Then blood leaves my face.
He could’ve overheard me and Ava. What was the last—
I realize he’s suddenly looming over me, hand outstretched, like Nosferatu.
Must’ve used his preternatural vampire speed to leap out from behind his desk and dash toward me before my brain could process it.
Crap. How long have I been standing here, ignoring that hand? And how the hell did this happen? How is Vlad the Impaler Hottie McDark? All the rumors about this man skipped a critical detail: how mouthwateringly attractive he is.
“Are you okay?” the Impaler asks, his accent thickening.
Ugh, now I’m ogling him. And still ignoring that hand. Gathering my courage, I stick out my arm and clasp his much, much bigger palm.
Holy estrogen.
My heart rate spikes, and a jolt of orgasmic energy spreads through my body, electrocuting a nest of angry butterflies in my stomach before settling somewhere low in my core.
How many hours is it socially appropriate to hold a hand like this?
Reluctantly, I peel my fingers away from his.
He looks down at me, his expression completely unreadable. He’s either an amazing poker player or this handshake didn’t affect him at all.
“Take a seat.” He gestures at the chair in front of his desk, and by the time I plop into it, he’s already in his. It’s Embody by Herman Miller, the very chair I have at home, only mine is blue while his is black.
He lowers the music volume with a small remote. “You have a great reputation at Binary Birch, Ms. Pack.”
I do? That’s news. Even if that were true, how would he know that?
I don’t dare ask as that might be as suicidal as reciprocating by telling him his reputation isn’t so stellar.
“Thank you,” I stammer before the silence veers into uncomfortable territory. “I love working here.” And by love, I mean tolerate. But what’s a little white lie between a monster and his prey?
He stares at me, and I feel like I might drown in the lapis depths of his eyes. “The project I’m trusting you with is extremely important.”
I bob my head up and down so vigorously, I nearly give myself whiplash.
“The client—Belka—will get a chance to demonstrate the final product to the editors of Cosmopolitan magazine in two weeks.” He peers at me as though to verify that I know what Cosmo is, so I blush and nod, just in case. “That is a huge opportunity.” His dark eyebrows furrow minutely as he finishes with, “We can’t let Belka down.”
“Yes, sir.” I give him a crisp military salute.
Wait, what? Why did I do that?
There’s no hint of amusement on his face. He must be used to such gestures from back when he participated in Napoleonic wars and what-not.
He steeples his fingers. “I realize you must have the most thorough testing plan in mind.”
Actually, I have the desire to suck on those long, masculine fingers in mind at the moment, but I keep that to myself.
“I hope you will let me enrich your plan with some extra test cases—which may already overlap with yours.” He reaches into his desk and takes out a couple of stapled sheets of paper.
Only now do I realize that he’s basically telling me how to do my job—which would be like me teaching him how to properly drink blood. Control freak much?
As I snatch the papers, our fingers brush for a second, sending another dozen joules of electricity into my lower regions.
Flushing, I glance at what I’m holding.
Hmm. Pink paper. A faint smell of perfume. Pretty cursive with hearts dotting the occasional “i.” A woman must’ve put this together for him, and not Sandra, whose scent is more evocative of boiled cabbage. Besides, Sandra is obsessed with electronic communication, judging by all the constant “Save a Tree” propaganda in her email signature.
The pang of jealously I suddenly experience is as inappropriate as it is insane.
To avoid dwelling on it, I skim the content of the paper—and as I do, I feel the flush spread to my ears and chest, turning them beet red.
There are items like “was orgasm achieved?” and “how many times?”
I have the former in my testing plan already, but not the latter—which, of course, isn’t the source of my discombobulation.
It’s just that reading the word orgasm in his presence feels wrong.
And dirty.
And somehow hot all at the same time.
I better get out of here with what passes for my remaining dignity.
“I will make sure to, um… utilize this”—I fan myself with the papers—“in my testing.”
He reaches under the desk, yanks something out, and places it on the desk between us.
I gape at it.
Strictly speaking, it’s a carry-on suitcase—but only in the same sense as a disco ball is a globe. It’s covered in frilly polka dots and bejeweled with so many differently colored stones, you’d think a rainbow-farting unicorn had ejaculated on it.
As I look closer, I realize most of the designs are not polka dots but tiny multicolored penises and vaginas that someone painstakingly drew by hand.
At least I hope it was by hand.
My cheeks veer off the red end of the visible spectrum, radiating as much infrared as a welding torch.
Annoyingly, Vlad’s face only shows the neutral professionalism he’s been displaying throughout this whole encounter. Maybe he’s one of Anne Rice’s vampires—her older ones become as if made of stone over time.
“The hardware is inside,” he says.
A hybrid between a hiccup and a giggle escapes my throat.
He just called a collection of dildos hardware, and probably not as a joke.
“Got it.” I leap to my feet and reach for the suitcase just as he slides it forward.
Our fingers brush, generating enough of that electric jolt to power the toys for a week. I swallow and yank the suitcase off the desk.
It’s heavy. There must be more than a few dildos, and who knows what else.
I hope Dominika’s vagina can handle it all. Not to mention, shipping this “hardware” to the Czech Republic will cost a small fortune. I really hope no one at the DHL office asks me what’s inside. For that matter, I pray no one here at the office asks me “What’s with the suitcase?” as I sprint to the elevator.
“It was good to meet you,” I tell Vlad and prepare to make the sprint.
“Will I see you at the monthly meeting in five minutes?” he asks.
I nearly drop my genital-inscribed luggage.
In theory, everyone is supposed to attend the monthly meeting. Its purpose is for us to have an idea of what the rest of Binary Birch is working on, find opportunities for synergy, and other corporate speak gobbledygook. In practice, since I’ve been working from home, I typically dial into this meeting on the phone, then promptly tune most of it out as I do my actual job of testing.
I do know one thing: the Impaler is famous for never joining this meeting in person either—and he doesn’t have the work-from-home excuse. He just dials in and never says a word, though people claim to get emails about some things discussed at the meeting, hinting that he actually listens—which is why everyone is always on their best behavior during it.
Yet he said “see you,” not “hear you,” so tradition is about to be broken for some reason.