Bedwrecker(42)

Besides, my thoughts were nothing but pure filth. Her under me, on top of me, on my lap, on my desk—shit, even behind me in the fucking stairwell.

If I thought the day was long with the hem of Maggie’s dress constantly lifting and those long legs of hers going on for miles and miles, unless she wears a burlap bag, the next two weeks are never going to end. Oh, and Cam can stick needing any further assistance after that right up his ass.

Nursing my scotch, I listen politely to the group of people that has gathered around Jordan and me. And they all want to know everything about me—who I am, where I came from, what I like and dislike, my hobbies—hell, I’m not sure how personal they are going to get.

Condom choices, perhaps?

Favorite fucking position, maybe?

Okay, so the last two are exaggerations, but no lie: earlier today I was asked my height and weight. To be fair, though, that was because the tiny backseat of my Porsche is now loaded with Simon Warren samples.

Feeling restless, I excuse myself from the mix and go in search of what I know I shouldn’t—Maggie.

I can’t stop myself.

After circling the club a couple of times, I finally spot her tucked in a corner booth with some guy with a close-shaved head, who’s dressed in denim from head to toe.

Is that a joke?

Watching them, it becomes very evident that Maggie exudes a certain sexuality that I’m not sure she’s aware of. Trust me, though, when I say this douchebag sitting with her is very aware. As if to prove my point, he tugs a strand of her hair and when she shakes her head no, he leans in and whispers something in her ear. She smiles and gives him a nod and then they both stand up.

Holy shit!

Maggie must have changed somewhere between dinner and arriving here. She’s wearing a very short skirt that I try not to notice hugs her hips just right and an extremely low-cut silk top that I know can’t possibly fit a bra beneath it because it is way too skimpy. She also let her hair down, literally. Her long blond locks hang straight down her back. And to top it off, she’s wearing the same pair of fuck-me shoes she wore all day.

Those really need to be banned from the workplace.

In the few steps she and that douchebag have taken, the strap of her top has fallen off her shoulder. When said douchebag reaches over and tugs it back into place, my body tenses with an odd sensation that feels like small bombs are erupting beneath my skin.

Fuck, I want to race over there and wrap my arms around her just to keep this guy’s eyes and hands off her.

But that would be ridiculous.

She already told me she is done with me.

That my fuck-up is unforgivable.

Yet, I have to admit, I’m not sure she really believes what she says. That spark between us is still there, and if she wants me half as much as I want her, this thing between us is not over, not even close to being over.

The two of them make their way through the crowded dance floor, and from my vantage point up here I’m able to see them perfectly.

As soon as they start to bounce to the rhythm, the dude dressed in denim starts to thrust his hips and I lose my shit.

Even though I know she isn’t what I need right now, and I sure as shit am not what she needs, that doesn’t stop my neurons from firing or my legs from moving.

This is not a good idea.

I have this insane need to defend what’s mine, yet she isn’t anywhere near mine. The thought is so absurd—I’ve never even fucking had a “mine.”

In fact, she’s the only one that ever came close, and I screwed that up when I couldn’t cope with the reality that was my life and just needed to escape it all.

At six feet three inches, I’m able to make my way through the crowd with ease and before I know it, I’m standing in front of these two—the girl I have to see every day for the next two weeks and the guy she must have picked because he’s not me.

“Keen,” Maggie says with a start, as if I caught her with her hand in the cookie jar.

And you know what? I think that is exactly what I did.

She shouts over the music, “This is Elliot Harding.”

Biting my tongue to stop from hissing at him, I extend a hand, and so does he. “Keen Masters.”

“Nice to meet you,” he says.

“He owns Elliot’s, a men’s denim shop a few storefronts down from Simon Warren on Melrose. He wanted to congratulate Jordan, so he decided to join us,” Maggie tells me with a quiver in her voice.

She’s nervous.

Good.

She should be.

This is a work event, for fuck’s sake.

Not an orgy.

“Ready to go?” I ask with a slight curtness to my tone I probably should watch.

She glances at her wrist. “It’s only nine.”

“Yeah, I’m aware of how late it is. And we need to stop at the distribution center before heading back to Laguna.”