Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
“You ruined them,” I whisper.
“And I have no regrets.”
Funny, I don’t have any regrets either, as I push his hand inside my undies. He slides his fingers where I’m desperate for him, stroking my slickness.
I shudder everywhere. Then, I clutch at his hair, kiss his jaw, and hold on tight as I ride his hand. He strokes me intently as I chase my release.
I know how to do this. I know what I want. I know just how hard and fast I need it.
And Milo reads my lust perfectly. “You want to fuck my hand, sunshine?”
I love that he asks. That he wants me to use my words.
“I do,” I pant out, rocking my hips, thrusting wildly as I seek just the right angle, just the right speed.
I use his hand like it’s my new favorite toy. When I hit maximum friction, I’m shaking all over, and this close to the edge. Delicious agony rushes through my cells. I grind against his hand until colors burst behind my eyes. I moan ceaselessly as he coaxes me through the finish with words like yes, so hot, love this.
And I love it too. This taste of reality.
But the blissfully real moment ends with the bleating of his phone. His alarm is a sheep letting out a long, unmistakable baa from his office.
Not to be outdone, my phone speaks up from the depths of my purse. A robotic, English voice asks, “What is eighteen percent of fifty?”
Milo blinks. “What the hell is that?”
I drop to my knees, grab my purse, and do math. It’s wretched. “So I don’t ever miss a dog appointment. It’s my evil alarm.”
“I’ll say.”
“You have five seconds, or we will escalate,” the British voice chirps.
“Escalate to what?” Milo asks, horrified. “Square roots?”
I wince as I fish out the obnoxious phone. “Exactly,” I say, then tap in a nine, silencing the question.
Milo stares at me, bug-eyed. “You set an alarm that makes you do percentages? That’s so cool.”
“Percentages are the most useful adult math,” I say with a shrug. “And I can’t be late. The daycare closes in fifteen minutes.”
A sheep baas from his office. Louder this time. “Shit,” he mutters, then ducks into his office, and turns off his alarm too. When he returns to me, he says, “I need to see Iris’s baby. But give me one minute, okay? I’ll be right back.”
He pops into the restroom. While he’s gone, I adjust my dress, then tug at my panties.
But they’re useless, and this is going to be the real walk of shame. I have to pick up my pooch in wet panties, then walk home. Ugh. Stilettos and little black dresses at dawn have nothing on soaked undies after a work diddle.
Note to self: Pack for work like you’d pack for a trip. As if you’ll change skivvies twelve times a day.
But, as I sling my purse on my shoulder, I freeze. A wave of nerves crashes into me. Will I actually need to pack like this for work? Was this a one-time thing? What the hell happens tomorrow?
I glance around like I’ll find a sign pointing out where we go next, but all I see is a wandering dog. Oh, shoot. Trudy paces by the front door, her eyes wide, saying help me.
I spin around, finding her leash on Milo’s desk. I grab it, sprint to the cutie, and hook her up. We fly out the door. A few seconds later, she’s squatting by a hydrant. True relief.
When she’s done, Milo opens the door, his gaze a little awestruck. “You’re definitely the dog-gess,” he says, grateful.
I just smile. I don’t know what to say. I usually do, but I’ve got nothing now, since I never imagined the reality after the fantasy—what happens after your boss fingerbangs you.
“I don’t want to make you late. You need to get your dog,” he says, apologetic, but what does his sorry mean?
I hand him Trudy’s leash. His fingers graze mine while his eyes search my face. “I’ll text you later, Veronica,” he says, gently, but I don’t want to read into his tone. He gestures to the store. “I should get my bike and go too.”
His voice is strained. He must feel as awkward as I do. Great. Just great. Tomorrow is going to be so weird.
“Yeah, definitely,” I say with extra pep I don’t feel. I turn around, walking away, utterly bewildered.
Is this how hookups with off-limits guys go? Maybe this is why I’ve been picky. Maybe this is why I’ve avoided over-and-outs.
I head away from the store, unsettled.
Thirty seconds later, feet pound behind me, coupled with paws. Man and dog. Milo catches up to me. “I mean it,” he says, insistent, and when he presses a kiss to my cheek, I believe him.
But as I walk away, I’m not worried about whether he’ll text or not. I’m worried about what he might have to say.