Last night was perfect.
Hewas perfect.
It’s early morning, and I am sitting at the Center with my mind full of porn images and my pussy wet for my boss.
Fantastic.
I’m sure one particular image will be engrained in my mind forever—naked Archer standing on the edge of the pool, water dripping down his Adonis body, the pool light enveloping him in neon blue as he smoothes his wet hair.
Scandalously irresistible.
I’m so screwed.
His voice enters the office hall beforehedoes.
Every cell in my body responds to that low curt tone of his, so different from the way he talked to me last night.
I try to focus on work. Pretty sure if I could burn with my eyes, I would’ve set my desk on fire.
So, no, I fail at focusing. My body is tense from that strange awareness I have in Archer’s presence, even when I don’t see him.
I flick my eyes in the direction of his office, and there he is. Behind his desk. Cellphone pressed to his ear. Staring directly at me through the glass as he talks.
This job is turning into hell.
Next time.
His words were a promise. Right? Because that’s the reason I’m wearing a new tennis-style dress.
Look at you, I taunt myself. Needy for a lay. Or a guy. This one particular guy.
Here is the thing about skirts and dresses. Women wear them on dates not because they look more feminine and seductive. Nah. Lies. It’s because when things come to foreplay or any action, it’s easier for a guy to reach under a skirt. If it comes to the bedroom, it’s much sexier to take off a skirt than to fumble with jeans. Or figure out what to take off first—socks or pants. Or—if you straddle the guy—jeans are just a barrier. I’ve done it before. Skirts—a hundred percent, logistics and all.
And that’s what I’m wearing, telling myself it’s because I look cute, but in reality—I am looking for another chance.
I left Archer’s villa last night just to mess with his ego. But as soon as I got to my place, I regretted it. I could’ve gotten more.Wantedmore. I’m still slightly sore from being filled with him.
Jesus.
I exhale loudly through my puffed lips. This is ridiculous.
After two hours of struggling no to look in Archer’s direction, I pick up my phone and shoot Marlow a text.
Me: I want to take a look at the security booths map. Possible? Have time for me?
I really need to get out of here.
A minute goes by, and my phone dings, but…
Archer: Sure.
I frown.
Me: Pardon me?
Archer: Marlow said you had questions about the security. I have a minute. My office.
You traitor, Marlow!