again but this time directly, intimately, across the car. Tangled, tied.
His body stiffened, nostrils flared, pupils dilated. He leaned slightly, almost imperceptibly, toward me. His scent, his aura intensified. He held me immobile by the sheer power of his intent.
And then he licked his lips.
Something within me liquefied. My knees went weak and I nearly dropped my briefcase. Who knows what would have happed, what could have happened, if the elevator hadn’t opened at just that moment?
The welcome ding snapped me out of this lazy, hazy daze. I clutched my briefcase to my chest and rushed through the doors almost before they were open, doing a determined power walk to my penthouse.
He followed, slowly stalking. I didn’t hesitate. I waved my keycard over the lock and slipped inside. To safety.
I tried not to look back. Really. I did. It was only a quick glance but the sight of him standing next to his double-doored entrance, pinning me with a heavy-lidded gaze, rocketed through me like a fist to my solar plexus. There was heat in his eyes. And hunger. And certainty.
I shut the door, shutting him out. Shutting it out. He wasn’t my type. I wasn’t his.
A man like that could destroy the woman I was, melt the mask I had worked so hard to forge. I refused to think about him. I refused to want him.
I didn’t sleep all night.
Friday
He lounged, as he always did for our interminable ride, against the mirrored wall. He crossed one leg over the other and looped his arms over his chest. He surveyed my date—a long, lazy inspection. When he completed his appraisal, taking note of everything from the weak chin to the slightly scuffed loafers, he glanced at me, a grin tweaking his sinful lips.
And then he lifted a mocking brow as though to say, “Really?”
I turned to my date, Roger—or whatever his name was—and tugged on his tie. Surprised, bemused, he bent his head. I kissed his ass off.
I was still kissing him when the elevator dinged and the doors slid open. I kept kissing him, hoping my neighbor would take the hint and leave us in lip-locking peace.
I hoped in vain.
When I surfaced from the long, lingering kiss, which had been rather like licking a large-mouth bass, he was still there, propping the door open with an immaculately clad foot and watching with an amused expression.
“After you,” he said in a deep voice that sent rivulets of delight dancing to my cunt.
His words, as all his actions, seemed to carry weight, like they staggered under multiple meanings. After you were hardly bedroom words but he said them like that, filling my mind with visions of a couple—who looked remarkably like us—tangled in silken sheets.
“Come, come!” she cries in desperation. “Ah,” he murmurs, “after you.”
Huffing in disgust, I collected my prop—whatever his name was—and stormed to my penthouse. Waving my key a little more frantically than I needed to, I pushed through the door and dragged my date into the living room.
I didn’t want him there, sitting on my white leather couches or drinking my Cristal from my crystal, but he had to stay for a while. My neighbor might still be lurking in the hall. I couldn’t face the humiliation of his mocking smile.
So I let what’s-his-name stay. I let him kiss me and fondle me and drizzle me with sticky adoration. I let him fuck me. And I tried not to think about how it moved me less than a murmured, impersonal, “After you.”
The Next Friday
I started adjusting my schedule at work to avoid running into him on the elevator. Preparing for the merger helped immensely. Our company had just been gobbled up by a multinational owned by a reclusive billionaire—the usual drill. This guy had a history of taking jobs in the mailroom or the parking garage of companies he wanted to acquire to make sure it was a good deal. He got away with it because he guarded his privacy so jealously that very few people actually knew what he looked
His body stiffened, nostrils flared, pupils dilated. He leaned slightly, almost imperceptibly, toward me. His scent, his aura intensified. He held me immobile by the sheer power of his intent.
And then he licked his lips.
Something within me liquefied. My knees went weak and I nearly dropped my briefcase. Who knows what would have happed, what could have happened, if the elevator hadn’t opened at just that moment?
The welcome ding snapped me out of this lazy, hazy daze. I clutched my briefcase to my chest and rushed through the doors almost before they were open, doing a determined power walk to my penthouse.
He followed, slowly stalking. I didn’t hesitate. I waved my keycard over the lock and slipped inside. To safety.
I tried not to look back. Really. I did. It was only a quick glance but the sight of him standing next to his double-doored entrance, pinning me with a heavy-lidded gaze, rocketed through me like a fist to my solar plexus. There was heat in his eyes. And hunger. And certainty.
I shut the door, shutting him out. Shutting it out. He wasn’t my type. I wasn’t his.
A man like that could destroy the woman I was, melt the mask I had worked so hard to forge. I refused to think about him. I refused to want him.
I didn’t sleep all night.
Friday
He lounged, as he always did for our interminable ride, against the mirrored wall. He crossed one leg over the other and looped his arms over his chest. He surveyed my date—a long, lazy inspection. When he completed his appraisal, taking note of everything from the weak chin to the slightly scuffed loafers, he glanced at me, a grin tweaking his sinful lips.
And then he lifted a mocking brow as though to say, “Really?”
I turned to my date, Roger—or whatever his name was—and tugged on his tie. Surprised, bemused, he bent his head. I kissed his ass off.
I was still kissing him when the elevator dinged and the doors slid open. I kept kissing him, hoping my neighbor would take the hint and leave us in lip-locking peace.
I hoped in vain.
When I surfaced from the long, lingering kiss, which had been rather like licking a large-mouth bass, he was still there, propping the door open with an immaculately clad foot and watching with an amused expression.
“After you,” he said in a deep voice that sent rivulets of delight dancing to my cunt.
His words, as all his actions, seemed to carry weight, like they staggered under multiple meanings. After you were hardly bedroom words but he said them like that, filling my mind with visions of a couple—who looked remarkably like us—tangled in silken sheets.
“Come, come!” she cries in desperation. “Ah,” he murmurs, “after you.”
Huffing in disgust, I collected my prop—whatever his name was—and stormed to my penthouse. Waving my key a little more frantically than I needed to, I pushed through the door and dragged my date into the living room.
I didn’t want him there, sitting on my white leather couches or drinking my Cristal from my crystal, but he had to stay for a while. My neighbor might still be lurking in the hall. I couldn’t face the humiliation of his mocking smile.
So I let what’s-his-name stay. I let him kiss me and fondle me and drizzle me with sticky adoration. I let him fuck me. And I tried not to think about how it moved me less than a murmured, impersonal, “After you.”
The Next Friday
I started adjusting my schedule at work to avoid running into him on the elevator. Preparing for the merger helped immensely. Our company had just been gobbled up by a multinational owned by a reclusive billionaire—the usual drill. This guy had a history of taking jobs in the mailroom or the parking garage of companies he wanted to acquire to make sure it was a good deal. He got away with it because he guarded his privacy so jealously that very few people actually knew what he looked
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