Accidental Rivals_An Office Romance

by River Laurent

  I can play along with the game. “And how do you propose to do that?”

  She moves closer. So close I can smell her toothpaste. “Do I need to spell it out to you, Zack.”

  Not for my dick, she doesn’t. It feels like it is on fire.

  She touches my arm. “Do you know how wet I am for you?”

  My eyes narrow. I’m not buying this. It must be some kind of trick. What the hell is she planning?

  One eyebrow arches. “You don’t believe me?”

  “I’m sort of having a hard time reconciling this new brazenly sexual Sienna to the one who hates my guts.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I still hate you.” Without taking her eyes off me she very clearly says, “But I just want you to fuck me, Zack. Hard. I need to get you out of my head and I don’t know how else to do it. Just for today I am your malleable, obedient, slutty bimbo. Your fuck toy. Would you be able to fuck my cunt until I scream?”

  I burned with lust at her words. God, I want her. Right here. Right now. Damn the consequences.

  Slowly, she hitches her cream skirt up, over her knees, over her thighs, and over her hips. Jesus, she’s not wearing panties. I stare at her freshly shaven pussy. Then she turns around, spreads her legs, and bends over with her palms planted on the mirrored doors of the elevator. The sight of her offering herself in such an obvious and slutty way is too much to bear. I stop thinking. Of their own free will my fingers slide into her glistening pussy.

  “Yes,” she gasps. Arching her back she pushes her hips towards me so my fingers get shoved deeper into her hot cunt.

  I don’t have condoms on me, but I can’t stop. Lust and hunger replace every rational thought. I have to have her. I have to. I unzip my trousers and release my dick from my boxers. It springs into action and I ram into her so powerfully she grunts. Hell, she feels exactly like what I thought she would. Hot and wet and tight. So fucking tight.

  The relief of finally fucking the office queen bitch fizzles like bubbles through my veins. I’ve waited for this from the first moment she set her disapproving eyes on me. I’m going to make her scream my name until she’s senseless. I pull out of her until only the head of my cock is still inside her them slam all the way in. Balls deep. I’m gonna show her

  A buzzing sound filters through my fevered senses. For a second I don’t recognize it.

  “It’s your phone. Are you going to answer it?” she asks.

  “No,” I growl.

  With my cock still buried in her, she turns her head and looks at me calmly. “I think you should. It could be your wake-up call.”

  “What?”

  Then I open my eyes. Light is filtering in through the curtains and my alarm clock is ringing. I roll over and stop it. “Oh shit,” I groan, closing my eyes against the light. Goddamn it, I should’ve known it was a fucking dream.

  The elevator at work doesn’t have a red stop button.

  Sienna

  Oof. That fourth margarita might not have been the best decision I ever made.

  Not that it matters how much my head is pounding because I’m always a professional no matter what. I flash my best smile to the couple to whom Zack and I are showing the house this morning. It’s not their fault I drank too much last night, and on a work night, too. And for once, something isn’t even Zack’s fault.

  What is his fault is the constant barrage of messages which have been hitting his phone since we got here. How unprofessional can a single person be? I wonder if he’s going for a world record or something.

  The Dawsons are completely oblivious to any of the drama swirling around them. They’re a younger couple, late-30s at the oldest, and both far too interested in the house to notice the way I keep shooting daggers at Zack.

  I suppose that’s a good sign. They’re so enamored with the house, they don’t notice anything else. Not even the fact that one of the two realtors scheduled to show them the place keeps looking at his phone and even has gone so far as to step aside several times to answer messages.

  It’s like he doesn’t care at all.

  Which makes me wonder what those messages are all about. Who wouldn’t?

  “I love the spaciousness.” Mrs. Dawson turns to me with wide eyes and an enthusiastic smile.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d say I have her on the hook. But I want to be cautious. I can’t get cocky. “It’s a dream, isn’t it? The high ceilings, the large rooms. So much natural light, too.” I look for Zack out of the corner of my eye, still smiling for the client’s benefit. Where did he go?

