Page 7 of Dirty Nasty Billionaire: Part 2

Chapter 3

Nixon buttoned his shirt and retied his bowtie, then slipped out of the door and headed straight for the nearest exit. He had his phone pressed to his ear to avoid any social interactions or interceptions. The person on the other end of that call? Me. Purring a play-by-play of our evening, while I waited for probably far too long in the supply closet before finally making my own exit. Better safe than sorry, though.

“You’re home early,” Elise says when I walk in the door of our apartment a little while later. I glance at the clock on the wall and see that it’s only 10:30. But I couldn’t imagine staying in that room listening to executives talk about profit margins after what had just happened.

I felt so alive with pleasure that I was sure everyone would be able to see the experience written all over my face. I figured if anyone asked about my early departure, I could just claim a migraine. This time I definitely won’t make the mistake of talking about my orgasm at work.

“I take it that means you didn’t meet anyone?” she clarifies.

I’ve never kept a secret from Elise before. I’ve never really had any secrets to keep. So it’s totally new territory when I offer her a shrug and a grimace. But Nixon made it clear that no one can know. No one. And besides, I’m pretty sure I know what Elise would say about this new development in my work life, and I just don’t want to hear it. I don’t want any doubts creeping in after what happened tonight. I just want to enjoy it. To enjoy him.

“It was pretty boring, to be honest,” I lie to her. It hurts to do it, but I have no choice.

And then I drift towards my room before the look on my face completely gives me away.

* * *

“Who did these financial reports?”Randi Powers pops into the intern conference room looking effortlessly beautiful in a navy shift and a pair of Frye booties. She’s waving a binder of financials about a potential acquisition.

Shit.

It’s Monday, the first day back at the office after the State of Scour gala. I haven’t seen or heard from Nixon since he walked out of the supply closet, so it’ll also be the first day I’ve seen him since I was bent over against a door with his cock buried nine inches deep.

Oh my god, am I blushing?

I pinch my thigh to try and bring myself back to the conference room and Randi’s question, even though all I want to do right now is lean back in my chair and let my mind wander back to Friday night. And maybe let my hand do a little wandering, too.

Shit, that’s not working. Focus.

“I did,” I say, bracing myself for what could be an epic dressing down. I’ve been a favorite target for Amber and Jenna, which has often resulted in a few mistakes on my part. Not my finest work, that’s for sure. But Randi just smiles.

“These are fantastic. I really like the way you broke down the P and L. Keep it up, Delaney.”

I smile, and Colin gives me a high five from behind his laptop. He, at least, seems to have been able to move on from my first day faux pas. It took him a full week before he could look at me without blushing, but now that he’s out of tomato territory, he and I have become something of a team. We make natural foils for Amber and her little roadie, Jenna.

And they definitely have not forgotten about my orgasm. Or (former) lack thereof.

Randi’s praise seems to make Amber burn with the fury of a thousand suns, and I know she’s going to spend the rest of the day punishing me for taking the spotlight off of her. But I don’t care. I’ve gotten used to ignoring her vicious barbs and mean girl mannerisms. Partly because, as Randi just said, I’ve been thoroughly killing it lately.

And partly because my body is in a perpetual state of post-orgasm glow. To say I’m relaxed would be an understatement. I wish I’d known about orgasms during college. Maybe then I wouldn’t have been so stressed out during finals.

Randi places the binder down on the conference table, flipping through a few file folders of research reports waiting for her there. “Nixon said he wanted to go over these reports with you personally, so stop by his office before you head out for the day, ok?”

I smile and nod. “Will do,” I tell her, and then she’s gone.

“He probably hasn’t seen your research files on SmartSpace yet,” Jenna assures Amber, her voice low, as if we don’t all be able to hear her in this tiny room. She’s referring to another potential app that helps amateur interior designers plan their furniture layout at home.

“I’m sure,” Amber replies. She studiously smooths out her skirt, then flips her long hair over her shoulder. She’s trying very hard to act unaffected, but she’s only barely able to mask her roiling jealousy. She’s been practically doing backflips trying to draw Nixon’s attention, but the few times he’s dropped into our intern conference room, it’s only to offer rare cursory praise sandwiched between a whole hell of a lot of constructive criticism.

Sometimes I imagine what it would be like to tell her. To just out with “I’ve fucked Nixon Blake.” Her face would probably melt. She’d look like a Picasso. She’d turn so many colors. It would be great.

But of course, I can’t say any of that. Not that we ever talked about it (or anything), but I know that no one can know about what happened between me and Nixon.

No one can know what might else might happen. Like what might happen when I go to his office this evening.

The rest of the day screeches to a halt, the clock seeming to tick in reverse. Hours feels like days, and I swear I’ve aged a decade by the time the clock hits 5pm. But when it does, I try to gather up my things as nonchalantly as possible. It’s hard to beat back my instinct to run screaming to the elevator, but I manage to keep it in.

“Don’t you have to go see Nixon?” Jenna squawks.

---