Forbidden Fix (Executive Toy Book 6)

by Cleo Peitsche

  Hell, I can’t inhale now, when he’s only partially inside, but at least when he rocks back, I can gasp fresh air.

  He wraps his fist around the bottom of his shaft, and then… He fucks my mouth with abandon.

  Each thrust smashes the ring formed by his thumb and index finger up against my mouth, and within seconds my lips are numb.

  I don’t care.

  Having Romeo fuck my face like this is worth it.

  And the noises he makes, the curses, the Fuck, that feels good and the Goddamn, suck me… I love it.

  “I’m gonna fuck you a little deeper,” he says.

  Between his grunted words and the loud rush of blood in my ears, I can barely understand him.

  “You know what to do if you can’t take it,” he says, and I give him a trembling thumbs-up to indicate that I’m fine, mostly.

  “Deep breath,” he says, pulling out of me, and I suck down air. My eyes fix on his swollen balls.

  Then he rams in, going deeper. The laptop and phone shake on the desk. He fills my throat completely. His shaft is so wide.

  I feel him pulsing, twitching like he came. But he didn’t. And the bottom third of him still won’t fit.

  His fingers caress my cheek.

  He pulls back a bit and begins to thrust, his fist again around the base of his cock.

  “Almost there,” he says in little gasps. “You’re doing great.” The reassurances turn into wordless shouts as his cock shudders in my mouth. I see his balls jerking as he unloads into me, and I feel his shaft shuddering, like a massage, in my throat.

  For all the raw dirtiness of what we’re doing, this is also intimate.

  He sighs, and all the tension leaves his body. As he pulls out, salty traces of him drag across my tongue.

  He tucks himself away, and I catch my breath. The trembling of my muscles will take longer to quiet down. If I weren’t so comfortable with him, what just happened could have been a disaster.

  How fitting that we’re in his home office, the one place in his life that isn’t optimized for productivity, the place that’s surrounded by old books he once loved.

  “Go upstairs and shower. I’ll have your afternoon dress waiting on the bed.” He helps me to my feet, and I squeeze my thighs together to stop a deluge of my own excitement from gushing everywhere.

  I’m only moderately successful.

  Romeo opens a drawer and finds some tissues. I expect him to hand them to me, but instead he drops into a crouch.

  “Open your legs,” he says, and I groan.

  He doesn’t wait for me to comply. He shoves my ankles apart and begins cleaning up.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. How many levels of intimacy are we going to crash through today? The way he takes care of me…

  The phone vibrates loudly against the desk.

  As he twists to answer it, I decide this is my last chance to get a look at that photo… I take a quick step to the side.

  For a brief moment, I’m relieved. It’s just Romeo, his arm around a woman who looks a lot like him.

  But even as I’m taking in her symmetrical face, thick hair, and high cheekbones, I’m already becoming aware of the third person in the photo.

  The other woman he has his arm around.

  One who most certainly isn’t his sister; he’s only got the one, and anyway this woman looks nothing like him.

  She’s stunning. Wide-set eyes, sculpted cheekbones, thick eyelashes that I would kill for, and a small chin. A heart-shaped face framed by tawny hair. Feminine and delicate.

  It has to be Leona.

  But she couldn’t handle him, I tell myself. You can. It matters.

  Maybe it matters.

  But just because I’m the woman slutty enough to handle him, to take whatever my bosses can dish out, doesn’t mean I’m the one they would choose.

  It stings.

  Romeo begins to straighten, and I jerk back so quickly that I lose my balance.

  My arms windmill, and maybe it would be funny except I land on my ass hard enough to drive the air out of my lungs, to make my teeth rattle.

  “Lindsay?” Romeo’s already kneeling beside me. “What happened?”

  I shake my head.

  His hands float over me. He’s not sure why I fell, and he doesn’t know where to touch, what to fix. He’s careful. He… cares.

  But I already knew how he feels. He pretty much told me.