  Mr. Dawson, meanwhile, is in a happy world of his own. “I heard there’s a media room?”

  I can read him like a book. He’s the type who’ll have the boys over for football on his theater-style TV screen, where they can smoke cigars and be kings together.

  “There sure is,” I nod firmly. “Reclining theater seats, surround sound, massive screen. And soundproofed,” I add with a glance at his wife, who shoots me a grateful look.

  “I need to see this!” He turns and begins wandering off like he already owns the place.

  My head swivels from side to side as I search for Zack. Where is he? “Zack? Mr. Dawson would like to see the media room.”

  “Already halfway there!” he calls out.

  Then I hear him asking Mr. Dawson to join him moments later. I don’t love the idea of the two of them speaking privately, without my being able to hear, but it means I can work my magic on the wife just as sure as the two of them can buddy it up and bond over sports.

  “Everything is so perfect I’m almost afraid to see the kitchen. I’ve been let down before.”

  “I’m taking you there right now.”

  Mrs. Dawson beams at me. “Granted, I don’t have time to do much cooking, but I love having a big kitchen where I can entertain guests while I am doing last minute touch ups.”

  “In that case, you’ll love this.” I show her around, reciting facts about the sub-zero refrigerator and butler’s pantry, smiling and nodding in the right places as she explores the huge space. My brain isn’t fully in the game, however, and not just because that third margarita is still a dull thud in my temples.

  Mr. Dawson enters the kitchen like a man in a daze, and I can see that he’s already mentally preparing for his big Super Bowl party. “It would be perfect for the awards show parties you throw for the girls,” he informs his wife excitedly.

  She laughs merrily. “Oh, yes, I’m sure you were thinking about me and the girls drinking champagne and eating hors d’oeuvres while you were in there. As if we just met.”

  I can’t help but laugh with her. They seem to have a fun relationship, and I like working with couples who are relaxed enough to joke in front of me.

  Zack should be laughing, too, even if he doesn’t feel like laughing, but Zack is not laughing because he isn’t even in the room.

  “Would you excuse me for a moment?” I duck out of the kitchen, still chuckling for their sake, but my face goes stony the second I’m out of there.

  He’s in the hall, eyes glued to his phone once again.

  “What’s up with you?” I hiss, waving. “I could use a little help in here.”

  Whatever is on his phone is clearly more important than to acknowledge my presence because he barely looks up. “I thought you were such a pro. That you could handle anything.”

  He. Is going. To die.

  If my sister were here, I would point to this exact situation as case in point why there will never, ever be anything between Zack and me. She would see how off-base her jokes were if she could only see how utterly self-absorbed and petty he can be. I guess this is his way of punishing me, the jerk. I turn around without saying a thing and go back into the kitchen, my back stiff with disapproval.

  “Sorry about that.” I say as I wave the Dawsons back out to the entry, then upstairs. “You haven’t seen anything until you’ve seen the master suite. The bathroom is to die for.” One glance over my shoulder as I reach the hall tells me Z
ack is at the back of us, tapping furiously to create a message.

  Who is he speaking with?

  Another potential buyer?

  That would make sense when combined with the way he seems so distant right now. He doesn’t care how this showing goes because he’s already got a client on the hook. Ooh, that would be so like him. It takes every ounce of self-control to continue with the showing as though there’s nothing wrong. Even though I want nothing more than to take that phone of his and throw it out the window. I wonder if I could reach the lake from here.

  As they’re leaving, the Dawsons take turns shaking my hand, while Zack waits for them by their car.

  “I have a good feeling about this.” Mrs. Dawson grins, winking when her husband’s not looking.

  “So do I,” I whisper with all the confidentiality of old girlfriends in cahoots with each other. She seems the type who would go for such a thing, and I honestly do like her. I’d feel good putting her in a house like this one. She’d make magic happen inside. She’s one of those women I imagine whose fridges are always full. Unlike mine.

