Seduction in a Suit: An Office Romance Collection

by Monica Corwin

  This is what six months, self-imposed vow of celibacy does to a woman. I should have known better than to listen to a man I had no business of sleeping with, who thought he knew me better than I knew myself, my former shrink.

  The plane shudders again and I take advantage of my courage. My fingers slink under the lace, feeling soft sensitive skin, and I peer through the tiny window, toward the dark gray clouds surrounding the plane, not caring if my seatmate is still gawking at me. If he wants a show, I’ll give him a show, better than whatever in-flight movie’s available to him. Scooting closer to the edge of my seat, I walk my fingers higher and hit jackpot. I squeeze my eyes tighter.

  “Miss?” The intrusive voice stops the whimper from coming out of my mouth. “Ma’am…”

  Opening my eyes and letting irritation shoot through them, I grimace at the flight attendant smiling crookedly at me. I’ve been caught. “Yes?” I take my hand out of my dress and fold both of them on my lap, not bothering to straighten the hem even though it has ridden up my thighs. I try not to look apologetic. Whatever I was doing in my bubble is my business.

  “Would you like something to drink?” the woman in a navy blue uniform and pill box hat asks, as she seemingly struggles to keep a straight face.

  My gaze drifts to Mr. Sex on the Beach. His eyes are on me—irises a shade darker than the drink in his hand, but his pupils are pure dark fantasy. He raises his glass to his full lips.

  Suddenly, I’m parched. “I’ll have what he’s having.” Behind the short glass, I detect a playful smile on the corner of his mouth. “Make it a double,” I add then readily ignore the both of them. She doesn’t even bother to ask me if I’m sure, most likely seeing the ‘I’m desperate for a drink’ look on my face.

  “I’ll have another one,” the man beside me says. His voice has a rich timber to it, not unlike Tom Hiddleston’s, sans accent. Nobody’s perfect, I guess.

  “Right away, sir.” I hear the flirtatiousness in her tone. If she giggles, I might die of laughter, but she leaves and I guess I will never know.

  I have to say I’m a little disappointed that Mr. Sex on the Beach doesn’t bother to start a conversation, even just to be polite. Now that I know what he sounds like, it adds to the fantasy—which I’ll probably put to good use later once I’m in my bed, alone. He could have at least given me a warning that someone was coming around while I was trying to finger myself. Chivalry is dead, I tell yah. I watch his reflection on the window. He’s very much into whatever he’s drinking and nothing else. Since he’s not donning a bespoke suit, my guess is he’s on this flight for pleasure and not business. As for me, I’m in it for neither. It’s an act of rebellion…against what? I’m not even sure I know, yet. To forget past mistakes perhaps.

  The attendant arrives a minute later and hands us our drinks. I quietly thank her and she scurries off to the next row. I sip the liquid slowly and the rich amber cognac burns down my throat. I hold off a cough and breathe the bouquet in before I take a longer sip. Mr. Sex on the Beach and I drown ourselves with our drinks, with the hum of the plane’s engine, whispered conversations and low snores as our soundtrack.

  Two more glasses and I’m out like a log.

  It’s not the screaming or incessant alerts and beeping that wakes me soon after. “Wake up,” Mr. Sex on the Beach repeats as he shakes my arm, “Wake up!”

  “What?” A piercing headache blinds me as I open my eyes to chaos. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know, but we have to…” He gets cut off when oxygen masks fall in front of our faces. My eyes widen and I’m no longer hung-over. I’m wide awake and holy shit…I’m gonna die!

  I watch my neighbor in fear as he dons the mask. My ears are ringing and I have a death grip on the seat. My heart’s ready to explode, and my throat is about to close up even though I’m hyperventilating. What is going on?

  He grabs the mask in front of me and makes sure I have his attention. His words a mere mumble behind the mask. I nod anyway. He slips the mask on me, and then checks my seatbelt. I look out the window one last time and I wish I hadn’t. The sky is alight with fierce lightning. We are engulfed in a storm. An announcement goes through the haziness in my head telling us about a right engine failure. Smoke starts to fill the cabin.

  I’m too single to die, is the last pathetic thing I can think of before I grab my ankles and bury my face on my lap, and all I can hear is the errant instruction: Brace brace brace!

