“Yeah,” she said unapologetically. “You know, tall, built, handsome, the strong and silent type, who has a multimillion-dollar penthouse in Manhattan, who isn’t just handsome but exceptionally bright. You don’t meet men like that every day—if ever.” She closed her laptop like she was ready to head out, like her massive compliment was no big deal, that it was a simple observation rather than a reflection of how she actually felt about me. “I think that’s why Fleur went overboard, because she loved you and wanted to keep you forever. It doesn’t justify that kind of behavior, but she just didn’t want to lose you. She wanted more, and she was willing to do anything to make that happen.”
“Which is why I always tell a woman I meet that it’ll never turn into anything, to save them some time.”
“Yeah, but feelings take over, and they become illogical. There’s not much you can do about that.”
She didn’t strike me as the kind of woman who would react that way at all; she seemed like she would enjoy a casual relationship and let it end instead of fighting for it, because she had too much self-respect to chase a guy who walked away.
Not that it should matter at all…since nothing could or would ever happen.
“What about you?” I asked.
“What about me?” She finished off her beer and set the bottle on the table. “Have I ever slept with a professor?” she asked with a smile. “No. Can’t say that I have.”
“I mean, what are you looking for in a man?”
“Nothing, really,” she said. “I don’t need a man at all.”
It was an interesting response, and I wished I could know more. And it was such a sexy answer, the way she didn’t conform to societal standards, that she didn’t feel like she needed a man at all even though she was in her late twenties. That told me that the date she had been on really was just casual sex, that she just took what she wanted and walked away, unattached.
Hot.
“I didn’t realize how late it was until now. I’ll get out of your hair.” She packed up her things and stood.
“I feel like I don’t know that much about you.” I rose from my chair and walked with her to the door.
“Because you’ve never asked,” she said with a smile.
“What about your parents?”
“They don’t have super brains like you do.” She smiled then opened the door.
“Did they have any involvement in your fascination with literature?”
“My dad used to read to me every night. He’s a pretty smart guy. Not smart like you, but above-average intelligence.” She stepped into the hallway. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Derek.” She waved before she walked away, carrying herself with poise like the long day hadn’t defeated her posture at all.
I watched her go, doing my best to keep my gaze up, not on her ass.
But it dropped—against my will.
I walked back into my penthouse and shut the door behind me. I leaned against it and stared at my laptop sitting on the surface, images of that blow job flashing across my mind. I could picture my hands sliding over her tight skirt to her ass cheeks and giving them a firm squeeze.
“Come on, man.” I gave myself a gentle slap on the cheek to push the thoughts away. My erotic scene was a one-time thing, even though I never deleted it. I’d made it most of the week not thinking about her that way…at least not fantasizing about it. If I was in the mood, I should open my laptop and pull up a video of a woman I didn’t know.
But that wouldn’t get me off as well, and I knew it.
When my fingers composed that story, it was like I was really there. I could really feel her, really feel the wet tightness of her throat around my dick. That was why it felt so good, because it connected my brain to my body on an intimate level.
I was already addicted.
I moved to the dining table and opened my laptop.
I opened the document and stared at the last paragraph of the scene I’d written.
I closed my eyes and hated myself for being enticed, when this was a real woman I was thinking about, someone who worked for me. I was her fucking boss. This was completely inappropriate. Even if I never made a move on her or expressed my attraction in any way, it was still…dirty.
But my fingers hit the keyboard anyway, and the words unfolded.
His large hands slowly pulled down the zipper of her skirt, and once it was loose, the garment came free, falling down her long legs to his bedroom floor. His hands gripped her cheeks, and he squeezed her so hard that his knuckles turned white…
Twenty-One
Emerson
Cleo sat across from me. “Congratulations. You’ve made it two months.”