Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23431 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 117(@200wpm)___ 94(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23431 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 117(@200wpm)___ 94(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
“How do you know that?” Sawyer stops typing and crosses his arms across his chest. He doesn’t look pleased with my knowledge of Sandra’s dating life; I think he views her like the little sister he never had. “What could you possibly want to do with Sandra anyway?”
I catch the ball as my brows raise in disbelief. “You need me to spell it out for you, buddy?” I lean forward in the chair and adopt a serious tone. “Sometimes, when two people are attracted to each other, they enjoy taking their clothing off together so they can—”
“Shut up,” Sawyer interrupts. “She’s not really your type.”
“Beautiful?” I question.
“Sweet,” he replies.
She is sweet, he’s right about that. I think about the paper burning a hole in my pocket and wonder again if it was hers. I’d like it to be hers. I think sweet Sandra has a hidden dirty side, and I’d really like to uncover it.
“Don’t fuck with her, Gabe.” Sawyer’s looking at me intently. “Sandra’s not a girl to fuck around with. I promised her dad I’d take good care of her when I hired her. And she’s a little young for you, don’t you think?”
Aha. I knew he had some hero brother thing going on, but I’m not sure I like the insinuation hanging in the air. That I’m not good enough for her.
“Maybe I’m interested in more than just fucking with her.” I roll the ball between my fingers and meet his gaze head on.
“You wish. She’s not going to give you the time of day.”
“She might.” I give the ball another lob.
“Don’t, Gabe.”
It rankles me, this overbearing protective attitude he has towards Sandra, and I toss the ball at him as I rise. He catches it smoothly, the hint of a question in his expression, but I wave it off and exit his office.
Sandra’s at her desk outside Sawyer’s office. Her head is down, her focus absorbed in a spreadsheet on the monitor in front of her, a pen in her right hand. She dashes off a note on a Post-It and, pulling it from the pad, affixes it neatly to her desk, aligning it perfectly to the desk edge. Then her hand trails back to the mouse and she taps it, running her finger gently over the surface to scroll the page in front of her. I’m not giving the monitor much attention though—it’s not what interests me. Her fingertip interests me. The curve of her neck interests me. Her blonde hair, pulled into a low pony and resting on her back, interests me. I think of her tapping her clit with that fingertip, getting herself off. I think about pressing my hand on the back of her neck, forcing her head down to the mattress while coaxing her ass up. I think about wrapping my hand around that leash of hair and guiding her mouth to my cock.
Then without thinking I step forward and snatch the Post-It from her desk.
I am an idiot, I realize the second it’s in my hand. What the fuck am I doing? I have no business touching her things. I don’t even have a plausible reason to be touching her desk.
Sandra jolts in her chair—it’s apparent she hadn’t realized I was standing there. It’s also apparent that Sawyer isn’t in the habit of sneaking up on her and snapping things off her desk, since generally Sawyer isn’t a dick. Her head turns in my direction, her eyes widening in surprise, a flicker of unease crossing her face before she blinks and forces a professional smile, her eyes darting between me and the Post-It—the one I grabbed on impulse, simply for a glance at her handwriting in some inane belief that I could confirm the survey was hers. I glance at it, my gaze quickly covering the three-inch-by-three-inch square of paper in my hand. The one that says ‘call landlord.’ Jesus fuck. It’s not even work-related.
“Mr. Laurent?” she questions, her blue eyes flickering uncertainly.
“Sorry, Sandra.” I’m all business now, setting the Post-It back on the desk like it’s of no interest to me and lying through my teeth. “I thought that was the address I asked you for.”
“I don’t have any requests from you,” she says with a slight shake of her head as she opens her email to double-check. “What did you need?” she asks, and I’m standing so close to her that she has to tilt her head back to look at me, at pretty much the same angle she’d be in if she was on her knees, my cock in her throat. Her eyelashes flutter as she waits for me to speak and I notice the slight blush to her cheeks.
“I need the address for Sawyer’s parents,” I lie, then add, “Holiday fruit basket.” Which is unnecessary because she’s already turned back to her monitor, her fingers flying across the keyboard with efficiency.