Page 66 of Work: Strictly Professional

It’s called managing expectations.

What a fucking day.

Trying to act normal as my ass throbbed and tingled from Derek’s ministrations wasn’t nearly as conducive to productivity as one might think. My cock jumped to attention at the lightest breeze, and I was so overwrought from everything that happened that when I served Derek his lasagna for lunch, I almost lost my concentration and leaned over and licked the side of his face.

I managed not to, but it was too close for comfort.

I’m in bed early again. This time, Bridget didn’t need to suggest it. I sent myself. It’s where I belong. I’m not fit to people right now, not even with Bridget. Especially not with Bridget. Especially not when I’ve spent the entire day obsessing about Derek and my need to overthink and overtalk the entire mess I’ve gotten myself into with him is reaching crisis point.

I spent the entire afternoon thinking about what will happen when I’ve taught him everything I know and he no longer needs my services. I put the idea into my own head, and I’m annoyed by it. The thought of Derek being with anyone who isn’t me makes me feel unwell. If that isn’t enough to contend with, my performance is slipping. Much as it pains me to say, I’m not sure it could pass for professional at this point. I was a nightmare today. As if Derek hadn’t seen quite enough of my ass for one day, I did that ridiculous leaning over his desk, arching my back thing again when I took some contracts that needed his signature into his office before I left for the day. I was so horrified by myself, I knocked his glass of water over, narrowly missing his keyboard, and then apologized by saying, “Sorry, Satan Honey” aloud. To his face.

He heard it, and I heard it.

He smiled, and I died inside.

I thought it would be funny to call him Satan on a Post-it the other day, a little laugh, you know. A little humor during anotherwise boring day. I had no idea it would plant the seed for me to start saying that kind of shit aloud.

I’m hot and sweaty, and it’s not because I’m under the covers at eight-forty-five. It’s because, as insane as it sounds, when I was sitting on Derek’s lap and his lips were on me, his words resonated with me. Deeply. Unbearably, painfully, deeply.

I was myself.

That was me, being me.

Really me.

As he said them, I felt them in my chest. I felt his heartbeat against my back and his words in my heart. They felt like my words, my feelings. It felt like there was something between us. Something invisible but thick. Corded and strong. Something that tied me to him despite knowing full well how stupid that is.

“Bridgie!” I cry. “What are you doing here?”

Bridget and I have dropped in at each other’s places of work plenty of times in the past. It’s not unusual for us. She used to pop in to pick me up for lunch pretty regularly when I worked for Sasha. For several reasons, I haven’t encouraged her to visit MacAvoy Group, and I was very much hoping to keep it that way.

“Good surprise or bad surprise?” She knows I’m a bit on the fence when it comes to surprises.

There’s a look in her eyes when she says it that gives me pause. At first, I think it might be the heavy black eyeliner she’s rocking, but no, it’s more. It might not even be a look. It might be more of a knowing, and that sends an icy stab of dread straight through me.

“Wonderful surprise!” I overcorrect, talking a little too loudly, so I steady myself quickly and take it down a notch. “The best surprise ever. Let’s go to lunch. It’s been far too long. We cango to this cool little place around the corner called Joey’s. The salads are amazing. Seriously, you hardly even feel like you’re suffering. Come on, let’s go. My treat.”

I’m firm about paying, but I make no mention of the fact I’m almost a billionaire in my own right from the cash I’ve earned in exchange for sexual services this week alone. Not to mention that in addition to being railed by Derek every day for the past ten business days—in increasingly daring positions—this morning, I found myself on my knees in the hutch under his desk, busily at work, when Clarissa popped up to invite me to drinks for her birthday tomorrow.

So high was my motivation to earn five hundred and seventy-six dollars and eighty-three cents that I totally forgot to lock the door. I heard the elevator ding, and I felt Derek’s hand snake into my hair to warn me we weren’t alone.

“Wyn’s running an errand,” called Derek, voice tight and laced with gravel, “but I’ll send him down as soon as he gets back.”

I’ve never had such a fright. I nearly jumped out of my skin, and while I did slow my pace and completely stopped moaning, one thing I didn’t do was let Derek’s hard cock drop out of my mouth.

It was too close for comfort.

Bridget being here is too close for comfort.

I put an arm around her and guide her to the elevator. Derek is due back any minute. There’s no time to waste. She lets me guide her for a couple of paces and then doubles back.

“Sweet digs,” she says, looking around. “Love the marble. Super fancy-shmancy. I think this is one time that shiny tile really works. Oooh, would you look at that sofa? God, it looks comfortable.”

She throws herself down on it and stretches out, arranging one throw pillow under her head and another under her knees.

I rush over and pull her up by the wrists, but she’s managed to turn herself into overcooked spaghetti, so getting her on her feet isn’t easy.

“Brownies!” I say, using the squeaky voice that’s good for getting the attention of small children and dogs. “Let’s skip the salad and have brownies at Joey’s. They’re amazing. All chewy on the outside and mushy on the inside, just how you like them.”

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