Page 71 of Work: Strictly Professional

“Arghhhh,” I yell and start spinning again.

Derek catches me, arms circling me tightly, and pulls me onto his lap. My naked ass on the mess I made is the last thing his suit needs, but I don’t have it in me to complain because I’m firmly pinned against Derek’s chest, and it’s so nice here. Safe and warm and snuggly. My head is tucked neatly into the space between his neck and shoulder, and the smell of him is so intoxicating I can’t think of anything else. He runs a big hand through my hair and I feel myself go limp against him.

I should probably tell him that all this cuddling won’t go down well when he’s casually hooking up with other men. As his mentor, I really should. It’s not what a stranger will be expecting from a hookup. But I can’t find it in myself to do that either. Not when he’s so big and strong, and his dick is still hard and jutting into my thigh.

“Wyn,” he says, narrowly saving me from releasing the smug-happy gurgle working through me. “It’s okay. I have a spare suit, remember? You brought it in for me a few days before the wedding. It’s in the closet.” He runs a heavy hand down my back. “Remember? I said I didn’t need it, and you said being prepared was at the core of your brand.”

I giggle deliriously into his neck. It does sound like me.

Pant crisis averted, I burrow as close to Derek as possible and close my eyes for a minute.

I do lick him once or twice on the side of his face. But I do it professionally—with a pointy tongue, not a flat one, so I think it’s okay.

My arms snake around his broad chest and I press my face into his neck. When I close my eyes and breathe him in deeply enough, I’m able to forget that he’s paying me to do this with him and that this whole thing means something completely different to me than it does to him. Most of all, having my face nestled into his skin and scouring my cheeks gently with his stubble gives me a lovely reprieve from my greatest fear. A fear that tapped my shoulder weeks ago. It started as a soft murmur, but it’s grown louder and louder and is near constant now. It turns my blood to ice, paralyzing me where I stand when I so much as think of it. The fear that, at any minute, he’ll tell me the experiment is complete. That I’ve taught him everything he needs to know. That the ruse is over, and it’s time for him to fly free.

31

Derek

It’s been ages sinceI last had Wyn. Ages. My skin is crawling with lust. I have that hyper feeling I get when it’s been too long. My blood has run thick, and even the mere sight of the collection of matching stationery on his desk has my dick stiff as a pole. I have to have him. I have to. I can’t work when I’m like this. I can’t think, and I can’t string a simple sentence together. I can’t even pretend I’m okay. I ran into Clarissa from recruitment in the elevator on the way in this morning, and she asked me if I was okay.

I almost said no. I almost forgot that saying yes is an unwritten rule when answering that question.

It’s been so long since I’ve been with Wyn that I’m not okay. I’m really not.

It’s Monday today.

I haven’t touched him or seen him since Friday.

I don’t know what his plans were for the weekend. I didn’t have time to ask him before he left on Friday. I don’t know how Bridget is. I’ve had no word on her turd of an ex-boyfriend and whether he’s leaving her alone or making a nuisance of himself.I haven’t heard anything about Gould and the rest of his friends either. I don’t even know what the status is on the tiny glass jars he owns. Has he used them to spite me, or are they still all wrapped and untouched?

Fuck. I hate LA.

I hate living here, and I hate my apartment, and I hate all the people.

I should have insisted that Wyn and I stay in Hawaii after the wedding. I should have bought the resort and paid our friends and family to stay longer. I could have had them stagger their visits so there’d always be at least one or two of them there so Wyn would have no choice but to keep being my boyfriend.

I don’t know why I didn’t think of it.

I must have been crazy coming back here.

The pieces I get of Wyn now are only just enough to keep me going. They keep me sane, but they aren’t nearly enough. It’s like being drip-fed water when you’re badly dehydrated. Just a teaspoon at a time. Just a taste. Just enough to wet your lips and tongue.

The problem is I’m a man who’s been wandering a desert for years. Drip-feeding me is enough to keep me alive but not enough to see me thrive.

To thrive, I need to wake up with Wyn’s arms wound around my neck and drink coffee with him in the morning—ideally with his hair standing on end or at least with a couple of marks creased into his face. I need to eat and bathe with him. I need to sit on the beach with him at my side, our feet buried in the sand, watching the sunset.

I need to know what crazy shorts he’s wearing to sleep in at night.

No. I need to tear his shorts off and carry him to my bed naked.

That’s what I need.

I check my schedule as soon as I get in. It’s so slammed with back-to-back meetings that I briefly consider selling the whole goddamn company. To make matters worse, it’s all time-sensitive, urgent business today. Business I’ve been putting off and pushing back for weeks because I can’t get enough of my pint-sized PA. I try moving this, and then I try moving that. No joy. There are conflicts everywhere, so I create an entry, call it a one-to-one, which is what we call performance reviews at MacAvoy Group, and invite Wyn to it. I book it for six this evening, which is later than I like keeping him here, but it’s the earliest my schedule allows, and I know myself well enough to know that the well-being of every person in the building depends on me spending some time alone with Wyn today.

We pass each other like ships in the night all day. At one point, he looks up as I walk through reception on my way to my lunch appointment and says, “I think you may want to reconsider that face, Mr. MacAvoy.”

“What’s wrong with my face?”

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