  And then Slade told me that Romeo still has feelings for their ex. The photo on Romeo’s desk drives it home in a visceral way that I can’t ignore.

  “What happened?” he repeats. His eyebrows are drawn together in concern. My silence is scaring him, I realize.

  “Nothing. I wasn’t paying attention, and I fell over nothing.”

  “Hm.” It’s not exactly an acceptance of what I said, but it seems he’s willing to drop it.

  His large hands work down my right leg, then the left one, assessing me.

  Once he’s satisfied that I don’t need to be rushed to the hospital, he helps me to my feet.

  I clumsily stumble into him, which is a bit like stumbling into a wall… a warm one that smells nice, but a wall nonetheless.

  “Go shower,” he says.

  When I turn, he slaps my ass, and I jump.

  I don’t know if he was being playful or exerting his dominance, but as I walk to the door, I put a little extra sway in my hips.

  The heat from his palm stays with me all the way down the hallway and up the stairs.

  Chapter 6

  After I shower, Romeo and I make sandwiches for lunch. Unfortunately, he’s on the phone the whole time, so it’s not exactly romantic.

  Afterward, we return to the office in the city.

  When we reach our floor, the clones insist on doing a sweep. I want to point out that there are plenty of employees around who would have noticed ominous strangers—assuming the strangers could have gotten past the increased building security.

  Romeo waits beside me, and I keep stealing little glances at him.

  With nothing to distract me, I can’t stop thinking about his ex.

  He loved that woman. He fell for her, and I wonder why.

  Obviously she’s gorgeous, and it’s impossible that she has as much baggage as I do.

  But other than that?

  Slade said she’s clever and generous. Is she extroverted? Serious? Does she like opera or have unexpected piercings?

  What kind of woman could steal Romeo’s heart?

  And deep down, underneath all my layers of bullshit, is there any chance that I might be… like her?

  It’s stupid, I know.

  I’m just supposed to be myself, and he’ll fall for me. Or something like that.

  I think about how he doesn’t allow me to initiate our kisses. I’ve always assumed it was some dominant thing, and I’m sure it is… but it makes me wonder if he doesn’t want me getting too close to him.

  Maybe what he said the night he had me tied up in his house was as much as he’s allowing himself to feel. He said that he wasn’t expecting me.

  Reading between the lines, I thought… I hoped…

  But then there’s what Slade said.

  It would be easy to ask Romeo. Do you want your ex back? Could you fall for me? Maybe not in the office, with the receptionists sitting at their double workstation and other employees strolling by.

  My spirit flagging, my mind drifts to the problems I’ve been avoiding. Layla. I need to figure out a way to get her that money. I want to ask about the plan with my grandfather, but I can’t do it here.

  Romeo turns to me suddenly. “What you said earlier, and your apology, I don’t accept it.”

  I feel my eyes go wide.

  “You have nothing to apologize for,” he continues. “None of this is your fault, and our decision to get involved is ours. Not yours. Now we’re all in this together, and we have no regrets.”

  I don’t quite know what to say, but I realize it’s the perfect time
to tell him about Layla’s email.

  But I don’t get a chance before Hawthorne saunters up.

  He’s close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. His expression is cool, dispassionate as he sizes me up. “Nice dress,” he says, referring to the fact that my sexy tight skirt and stilettos have been replaced by a quiet gray dress with a higher neckline and three-quarter sleeves.

  I don’t mind the modest clothing I always wear in the afternoons. At first I did, but not anymore. The dress is still sexy, just a little quieter. Still, there’s no reason for Hawthorne to know that.

  Try as I might, I can’t come up with a suitable insult. The things that do pop into my mind will get me fired. Hawthorne and his spotted ties, and his aloof manner, and his impeccable hair.

  I don’t think there will ever be a time when he doesn’t infuriate me to some extent. He’s the epitome of masculine arrogance and entitlement. Sometimes I wonder how the hell he became friends with Slade and Romeo.