  We chat over the next steps as we walk to their SUV, where Zack and Mr. Dawson are talking about football and Zack’s reminding the client that he promised an invite to the first game once they’re moved in and settled.

  “Well, making plans already,” I observe, noting the absence of Zack’s phone. He’s finally put it away. Now that the showing is finished.

  “It’s never too soon to plan for things like that.” Mr. Dawson chuckles, clearly enjoying the visions of touchdowns, beer, and friends.

  “Exactly. You wouldn’t understand.” Zack grins.

  “It’s nice seeing a couple work together, the way the two of you do,” Mrs. Dawson observes as she climbs into the car.

  Neither of us corrects her. What would be the point? We’d only look petty.

  Once they’ve pulled away and it’s just the two of us again, there’s no need to play nice. Good thing, since pretending to like him is exhausting. “I guess I’ll go in and make sure everything’s turned off. You might as well leave since you’re obviously not in the mood to do any work?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly what I said.”

  “Last time I checked, I was busy making nice with the husband while you chatted up the wife.”

  “You made nice when it suited you,” I remind, striding through the house with him following behind me.

  “God! It’s impossible to please you! No matter what I do, there’s something wrong with it.”

  “You poor baby,” I sneer without looking back. “Maybe you should get on the phone and complain about me to whoever you were busy texting all throughout the showing. Maybe they’ll care.”

  “Is that what this is about?”

  He really is the densest person I’ve ever known. There’s no other excuse for him to be so openly ignorant. I’m so furious, I can’t even answer him. So I don’t.

  I was going to be a good girl. I told myself I would. I told myself it wasn’t worth fighting with him, wasn’t worth starting trouble, that we both clearly need this sale and I wouldn’t be the one to ruin it. But when he’s doing everything in his power to be a jerk, what am I supposed to do? Let him walk all over me?

  Forget that.

  “What about tomorrow?” he asks as I lock the front door.

  My head isn’t pounding as hard as it was, thank God, or else I’d really be unable to deal with his questions. What about tomorrow? What does he think? “What about it?” I ask, because I’ll be damned if I’m going to give anything away about the open house.

  “What’s the game plan?”

  “You’re kidding, right? I wanted to talk with you about it yesterday, and you stalked off after insulting me. You lost your chance, buddy.”

  “You mean you’re just going to commandeer the entire thing? Without consulting me?”

  “Why would I consult you any further? Where has it gotten me so far?” I sweep past him on the way to the car, nails digging into my palms. The fact is, I’m not good at behaving this way. I’ve never outright fought with anyone except my sister, and that was only when we were kids. I’m usually the sort of person who cries when I get too emotional, even if that emotion is anger.

  I’d die before I cry in front of him.

  “You know what?” I ask when he doesn’t offer a reply or even an explanation of his stupid, ignorant behavior during the showing. “Why don’t you give up, just stop pretending you have any intention of sharing this listing with me, and ask to be reassigned? It’s clear you don’t intend on doing any work, and that you can’t stand the sight of me.” Whoa. Hang on. Where did that come from? I didn’t mean to say that. But now it’s out there, and there’s no taking it back. I turn to face him because I have to. I can’t slink away now.

  His face is blank, unreadable.

  And what does he do? Does he apologize? Does he assure me I’m wrong? Does he explain what all the phone nonsense was about?

  No.

  I might be able to forgive him if he at least tried to meet me halfway. I’ll never forgive him for laughing. For straight-up laughing at me. He’s still chuckling as I duck into my car and drive away, only after considering running him over before I go. Or at least clipping him.

  Now that I’m alone, I can cry. And I do. Just a little—fine. A lot.

