Page 17 of Lovesick

One of the men sitting further down the table glanced our way, and I quickly typed something on my laptop, pretending I was taking notes.

“Yes, Emilia?” Dean asked loudly enough for the others to hear, withdrawing his hand with maddening casualness. “Did you have a question about the case?”

All eyes turned to me. My cheeks burned as I fumbled for words.

“I…I was just wondering about the timeline for discovery,” I managed.

Dean’s smile was pure wickedness. “I think we’ll need to discuss that in private. After the meeting.”

The meeting dragged on for another twenty minutes, during which Dean’s hand returned twice more. Then, a third, but he did way more than just teasing that time.

His fingers moved closer to my clit, finding me already embarrassingly wet. The moment his fingertips made contact with my clit, I had to disguise my gasp as a cough, drawing a few concerned glances from across the table.

“Water?” someone offered.

I shook my head, unable to form words as Dean's middle finger began making slow, deliberate circles. My thighs trembled beneath the conference table, and I gripped the edge of my laptop so hard my knuckles turned white.

"As you can see from the chart," the presenter continued, completely oblivious to my torment, "our strategy needs to account for these variables."

Dean increased the pressure slightly, his movements becoming more purposeful. I bit down on my lower lip, trying to focus on anything else—the presentation, the potted plant in the corner, the stack of papers beside me—anything but the building pressure between my legs.

I had to press my palm flat against the table to steady myself. I was dangerously close to the edge, my breath becoming shallow as I fought against the waves of pleasure threatening to overtake me. His fingers moved faster now, and I had to pretend to look at something on my laptop just to hide my face for a moment. Pressure kept building inside of me, my toes curling in my heels as I desperately tried to maintain control.

Just when I thought I couldn't hold back any longer, Dean leaned close, his breath hot against my ear. "Not yet," he whispered. "Wait until I tell you."

I didn’t know how I made it through the next ten minutes. My entire body was on fire, trembling with the effort of restraint. Dean's fingers never stopped their torturous dance, bringing me to the edge again and again only to slow down just enough to deny me release.

"In conclusion," the presenter finally said, "I believe this strategy gives us the best chance of success."

"I agree," Dean said, his voice steady while his fingers increased their pace once more. "I think we're done here."

As the men began gathering their things, murmuring among themselves, Dean leaned in closer.

"Now," he commanded softly. "Come for me now."

My body obeyed instantly. I bit down hard on my lip as waves of pleasure crashed through me, my thighs clamping around his hand. I somehow managed to keep my expression neutral. I got up the second his hand left my pussy, and after gathering my things, I walked out of the room.

Anger and frustration, and maybe a bit of adrenaline, rose inside of me. What he just made me do was sick. For a boss to treat his assistant like this was fucking sick! But I wasn’t allowed to feel like a victim. I wasn’t. I wanted this. I wanted Dean to touch me. And all this anger inside of me was because of the choice I made.

“Stupid, stupid girl,” I muttered to myself as I closed my office door behind me. “I’m such a stupid—ugh!” I set my laptop down with a loud thud, but any concern for it disappeared the second I heard the door behind me.

I whipped around just as Dean stepped inside, cool and composed like he hadn’t just finger-fucked me in the middle of a conference room full of colleagues.

He closed the door with a soft click, locking it.

I stood there, chest rising and falling fast, fists clenched at my sides.

“Dean, you can’t just—”

He crossed the room in three slow, measured steps, cutting off whatever weak protest I thought I could make. His tie was loosened, his sleeves pushed up, and that hungry look in his eyes stole the words from my mouth.

“Finish that sentence,” he said, voice low, “and lie to me again.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My back hit the edge of my desk.

He kept coming until he was right in front of me.

“You think you didn't want it?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. “You think I can't see the truth written all over you?”

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