Page 29 of For the Plot
But even with all of that… hell, maybe because of all of that, I’m starting to realize that the real danger isn’t in what she might want from me. It’s in how much I already want her here.
And I don’t know how to want her without losing something else in the process.
The penthouse is too damnquiet. Even the sound of the elevator whirring shut behind me feels like a reprimand.
My jacket hits the back of the couch. Shoes come off next, one by one, landing beside the door like discarded armor. I loosen my tie as I walk through the darkness, not bothering with the lights. I know this place by heart. I paid someone obscene money to design every inch of it.
And tonight, it might as well be a cage.
I pour a scotch, neat. Sip once. Twice. Let the burn chase away the image of Skye's mouth wrapping around the tip of her pen as she listened to me today. The way her lips parted, tongue darting out to wet them like she had no idea what it was doing to me—or worse, like she knew exactly what it was doing and did it anyway.
I down the rest of the glass in one swallow and set it aside before I can talk myself out of what I’m already doing. It’s not the first time I’ve thought about her like this. But it is the first time I don’t try to stop it.
When I reach my bedroom, I stare out at the imposing scene, the one that cost me millions. But none of it compares to the memory of her.
She wore that pale-blue blouse today—the silk one with buttons that strain every time she moves. I told myself I wouldn’t look. That I’d keep my eyes on the reports, the emails, the schedule. But my gaze drifted anyway, hungry and betraying and utterly fucking pathetic.
I sit on the edge of my bed and rub my hand over my face. This is wrong. She’s too young. Too close. Too off-limits. But I’m so goddamn tired of being good.
I recline back against the pillows, unbuttoning my shirt. The sheets still smell like clean linen, a scent I’ve come to hate. Because none of it matters—none of this space or money or success—when the only thing I want is the one thing I can’t have.
I slide my hand lower, undoing my belt, and the zipper eases down with a quiet hiss.
I picture her just the way I saw her earlier—one leg crossed over the other, eyes wide with curiosity as I explained a pitch, nodding like she actually cared about my words and not the way they rumbled out of my chest.
And then I imagine her leaning closer, whispering, “What if I sit on your desk and show you what else this mouth is good for?”
My cock stiffens beneath my hand at the thought. I wrap my fingers around it and exhale sharply. She’d be soft. Wet. So fucking eager to prove she can drive me crazy. And she could. She already has.
Every look, every glance, every accidental brush of her arm against mine feels like slow, exquisite torture. I stroke myself once, twice. My head falls back.
I imagine her on her knees in front of me, that wicked grin tugging at her lips as she peels my pants down. Her voice is inmy head, sarcastic and breathy and bold. “You gonna sit still or can I make you squirm a little?”
Fuck.
I pump harder, eyes squeezing shut as heat curls low in my belly. My thighs tense. The pressure builds fast, brutal. Because I’ve been holding this in for weeks now. Resisting her smile. Her scent. Her goddamn laugh that echoes down the hallway long after she’s walked away.
I see her hair spilled over my pillow, her legs wrapped around my hips, nails clawing at my back as she begs me not to stop. And I wouldn’t. I’d give her everything. Every filthy thought, every possessive ache I’ve buried so deep it scares me to even acknowledge it.
“Harder, Reece. Please?—”
Her phantom voice breaks me. My jaw tightens as release barrels through me, sharp and unforgiving.
I come with a grunt, hips jerking, my hand squeezing as every muscle in my body locks up. The only sound is the ragged breath tearing from my lungs, followed by the quiet stillness of reality settling in again.
It takes me a long minute before I can move. Before I can breathe like a man and not a fucking animal. I wipe my hand, grab a towel, and lean back against the headboard. And then I stare out at the city like it might forgive me for what I just did.
What the hell am I doing?
This isn’t me. I don’t fall apart over a woman. I don’t give in to obsession. I don’t crave someone’s presence so badly I lose sleep over it. And I sure as fuck don’t touch myself like a teenager just because a woman laughed at my joke and crossed her legs a certain way.
But it’s not just the way she looks.
It’s everything.
The way she talks. The way she listens. The way she sees through all my bullshit and calls it out with a smirk and a raised brow, like she’s daring me to do something about it.
I haven’t been tempted like this since before Lauren. And even then, it wasn’t like this.
