters and I don’t fucking need that. I don’t. I’m in the prime of my life, right? I’m good-looking. I’m loaded. I’ve got no responsibilities outside of work. My life is great.
So I open the door to Sawyer’s office intent on getting back to my own. Intent on calling any of a dozen women in my phone and scheduling something. Except Sandra’s at her desk. And Dave from marketing is at her desk too. And he’s smiling at her. Prick. I’m walking past when I hear him ask her if he’s picking her up at home on Friday or if they’re meeting at the office. I keep walking, tossing the now empty water bottle I snagged from Sawyer’s office into a recycling bin on the way to my office, and return a, “Good morning,” to my assistant as I pass him. I sit at my desk for a minute, drumming my fingers on the surface, before I snatch the handset of my desk phone and punch in the extension to Sandra’s desk. The digital screen on our company phone system announces all incoming calls, so I know she can see that it’s me. She answers on the second ring.
“I need to see you in my office,” I tell her. Then I hang up. Sawyer’s right. I should nip this in the bud now, before it gets out of control.
She arrives exactly four minutes later, three minutes and thirty seconds longer than it takes to walk from Sawyer’s office to mine, if you’re counting. She crosses the threshold of my office holding a small notepad, apparently prepared for some kind of goddamned business meeting.
“Close the door,” I snap at her and instantly wish I could retract my shitty tone when the anxiety crosses her face. She retreats to the door and closes it softly before turning back, pausing a moment before she approaches. She’s in a dress—some kind of beige cable-knit sweater material that clings to her breasts and hips. Breasts and hips that I have a very clear memory of. I really should have fucked her with the lights off. Memory is not my friend.
She stops a couple of feet in front of my desk. She doesn’t sit—instead, she stands hesitantly and sucks in a breath as if she’s preparing herself for something, gripping her notepad in both hands. She stares at the notepad while I do nothing but run my eyes over her and relive the other night.
“You asked to see me?” she prompts, eyes darting to mine and reminding me that yes, I am the one who called her to my office. I should have come up with a reason for doing so instead of staring at the clock like an infatuated idiot.
Right.
Come up with something, Gabe.
“You’re seeing Dave?” is what I come up with. Why the fuck did I just say that? That’s the last thing I want to talk to her about.
Her shoulders drop and confusion crosses her face.
“What?” she asks, starting to look less confused and more annoyed. I wonder if she likes Dave. I’m better-looking than Dave.
God, I’m an idiot.
“I thought we should talk,” I answer, deflecting the Dave bit for now. “About the other night.”
“It’s okay,” she blurts out. “I understand.”
“You understand what?”
“I won’t say anything.”
“What?” I stare at her, dumbfounded.
“I get it, Mr. Laurent. I won’t say anything,” she says with a shake of her head. “Like it never even happened,” she adds when I don’t respond.
I stand and round the desk, stopping directly in front of her, the tips of my shoes two inches from the toes of her heel-clad ones. She’s forced to tilt her head back or stare at my jaw, so she does, her eyes landing on mine. She looks startled and confused and… aroused. That’s the last thing I see before I crash my lips to hers, my hand moving to wind itself in her hair and anchor her head exactly how I want it. The other is on her hip, moving her backwards till her bottom hits the edge of my desk.
“Do you need a reminder?” I ask, breaking my lips away from hers. I slide my palms over her ass and drag her closer as I grasp the hem of her dress and inch it towards her waist. “Do you have short-term memory issues, Sandra?”
“No,” she says, with a small shake of her head. “Of course not. Of course I remember.” Her eyes trail down my chest and back up. “I remember everything.” She says it softly, her cheeks flushed.
“I haven’t shown you everything yet,” I murmur and her eyes widen.
“You haven’t?”
“Not even close.” I give her a gentle push onto my desk and she leans back, propped up on her elbows, ass on the edge. I step between her legs and lean over her, covering her mouth with mine as I work her panties over her hips and down her legs, then slip her heels off as I reach her ankles. She moans as I spread her legs and step between them, running my hands up her bare thighs. Her hips buck from the desk, desperate for something more.
“I like this,” I tell her, tracing my finger around the small triangle of hair on her pussy.
“Okay,” she whispers, meeting my eyes before quickly glancing away again while sucking her bottom lip between her teeth. She’s about to be a whole lot more embarrassed, I think as I drop to my knees and kiss the inside of her thigh.
”Oh, my God… Mr. Laurent.” Her back is bowing again and she wiggles her bottom. “You’re not.” She breathes out the words. She’s so fucking beautiful.
“I am,” I confirm and place her feet on the edge of the desk and press her knees out so she’s butterflied open in front of me.
She tries to close her legs, shaking her head and whispering, “Don’t.”
I stop. “Are you saying no, you want me to stop? Or no, you’re embarrassed?”
“Yes!” Her head drops back, her eyes on the ceiling. “Don’t stop.”
