Her Billionaires_ Boxed Set(52)

Her.

Every nerve ending exploded as her hands balled into fists, then her fingers opened and she clawed at his shoulder as he worked to keep his thrusts even, their hips bucking and her ass slamming the desktop, face contorted and primal, her diaphragm nearly spasming, too, as she tried to stay silent, her orgasm cresting and then slowly, too slowly, fading out as Dylan, too, milked his own release.

As reality seeped back into her mind she took in the scene. Naked, sculpted man slumped over her spread-eagled body on her desk? Check. Spot on beige carpet where their juices leaked onto the floor? Check. Hair balled into a rat’s nest at the back of her head from the friction of fucking on a veneer desk? Check. Aroma of sweat and sex in an office that normally smelled like cleanser and coffee? Check.

Mike. His name popped into her head as she kissed Dylan’s sweet cheek, his breath still rushed as his own orgasm faded, his head resting against her neck.

Guilt? Check.



As she boarded the train for home, her skin still plastered with the scent of Dylan, she marveled at what had just happened a few hours ago. Laura’s mind raced with the implications of what she had just done. Breaking her hard and fast rule about having sex at work had been one thing. (Though, she hedged to herself, he wasn’t a coworker, so did it really count?). Sleeping with Dylan again was exhilarating. Astounding. Fiery. All the good parts she remembered with a hefty dose of danger, making the office sex some of the best she’d ever had.

Even better, though, had been Dylan. The revelation that those pictures had been of a girlfriend, alright—but a dead girlfriend, one he mourned for nearly two years after the fact— had been glorious. There was no hidden wife, no girlfriend lurking in the shadows, stealing part of his heart.

The ride on the train home helped her to downshift. She needed to think this through without Josie wisecracking in her ear and without that inner, doubting voice. Sitting on the half-empty train gave her space to think. All the other women her age were reading on their phones, texting, or deep into a Kindle device. Hmmm. She needed to get one of those for the ride. Maybe if she buried herself in a good book she could escape from the clusterfuck she’d created in her real life. Reading about other peoples’ foibles and mistakes was so much easier than living through her own.

Leaning her head back against the glass, she sighed, the train’s rumble sending her head bobbing forward slightly. Mike. Dylan. Mike. Dylan. Mike. Dylan. The rhythm of the car moving forward on the metal tracks turned the two words into a mantra.

Why couldn’t she have both?

Both, both, both, both. Now that word looped through her mind to the beat of the train’s motion. Both, both, both, both.

Beep! Her phone told her she had a text. Reaching into her purse, she pulled it out. Battery was low, too. Making a mental note to charge it when she got home, she checked.

Mike. His text confirmed their date. He was taking her up to his cabin tomorrow night. You like pasta? he asked.

Who doesn’t? she replied.

LOL he texted back. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow.

You too, she replied.

And then she immediately texted Josie, because right now? She needed her friend, some ice cream, and a lot of talk.

Sorry. Can’t make it until morning.

Laura gawked at the screen. What? She needed Josie right now! Why couldn’t the woman be free at the time Laura craved a good bitch and moan session?

Why can’t you come over? I’ve got cherry chocolate chip ice cream, Laura texted.

Work. Extra shift. Money. Sorry. Tomorrow morning? Josie answered.

Fuck. The train skittered to a stop, then fwap! Laura was flung to the side. Too busy texting, she forgot to grab one of the stabilizer bars, and she nearly landed ass over tea kettle on the floor. A quick scramble out the wheezing doors and she was on her way home.

Fine. No ice cream for you, Laura texted as she walked home, her heels clicking on the pavement. A balmy night, one that should be enjoyed outside, drinking margaritas at an outdoor table.

Instead, it was her, Netflix, and Mssrs. Ben and Jerry. Josie could suck it. OK, Josie could come over for coffee in the morning.

By the time she got home, stripped down into her jammies, and grabbed dinner (the pint had plenty of protein, right? And cherries counted as a fruit...), she found she was too tired to make it through the monologue on The Daily Show. Throwing the other half of the ice cream in the freezer, she padded into the bedroom, plopping on top of the covers. The clock read 7 p.m. A nap?

Sore legs pulled up against her belly as she curled into a ball. A nap....



“Slow down, slow down!” Josie held up her hands, displaying her nails of the week: little tiny campaign posters, alternating on her fingers, five for each Presidential candidate. It looked like a sea of red, white and blue had been vomited up onto her nail beds. What Laura had thought would be a nap turned into more than eleven hours of sleep. She felt like Rip Van Winkle, and this time, Josie made the coffee. Laura must have looked that zombified, because Josie never made the coffee.