As we pass by some of my co-workers, they gape at me, one of them mouthing the words hot nerd. But I’m too busy coming up with a weird idea on the fly to acknowledge them. Or stab them with a letter opener, as is my most pressing inclination.
When we reach my office, I close the door behind us. “Would you like something to drink?”
“No, thank you, I’m fine.” He’s looking around my office, analyzing every knickknack and office supply with his genius brain, brow furrowed. God, he’s so sexy. My thighs are in a permanent flex, the flesh throbbing wetly at their juncture. “I checked your employment history before I hired you to plan the party. You haven’t been working here long. Yet you have your own office.” He picks up my high heel-shaped paperweight, turning it over in his hands with an amused smile. “You must have worked very hard.”
“Yes,” I say, throat dry. Aching. I’m so overcome by the fact that we’re alone in my office—alone again after I thought he would never allow it to happen again—that some of my truth slips past the net. “I was a little lost in my late teens, early twenties. I needed to make up for lost time. I wanted to be…better.”
He zeroes in on my face. “What made you want to change?”
Seeing your pain.
Feeling responsible for it.
“I’m not sure. I had a moment of clarity. Sometimes that’s all it takes. You look at your life and see the crossroads. You put one foot in front of the other until you’re walking in a new direction and the other road grows smaller and smaller behind you. It’s shaky at first, but then…you’re running. I think that’s why I worked hard. Hard as I could. Because I saw what it could be like if I kept going the other direction.”
He’s silent for long moments, studying me. “That’s admirable, Jane. I’m happy for you.”
Guilt screams through my center.
You don’t deserve his pride or his congratulations.
I swallow hard. “Let’s talk weird ideas,” I say haltingly, shuffling papers on my desk even though nothing about my idea is written or detailed on any of them. “I was thinking…a lot of programmers have a dark sense of humor and true crime is on trend right now. What if we staged a fake crime scene at the party? Your guests could inspect it for clues and try to solve the mystery of what happened. That might be too macabre—”
“I love it,” he laughs. “They will love that. You’re right, they’re completely morbid.”
“We can partition it off, just in case it’s triggering—”
“Right. Good idea.” He blinks at me from behind his glasses, shakes his head. “You’re amazing, Jane. I’m ashamed to say I underestimated the power of a party. My team is already more upbeat just knowing there is one happening.” He tugs on the collar of his navy blue button-down shirt. “I should have been more aware that they needed a break.”
I’m not sure when I moved closer to him, but suddenly I’m on the other side of the desk and there’s only a foot of space separating us. Byron never sat down, so I have to tilt my head back to keep eye contact. And when he swallows, stepping closer to me, my butt presses to the edge of my desk. “It’s okay. You were a little busy trying to conquer Silicon Valley.”
“Something like that.” He looks down at my thighs and shudders, rasping, “Christ, Jane. I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Those words strike me with lightning. He can’t know the effect of what he’s saying. His interest is almost worrying. It’s like throwing a match into a puddle of gasoline. I’m already obsessed with him. What comes next? “I can’t stop thinking about you, either.” I swallow hard. “You don’t want to…enjoy yourself too much. I get that. I don’t want you to regret me, you know?”
“Yeah. It’s just…” His hands slide over my hips, gripping. “What man could ever regret you? He’d have to be insane. And yet, I can’t stop the guilt. Goddammit.”
Byron starts to draw his hands back. Begins to pull his touch away, even though he’s hard against the front of his dress pants. Even though he’s clearly in need. And it’s definitely a morning for ideas on the fly, because I find myself blurting, “What if you didn’t take any pleasure? What if you only gave it to me?” I take hold of his belt buckle and tug him closer, widening my thighs to accommodate his hips. “You couldn’t feel guilty about that, right?”
He searches my face, starting to breathe faster. “No. I couldn’t. I could never be anything but grateful to satisfy you.”
God, this is like a dream.
My skin is fevered, sensitive, my core clenching painfully. Needy. I lean up and press our lips together, licking the seam of his mouth lightly. “Do you want to give me an orgasm, Byron?”
“Yes,” he chokes out. “Please.”
How is this real? This big, gorgeous genius is all but shaking with the need to please me, his erection like a torpedo in his pants. He has no idea how easy this is going to be. Getting me off. I’m already poised right on the edge just having his undivided attention.
I slip off the desk and slowly, slowly tug my skirt up to my waist.
Swaying my hips side to side, I peel down my panties, all the way to the floor. Then I straighten. I lean back against the desk and let him look at my bare sex. I’m dripping wet. Waxed. All for him. And he makes a hoarse noise, nostrils flaring, yanking hard on his collar.
“Do you know where to touch me?” I question quietly, taking hold of his tie and pulling, bringing his body closer. “Or do you want me to show you?”
“Show me,” he heaves thickly, palming my knees. “I-I should have researched it.”
I shake my head. “Every woman is different, Byron. But we all have one thing in common.” I take his right hand and guide it between my thighs. “We all have a clit. It’s small and sensitive. Hidden. And that’s where I want to be touched. By you.” I kiss his mouth gently. “Play with me. I’ll tell you when you find it.”
With a rough swallow, he parts my folds with his thumb—gently saws that digit once, twice—and finds my clit immediately. I gasp, seizing his wrist, petrified of the orgasm that’s already building, building. It’s monumental. “Th-that’s it. That’s it.”
His mouth smirks against mine. “That was fast.”
“You’re telling me,” I pant. “Don’t…d-don’t go too fast. I don’t want this to end so soon.”
“Jesus. Me either,” he mutters against my mouth, his thumb beginning to move again. Rubbing in slow circles, our breaths jagged, mingling between our pressed-together lips. And then we’re kissing. We’re kissing like the taste of each other will save us from certain death. He angles his head to the right and gives me his tongue, stroking it over mine reverently. Hungrily. And all the while, he fondles that little bud between my legs, faster and faster, increasing the pace of our kiss in the process. My head is spinning, not only because this is Byron, my Byron, my preoccupation, but because his touch is magical. Skilled in an inexperienced way that shreds my heart and whips my hormones into a fine frenzy at the same time.