Every three-point-five seconds my thoughts drift to Maisie
and the contract I delivered two days ago. I haven’t heard a response, and why
should I? We never exchanged numbers. She’s had no way to reach me while I was
out. We’re nothing but colleagues with a history. But that doesn’t stop me from
missing her, wanting her. It all pisses me off. I have work to do and life to
deal with. I knew I didn’t have time for a complication, but I can’t stop
thinking about her sweet face and gorgeous ass.
I force myself to focus on the Spears case and the latest
injunction Marjorie Blume has filed. She’s muddying up the waters by leaking
reports of MoMo’s lengthy conviction record. What he thought was past tense is
front and center. It’s my job to retrain the focus on Blume versus freedom of
speech, and not his penchant for cars that don’t belong to him.
I drill into the details. Each hour spent living through
Blume’s history has my temper rise by ten degrees. At the end of the day, I’m
hot. She’s not a saint, and it sticks in my craw she’s made a living making
people believe she is.
Focusing on Wentworth for days and Blume for what feels like
ages has my blood pressure off the charts. Life is full of complications and
I’m in a punishing mood because of them.
“Mr. Kavanagh,” Lisa says from the door. “It’s seven and I’m
heading out. Do you need anything before I go?”
“I do—” Ms. Walker arrives behind her with the devil in her
eye and a fairly well-hidden smirk. She peeks around my secretary to stare me down
with a secret only the two of us share. “I do not,” I amend.
“I brought the research you requested, sir.” Maisie holds
out an envelope—a familiar one, stamped confidential.
My gaze jerks from the document to her mouth: plump lips
brightened with peach gloss. Christ. My chest aches. Goddamn
heart. I smooth it under the pretense my tie is out of line.
“Enjoy your weekend, Lisa. I’ll finish with Ms. Walker and
close up,” I say while my gaze remains trained on Maisie.
I wave her in as Lisa escapes before eight on a Friday
night. As the automatic lock latches on the door, we stand and stare with
silence swirling around us like the promise of what’s to come. Evening sun
warms my office, but Maisie’s nipples pebble into distinct points. They draw my
attention to the ripe lushness of her breasts pressed together in a skintight
button-up and I can’t think of anything but her naked flesh. Because I’ve seen
it. I’ve watched her writhe in ecstasy, squeezing the life from my dick.
In an instant, my mind retreats from the memory and drills
into sharp focus. There’s no reason why she’s over there and I’m here and we
aren’t touching. “Did you read it?” I ask.
Maisie nods. “I did. And I signed it too.”
After this shit with Wentworth, it’s important that we’re on
the same page, that she’s honest with me about her feelings. She must give
permission. Say it out loud and reassure me I’m not the only one suffering.
“Tell me, Ms. Walker. What do you want from me?” My voice is low and jagged
from need. Something my body knows all too well as it stiffens at the mere
sight of her.
“I want you to f*ck me like your dirty little secret, Mr.
Kavanagh.” She breathes out my name as if it’s a wish, a fucking plea for my
cock to meet the back of her throat.
Lord, have mercy. Who am I to deny her? If she wishes
to know the type of justice I deliver, then so be it. “Come forward for your
sentence, peach.”
