Page 23 of Hotline
The one thing I have to do is answer my phone. This feels like a precarious situation. But he set all of this up, right? He has access to the strings that need to be pulled to get someone like me into a place like this.
He wouldn't steer me wrong.
So I hand over my phone.
I walk down a beautiful hallway with antique framed movie posters. I feel like I'm being ushered down a red carpet as the door at the end of the hall opens. There's a narrow aisle splicing through rows of red velvet chairs. I spot a good one right in the middle of the theater.
I know Mr. Lennox only has me around to be his steamy chat partner, but I wish he were here with me right now, in this romantic atmosphere that he's orchestrated just for me.
This would be the perfect date, if only I had him here to share it with.
The theater lights dim, and my heart flip-flops.
I grab a handful of popcorn and settle in, perching my big sunglasses on my head like a tiara.
Chapter Ten
Opal
The movie screening was great.
The screen of my phone, however, is not great.
I've got about 6700 missed calls from Mr. Lennox.
I call him as soon as I get back into the car. It goes to voicemail. I can imagine him going crazy trying to get to me. It's kind of a turn-on. Only a crazy person calls that many times.
A few seconds later, my phone buzzes with a text from him.
My office.
Shoot. I think I might be in trouble.
I run my thumb over the message the whole ride back, my heart galloping through my chest, unmoored, my stomach churning over and over again.
His words are doing a real number on me. His frank, direct command -my office- is so hot. I feel like I'm going to get the back seat of this convertible wet. I swallow thickly and move my hips a little, the thong that he gave me soaked through, the string between my ass cheeks sticking to my body from how wet I am.
The trip back to the office seems to take forever. I'm surprised to see that he isn't waiting for me outside the elevators.
I square my shoulders and make a beeline for his office with my palms sweating and my knees feeling weak.
His door is open. The sun casts golden rays onto him, accentuating his scruffy beard and
deep green eyes. His jaw is clenched as he looks down at his desk, his big hands pressed flat atop it.
I knock softly and he raises his eyes to meet mine.
"Am I in trouble?" I blurt out.
He lets out a deep breath, nostrils flaring as he looks me up and down, seeming to not notice my question.
"No," he finally says with a throaty rasp. "Please come in."
I shuffle inside, lingering by the doorway.
I can’t believe I haven't had the chance to see inside his office yet. It is the perfect encapsulation of this man, all hard lines and leather, dark wooden tones, and a bar cart in the corner with a bottle of dark brown liquor. I'm surprised that he has just one glass on it. This man drinks alone? I suppose so.
I close the door behind me as my cheeks flush with warmth and my pulse trembles.