  My feet are on solid ground. I can’t stop staring at the spotted tiles beneath me. I don’t know where my other shoe went, and I don’t know where I am, but my feet are on the ground. A bottled water appears before me.

  “Here,” he says. I look up to my bearded seat mate and mouth a ‘thank you’. He nods and covers me with a gray blanket smelling of dust. “Drink as much as you can. You’re in shock. It will take a bit of time to wear off. Has anyone checked on you, yet?”

  “Who?” My voice shakes. I don’t recognize it.

  “EMT? Are you hurt anywhere?” He sits beside me, placing a hand on each cheek and letting his fingers crawl up my head and through my hair. I wince when he presses on a tender spot. “Sorry. That hurts?”

  “Just a little.”

  “You’re not bleeding. That’s good.” How is he so calm?

  “I think I bumped my head somewhere.”

  “Does it hurt anywhere else?” I shake my head, even though doing so exacerbates the ache in my head. He lifts my chin up with a finger and holds up another in front of me. “Without moving your head, follow my finger.” I do as he says like a good girl who just survived an emergency plane landing.

  “Are you a doctor?”

  “No. Honestly I have no idea what I’m doing, but I saw the EMTs do it.” He chuckles. At least he’s being honest.

  “Well you’re good at it.” He offers me a tight smile as he sweeps his long hair off his face. I wonder briefly what I look like at the moment. Probably like Death. Hmmm, nice choice of word, Ingrid.

  He stands, rubbing a hand over his tired, yet still gorgeous face. “I’ll check with them again to see what’s next. Stay put. Drink your water. I’ll be back. They’re probably figuring out another flight for us.”

  Another flight? Hell no. “Wait.” My hand shoots out from the blanket and I grab his arm. “I’m not flying on a plane.”

  “Don’t you want to go home?” His voice is a bit mocking, but I ignore it.

  “Yeah, but not by a plane.”

  He ponders on this with his bottom lip stuck between his teeth, while he looks around. The airport is more chaotic than ever. The agent’s desks are crowded with worried and angry people. Children are crying all around us. And one woman is a hysterical mess.

  I stare at her and I want to say, I’m with you. You’re my people. I may look calm right now but inside, I’m about to lose my shit.

  “You’re headed to Chicago?” he finally asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Me too. I’ll see what’s available for us.”

  Us. It’s a sweet word. Unexpected. Comforting.

  He’s a stranger. Even after saving my life, I only know him as Mr. Sex on the Beach with Tom Hiddleston’s voice without the accent. I know he smells like coconuts. I know he likes cognac. I know he saves damsels in distress. This damsel.

  It’s not often I find myself in need of saving, but I’m glad he’s around.

  He returns nearly half an hour later. It would’ve been useful to have my phone. I’m guessing it flew out of my purse when we disembarked the plane. I pull my purse out from under the hard seat and hug it to my chest. There’s nothing in it worth saving, except my ID and passport. Even those are replaceable. That’s how my life is. Replaceable. I can be erased and I can count on one hand the number of people who will truly miss me.

  What have these months of celibacy taught me? That I can give myself an orgasm more than any man I’ve ever been with. For a few years, I’ve jumped from one relationship to another without
consideration of consequences.

  As I raise my head, I see Mr. Sex on the Beach walking towards me. I bet he’s got a slew of women who’d put up shrines for him if he’d died on the plane. He looks like sin and fantasy rolled into one. A faint smile appears on his lips. He’s much younger than the men I’ve been involved with. But there’s no doubt in my mind that he’s just as experienced as they are, if not more. The swagger says it all. Confident, unhurried, self-assured.

  “Good news and bad news. Which one would you like to hear first?” he asks when he stops in front of me. His chambray shirt is wrinkled and there’s a stain, which suspiciously looks like dried blood, on his jeans. I shrug as a reply. Right now, my life is in his hands. “There won’t be another flight until tomorrow, which should be enough time to calm you down. I tried finding a rental car but they’re all out.” He sighs deeply before continuing, and stuffs his hands into his pockets. He seems almost…shy as he hangs his head and stares at the floor. “I found a hotel nearby, but they only have one available room.”

