Page 6 of Savage Boss
“Eww, no.” I flap my hands as if trying to get rid of a particularly disgusting smell. “I'm done with Dean. He is my asshole ex, and he is staying that way. Again, eww.”
I shudder at the thought.
“Then who was it? Who the hell did you hook up with between Lex and 43rd and the hotel?”
“Fine, it wasn't Aragorn.” She rolls her eyes. “It was,” the words don't want to come out, and I have to force them, “it was some random guy on the twelfth floor.”
“What?” Emily squeals. “Some random guy on the floor above us? That sounds incredibly sexy… and dangerous.”
“Keep it down!” I look around again, embarrassed. “Don't blame me. It was your game. I thought I was following the clues and was at the right place. I thought it was some practical joke you'd slipped in there for me until things started to get hot and heavy. I even had the blindfold on, but by then, I wasn't going to stop.”
“Shit, why didn't I think of that?” Emily pouts. “I should have booked a room upstairs and sent Aragorn there first to meet you. You could have gotten hot and heavy with him, instead of some rando. Was this guy any good?”
I don't say anything. Instead, I bite my lip at the memory of what we'd done in that room on the twelfth floor, all the things he’d done to me, all the ways he'd brought me to an orgasm over and over, until I was screaming so loud, I'm surprised they didn't hear me downstairs.
There must be something in my expression, because all humor drops from Emily's face. “Are you serious? He was that good?”
“He was better than good,” I admit. “If I didn't know any better, I’d think it was some wild dream, because I've never experienced anything like that before. Even now, it's kind of hard to believe it happened.”
Emily gives a low whistle. “So are you going to see him again? Did you get his number? What's his name? What does he look like?”
“No way.” I shake my head, regretting the action immediately, as my headache momentarily sends piercing knives through my skull. “I'm not ready for any type of relationship. I'm not sure I will ever be at this point. I didn't get his number or his name. It was just an hour of sex, mind-blowing, amazing sex.”
Emily stares at me, torn between two reactions before she finally grins and sits back, taking a bite out of her eggs Benedict and chewing slowly. “Honestly, good for you. You deserve it. Was he hot, at least?”
“His body definitely was. I only saw his face briefly when I first arrived, before I put the blindfold on. I really thought he was part of the bachelorette party. But to answer your question, I think so.”
“You think so?”
“I had my blindfold on the entire time we had sex. All I know was that he was huge, he had tattoos on his hands, and his body felt like he works out all the time. Oh, and I caught a flash of blue eyes.”
Emily's eyes go wide as she stares at me. “You had the blindfold on theentiretime? And by 'big' what do you mean exactly?”
“Everywhere.” I grin.
We dissolve into giggles again, sharing a look that means she knows this was a onetime, one-night stand that will go into our vault and never come out again, even if I can’t get the guy—or the sex—out of my head.
“Damn it, youdidhave more fun than me at my bachelorette party. My plan worked too well; you ended up at a completely separate penthouse.”
“That was entirely up to chance.” I munch my way through another french fry, adjusting my sunglasses against the glare of the sun creeping in between the vines above us.
“Maybe. But it was my treasure hunt that led you there. I'm taking credit for it,” Emily says.
I throw another french fry at her, and this time, it beans the guy behind us right on the back of his head.
“Sorry!” We both say, unable to avoid dissolving into laughter again.
Nine weeks later,I land the cushy corporate lawyer job I’d been seeking. I no longer have to see Dean at the office, and hopefully ever. I’m so nervous and excited that I’m nauseous.
Really nauseous.
Thankfully, nothing has surfaced because I haven’t eaten anything since last night, and I’ve been chugging ginger ale. I even have a bottle in my purse, just in case, the strap of which I have clutched in my hand in a death grip.
“Where did you work before this?”
I look over at the PA, a woman in her early fifties. Her blonde-gray hair is swept up into a tight chignon, her suit elegant, and her smile warm.
“At a small firm in Midtown. Criminal defense. But I specialized in finance and corporate law in law school, so I’m very excited about this job,” I add quickly, hoping the PA doesn’t think I’m ill-fitted for the role they hired me for.