  Sienna

  “The hot hors d’oeuvres should be out on the island,” I instruct one of the waitresses, pointing. “The backups can be left in the oven, I’ve set it to warm. Let’s leave the extra champagne and juice on ice and make the mimosas as guests request them.” I run through my mental checklist. “I know I don’t need to tell you this, but I feel it bears mentioning: let’s keep an eye on the repeat drinkers. We don’t want anybody getting in an accident on the way home from here. We can set up a pick-up car for them, if need be.”

  I’m standing at the center of a hurricane as vendors make last-minute adjustments and I fire off instructions. There are small, tasteful floral arrangements strewn about, as well as a string quartet playing softly in the entryway. I adjust one of the arrangements, bringing it to the center of the side table it’s sitting on, and remind myself to breathe.

  Gosh, a mimosa sure would be great right now. I nearly have to slap my hand away when a uniformed butler passes through with a tray of them.

  Zack wanders into the kitchen, and on his face, is a look I can only describe as a mix of admiration and sheepishness. He stops in front of me. “I’m impressed.”

  “Well. I guess my job is done then.” I move to step around him and go someplace else, anywhere else, but he jukes to the side in time to block me.

  “What is it with you? Why can’t I even compliment you on a job well done without hearing your sarcasm?” His eyes are narrowed, troubled. Like he cares.

  “I don’t have time for this, Zack. If you’ll excuse me.” I manage to get past him this time and shake my head as I walk away, my heels clicking smartly against the marble floor in time with the kicky little tune the quartet is playing. There’s a good energy in here today. I won’t let anyone ruin it.

  Not even my ‘partner’

  Before I know it, people start coming in. It’s time to shine.

  This is where I’m at my best—at least, in my opinion. Juggling people, their questions, making everyone feel welcome and valued. Making them feel at home. Encouraging without seeming pushing, which is a grave mistake so many realtors make.

  Nobody wants to feel as though they’re being stalked through a store, a house, anywhere money might eventually be changing hands. If anything, in my personal experience, a clingy salesperson is enough to change my mind and make me leave.

  I don’t make that mistake.

  To my surprise, Zack is much more involved than he was yesterday. I don’t get it. The Dawsons were practically on the hook, and talking about the house as though they were seriously considering the purchase. That was when he
needed to be more involved, more personable, and available instead of staring at his phone like his whole life depended on it.

  I guess whoever he was making plans with ultimately fell through. He has to rely on what we manage to make happen today.

  It’s a petty thought, but I can’t help it. Pushing it away, I quickly turn my attention to the people walking through the door and answering their questions. There are a lot of questions, which is a terrific sign.

  There are also a lot of compliments about the spread in the kitchen. I have to admit, the food smells fantastic, and it serves a purpose beyond making the guests feel pampered. The scent leads them to the kitchen, where they have a reason to slow down and look around. The kitchen is a big selling point in any house, and this kitchen is an absolute showplace.

  By the time two hours pass, my legs are burning from going up and down the stairs so many times. This is better than a trip to the gym, and ultimately better for my bank account.

  Zack is in the library, answering questions about the square footage.

  Once he’s alone, I wave him over. He looks nearly jubilant. I can tell he loves this as much as I do, the sense that our buyer is somewhere in the house and we’re invisibly reeling them in.

  I hate to burst his bubble. “I’m going to have to leave you to it for the last half hour,” I murmur, straight-faced.

  His eyes widen. “What? You know this is the busiest time.”

  He’s not wrong, either. There are still at least a dozen couples walking through the house, some of whom have been here for a while. They’re pretty serious too.

  “You can handle it. I have some other things to take care of. The vendors know what to do once things wind down. I’ve already given them detailed instructions.”

  He blinks, silent for a long moment. “Fine. Go.”

  I manage a tight smile for the sake of the people nearby. “I wasn’t asking permission. I thought I’d do you the favor of letting you know you’d be on your own, is all.” I wish I didn’t relish the way he struggles to conceal his irritation, but it just feels so good.