I kiss the inside of her other thigh then pause. “So that’s a yes?”
She nods and falls back to the desk, throwing an elbow over her eyes. “Yes. I can’t believe this is happening again. Yes.”
That’s enough for me and I lean in and swipe my tongue across her from bottom to top, then spread her apart with my thumbs. I want to see every last bit of her. Taste every last inch of her. Her pussy is every bit as pretty as I expected, pink and plump and the scent of her makes me want to spend all day ri
ght here, between her legs. I cover her with my mouth and pay attention to each tilt of her hips, every sigh from her mouth and adjust accordingly. When I slip two fingers inside of her she grabs my hair and tugs, tiny whimpers falling on my ears while I enjoy each delicate fold of her pussy and the taste of her on my tongue.
“How are you,” she groans, “doing that?” Her blonde hair is spread across my desk and her fists, wrapped in my hair, alternate between pushing me closer and tugging me away.
I laugh and suck her clit between my lips, then take my fingers from her pussy and circle her anus with the tips of my soaked fingers.
“Oh, oh, oh,” she whimpers, her hips rising from the desk to escape my fingers, but the hands wrapped in my hair are still firmly pulling me to her. I press a hand on her lower stomach to keep her still, allowing no escape from the building pressure. Then I suck hard on her clit and slip my index finger into her ass. She comes, her knees snapping up and her fingertips digging into my scalp.
As much as I love feeling a woman come on my dick, there’s nothing like seeing her come with your face buried in her pussy, your tongue and fingers inside of her. Seeing her hips jerk and actually watching her orgasm in your face.
Watching Sandra come is that times a hundred. Smelling her, tasting her, swallowing her. Fuck. I continue to kiss her softly while her breathing slows and her legs loosen, her hands falling from my head to the desk. Then I kiss my way down her thighs and pick her panties off the floor, straightening her legs and sliding them over her feet and up her legs to mid-thigh.
“Oh, my God. What just happened?” She lifts her hips and smooths the underwear into place, then slides off my desk.
“A reminder just happened,” I tell her, standing. Her eyes widen when I wipe my mouth with my hand and she flushes all over again, her eyes a mix of turned on and mortified.
“Mr. Laurent,” she starts and I interrupt with a soft laugh.
“What happened to Gabe?” I ask her. I know she called me Gabe the other night and twice now she’s called me Mr. Laurent. I’m not complaining, it’s a little hot.
“We’re at work.” She hisses it in a soft whisper, as if someone else might hear her.
I do laugh then, loudly. “You’re cute.”
“I’m at work. Oh, my God. I just had sex at work.” She’s talking to herself now, I’m pretty sure. She’s not looking at me, instead sliding into her heels and straightening her dress, smoothing the knit fabric under her palms several times. “Oral sex. Does that make it better or worse? Oh, my God.” She’s flushed and spinning around, looking at the floor. Spotting her notepad and pen, she scoops them up and heads for my office door. I follow her, placing my hand on the door when she reaches for the handle.
“Wait,” I tell her and she stops. I straighten her just-fucked hair with my fingers, brushing it out of her face and over her shoulders, lingering as long as I can, the strands soft between my fingers. “You’ll cancel whatever you have planned with Dave.”
I meant to ask it as a question, but it comes out as a statement. A flash of bewilderment crosses her face, quickly replaced with determination. And then she says one word before opening the door.
“No.”
Eight
Sandra
I yank open the door and stride through, Gabe on my heels. This is a place of work. I have work to do at my desk—not on Gabe’s. What was I thinking? I wasn’t, obviously. I was blinded by Gabe and his perfect face. And tongue.
Oh, God. I—I forgot Preston was out here. And I know there’s not a chance he hasn’t taken note of how long I was in Gabe’s office with the door closed because he’s got his chair turned in the direction of Gabe’s office door and he’s eating popcorn. Literally. He’s got a bag of microwave popcorn in his hands and he’s kicked back in his chair with a shit-eating grin on his face. He glances between me and Gabe, then looks at his watch while tossing another kernel into his mouth.
“You’re late for the Hanover meeting,” he tells Gabe with a barely restrained smirk. “They’re waiting for you.”
Behind me Gabe sighs, his steps faltering while Preston swivels in his chair and calls out to me, “Don’t lunch without me, Sandy!” while I hightail it back to my own desk.
I drop into my chair and nudge the mouse to wake my computer screen. Underneath my desk my foot is bouncing so hard that my leg is shaking. I blow out a breath and try to calm the adrenaline running through me. Just breathe, just breathe. Act normal. Act like Gabe Laurent did not just lay you across his desk and go down on you. At work. In broad daylight. Oh, God. And the finger thing. I’m squirming in my chair at the memory. Because it felt good, and I liked it. I liked his finger in my ass. I came hard when he put his finger in my ass. My hands fly up to cover my face in mortification. That cannot be normal.