  “Okay.”

  He returns his gaze to me. There’s unspoken intensity in them. In him. “I think there’s only one bed but I can sleep on the couch, if there’s one. Or on the floor.“

  “I said okay.” I test my legs, checking to see if they’re still shaky.

  “You need shoes.”

  “I have extras in my luggage…wherever they are.”

  “They must’ve gotten lost in the mix. We can call tomorrow. Let’s go find you shoes.” He extends his hand and I don’t hesitate to take it, holding onto it like a life raft. It feels good. Normal. And that’s something I haven’t had in my life.

  2

  I giggle snort as we stand in front of the hotel room door, swaying to a tune only I can hear. He gives me a shake of his head.

  “You should have had more food than drinks.”

  “I—I—I,” I pause, raising my index finger before continuing, “survived a plane crash. I have to celebrate!” I slur the words. Thankfully, he’s more entertained than annoyed.

  He taps the keycard over the lock and opens the door wide for me. “It was hardly a crash.”

  “Po-ta-to. Po-ta-toh.” I flick all the light switches on in the room.

  “Come on in, Miss Can’t Handle Her Booze Well.”

  I stand as straight as I possibly can and let the door shut behind me. “You say that to my face, Henrik.”

  “I did say it to your face, Ingrid.” He reaches up to brush a strand of hair off my forehead. “You’re too drunk to see what’s in front of you.”

  His tone, the way he slides the side of his hand down my cheek, the redness of his lips surrounded by dark facial hair sober me up in a flash. I’m not too drunk to miss the tip of his tongue darting out between his lips. Or ignore the change of the rhythm of his breaths. But as quickly as they appear, they’re gone. And he’s back to his serious self.

  Other than his first name, I’ve also discovered that he’s a closed book, and a smile or laughter is a rarity for him. Standing this close to him, I see the exhaustion on his face, marked with a struggle he doesn’t want to voice out.

  “You wanna shower first or should I?” he asks, looking away.

  “You can go first.” He doesn’t say more. He turns around, and begins to undress as he pads his way to the bathroom.

  I rub my hands over my face and slap my cheeks. I’m in a hotel room with a stranger and all I can think of is following him into the shower. It’s unlike the Ingrid I know. I don’t do one-night stands. I don’t do long relationships either, but it’s not like I’ve ever been given that choice. Those previous relationships are what led me to where I am now. I live to see another day. I get to celebrate my life. And I want to celebrate it on my back with Henrik buried inside me. Is that so wrong?

  There’s only one way to find out.

  Steam billows from the shower stall. My feet adjust to the coolness of the tiled floor. His back faces me. And what a back it is. I lick my lips, and shed the rest of my inhibitions along with my lace panties.

  When I open the shower door, he looks over his shoulder, but he doesn’t seem surprised to see me here. Naked. For a moment, I gulp at the intensity in his eyes. The water hits the expanse of his shoulders and flows down the line of his spine, all the way to one hella sexy ass. He splays his hands on the shower walls as I walk further in. My chest rises and falls as my heart thrums to a faster beat. His eyes travel up and down my body, and when they stop on my lips, I shudder.

  Henrik looks away, and pulls his soaked hair back with his hands. “Are you sure you want to be here?” His arm and back muscles ripple as he washes shampoo off his hair.

  I nod, and when I realize he can’t see me, I find my voice. “Yes.” Slowly, I place a hand on his left shoulder.

  Before I can utter another word, my back hits the cool wall tiles, such a contrast to the searing, hot muscles suddenly glued to my front. Henrik cups my chin and the back of my neck as he devours my mouth. I wrap my arms around his neck, over his broad shoulders, not letting a single inch come between us, his erection mashed against my stomach. With a flat hand on my neck, he urges me to open up to him and let his tongue explore the column of my throat, let him nip the skin over my collarbone and finally find my pert nipples.

  As he covers one areola with his mouth, Henrik takes one of my hands and guides it between us. First, letting me feel the hardness of his length, then leading my fingers to where I’m soaked, and not simply because of the shower.

  He steps back, pressing both his fingers and mine to my clit.

  “Play with yourself,” is his low, guttural order.

