Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 25920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Everything about her screams off limits. I don’t do romance with my co-workers. That’s a rule I’ve never broken. Then, there’s the fact that I’m fifteen years her senior. The warning bells are going off, but I’m ignoring them. Nothing will stop me from making that curvy court reporter mine.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
“Passion’ a word which involves so many feelings. I feel it when we touch; I feel it when we kiss; I feel it when I look at you. For you are my passion; my one true love.”
S. Richardson
CHAPTER 1
Eden
I look in the full-length mirror I have propped up in my walk-in closet, the true selling point in my condo because let me tell you, the bedrooms are teeny tiny, to the point where the only thing that fits in mine is a queen-sized bed with a nightstand on either side. Not even a dresser could work anywhere in the postage stamp of a room. The second bedroom is a makeshift office/library, more for books than work any day of the week. I do enough of that, well, at the work.
My golden-colored hair is perfectly in place—an inverted low bun, upswept hairstyle, not a lock of hair out of place. It can’t be a hindrance while at work. The understated makeup I put on took me less than ten minutes to do. The majority of that time was spent on my eyelashes, curling them, coating them in a thick layer of mascara, taking breaks in between and switching out different brands of tubes as well. A pair of pearl earrings are adorning my first hole, leaving the second empty. This is the work-dressed Eden, not the hanging-out-with-friends Eden. Those are two completely different people, business oriented versus the thirty-year-old who lets her hair down, drinks a few too many beers, and has no problem staying up or out well past three o’clock in the morning. Or I should say that was myself until a few months ago. Now I’m caught in a tidal wave of emotions, the ups and downs of what not to do, and I’ve got a list that plays on repeat in my head.
Things not to do:
Don’t fall for your boss who’s fifteen years older than you.
Don’t touch your boss.
Don’t have sex with your boss.
Don’t have a threesome with your boss and your boss’s friend.
Don’t engage in said behavior in the judge’s chamber with the judge you work with and his friend who just so happens to be the bailiff.
Except that’s what I did. That’s what I continue to keep doing. And while I know it’s illicit, will explode like a grenade in a war-torn country, shrapnel not giving a shit who it hurts in its wake, I won’t put a stop to it either. Honestly, I can’t. The forbidden has never tasted so good. It’s like blood running through your veins and the air you so desperately need to breathe.
I turn my thoughts back to getting ready, knowing what will happen if I’m late for Judge Kavanaugh’s court hearing. I’ll be in even more trouble, and not in the dock your pay, receiving a written or verbal warning. That’s not his way. I make sure my black blouse is tucked into my white midi-skirt, the whole outfit is tight fitting and hugging my curves in all the sinful ways, stopping at my calves. It’s exactly what Kavanaugh prefers. A full-body quiver works its way down my spine when I think about the note he sent me late last night, along with a package. Inside sat a gold and nude color confection, with hand beaded floral embroidery to cover my nipples. Other than that, it was entirely see through, the softest material that has probably ever touched my skin. The low-slung thong matches in color and sheerness, leaving nothing to the imagination. Thankfully, my standing wax appointment keeps me completely bare; otherwise, it would pull away from the effect completely. The only bad thing is if Kavanaugh so much as looks at me, I’m toast. The panties are so miniscule, I’m sure to leave wetness in my wake. I turn away, knowing if I keep thinking about any and all things Judge Samuel Kavanaugh, I’ll never make it out of here. My eyes peruse the plethora of heels I keep in my closet. Walking in them isn’t hard, especially for the short amount of time I’m on my feet. Wearing the highest heel for what it does to my ass, legs, and stature is what I’m after. You know what they say. Beauty is pain. My hand reaches for the way-too-expensive red-bottom soles, a splurge I allowed for myself after saving for nearly a year. They’re black patent leather, timeless, and pull this outfit together entirely. One last look in the mirror, then I’m heading out of my closet, grabbing my bag that carries everything I could possibly need for work.
“Phone, check. Keys, check. Sunglasses, check. Bag, check,” I say, going through another checklist, this one out loud instead of in my head. I’m a list queen—written down, electronically, it doesn’t matter; I use them in any way possible. I’m just putting my sunglasses on, keys in hand to lock the front door, when my phone buzzes. I glance down, worry settling in my stomach in case it’s Mom or Dad texting this early in the morning. If that’s the case, it could only mean something is wrong. Thankfully, I’m wrong, and it’s a certain man who plagues my thoughts night and day.