After a minute of it, she pulled her mouth away. “Whether you think I’m a whore or not,” she panted, “you’re treating me like one.”
“I thought it worked for you.”
“No, you didn’t,” she whispered in a little voice.
He stopped thrusting and there was only the sound of their mutual heavy breathing filling the office as they were joined, his front to her back, his hard incredible cock wedged into her drenched, tingling cunt. Trying to take a deep breath, she was horrified that it came out sounding like a little hiccup, the mere hint of, the mere beginning of, a sob, but still she was horrified.
“You don’t play fair,” he said softly.
“I’m not playing.”
“What are you doing, then?”
“I don’t know.”
“Miss Prentiss? Miss Prentiss?” It was out in the hallway, muffled, but getting closer.
“Miss Prentiss Jr., I presume?”
“Shh,” she warned him and he responded with a particularly wicked thrust that wrenched a moan out of her.
“You shh,” he countered, but he stayed still as Miss Grady walked by the closed door, presumably back into her office.
“Finish,” she whispered and with four more powerful strokes he did. She tried her very best to keep silent on the last one, seeing as how it wrenched an orgasm out of her after all. Pulling out, he left her to straighten her clothes as he did the same, dropping the spent condom casually in the waste basket she doubted got picked up anymore since the office was empty. She’d have to take care of that.
Before she left.
Once back in her office, she resumed her seat, ignoring Miss Grady’s curious look.
“Goodbye,” she said definitively, eyes down on the translation left on her desk blotter, watching him out of the corner of her eye.
He shook his head and exited. Unfortunately he exited right into his father’s office, slamming the door behind him.
Resolutely, she retrieved her phone and with shaking fingers dialed.
* * * * *
Evan hadn’t been in his father’s office, the actual inner sanctum, since he was a kid. It hadn’t changed a bit from what he could see. The massive oak desk, the throne-like leather chair, and the fully stocked bar were just as he remembered them. At least now he was old enough to take advantage of the bar even if he wasn’t old enough, or something enough, to be invited into the office in the first place.
He chose a fifty-year-old scotch as his poison—never mind it was barely noon—and poured a hearty amount into a glass while his father and whoever the hell the other guy was watched. “Don’t mind me,” he said casually. “I’m just waiting for my date to get off work.”
“Jack, this is my youngest son, Evan. Evan, Jack Tottingham.”
Tottingham rose from where he was being given an audience and held out his hand, but Evan just nodded and drank the scotch. In one gulp.
“Pleased to meet you,” Tottingham said anyway, standing awkwardly while Evan went to assume a seat on the couch.
“Join us, won’t you, Evan?” his father said drily. “We were just talking about a potential investment Jack’s hawking that I’m going to pass on.”
“You’re not giving it a chance, Damien.”
“What investment?” Evan asked. “Maybe I’d be interested.”
“Don’t tease, Evan. Jack will think you’re serious.” He confided to Tottingham, “Evan’s the only one of my sons not interested in the business.”
“I don’t need to be,” Evan said with more aggression than he probably had ever shown his father. “I have the Evans fortune to hold me over if the Reynoldses ever go belly up.”
Tottingham laughed. “No chance of that, I’m sure.”
“Don’t be so certain.”
His father scowled at him as Tottingham asked, “Your mother was an Evans?”
“Was. Is. But my grandfather is gone and passed almost his entire estate directly to me.”
Tottingham began to show interest for the first time. “Really? Well, aren’t you a lucky young man. And dating that beauty out there as well. Ah to be young again, eh Damien?”
“Speaking of which,” Evan asked, “who did you say Miss Prentiss looked like?”
“Angelica Stavros. You remember her, don’t you, Damien?”
“Can’t say that I do.”
“Very tragic actually. She married the elder Stavros boy first, Paul I think his name was, not the unpleasant one.”
“I don’t remember either,” Damien said flatly, never one to find time for gossip.
“He was a diplomat of some kind. He never cared about the family business either,” Tottingham pointed out to Evan.