So I’m not normal. But I’m supposed to be acting normal. I drop my hands from my face and place them on my keyboard. I’m just going to work. That’s what I’m paid to do, work. Not let Mr. Laurent sexually pleasure me during the business day.
Wait. Does that make me a prostitute? Except sex isn’t in my job description, it was more like a bonus. Wait, that’s not any better. Never mind, I’m being ridiculous. It’s fine. Everything is fine.
“Good morning,” comes from behind me and I nearly jump out of my chair. It’s Sawyer and he looks surprised by my reaction.
“Sorry, you startled me.”
“You were pretty focused on your work,” he says with an easy smile. “I said good morning three times before you heard me.”
“Yeah, I must have been,” I agree quickly, grateful for the excuse.
“What are you working on?” he asks, taking a glance at my monitor.
Frick. What am I working on? He never asks me that. Sawyer is not a micromanager. And I know he’s not questioning me right now, he’s simply making conversation, taking an interest in what I was supposedly so focused on. I don’t want to talk to Sawyer about what I was so focused on. “Um,” I start, scrambling to come up with something. It’s the Monday after a long holiday break. What the heck am I working on?
“Are you okay? You seem a little flushed.” His eyes narrow on my face.
“I, um, yeah.” I wave a hand to dismiss his concerns. “Fine,” I add, but he’s not looking at me anymore, he’s thumbing out a text on his phone. Then he tells me he needs me to attend an off-site meeting with him for the rest of the day.
****
I manage to make it through Tuesday avoiding Gabe and Preston. Only because they’re both out of the office all day at a meeting in New York. My luck runs out Wednesday morning though, when Preston corners me at my desk, demanding gossip.
“Give me the blow by blow,” is what he actually says, drawing out the word ‘blow’ and making a lewd gesture with his tongue and cheek.
“Shh,” I whisper, eyeing Sawyer’s open office door behind me then glaring at Preston. “Hush.”
“Oh, are we pretending this isn’t happening?”
“Nothing is happening,” I insist.
“Mmkay,” he retorts, grabbing a nail file/buffer I keep in my desk drawer and taking a seat on the edge of my desk. He files a single nail then examines it before continuing to the next. “Well, this is dull,” he murmurs, giving me a pointed look. “But I can wait. I’ve got all day.”
“Preston.” I sigh.
“Great. So we’ll discuss Gabe over lunch. Eleven-thirty. We’ll go to that new bistro down the street. Your treat. Pick me up at my desk.” He hops off my desk and takes off down the hall before I can say no. It’d be pointless anyway, Preston is a pro at getting what he wants.
At eleven-thirty I grab Preston and we leave the building, walking a block over to the bistro that he likes. Once we’re seated I stick my nose into the menu to avoid Preston’s interrogation. That buys me about four minutes. When the waitress stops at our table I try to stall by claiming I don’t know what I want, but Preston snatches the menu fr
om my hand and orders for me then shoos the waitress off.
“So you’ve been busy,” he starts, squeezing a lemon wedge into a glass of ice water.
“Super busy.” I nod and fidget with my watch. Maybe I can get away with just talking about work? “I’ve been working on the TPS reports all morning. You know they take forever to do correctly. And I’m off Friday for Marissa’s wedding so I’ve got to finish them before then.”
“And Gabe fucked you on his desk,” he continues like I haven’t said a word.
“He did not,” I say, but I’m a terrible liar so I shift my gaze away and scrunch my nose up.
“He fucked you on the couch in his office? You straddled him on his desk chair? He took you from behind while you were standing with your hands pressed against the window?” He opens his napkin and shakes it out before laying it across his lap. “I know something happened in there.”
“I, um. It wasn’t quite like that.” That’s not a total lie, right? I unwrap my own straw and stuff it into my glass, tapping the top with my fingertip.
“Oral then?” Preston asks without even blinking.
“Preston!” I slap a hand across my eyes while he laughs.
“So what’s the problem? He didn’t make you come? He shot his load in your hair? I’ve been there, honey, that’s a deal-killer, I get it.”
“Stop!” I drop my hand, shake my head at him, then bring him up to speed with everything that’s happened since I saw him before Christmas.
“Again, what’s the problem? Sounds like a good time to me.” Our sandwiches have arrived and Preston digs in with gusto. “Nooners. Quickies on the copy machine. Trysts in the executive conference room.”
“It’s inappropriate,” I remind him.
“Appropriate things are rarely fun.”
“I can’t…” I shrug and try to find the right words. “I just can’t get invested into something with him that’s not real,” I say, then pause again before summoning the courage to say the words out loud. “I like him, Preston. Like I really like him. I know it’s stupid and seems like a silly crush, but I like him. I’ve liked him for a long time, and I don’t want to get hurt if he’s just having fun with me.”