Page 52 of Misconduct

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I sat at my desk, trying to work through the laundry list of e-mails I’d accumulated since leaving work yesterday as her music played in the background and she sang along a few feet away. Something about “drown” or “drowning.” It had been so long since I’d listened to music, but thanks to her and Christian, I was getting up to speed.

Despite the fact that I was swamped, as usual.

Production had stopped in Brazil due to rain, and a contract I’d already secured in Japan now had a lower bidder, so I was trying to put out fires, but my head just wasn’t in the game today.

The storm outside had lightened, but it was still too heavy to enjoy leaving the house.

Not that I wanted to anyway.

I glanced over, seeing Easton standing at the bookshelves in my office, the hem of my T-shirt rising up her thigh and over the curve of her ass as she reached to the third shelf.

Jesus.

I blinked and refocused on my computer screen, mentally hitting myself for inviting her in here. I didn’t want her to be bored, so I’d told her to hang out, grab a book, and read or work on the spare laptop if she needed.

However, she’d quickly turned into a woman on a mission, unable to resist alphabetizing my small personal library.

“This doesn’t drive you crazy?” she’d complained, wincing at the sight of my messy shelves. “This would drive me crazy.”

Yeah, so I let her off her leash to have at it.

As long as she didn’t incorporate the entire fucking Dewey Decimal System into her organization, I had no problem watching her cute little behind while she reached for books.

However, I wasn’t getting much done.

She’d been quiet, concentrating on her own work, but when a five-foot-seven brunette with gorgeous golden legs is crawling around on your floor, organizing stacks of books and looking cute as hell, watching her is an irresistible enjoyment.

“Are you almost finished?” She stood on the small ladder, reaching up and replacing the last few books.

I blinked, refocusing on my screen. “Not yet,” I answered. “About ten more e-mails to respond to.”

I wiggled my fingers, trying to remember what I needed to type and realizing I’d forgotten what the damn e-mail I needed to respond to had said.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed her stepping down from the ladder, barely making a sound.

“Tyler?”

I looked up, seeing her standing on the other side of my desk with a sweet look on her face. I narrowed my eyes.

What is she up to?

“I’m getting bored,” she said.

“The kitchen cabinets need organizing,” I shot back.

But she let out a sigh. “I think I’m just going to go take a bubble bath in your huge tub and wait for you,” she chirped. “And think about you. Maybe.”

I raised my eyes, swallowing down the thought of her wet and covered in suds.

“Sit down,” I commanded, pointing to the couch. “This was an hour’s worth of work that’s turned into two, because you’re distracting me.”

“You told me to come in here!”

“And you’re not taking a bath,” I shouted, ignoring her interruption, “because I’m going to damn well come with you, so don’t move! You understand?”

“I’m bored,” she repeated, “and I don’t like not to be doing things.”

“Tough.”

And I dropped my eyes back to the screen, typing I-have-no-idea-what just to get it done. My fingers worked without thinking, and I was probably coming off less polite than I normally made the effort to appear in my business communications, but there were better things to be doing.

She stood on the other side of my desk, watching me. “All right,” she said. “I’ll make you a deal.”

I tapped the keyboard, trying to ignore her. The sooner I could finish, the sooner we could spend the rest of the day in bed.

“If you finish your e-mails before I’m done, I’ll stay,” she challenged. “If you don’t finish those ten e-mails before I’m done, I’m leaving, and I don’t care whether it’s raining or not.”

What?

I shot my eyes up to her, scowling. “Before you’re done?” I shot out. “Done with what?”

A twinkle flashed in her eye, but she didn’t smile.

Instead, she walked over to the coffee-colored leather sofa and picked up the black pin-striped suit jacket I’d left there days ago, when I’d come home from work. With her back to me, she slipped my T-shirt over her head, dropping it to the floor, and brought my jacket up to her front, covering herself.

Every inch of me felt like I’d climbed into a hot, soothing bath, but my racing heart was anything but soothed. I fisted my fingers, seeing her long, naked back, smooth and toned, and I wanted to touch every part of her, including that perfect, heart-shaped ass she was flashing me.

Lying down on the sofa, she spread my jacket over her naked body, one hand rubbing the fabric over the inside of her thigh while the other slipped underneath the jacket.

My breath caught, seeing her fingers move under the coat, while she rubbed my jacket over her pussy, rolling her hips into the cloth.

Before I’m done. She was masturbating.

“Oh, you fucking bitch,” I whispered, meeting her heated eyes.

She blinked, and I expected to see her looking amused and playful, but she looked beautifully desperate.

“It has your smell on it.” She ground my jacket between her legs, closing her eyes and arching her neck back.

The jacket covered her as if I were wearing it and lying on top of her, from the neck to the tops of her thighs. Her legs were bent at the knees, and the bottoms of her feet were touching, making a diamond shape. That hand that I was so jealous of played slowly and softly, judging from the little movements under the jacket.


Tags: Penelope Douglas Romance