Page 81 of Handsome Devil
I didn’t email her to try to bait her into another battle of will. I didn’t confront her, get in her face, try to get under her skin.
And that gray little office was definitely a lot less interesting without her in it, serving up fiery looks and snark.
I tried to stay out of the office as much as I could anyway. I had meetings. Other things to deal with that were a hell of a lot more important than some insubordinate employee I didn’t even like, yet found annoyingly interesting.
And who I couldn’t seem to stop fantasizing about fucking.
After I drove her home from the bar the other night, I went to the penthouse. It was a two minute drive, if that, from her place. I went straight into the shower, where I cursed the stubborn and headstrong Devi Sereda to hell, while I basically hate-fucked my own hand. And blew a load so hard I thought I might tear something. A muscle? A heart valve? My heart was pounding so hard it was mildly frightening.
I hadn’t had an orgasm or anything remotely close to sex since before the whole sex tape scandal broke, and strangely, standing in that shower coming down from that orgasm felt both cathartic and revolutionary. Like I’d turned some fucked-up corner I’d never go back from.
I liked it.
Maybe I was drunk. I tried to remember how many scotch-and-sodas I’d sipped over the course of the night, while Shane and some buddies of his who’d joined us talked about women, fighting and cars. And I watched Devi across the room with her friends.
I’d been hard for half the night, just watching her across the room.
Yup. It got me hard when she sat down across the table from me and went on the attack. Apparently, my dick liked her insubordination, almost as much as it liked her tits, her ass, and the fire in her eyes.
And ever since that particularly vigorous masturbation session in the shower, it had become a multiple-times-a-day occurrence—me and my hand in whatever washroom, or in the shower, relieving the tension from having to deal with the woman. I’d never been so fucking annoyed about jerking off, orwhilejerking off, as I was thinking about Devi Sereda while I kept trying to think about something else, and failing.
But at least the equipment was working again.
Maybe a little too well.
Ever since Devi confronted me at that bar, sat across the table from me in that purple dress unzipped just enough to show a little cleavage, while her dark eyes bore down on me and she tried to wage war, I was getting hard on an inconveniently regular basis. Like every time I was on a phone call and I caught her perfume in the air. Or when I was trying to read or compose an email and I heard her laugh float up the hall.
I’d taken to listening to music, loudly, when I was in the office, just to drown her out.
I had Wiley bring in a couple of wireless speakers and get me all connected. Amazing, the power and volume you could get out of those little things. I didn’t keep up with new music much, just threw on some of the shit I used to listen to as an angry kid. Uplifting stuff like Linkin Park, “In the End,” and Papa Roach, “Last Resort.” A little Godsmack, “I Stand Alone,” just for good measure. I got a look from the secretary through the window over that one.
Whatever. She could put music on out there. No one was stopping her.
On Saturday, I had a breakfast meeting with the gala organizers, then spent a good deal of the day at the agency, working in peace and quiet. No one was in except me.
And I wondered what Devi did with herself on Saturdays, while I jerked off in the men’s room after taking a little walk through her office. I’d managed to avoid stalking her on her social media to try to answer that question, and ended up with my dick in my hand instead.
The leopard-print throw on her couch, the lipgloss tube on her desk, the pair of high heels in the corner, all reminded me too much of her. Plus, the lingering scent of her perfume kinda pushed it over the edge.
On Saturday night, I went to the gala straight from the agency office. When I slid into the limo and found my senior EA awaiting me, she frowned.
“Where’s your bow tie?” were the first words out of Velma Caulfield’s mouth as she looked me up and down.
“No idea,” I said. “It wasn’t in the bag with the tux.”
“Where the hell is Wiley?”
“I gave him the night off.”
She shook her head, like she couldn’t possibly have heard that right.
“He wanted to go dancing at some club,” I elaborated. “There was some DJ. He wouldn’t shut up about it.”
Velma looked at me like I’d sprouted wings or something. Like,Who the fuck are you right now?
I scowled a little.
She whipped out her phone, presumably to get me a tie to go with the tux. Velma didn’t usually travel with me; that was part of the deal when she came to work for me four years ago. She had a husband and a kid in Toronto, so she worked from head office. Except under exceptional circumstances.
