Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Not. Happening.
So I’m a little pissed off with myself when Brooks appears, bright and early at seven AM, with two mugs of coffee.
He sets one down in front of me. “Two sugars, right?”
And I’m supposed to melt into a little puddle, just because he knows how I take my coffee? Drop my panties and spread my legs for a pre-office-hours quickie?
Okay, the urge is there.
Dammit.
I stifle it and continue to stare at the paper in front of me, though I’ve read the same word, contested, at least twenty times. “Stop acting all weird. We just hooked up once.”
Make that twenty-one.
He chuckles and starts to close the door. “Relax. It’s just coffee. It’s not that deep.”
I venture a glance up at him. Big mistake. It instantly makes me wet between the legs. How is it possible that he gets more and more gorgeous every time I see him? Same suit, same hair, tumbling over his forehead, same I’m better than you expression. And yet, now more than ever, I want to climb him like a tree. “You don’t need to—”
My eyes fall back to the paper. This time, they land on the word recurrent.
No. It was just one night. It is most definitely not going to happen again. That’s why I gave him his space for the rest of the weekend. I needed to process everything that had happened. And during those two lonely nights, I determined that it was best if we stopped this cold.
I also masturbated more than any human being should, all to thoughts of Brooks’s hard body over me.
Sitting across the table from me and sipping his coffee, so relaxed, so confident about himself… he has no idea that when he sent me that message When can you be under me again? I’d salivated like one of Pavlov’s dogs. It had taken every ounce of restraint left within me to tell him I was busy.
And I’d convinced myself it was for the best.
But even now, I can feel my resolve weakening.
And he hasn’t even said a word about it yet!
So when he leans in and says my name in a way that makes it sound unspeakably sexy, I already know I’m in trouble.
“What?” I snap.
“We have a lot to do,” he says, in a voice that tells me exactly what he’s thinking about. And it has nothing to do with the Perry case. “We should work late tonight.”
My mouth goes wet, because it’s so much easier to picture exactly what will happen, now that I know him intimately. Before, that empty-cubicle fantasy was just that—a fantasy.
Now it’s so real, I can taste it.
And he’s used to women falling at his feet. Obviously, by the way he phrased it. There was no question. He might as well have said, You will stay late with me tonight. I’m sure any other woman would eagerly accept.
I can’t be another one of those.
Luckily, I remember I have other plans, which makes denying him so much easier.
I swallow, hard.
“C-can’t.” Oh my god, did I just stammer? What’s wrong with me? I take a breath to collect myself. “I have to work at the women’s center. I’m helping a new client.”
Of course, Brooks Gentry isn’t one to be shattered by a single denial. He barely registers a ripple. Instead, he makes a tutting noise and taps the file. “Shame. We have so much work to do.”
Who does he think I am, an idiot? I’m not so naïve to think he’s actually thinking about work.
Although … maybe he is. He is right. We do have a lot of work to do. And if I deny him the chance to meet together and tackle it, it could get back to the partners and make me look bad. “I’d have to check my schedule,” I say in a business-like, wooden voice. “But I think I have a few free hours tomorrow morning. We can work on it then?”
He pulls out his phone and starts to go through it. “Tuesday… morning?” He shakes his head. “No, that’s not going to work for me.”
I blink, wondering just what else he has going on then. It’s probably an actual work meeting. No reason to be jealous over that.
And yet I am.
Because I’m an idiot.
I force myself to shrug with indifference. “That is a shame. I guess—”
“I have your schedule here too. And it looks like we’re both free Wednesday night. I’m putting you down.” He jabs in something with his thumb.
I’m putting you down.
My phone beeps with a meeting request. For me. And him. The purpose of the meeting? That’s blank. Allowing me to fill in all sorts of lurid details. Location? Empty also, but I can’t help thinking of an empty cubicle.
I glare at the ACCEPT button.
I’m not going to accept. I’m not going to accept. I AM NOT GOING TO ACCEPT.