like.
Preparing for the merger meant long tedious meetings and interminable days filled with paperwork and positioning. It meant adjusting my schedule and working late. Going in early. It meant avoiding him on the elevator. So I embraced it.
And it worked. For a while. About a week. But then suddenly he found me again.
I was returning from a grueling day in the salt mines. My dogs were barking in my Jimmy Choos, my back hurt from sitting in meetings all day long and I was beat. What I really wanted was a glass of wine and a hot, hot bath.
The last thing I wanted to deal with was him for a hundred floors.
But this time it was worse.
This time he had a floozy with him.
“Floozy” being the term I use for a woman wearing too much makeup and too little clothing.
Of course, the undulating didn’t help deter the stereotype.
I would never have stepped on the elevator if I’d seen them. In fact, I’d taken to peering around the corner like a timid little mouse to make sure the coast was clear.
And it had been. With a sigh of relief, I’d stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for my floor. But just as the doors started to slide shut, a large hand stopped them. His hand.
I bit my lip to hold back a curse.
Where the hell had he come from? Where the hell had they come from?
He held open the door and ushered his floozy inside. I ignored them both. I ignored the annoying lurch in my belly as well. I didn’t care that he had a floozy. I didn’t. He was not my type.
It was like a mantra in my head. I hoped if I repeated it often enough, I would come to believe it.
As the elevator silently shushed its way up to the exclusive suites in the ether, I stared at the chrome, at the vague reflection of their bodies twining.
I tapped my toe and glared at the lights—moving, as they were, all too slowly.
He kissed her neck. An annoying sucking noise made me inadvertently glance in their direction. And immediately wish I hadn’t.
He buried his nose deeper and she rubbed against him like a cat.
Forcing my attention away, I glared at their reflections instead.
And then my heart stuttered, my lungs seized. Because in that distorted image, his hand skated up her torso like a heat-seeking missile. He cupped her breast as casually as if he were cupping her elbow. Circled her nipple. Pinched. She sobbed and rubbed her legs together.
He chuckled and whispered something into her ear. She froze. Shuddered.
I wasn’t watching.
I didn’t want to watch.
I certainly didn’t notice from the corner of my eye that his other hand had drifted down her back, over her silk-clad buttocks to her bare thighs.
I didn’t notice him drifting up again, under her short skirt and into darkness. I didn’t. I refused to acknowledge a sudden scalding vision.
His fingers. On my slit.
But my body wept.
She didn’t squeal when he touched her, when he did whatever it was he was doing down there. But only because her lips were pressed together so tight they were white. Her nostrils flared. Her nipples pebbled. Her knees trembled.
He held her up. With his fingers.
Wherever they were.
He worked at her, coaxing moans and mewls.
And while he worked at her, he watched me not watching him in the chrome.
It didn’t arouse me to witness this naked seduction. That was not cream easing from my lips to dampen my inner thighs. The pulse, the hard, fast, insistent pulse between my legs was not because I was imagining him doing secret furtive things to me.
Dear God. Please end this torture.
I nearly collapsed with relief when the elevator dinged.
Somehow—I really cannot fathom how—he got to the door before me and blocked the way. He glanced at me, making sure our eye contact was definitive. His expression went firm, determined. I thought I saw a flash, a brief hint of uncertainty, of hesitation, but surely I was mistaken. Whatever it had been, it quickly firmed to resolve.
And then he made an abrupt gesture to his companion.
She paled.
Preparing for the merger meant long tedious meetings and interminable days filled with paperwork and positioning. It meant adjusting my schedule and working late. Going in early. It meant avoiding him on the elevator. So I embraced it.
And it worked. For a while. About a week. But then suddenly he found me again.
I was returning from a grueling day in the salt mines. My dogs were barking in my Jimmy Choos, my back hurt from sitting in meetings all day long and I was beat. What I really wanted was a glass of wine and a hot, hot bath.
The last thing I wanted to deal with was him for a hundred floors.
But this time it was worse.
This time he had a floozy with him.
“Floozy” being the term I use for a woman wearing too much makeup and too little clothing.
Of course, the undulating didn’t help deter the stereotype.
I would never have stepped on the elevator if I’d seen them. In fact, I’d taken to peering around the corner like a timid little mouse to make sure the coast was clear.
And it had been. With a sigh of relief, I’d stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for my floor. But just as the doors started to slide shut, a large hand stopped them. His hand.
I bit my lip to hold back a curse.
Where the hell had he come from? Where the hell had they come from?
He held open the door and ushered his floozy inside. I ignored them both. I ignored the annoying lurch in my belly as well. I didn’t care that he had a floozy. I didn’t. He was not my type.
It was like a mantra in my head. I hoped if I repeated it often enough, I would come to believe it.
As the elevator silently shushed its way up to the exclusive suites in the ether, I stared at the chrome, at the vague reflection of their bodies twining.
I tapped my toe and glared at the lights—moving, as they were, all too slowly.
He kissed her neck. An annoying sucking noise made me inadvertently glance in their direction. And immediately wish I hadn’t.
He buried his nose deeper and she rubbed against him like a cat.
Forcing my attention away, I glared at their reflections instead.
And then my heart stuttered, my lungs seized. Because in that distorted image, his hand skated up her torso like a heat-seeking missile. He cupped her breast as casually as if he were cupping her elbow. Circled her nipple. Pinched. She sobbed and rubbed her legs together.
He chuckled and whispered something into her ear. She froze. Shuddered.
I wasn’t watching.
I didn’t want to watch.
I certainly didn’t notice from the corner of my eye that his other hand had drifted down her back, over her silk-clad buttocks to her bare thighs.
I didn’t notice him drifting up again, under her short skirt and into darkness. I didn’t. I refused to acknowledge a sudden scalding vision.
His fingers. On my slit.
But my body wept.
She didn’t squeal when he touched her, when he did whatever it was he was doing down there. But only because her lips were pressed together so tight they were white. Her nostrils flared. Her nipples pebbled. Her knees trembled.
He held her up. With his fingers.
Wherever they were.
He worked at her, coaxing moans and mewls.
And while he worked at her, he watched me not watching him in the chrome.
It didn’t arouse me to witness this naked seduction. That was not cream easing from my lips to dampen my inner thighs. The pulse, the hard, fast, insistent pulse between my legs was not because I was imagining him doing secret furtive things to me.
Dear God. Please end this torture.
I nearly collapsed with relief when the elevator dinged.
Somehow—I really cannot fathom how—he got to the door before me and blocked the way. He glanced at me, making sure our eye contact was definitive. His expression went firm, determined. I thought I saw a flash, a brief hint of uncertainty, of hesitation, but surely I was mistaken. Whatever it had been, it quickly firmed to resolve.
And then he made an abrupt gesture to his companion.
She paled.
Similar Books