  Hopefully not just because they all like shoving their cocks into the same woman. I mean, would a penchant for sharing women be enough to cement years of friendship?

  “Did everything go smoothly?” Romeo asks Hawthorne.

  He nods.

  My eyes narrow. “Is this about you-know-who? What’s the latest on that?”

  “Not the place to discuss this,” Hawthorne says.

  In other words, there is news. Is it good or bad? I can’t tell.

  One of the clones returns. “All clear,” he says, taking up a position by the door.

  “I left notes on your desk,” Hawthorne tells me. “Someone approached us about funding a scholarship. I want you to look into it and make a report.”

  In other words, don’t even think about asking for a status update again.

  “We’re supposed to be discussing any big developments,” I say.

  Hawthorne looks at his watch, then at me. “The people you need to talk to are in London. If you wait too long, their offices will be closed.” A wicked smile plays on his lips. “Or you can call first thing tomorrow, their time. I know how much you love getting up early.”

  “We’ll talk later,” Romeo says, squeezing my arm.

  I watch my bosses walk away, and I wish I had something to throw at Hawthorne’s perfectly coiffed head.

  All the employees whose workstations are near mine are gone, out at lunch. My bosses keep trying to give me my own office, and I keep turning them down.

  For starters, I don’t want to rearrange my life around avoiding reminders of the night that Kidnapper Joe abducted me from my desk.

  But it’s more than that.

  After years of preferring to be alone, hidden away from the world, I’d rather be in the open. I’ve spent too many nights locked in partially furnished apartments, afraid to go out simply because someone on the street looked at me a second too long.

  It’s part of the reason I chose to start dressing provocatively. Sexy clothes, no matter how classy, present a certain image.

  Hiding in plain sight.

  But it didn’t stop a matted-haired kitten from recognizing me as a kindred lost spirit. It didn’t stop my bosses from seeing me, even though I tried my best to hide from them.

  I shake my head. I’m not sure why I’m so philosophical today.

  Maybe, I think, I’m a philosophical person deep down, and just never knew it because I was always too busy worrying about other things.

  So where would I rank on Maslow’s hierarchy?

  Not the top. Not self-actualized or even close to it. My bosses are protecting me from my grandfather. Now all four of us are hiding in plain sight.

  But we can’t go on like this forever. If we can’t take him down…

  The temp who sits at the desk a few over from me returns from her lunch. She’s carrying a cardboard six-pack of bottles… It looks like beer.

  She slides it onto my desk with a rattling thump. “Congratulations!”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “I won it at the deli,” she says, “but I’m trying to go sugar-free for ninety days.” She makes a little pout.

  “Thanks,” I say, rotating the box. It’s root beer, and I can’t help feeling a little disappointed. “What was the contest?”

  “Business card draw. The better prize was a catered party for the office, but oh well. It’s not like security would allow caterers up here anyway.” She wanders to her desk.

  I pick up my phone and start making phone calls.

  After an hour, I need a break, so I pull out one of the sodas and set it next to my keyboard. I tuck the box under my arm. I’m not on a diet, but no one needs to guzzle gallons of sugar.

  I leave two of the bottles with Eliza and Paula, the receptionists, then continue down toward the executive offices.

  Hawthorne’s assistant is away, probably hiding from him. For her, I should have bought real beer. I leave a soda on her desk, and another for Slade’s assistant, then continue down to Romeo’s office.

  Tamara is at her desk, but she’s standing, leaning over like she needs to run off but can’t pull herself away from the computer. She holds up a finger when she sees me.

  I slide the last soda onto her desk.

  “Wait a sec,” she says. “Just…” She’s too distracted by whatever’s on her screen to formulate a complete sentence.

  While I wait, I collapse the bottle carrier and duck into a conference room to drop it into a recycling bin.

  The room is empty, but the lights are on and papers are spread across the table.

  Curious to know which project it is, I close one of the folders. There’s no label on the front.

