I just couldn’t.
“If you need me, you can holler,” I tell her. “I’ll hear you from downstairs.”
I hate the flash of rejection across her face. I hate the way she stiffens as though she’s done something wrong.
I hate how it feels to deny myself the pleasure of her body against mine.
“I’m not a kid,” she says, and I have to clear my throat.
“I know. I hope you had a good birthday all things considered.”
“I had a shit birthday, like always. I’ve no reason to celebrate, just me congratulating myself on being alive another year. Big fucking whoopee.”
I don’t know what to say, so I hover, standing over the bed of a barely dressed girl while she stares up at me. While she wants me.
I know she wants me. I’ve felt it in every touch of her fingers. In every flash of her eyes. In every moment her body pressed so perfectly to mine.
“Goodnight, Carrie.” The words feel like glass. “I have to work in the morning. If I’m gone before you wake up, help yourself to food. I’ll be back when I finish.”
“I’m not a kid, Michael,” she says again and there’s a roughness to it. “I’m not in your office. I’m not a pile of notes in your crappy folder. I’m a woman. And you should stay.”
“I can’t,” I insist, and with the words come the same nervousness I felt every week with her across the desk from me.
Her unpredictability. Her dramatic mood shifts.
Her impulsive gestures.
I know it’s coming before it happens. The sweet, sleepy Carrie who slipped between the covers disappears before my eyes, and in her stead is a siren from the deep. Her eyes are hooded but piercing, her breath is short and fast. She turns down the covers until I can see the swell of her tits over her cami. She hooks a finger in the fabric and tugs it down, offering me up the lacy cups of her bra.
“Tell me you don’t want me,” she whispers, and it’s not a request, it’s an order.
“This isn’t–” I begin, but she shakes her head.
“You’re hard. I know you are.”
My hand covers my crotch instinctively, knowing full well she’s right.
“You need to sleep.”
“Stay,” she says, and I have to close my eyes to block her out.
“Carrie, I can’t.” My voice is as firm as I can muster. I hear the hitch of my own breath as I fight for resolve.
And she changes again. Just like that.
She pulls up her cami and rearranges the covers on top of her. I’d believe I’d imagined the entire interaction if it wasn’t for the glint in her eyes.
“A goodnight kiss, then.” She says, and my dick fucking aches with the strain. “Just a peck, to say thank you. For the soup. And the other stuff.”
Just a peck. To say thank you. And then a sharp exit.
I lower myself over her, my arms rigid to keep my distance. Her fingers are lightning-fast, slipping inside my jacket and up my chest before I even lower my face to hers, her pretty mouth perfectly angled to meet mine.
It’s not a peck. Her fingers twist in my hair and hold me tight. Her lips press to mine and stay there, and so do I.
I’m not a man who gives into desire. I’m not a weak man who can’t control his urges. But I’m not the man I recognise as me as Carrie Wells sweeps her tongue across my mouth and begs for entry. I’m one heartbeat away from kissing her like I’ve never kissed anyone before in my life. I’m one breath away from tearing her grubby clothes from her and fucking her the way I’ve been dreaming of fucking her since the moment I first fucking met her.
She arches her back as if she knows it. She moans against my mouth as though she knows I’m about to break.
But I don’t.
It takes every scrap of resolve to pull away. I take a breath as I gather myself, ignoring the throb of my cock and the heat I’m packing under my suit.
“Goodnight, Carrie,” I say.
And this time I mean it.
Chapter Seven
Michael
I’m in the office early, attempting fruitlessly to bury myself in paperwork to numb the guilt I feel at wanting a girl less than half my age.
I know I can’t act on it. I know both my professionalism and my sense of moral judgement won’t go down without one hell of a fight, no matter what my dick has to say about it.
None of my colleagues have even arrived for the day when I receive the latest WTF message from Jack. I type out a response and delete it three times straight. What can I possibly say to him?
Found Carrie. She’s in your house with a bloody lip and a swollen ankle. Hope you don’t mind?
He’d be on a plane home before the morning was out.