Page 36 of Work: Strictly Professional

I don’t need to look up to feel Derek’s concern.

“I’m fine,” I snap.

Dinner is torturous. My feet are back on the ground, but I’m off in the ether. I drift in and out of stilted conversations about vacations in Paris and skiing in Vail. Barbara Anne is wearing a strappy gold dress that looks like it was made for Athena. Now and again, Sage feeds her fruit and nuts from his fingers. I catch Miller’s eye when it happens, and he scrunches his face up and silently gags until Ryan elbows him in the ribs.

The entire time, Derek’s presence beside me burns a hole in my chest. A hole that grows and drifts downward the longer the meal drags on. When it becomes clear that piña coladasare woefully ineffective at bringing me back to myself, I accept defeat, smiling and nodding when anyone talks to me and focus on nothing but Derek’s casual touch.

Deep, heavy pressure where his knee touches mine.

A low, liquid voice runs down my spine when he leans over to whisper into my ear.

A hand on the back of my neck as Ryan’s grandparents talk. I can’t tell you much about what they say, but their voices grow distant when Derek’s hand travels slowly up to my hairline. My scalp tingles from the back of my head, over my crown, spilling down my face, and when he winds his fingers into my curls and tugs gently, every hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

The rest of the party fades to black. I’m acutely aware that what’s happening is no more than performative art, but it feels like Derek and I are the only people at the table.

“How’s Bridget?” he asks, head tilted toward me. “And how’s her turd ex-boyfriend?”

Like that, I’m off at a canter. “Well, she’s off the sofa and wearing real clothes. I’m talking jeans with buttons and zippers, not even jeggings.”

“Jeans, huh?” He doesn’t smile exactly, but a long line cuts into one cheek, curving around his mouth, and his eyes glimmer.

“Yep, jeans. Not only that, she got bangs.” I use both hands elaborately to paint an accurate picture, drawing straight lines and squares around my face in a manner reminiscent of a dance from the eighties or nineties. “She looks unreal. Her hair’s all glossy and sleek, and it’s givingget out of my wayandget in lineat the same time.”

I’m working my way up to an epic chin wag, but I don’t have time to get there. The line on Derek’s cheek deepens and gives way. His lips peel back and a soft, throaty laugh undoes me.

“Revenge hair,” he says softly. “I love it.”

“Revenge hair,” I say two or three times. “T-that’s what I said.”

17

Derek

I looked away whenWyn showered last night. I told myself various things about personal space, honor, and respect for others.

I had all those things last night, but I don’t have them tonight.

Wyn’s crossed the suite in a skittish zigzag at least four times, darting back and forth to the closet and his bag for more and more items. He has a towel wrapped around his waist when he heads out to the shower, one hand clutching it tightly. Last night, I kept my eyes closed or averted the whole time. I don’t tonight. Tonight, I ball a second pillow under my head, giving me a better vantage, and watch as he hangs up his towel and steps under the spray.

His body is lean. Hard. A subtle suggestion of muscle rather than bulk. Fine lines and indentations cause shadows to ripple as the moonlight hits his skin. He’s wet. He’s facing away from me, and there’s water running down his back in thick, shiny rapids. His shoulders are a little broader than they look in clothes, his waist narrowing the perfect amount, dragging my eyes down to his ass. It’s an ass that makes me ache. Physicallyache. Wet and slick and silver from the moon. Soft semi-circles that quake as he washes himself. Two dimples are deeply indented above it, and I swear, they call to me. They say my name. Softly at first, but the more the water runs and steam wafts into the bedroom, the louder it gets.

Derek

Derek

Derek!

I palm my dick under the covers, digging the heel of my hand down my shaft and back up again. My hips buck involuntarily, and I have to force myself to stifle a moan that escapes from the instant need for more.

It’s different tonight. I’m different. For one thing, I’m not fighting my madness. I’ve conceded. It’s won. What’s more, I’m not the least bit sad about it. In fact, I think I might like it. My madness, I mean. I might like it a lot.

I watch Wyn as he walks to our bed. He’s wearing another pair of those fucking adorable little shorts of his. Soft white fabric that rides up and sticks to his upper thighs as he walks. These have Daddy’s Boy on the waistband too, but this time, they have cartoon drawings of tiny dogs all over them. Adorable, until I notice they're all going at it in every conceivable variation of doggie style.

“Are those little dogs”—I can’t resist, so I don’t even try—“boning?”

He tries not to roll his eyes, but I can tell it costs him.

“Let me guess, your friend Gould—of the Daddy discipline spanking relationship with a much older, no, alovelyman named Stuart—at play again?”

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