Page 7 of Get It In Writing
“That’s not what I meant,” I respond. “I was just admiring your tattoos because I actually happen to be a graphic designer. So I was just looking at them from a design perspective.”
“Come sit down, Bec,” he says, nodding at the chair next to him. “Let me show you. From a design perspective.”
He smells like spearmint and expensive cologne. Sothat’swhat money smells like. People always talk about the smell of money - not actually money, but the scent of power and wealth - and this is it. I don’t think I’ve ever been so close to someone with his level of wealth, and strangely, I’m not intimidated. At least, not by the fact that he’s rich.
I’m more intimidated by the fact that he’s so freaking hot.
“So,” I ask, sitting down on the edge of the chair and making sure my skirt is completely covering everything it has to. “Which was the first one you got?”
“This one,” he says, pointing to a black outlined hourglass on his forearm. “I got it when I was in high school, actually. It’s still my favorite.”
“I like this one,” I say, “from a design perspective. Clear lines, bold. It’s very nice.”
“You’d look sexy with a tattoo,” he says, reaching out his fingers to mine, taking my arm off my lap and turning it over in his hands, inspecting it. “Something that tells your story. But of course, I also like you pure,” he says, moving his focus from the inside of my wrist to my eyes.
“What makes you think I don’t already have a tattoo,” I ask as his fingers slip between mine and he gently caresses the inside of my wrist with his thumb. My breath catches in my throat and I let out an unsteady sigh.
“You want to prove to me that you don’t by stripping down to your bra and panties?” he asks, his eyes flashing with an intoxicating thirst that draws me in.
“In here?” I ask, a flash of heat hitting me between the legs as my stomach flips deep inside me.
“So you would?” he asks, slipping his fingers down mine and brushing the pads of his fingers along my knee.
“No! That’s not what I meant!” I say, standing up. “Listen, I don’t have any tattoos. That’s why I was looking at yours. They’re different. I never have the guts to do that.”
“Never do what? Ink yourself?” he says, walking toward me.
“That’s not what I meant,” I say again. The way he’s walking toward me so excruciatingly slowly is making my panties wet. “I meant...here, with the glass walls?”
“I get it now,” he says, walking back to his desk. “You don’t want anyone to see you fraternizing with the boss. And I get it. You don’t want anyone to see you bent over this desk getting slapped on the ass. Right?”
All the blood in my body rushes to my face, and I feel light-headed. Like I could faint at any moment. I keep backing up toward the door to make my escape, but I keep getting pulled back in by him.
He laughs, hooking a hand around the back of his neck.
“You really think I would let that happen? Here? Come on,” he says, giving me a mischievous grin.
“Oh. No,” I stammer. “Of course not. I knew you were kidding.”
He chuckles and rips a piece of paper off a pad at the side of his desk, scribbling something down and sliding it across the desk.
“Go back out there and do your thing, Rebecca,” he says as I shuffle over to grab the paper. It has one sharp fold splitting it down the middle, and I make my way out of the office grasping it between my palms, shutting the door behind me.
I’ve got nowhere to hide, and Mr. Harper is looking at me as I sit down at my desk and slip the note under my keyboard.
I don’t want to look. I don’t want to know what it says. If it’s anything like the first note he gave me, I’m afraid I’ll do something crazy like actually take him up on his offer.
I silently count to three and slide the paper from under my keyboard, unfolding it swiftly.
Get a drink with me after work.
I look over at him and he waves. Without thinking, I give him a little nod. Nothing wrong with a drink.
