Summer Worthington doesn't hate her corporate job, per se. It's her god-awful boss, Mr. Griffin - or, as her roommates like to call him, Mr. Grouchy - who's the problem. He's cruel, cold-hearted, and the most attractive man she's ever seen.
As his p...
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LATER THAT NIGHT, IT TAKES me ages to fall asleep. Despite clearing the air with Max and being on better terms with him, I keep replaying our last conversation. Apparently, torturing myself is a new pastime.
Max's words whisper into my ear, surrounding me like a thick, heady haze.
From where I'm sitting, I'm pretty sure you're good at everything, Sunshine.
It's so easy to imagine that he's beside me—behind me—now, pressed up against me. I can't seem to stop thinking about him, no matter how hard I try. Lying in bed, his face—rough with short stubble and shadowed in weariness—flashes through my mind. Seeing him cry, helping him through his catharsis, should've been a turn-off, but it's had the opposite effect.
It's increased his attraction tenfold.
Lauren, of course, was quick to launch into one of her favourite debate topics—gender perceptions and harmful stereotypes—after I told her everything that'd happened today over dinner. According to her, most women prefer a man who's comfortable showing emotion. Maybe that's why I found it so hard to be around Max before, because, until very recently, all he did was hide what he was feeling behind a mask of indifference—cold, impenetrable granite. And I was always on the defensive, never fully knowing where I stood or how he felt. The fact that he let his guard down tonight, that he let me—of all people—in, filled me with an astonishing amount of warmth.
And I've been burning ever since.
All night, I've tried to distract myself and focus on other things. The new chiffon dress I ordered weeks ago that finally arrived and fits like a glove. The cheesy episodes of the latest K-drama I just binge-watched. It manages to hold my attention for a little while . . . and then I'm back to thinking very, very inappropriate thoughts about my boss for the umpteenth time.
I toss and turn until I've cocooned myself in the blankets. Even though my eyes are closed, my thoughts run wild. I'm acutely aware that all I want, the only images playing behind my eyes, are of his big hand, splayed on my belly, then dragging down to explore every inch of my body. Except, unlike that night on my couch, he has no intention of stopping until he's inside me, and I have no plans of asking him to leave.
When his warm fingers toy with the elastic band of my pyjama shorts and slide between my legs, desire sinks into me, kneading my skin. I picture his deft fingers swiping over my clit, applying the perfect amount of pressure, and him saying, "Such a good girl. You're already wet for me."
Drifting deeper into the fantasy, I'm tempted to touch myself, to really run with this, but before I can, Max's hand stills, and he switches his focus. He whispers more things in my ear, sweet and unexpected things, like how badly he needs me, and not just at Elevated. He tells me he can't imagine life without me, that he doesn't want to lose me—ever.
