Behind the Scenes(7)

“I won’t tell anyone,” I respond. “It’s none of my business.”

“I think you’re missing my point.”

His words cause my heart to quicken, and when he takes a slow step towards me, my pulse doubles. He continues to move slowly forward, never taking his eyes off me. He stops a foot away, so close I can feel the heat coming off of him. Cedar and the faintest whiff of leather float towards me, and I have to look up slightly to meet his eyes.

“What happens in your personal life is none of my business,” I press.

He bites his lower lip ever so slightly, and I can’t stop myself from swallowing hard. I know he can probably read the lust that’s written all over me. Heck, my pupils are no doubt dilating at the speed of light. I’ll never admit to it though. Not in a million years. This guy is used to power, used to getting his way, and that really irks me. I don’t like men like that. Men who think they can just take whatever they happen to see and like.

“It can be your business.”

And suddenly that’s it. He truly is hitting on me, but I’m no longer flattered the slightest bit. I’ve had enough of the one-liners that he’s spewing in — I’m pretty sure — an attempt to seduce me and make me one of the many girls he probably keeps on call. I cross my arms and stare him down. There’s soft blond stubble growing on his jaw, and a slight cleft in the middle of his chin that I hadn’t noticed before. I hold my ground, my eyes locked onto his.

“I’m here to work. That’s all,” I say. “No disrespect, Mr. Mulroney, but I don’t like to combine my personal life with my work.”

He pauses, slightly pursing his lips, and he seems to be thinking over what I’ve just said. Finally, he slowly nods. “I’m always here in case you’re interested.”

Yes, I’m fucking interested! My vagina screams. My lady parts are clawing at the zipper in my jeans like a monster trying to break free. An image flashes across my mind… me stretched out across his desk, my shirt pushed up, my pants on the floor, and his face burrowed between my legs.

He might be a player, but I’m willing to bet he knows his way around a woman’s body. A man as handsome as him is usually blessed with experience. Or so I’ve heard. I’ve only been with a few men, and none of them were even close to being on the same floor as Mr. Mulroney when it comes to the looks department.

And it’s been a while — over six months — since someone has explored my own curves and crevices.

“Thank you,” I say, unfolding my arms and giving him a nod. Thanking him kind of feels like a sign of weakness. I really don’t want to express gratitude that I don’t have. I need a transition out of this conversation though. I nod again. “I should get back to work.”

He takes a step back, finally looking away from me. When he speaks again, his voice is sharp. “You do that.”

Asshole, I want to say. Just because I didn’t accept his advances, he’s going to turn into a class-A jerk. Then again, what can I really expect? I turn around and leave the room, but I already know it’s going to be almost impossible to get any real work done.

*

“Don’t stop,” I moan, my fingers winding through his hair. In response, Mr. Mulroney picks up the pace, driving into me with swift, upward strokes.

I moan, then close my mouth on his neck. Sweat slips onto my tongue, salty and sweet at the same time.

“Sydney,” he gasps, and the sound of my name on his lips sends a tremor through my body that has nothing to do with my impending orgasm.

His bare skin slaps against mine and I feel the sheets underneath my body rumpling up. With each stroke, the pleasure in me builds, more and more, until I think I’ll surely explode.

And then I’m staring at the ceiling. It’s daylight and I’m alone in my room.

“Jesus,” I mutter, pressing my palms against my face. The dream felt so real. My legs are shaking, and there’s a harsh drumming between my thighs. It’s been a long time since I’ve been so turned on. And over what? A dream about my douche bag boss, that’s what.

“Don’t stop on account of me,” someone says.

I whip my hands off my face to see Eryk standing in my doorway. He has the stilettos on again and he has to squat as he shimmies his way into my room.

“Eryk! What the hell are you doing there?”

“Listening to you have a wet dream, apparently. And it’s not my fault if you don’t close your door before you go to sleep at night. What if a rapist breaks in?”

“What?” I mutter.

“What if a rapist were to break in?” he repeats, biting his thumb. “You should close and lock your door.”