I stared at him, knowing I resembled an enraptured puppy, but unable to help it. Unbelievably, he gazed right back. Soft green eyes mesmerised me. After what felt like ten minutes, I found my voice again. “I think I’ll wait here until my boo—sweater dries.”
“I understand.” His focus never left my face. “We don’t want to start any lactating rumours.”
“No. It takes a long time for those to go away—I know from experience.”
Sam chuckled, flashing the dimple again.
What happened next was one hundred per cent the dimple’s fault—the evil dent winked in his cheek like a boozy lounge singer, urging me to bad behaviour.
I reached up his five-nine or so height and pulled the collar of his green shirt down to my five-foot lip level to kiss him.
He smelt divine—shaving cream and man skin. An enticing combination. His lips were soft and surprised at first, but soon parted to allow my exploration. Sweet. He tasted sweet, warm, delicious. Oh, God.
My fantasies about kissing him were pale, pathetic compared to the real thing. Sparks flew from my lips through my veins to my toes, singeing various important parts in between. The sudden heat emanating from his talented mouth made me dizzy. Blood pounding, I clutched him harder to remain upright. This was not an ordinary kiss. This was a masterpiece painted by the two of us.
I let his shirt go before his lips.
His hazy gaze melted into mine. “I should be inappropriate more often.”
“I wrinkled your nice green shirt.” I smoothed the cloth over his chest—his solid, inviting, muscled, taut… What on earth is going on? Oh, yes, I’ve messed up his shirt.
“I don’t care. Do you like it?” His eyebrows hovered upward, as if he really cared about me liking his clothes.
I dared a glance into his eyes again. I should learn not to do that. Warmth pooled in my stomach when he leaned in, desire writ large in the purse of his lips, the falling of his eyelashes. I gripped his shirt. I didn’t have to pull very hard—this time his arms locked around my waist and lifted me until I stood on his feet. On my tiptoes, I flicked my tongue across his bottom lip. Marvellous. With an approving grunt, he sucked on mine, and I heard myself moan into his open mouth. Accountants shouldn’t have such nice bodies, but I felt firm, delicious muscle when my belly pressed against his.
“Ahem.” We froze.
In slow motion, I turned around to find Scott, the company scumbag, leering. Scott made office irritation an art form by eavesdropping, rumour-mongering, licking his fingers and leaving messes in the communal microwave. He gave his best smarmy laugh before leaving.
Sam closed his eyes. “Crap.”
“Crap,” I agreed. “I should have taken you home, and then kissed you.”
Grinning, he said, “Samantha, I like you.”
He did? I held my breath. There was no candid camera. No pointing and/or laughing. A hot, normal guy liked me.
I did not believe that women should derive their self-worth from the approval of male persons. However, the dating scene in Los Angeles was…unique. It was riddled with loser actors, and loser producers, and loser losers and more tall, tanned silicone than you could shake a jiggling arm at. Let’s just say that pale, short girls who don’t speak Dipshit did not enjoy as robust a dating life as they might have desired. In other words, there were slim fucking pickings. Therefore, it was cause for real celebration when he continued—
“I have to ask you out now. For the office’s sake. To ensure a legacy of rakishness.”
“There aren’t enough old-fashioned rakes nowadays.”
His response was a leer Casanova would have envied.
This man caused my brain to revert to Primal Mode, where the animalistic priorities were food and sex. Usually food was my number one passion, but this man was locked in a dead heat with fried chicken. “I’m not really easy, you know.”
“Too bad. I am.”
Quite breathless, I smiled and stepped off his feet. Everyone knew what they said about large feet. That they were easy to stand on when you kissed the guy attached.
He tucked a tendril of hair behind my ear. I felt that shivery little touch like it was an earthquake. “Do you have the keys to Oliver’s office?” he asked.
“Oliver the CEO?”
“Yeah, I saw him leave.” He twirled a strand of my hair—it shimmered like gold against his skin, making me suddenly feel beautiful. It had been a while since that had happened. Leaning closer, he whispered, “His empty office might be a better place to…let your sweater dry. Besides, if we go back out to the buffet table everyone will stare.”
We wouldn’t want staring. Staring might impede the clandestine nakedness we planned to perpetrate. “I have the keys. I’ll meet you up there.”
Warning bells permeated the din of lust in my head. I knew I should not do this, but that damn dimple was a con man of the highest order. Later I would send a thousand dollars to a Nigerian prince because it asked me to.
I put my hand over my chest in a probably futile attempt to cover up the boob disaster and hurried to find my best friend, fellow office drone and love consultant Ellen. As I suspected, she occupied my old spot by the buffet tables. Great minds and all that. I hoped the food wouldn’t forget me now.
“Ellen!”
She paused mid-potato ball. She’d thank me later.
I pulled her into a nearby cube and shoved aside someone’s work papers to sit on the white, plastic counter. The files probably weren’t important. This was the Steak on a Stick corporation—the United Nations it was not. “Should I go make out with The Accountant?” I asked.
Her brown eyes narrowed. “You pulled me away from hot hors d’oeuvres to ask me that?”
“I fully deserve that reprimand, but this is important, too. Kissing or no kissing?” I didn’t mention that there had already been kissing. No need to complicate the matter.
She set her martini down and took on a more properly ponderous attitude. The politics of inter-office romance were tricky. “Kissing.”
I fist-pumped. “Yes!”
“But don’t screw him in the copy room. You’ll always be the girl who screwed a guy in the copy room. Remember poor Mary Lou and the supply closet?”
“That nickname was just evil. How come the men never get vile rhymes made up about them?”
Ellen was indeed wise. A few months ago, she’d sold a book—an awesome young adult novel about the zombie apocalypse starring a lesbian heroine named Samantha. Oh, yeah, I would forever be personified as the tough, yet sensitive saviour of humankind with a penchant for both justice and redheads.
“Where you gonna do it?” she asked.
“Oliver’s office.”
“Nope.”
“Why? It’s deserted. Oliver fled his unwashed minions an hour ago.”
She opened her mouth and closed it again, but the furrow between her eyebrows remained.
“Besides, he has couches.” I hoisted my boobs farther up in my push-up bra. Almost time for my pretties to shine!
“Do not have sex with that man in your boss’s office! You’d always be—”
“Yes, yes, I know. Besides, it would be slutty.”
Ellen pulled my sweater down so it stretched over my cleavage more. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Ellen was indeed wise.
“What’s going on with your boob there?” She pointed just as some guy passed by. He snickered and moved on. Now those gay rumours would circulate again. When they resurfaced I got hit on more by skeevy vice presidents who dreamed of getting to watch. I didn’t know if Ellen minded. She was a lesbian, so she didn’t care about that part. But perhaps she hated that people thought I was her main squeeze. She dated taller and cooler than me. Her words.
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About the Author
Geraldine O’Hara is a multi-published author in three pen names writing several genres. She lives with her husband, children, and three cats in an English village. Sh
e writes full time and is also a cover artist and blog designer. In another life she was an editor. Her other pen names are Natalie Dae and Sarah Masters.
Email: [email protected]
Geraldine loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.
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