  “I—” I hesitate, but he keeps my hand on me.

  “Do it. I know you want to. I’ve wanted to watch you since you started finger fucking yourself on the plane.” I gasp. Henrik lowers his head and peers at me from under his lashes. “You don’t think I noticed. I’ve never seen anything or anyone hotter.”

  He rests a hand over my head and captures my lips with his again. This time, he slips a finger into my pussy. And I arch my back off the wall. With my eyes now tightly shut, I continue circling my own thumb around my clit.

  “That’s it. Keep going.” I’ve never had a man make me come like this. But when Henrik adds another finger, I’m lost. He grabs my other hand and it glides smoothly down his shaft.

  I’m good with my hands. I’ve always been good with my hands. Except, I’m nothing compared to what he’s doing to me. There’s a build up in my lower belly. I open my legs a little more and accept a third finger from him. In another second, there’s an explosion of emotion within me, as I gush between my thighs, on his fingers.

  He catches me in his strong arm when my legs begin to tremble. I open my eyes to his searing gaze. He’s taken all three fingers that were inside me and lifts them to his lips, licking each one.

  I’m trying to catch my breath through the stream of the hot water. But when Henrik asks, “You ready for more?” I try to sputter a response.

  “Yes. More. Now.”

  He helps me wrap my legs around his waist, and lifts my ass with one steady hand. I find his lips, tasting my own essence on them, and moan out loud when without hesitation, he pierces through me.

  I have a tight grip on his hair, getting tighter when he pounds into me. His guttural groans are music to my ears and I supply my own music in our symphony with pants and moans.

  “Fuck, Ingrid,” he whispers against my neck. There’s no sound sweeter than a man so lost in you that all he can do is say your name.

  He thrusts harder and harder, until my whole back is flat against the wall, and I’m trying to find a grip on the slick wall otherwise I’m afraid I’d pull all his hair off.

  “I’m ready. It’s there,” I tell him, and somehow, he finds more strength to rut into me. “There. I’m there. I’m there.”

  We both are. I shout his name as I come, and he does the same, even though he pulls out and I feel his cock throbbi
ng under my pussy.

  I wake in a jolt, feeling like I’m falling. Momentarily, I’m lost. I don’t know where I am, and I don’t know whose hand is on my breast. I narrow my eyes, letting them adjust to the dark. Henrik doesn’t stir beside me. His breathing is steady, calm. How does he not have nightmares after what we’ve been through?

  If it wasn’t for the unbelievable sex, I don’t think I would’ve gotten a wink. My mind races through the events of the night. And with them comes regret.

  As quietly and carefully as I can, I remove his hand from my chest, and I slip out of bed. My clothes are in a heap by the bathroom door. Hurriedly, I dress back into my old clothes. They smell like the airplane and alcohol. They don’t smell like me, because even I am not me. Not tonight, at least.

  It was someone else who slept with Henrik. It was another Ingrid who had the courage to follow him to the shower. It was the Ingrid who has dreams, not nightmares.

  I spot my purse on the desk, and I grab it. With one last look behind me, I take all of Henrik in – his naked chest, the shape of his muscular legs under the sheets, even his unkempt hair on the pillow. He’s nowhere close to the type of man I would date. He’s someone else’s dream man. The other Ingrid’s dream guy.

  But that’s the thing with dreams, or nightmares. At some point, I wake up and have to face reality.

  3

  A week later…

  Going up the elevator still gives me mini-heart attacks even after all this time. But it’s time to face the inevitable—my return to work.

  If I hadn’t received that email from my assistant, I wouldn’t be here today.

  He made the new guy the project manager.

  It has angered me so much that I didn’t bother with the rest of my leave. It’s hard to be taken seriously by a pig-headed, chauvinistic, mysoginist boss. It doesn’t matter how much talent or how my skills surpass anyone around me—man or woman, all he sees is a young woman trying to play with the big boys of his firm. Unfortunately, I’ve gotten used to this. First, people had a hard time seeing through the fog of trust fund baby aura around me. When I manage to prove myself worthy of a position as lead in any design project, it’s still not enough because I’m a skirt. Well, this skirt has something up my sleeve.