Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 35073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 175(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 175(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
“Sometimes,” I whisper, brushing my thumb over his wrist and listening to him suck in a jagged breath. “Would you like me to be there?”
“Yes,” he says thickly, though he draws his hand away from mine. “But I’m pretty damn sure that spending time with you falls under the category of enjoying myself. So I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
This is where I should take a step back. Maybe I would if he wasn’t looking at me with such unabashed yearning. How long has it been since this man enjoyed a single thing?
Two years. You know that.
Would he enjoy me? Could I replace his ever-present seriousness with bliss?
I won’t find out if he tells me no to planning his party.
If I want to see him again, I have to go big or go home.
“That’s too bad…” I say, circling the desk in his direction. “Because unfortunately, planning a party requires a lot of input from the client. You.” I perch myself on the lip of Byron’s desk, immediately to his right. And I cross my legs slowly, letting him peruse my thighs. Letting him catalogue my garter belts and a hint of pink panties. “We’d have to work closely together to make sure everything runs…smooth. And tight.”
Once upon a time, I was something of a flirt. Some even called me a tease.
I’ve always enjoyed being a little daring with my wardrobe. For myself. My own enjoyment. Frilly underthings, sexy clothes and new makeup trends are my jam. Unfortunately, men expect a certain behavior out of me because of my clothing. But I am not a seductress. I’ve had a boyfriend or two in the distant past, but ever since what happened and I found Byron? Other men don’t exist for me anymore. There is only this man right in front of me. I’m compelled to establish a physical connection with him, even though I feel as though we already have one. That it’s been there for years. Long, aching, miserable years that I’ve watched him through his windows at night, needing his body on top of mine. His mouth on my skin.
Now I’m trapped in a fever state.
No choice but to bewitch him. Tempt him closer.
Not just for me.
For him. Because the fact that he denies himself pleasure and happiness is like a knife twisting in my gut. All I want to do is make it better. Please let me make it better.
“I don’t think I can work closely with you, Jane,” he rasps, shifting in his seat. His hand drops from the top of the desk to his lap and he not-so-discreetly adjusts himself. “No. That sounds like a b-bad idea.”
“Not even one little planning session?” I let my head fall back, shaking out my long, brunette waves and forcing a giggle. “I don’t bite, Byron. And I promise, you’re not going to find a party planner more dedicated or creative than me.”
“No, I don’t want someone else,” he says quickly, through his teeth, eyeing my body like a meal. “We just…have to keep this professional. I don’t do personal, Jane.”
My heart convulses. He’s so damaged. “What would you consider personal?”
His chest heaves, more and more color staining his cheekbones. “You know what I’m talking about. I can’t believe you’re…well, that you seem interested in me. Like this. Physically. Because, Christ. You’re incredibly beautiful and I’m…not. I’m a tech geek. But I’m still not able to pursue this.” He ogles my crossed thighs, letting out a shaky breath. “God help me.”
I should respect what he’s telling me. I do. I need to back off and accept his wishes.
But I can’t shake the belief that I can help him.
Because of who I really am, we can never have a relationship. It would be based on deception and how long can that really last? But maybe, just maybe, I can leave this man in a healthier place than when I found him?
It won’t make up for my role in what happened.
But it might help me sleep at night.
I haven’t slept well in so, so long, the sound of crunching metal replaying in my head. The smell of motor oil and the sounds of crying.
Screaming.
“One planning session,” I say, trying not to sound desperate. I uncross my thighs, letting my tight, black skirt ride up, up, up, as I slide off the desk. Letting him see that I’ve soaked through my panties since walking into his office. “I won’t lay a finger on you. Promise.”
In response, he makes a choked noise, his hand disappearing from view beneath the desk, his bicep flexing. Flexing. And when he chews on his bottom lip, I know he’s rubbing his erection. I’ve watched him enough at night to know his tells. When he masturbates, he bites that lip so hard, sometimes he leaves blood.
If I stay any longer, I’m going to ask to watch him. Live and in person.