Page 35 of Texting the CEO's Obsession
Riley left the office almost an hour and a half ago, and at first when I was told, annoyance filled me. To think that she just left and didn’t even bother to tell me she was going. Instead she chose to call my assistant, as if telling me herself was unacceptable. I shouldn’t have left the office early to work from home today.
Regardless, if she had an appointment, I can’t blame her.
Though I am surprised. I know everything that happens in her life and I don’t recall hearing about any upcoming appointments in her calendar. Something I’ll have to discuss with my PI later.
Not long after she left, I went home expecting the usual text update from her that she sends when she gets home, but nothing’s come in yet.
The last text I got from her was right after we wrapped up our meeting this morning—and God, am I brilliant for insisting on one-on-one meetings every week. It’s not like I don’t keep upwith her work daily, even when I have better things to be doing, but I’ll take any excuse to be alone with her.
I can’t be blamed, not when she walks around all prim and proper in those little pencil skirts that make me want to ruin her. Going over her progress from the week while she looked at me from behind those sweet glasses, nearly vibrating in her seat at every bit of praise, is the sweetest torture imaginable.
I want to make her sit on my cock during one of those meetings and see just how put-together she is then.
My phone stays stubbornly dark no matter how harshly I glare at it, so I resign myself to sending off yet another email just to keep my hands busy. This is the most work I’ve done on a Friday night since I first started the company. Can’t say I’m enjoying it.
It’s not that I’mtestingRiley, I just want to see the fruits of my labor. I want some initiative on her end, a show that she’s just as needy for my attention as I want her to be. She’s a shy little thing, and I know even texting me first was a big step for her, but that’s why I’ve been slowly setting up a bit of structure to the way we talk. Texts before she heads into the office, on her lunch break, random updates throughout the day, and when she gets home. I want the absence of conversation to make her uncomfortable, desperate for it.
Unfortunately, I’m an impatient bastard at heart. I’m back to tapping out an annoyed rhythm against the glossy top of my desk like I’m the desperate one in need of conversation.
My phone lights up, and I snatch it from the desktop before it even finishes vibrating, a triumphant grin on my face. It falls when I actually read the notification.
Thomas Vale: Doors open at 7, but you know you can show whenever you please. Got a table with your name on it.
Right, the auction.
As fun as Thomas’s events always are, the last thing I want is to go out and swat pawing hands away from me all night. All I want is Riley. A part of me regrets even telling him Imightbe there. He won’t hold it against me, but the thought of even promising that when I’m trying to pull in Riley tugs at my chest in a way I’m not used to.
Like guilt that shouldn’t be there.
I can’t help but imagine what it would be like taking Riley to that place. To see her put on display. For a moment the idea sounds appealing, then the thought of other men watching what’s mine slowly begins to sink in.
I don’t want to physically share her with anyone… but others watching me take what’s mine only makes the situation that much more desirable.
I groan in frustration, dragging a hand down my face as I swipe over to my text thread with her. I’m not the type to remind someone of my existence or ask for attention, but Riley gets a free pass, just this once.
Even though she hasn’t even read my last text where I told her I was wrapping up work.
Nick: Did you make it home safe, Miss Morgan?
Nicholas D’Amico, double texting. What has the world come to?
A response comes in before I can even set my phone back down. I refuse to feel relieved, leaning into smugness instead. I may not take upallof the space in Riley’s mind yet, but she still jumps at the chance to talk to me.
Just how I want it.
Riley: Hey! Yes, sorry, I didn’t mean to ignore you!
Riley: Had a bit of a rough end of my day with some coworkers and then my best friend called and invited me out to some club tonight to get my mind off it.
A frown creases my brows at that. I thought she had an appointment. I swear to God, if Sloane is still finding ways to bother Riley, I’m going to send the bitch packing. She’s lucky she still has a job in the first place.
I type out a response, picking my words carefully so as not to give my identity away, but before I can hit send, another text comes in, and my mind goes utterly blank at the sight.
Two pictures light up my screen.
The first is Riley’s gorgeous face, free of glasses for once, with her hazel eyes highlighted by shimmery eyeshadow and a flick of eyeliner. Her chestnut hair is let down instead of pulled back like she always keeps it at the office, flowing in easy waves over her shoulders. She looks elegant and sultry at the same time, her lips painted with just a hint of glossy color, a delicate silver necklace resting between her collarbones.
The second is a full-body shot that nearly gives me a fucking heart attack.
