about to come, the tiny sounds she makes, the way her legs tighten as if she’s holding on to the sensation with everything she has.
Promptly at ten minutes to ten, Max literally pulls the plug on the music. Snatches of overloud conversation fill the sudden silence.
And then he said “nice panties.”
I can’t believe he’s cheating on me.
She has really nice tits and I—
“Party’s over,” Max roars. “Gift bags are by the front door.”
A stampede ensues as the party guests head for said door. Max’s generosity is legendary, plus word has leaked about the sponsors.
Jack looks at me. “Are you hitting the bar? Molly’s traveling for business, so I’m free.”
During the daylight hours, we borrow Jack from his wife and surf until our balls are Smurf-colored. Afterward, we head to T&T for tacos and tequila (the two Ts, naturally) when it gets dark. But instead of surfing today, I almost-banged Lola. I’m off-kilter. Tequila and company seems like a bad idea.
“Not tonight,” I tell him.
Max mimes astonishment. Being Max, he’s none too subtle about it. He likes making a point as much as I do. “Are you sick? Unexpectedly married? Self-flagellating after today’s earlier sexual misfire?”
“It’s nothing,” I say. “I’m just tired.”
And the funny thing is, the tired part isn’t actually a lie. I am tired. Not with the flu or even with something that can be fixed with a visit to the doctor, or I would fix it. I have a reputation as a player, a reputation I’ve earned. Practice makes perfect, and I’ve put in my hours in the bedroom. I’ve always loved sex, but lately? Well, lately, it’s all seemed a little too routine, a little too predictable, so tonight I’m taking my toy and going home.
Dev
TWO DAYS AFTER I stripped my boss naked, put my mouth on her pussy and ate her until she not-quite-came, I try out various apologetic combinations of words in my head. Nothing feels right, and that’s all wrong, too. Since when do I have feelings? And what do I think happened? My usual insomnia was worse than ever, giving me plenty of time to relive each moment and pick my favorite. Contender number one: Lola dropping to her knees and taking me into her mouth. Contender number two? She let me blow up in her mouth and then she swallowed. Contender number three...the whole goddamned handful of minutes, if I’m being honest, because I can’t forget any of them. She’s under my skin and I don’t like it.
Still, I’m officially one up in our game, so Monday morning I saunter in to Calla, playing things nice and easy. You can’t tell I’m evaluating the chances I get fired or sued. A casual glance toward Lola’s office doesn’t turn up my boss, although it reacquaints me with her desk. I promptly get hard remembering what she looked like, spread out before me.
Figure your shit out, Sherlock.
With a ticking clock, I need to prioritize. Plus, there’s always the risk that someone at Calla recognizes me. As far as I can tell, I’ve gotten away with the masquerade only because Lola is too new to the industry and her team members are equally young. Eventually, though, someone is going to connect the dots, read an online piece or just use Max’s stupid Billionaire Bachelors app—and I’ll be busted. Pretending to be the intern was stupid, my “employment” most definitely has an expiration date, and I need to make the most of the time I have. Ergo, I take advantage of the morning coffee run to swing by the IT gal’s desk. She hasn’t placed an order, but I know what she likes, and I slide it in front of her.
“Wow.” IT Tech Babe stares at me. “I did not see that coming.”
“Just being helpful. Trying to learn. Working up to world domination.” I’ve brought her an iced triple-shot espresso with four artificial sugars, but the pièce de résistance is the can of Mountain Dew I wave in front of her.
“You are so evil.” Cara fixates on the can in my hand. She’s been on the South Beach Diet since Friday, so she’s got to be ready to crack.
I open the can and take a sip. The sugar rush is instantaneous. “I figured we could chat. You can tell me all about what your job entails. What you like about it.” Look at me, Mr. Butter-Won’t-Melt-In-His-Mouth. “What sucks.”
“Why?” Her flip-flop smacks against the floor. Bwap-wap-wap-wap.
“Self-improvement.” I wink at her and hand over the soda can.
“Bless you,” she breathes. Before I can even roll up a yoga ball, she’s mixed the espresso and the soda together in the world’s biggest stainless-steel coffee mug. Soooo gross.
We make chitchat about her job for a minute and then I go for the kill. “So how did you pick our e-commerce platform? I mean, it’s not one of the usual suspects. Did you roll it yourself?”
Cara snorts. “Do I look like a sadist? Not a chance. Lola gave it to me and had me integrate it into our site.”
I take a casual sip of my own coffee. Reel her in. “You got it shrink-wrapped in a box?”
She outright laughs. “Not even close. Lola put it on our file server and I grabbed it from there.”
Okay. So it makes me wonder if Lola has told anyone where she got the software. It doesn’t look good. It shouldn’t be such a secret and I’m sort of tempted to stand up and announce who I am. That they’re using my software without my permission and that it’s all rather felonious from where I sit, sprawled on top of their freaking yoga ball. In other words: Boo.
“Cheers.” Cara taps her cup to mine.
I flash her a smile, kiss her mug with mine and then thank the universe that I’ve got to my feet already because my phone goes off in my back pocket.
The Jaws theme song fills the air. Duh-duh, duh-duh, duh-duh. Followed by tiny guppy pops because you really can’t take life too seriously and Lola is only slightly scary. The scary parts include her big brain and the way she puts two and two together at lightning speed. She could be an apex predator in the programming world if she wasn’t so nice. She gives a genuine shit about the people who work for her and she has morally upright social justice missions that have her investing her time and talents into revolutionizing feminine hygiene rather than making a mountain of cash.
That’s the guppy part, the part that genuinely believes everyone swimming along in the Silicon Valley fishbowl has equally great intentions and will do the right thing. It makes Lola vulnerable, a fact I plan on taking full advantage of.
I look down at my phone. My office. Now.
Go. Don’t go. I don’t know who has the upper hand now. She came on to the summer intern, but I’m the one here under false pretenses and who had my hand in her panties. Followed by my mouth in places my mouth had no business going in the office.
My phone dings again.