  Tamara rushes in. “I told you to wait!” she practically yells, eyes wide. “You can’t be in here.”

  “Why can’t I be in here?” At this point, everyone in the office is well aware that I spend a lot of time with the bosses. There aren’t any areas that are off limits to me.

  Especially a conference room with the door open.

  Tamara is blinking. “You just can’t,” she says.

  I shrug. “Ok. Anyway, I was just bringing you a soda. What did you need?”

  “Oh…” she says. “I… I thought you were on your way down here. I don’t need anything except to keep everyone out of this room.” She doesn’t touch me, but instead uses her body to herd me into the hall.

  “If it’s that top secret, consider locking the door,” I say, irritated.

  “It was locked, but I had to… oh, never mind. Thanks for the soda.”

  As I walk past her desk, I check on the prickly cactus that sits on one corner. It’s still there, still wearing a sombrero, but one of the goggly eyes seems to have slid down a bit.

  “I think Hawthorne needs to see an ophthalmologist,” I tell Tamara.

  Even though I nod my head at the plant—or maybe because I do—she gives me a funny look.

  As I walk away, I think it’s sad that she’s so busy and stressed out all the time. Romeo runs himself into the ground, and he expects a lot from his employees, but he’s really a great boss. Maybe I should suggest he hire a second assistant.

  I return to my desk, but instead of resuming my projects, I find myself fiddling with my cell phone. I head to the bathroom, the one that always smells like baby powder, near the front of the office.

  There’s really only one person I should be calling: Layla.

  But I’m not ready to call her.

  Instead, I dial Romeo’s number. If my bosses are doing a new acquisition but haven’t consulted me, I want to know why.

  “Good afternoon. Romeo Wood Bison’s office,” Tamara says.

  “Hello,” I say. I drop my voice a full octave and add a southern drawl for good measure. “I’m a courier, and I’ve got a package down here for Wood Bison.”

  “One of the security guards can sign for it,” she says.

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” I say. “We need the signature of someone at the company. It’s policy
. Can you tell security to let me come up?”

  She sighs. “We’ve been under martial law the last few weeks. I’ll run down.”

  Ok, so I do feel a little guilty about lying to her, and what I’m about to do is worse than lying, but… I can’t help myself.

  Next I dial down to the building management. It only takes a moment to tell them that someone is coming down for our packages. With a little luck, Tamara will just assume that the courier got tired of waiting. They often do that.

  Cracking the door, I wait for Tamara to scurry past. After she does, I count to fifteen, then slide into the hall.

  Tamara is nowhere in sight. Hawthorne’s assistant is chatting with the receptionists.

  I hurry past them.

  The conference room door is closed, but I know where Tamara hides her keys.

  My heart pounds in my throat as I squat down and thrust an arm under her desk. The magnet is halfway back, out of sight but well within reach. I pull the keys free.

  Of course the conference room is the last key I try. Luckily, no one comes down the hall—just the thought of Hawthorne strolling by is enough to make me want to run to the bathroom.

  The door finally opens.

  I leave the keys in the lock. After all, I’m only planning to take a fast look and see what the fuss is about.

  Quickly, I flip open the folder I was looking at when Tamara kicked me out.

  It’s something about investing in the reconstruction of a racetrack.

  I frown as I drop it back onto the table. That’s not the kind of business that my bosses usually invest in, but I guess they’re diversifying. Or maybe it belongs to one of the companies they own individually.

  Actually, I’m glad they don’t have me consulting on it. Racetracks make me think of my grandfather, of his gambling problems…

  I open the folder again.

  This time, I concentrate on the details. I don’t recognize any of the business names. Not the buyer, not the seller. Good. That means my plausible deniability is intact. Though I’d lie under oath. My grandfather has made me do it plenty of times already.

  The clock is ticking.

  As I turn to go out, I notice that one of the folders is thicker than the others. Cursing my curiosity, I reach for it and take a look inside.