Book 1 - Page 7 (1/2)
“It’s too bad you’re such a horrible lay,” she replied calmly. She turned to continue down the stairs but stopped abruptly, spinning back to meet my eye. “And it’s a good thing I’m on the pill. Thanks for asking, a.s.s**le.”
I watched her disappear out of sight down the stairs and growled as I walked back to my office. I landed in my chair with a loud huff, raking my hands through my hair before removing her destroyed panties from my pocket. I stared at the white silk fabric between my fingers for a moment, then opened my desk drawer and dropped them in to join the pair from last night.
Three
How the h.e.l.l I made it down those stairs without killing myself is beyond me. I ran out of there like I was on fire, leaving Mr. Ryan alone in the stairwell slack jawed, clothes askew, and hair standing on end like he’d been molested.
Blowing past the café on fourteen, and clearing the final floor landing in a leap—no easy task in these shoes—I pushed open the metal door and leaned against the wall, panting.
What just happened? Did I just f**k my boss on the stairs? I gasped and my hands flew over my mouth. Did I order him to? Oh, Jesus. What the h.e.l.l was wrong with me?
Dazed, I stumbled away from the wall and up a few flights into the closest restroom. I did a quick check under all the stalls to make sure they were empty and then turned the lock on the main door. As I approached the bathroom mirror, I winced. I looked like I’d been ridden hard and put out to dry.
My hair was a nightmare. All my carefully styled waves were now a ma.s.s of wild tangles. Apparently Mr. Ryan liked my hair down. I’d have to remember that.
Wait. What? Where the h.e.l.l did that come from? I most certainly would not remember that. I slammed my fist on the counter and moved closer to inspect the damage.
My lips were swollen, my makeup smudged; my dress was stretched out and practically hanging on me, and I was once again missing my panties.
Son. Of. A. b.i.t.c.h. That was the second pair. What was he doing with them, anyway?
“Oh, G.o.d!” I said, panicked. They weren’t lying in a pile in the conference room somewhere, were they? Maybe he picked them up and tossed them aside? I should ask him to be sure. But no. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of even acknowledging this . . . this . . . what was this?
I shook my head, scrubbing my face with my hands. G.o.d, I’d made a mess of things. When I came in this morning, I’d had a plan. I was going to walk in there, throw that receipt in his pretty little face, and tell him to shove it. But then he’d looked so G.o.dd.a.m.n s.e.xy in that charcoal Prada suit, and his hair stuck up like a neon sign screaming, Do Me, and I just lost all coherent thought. Pathetic. What was it about him that made my brain turn to mush and my panties wet?