Screwed
Page 30
I’m not about to fuck with destiny. I’ve been jacking off to the thought of Emery for the past month. My damn hand is tired and my cock is almost raw. Maybe this time away will change things between us. I just have to decide if I want them to.
After we checked in to the hotel, Emery took off for a business meeting downstairs in one of the conference rooms while I stepped out and explored Omaha. There isn’t much to see, which is why I’m already back and seated at the hotel bar with a bottle of imported beer in front of me.
I glance down to check the time on my phone. I have another thirty minutes before I’m supposed to meet Emery for a business dinner in the hotel’s one restaurant—fittingly, a steakhouse. If there’s one thing they’ve got in Nebraska, it’s cows. I went over to check out the restaurant earlier, wanting to make sure they’ll have a vegetarian option for her.
Plus I was just bored. I have my laptop, and I logged on to check on some properties and reply to work e-mails, but I’m unaccustomed to being out of my own city and am too restless to concentrate on work.
I wonder if this is what Emery’s transition to LA has felt like? If so, I give her even more credit for how well she’s handled things. I glance at my phone again. Twenty-nine more minutes.
Fuck.
• • •
Thirty-five minutes later, I’m standing in the private dining room of the restaurant, talking to a junior associate named Donald Kemp and his wife, Tabitha or Tracey, I can’t remember. He’s about as exciting as a wet towel. My eyes keep wandering over to the set of French doors, hungry for the first sight of her. Where is she?
Finally Emery floats in on a pair of high heels that make her legs seem to go on forever. And my heart rate trips over itself in a race to catch up.
She’s in a cocktail dress. Classic. Black. Little spaghetti straps delicately resting on her shoulders. Her yoga-toned legs are something I’ve rarely gotten a glimpse of since she’s usually in jeans or a business suit, and they live up to the very high standard set in my many dirty fantasies.
I open my mouth to excuse myself from Donald when an older man with floppy gray hair and a bad set of veneers approaches Emery, placing his hand on her waist and leaning in to tell her something. She cringes.
Murderous rage boils inside me and I want to deck the son of a bitch. Clenching my fists at my sides, I excuse myself and stride over toward her. Thoughts of pissing on her leg, like a dog does with a hydrant, to mark my territory flash through my mind. Shit . I can’t do that to Emery. Stopping beside her, my eyes land on Mr. Pudgy, Gray, and Slimy.
“Hayden, this is Mr. Pratt, my boss at the firm,” Emery says pointedly, obviously sensing my murderous attitude and trying to calm me down. “And this is Hayden Oliver. He’s a real-estate developer.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I bite out in a clipped tone.
Mr. Pratt nods, and I wonder if this is Larry The Creeper she’s told me about. Most likely she has a couple of bosses at the firm, but a gut feeling tells me this is the head honcho.
“Emery’s doing phenomenal work. It’s a pleasure having her, as I’m sure you know,” he says, giving me a sly wink that makes my stomach turn.
Doesn’t this guy realize he’s old enough to be Emery’s father? Ick . No wonder she’s sworn off men. Then again, now that I’ve met Emery’s mother, there’s no way she’d stand for a douche-nozzle like this guy. I’ve discovered where Emery gets her no-nonsense attitude.
“By the way, call me Larry,” The Creeper says, leaning in toward me. His breath is a mix of rancid mayonnaise and week-old bologna. Gag.
Taking a step closer to Emery, I tug her away from his grabby hands and closer to me. Her eyes widen and meet mine.
I lean down to whisper near her ear, letting my lips touch her neck just slightly. “I’ll behave. I just don’t want him touching you.”
She gives me a tight nod, her eyes darting between mine and his. It’s clear she doesn’t want to get in the middle of the standoff happening between me and her boss. But I sense she’s grateful to be away from him just the same.
I guide Emery over toward the bar. “Something to drink?” I ask, my voice calmer once we’re away from her foul boss.
“Please.” Her eyes plead with mine, and I can sense that whatever happened today, it was a hell of a day. “Something strong. But not too strong,” she adds.
I scan the drink menu and motion the bartender over. “A red sangria, please.” It’s made with a nice cabernet and a splash of orange liqueur, so it’ll be a little stronger than plain wine, but not strong enough that she’ll be tempted to act undignified in front of her colleagues. And with the sliced oranges and cherries as a garnish, it’s fun and girly without being obnoxious.
When I turn to hand her the drink, she beams at me.
“Thank you. That’s perfect.”
I place my hand at the small of her back, the strange need to be close to her flashing through me.
Once Emery has her drink and she’s taken a few sips, I can see her begin to relax. Her shoulders drop by about two inches and her mouth relaxes into a welcoming grin. I bet there are knots in her back and neck that I could work out later . . . but I’m getting ahead of myself.
Finally, we sit down for dinner. I pull out a chair for Emery, only to watch Asshat Larry slide into the seat next to hers. I have to lean down and ask one of her colleagues if he minds trading seats with me so that I can sit beside her. Many of the associate attorneys have brought their wives. In fact, the only person riding solo is Larry.
After we checked in to the hotel, Emery took off for a business meeting downstairs in one of the conference rooms while I stepped out and explored Omaha. There isn’t much to see, which is why I’m already back and seated at the hotel bar with a bottle of imported beer in front of me.
I glance down to check the time on my phone. I have another thirty minutes before I’m supposed to meet Emery for a business dinner in the hotel’s one restaurant—fittingly, a steakhouse. If there’s one thing they’ve got in Nebraska, it’s cows. I went over to check out the restaurant earlier, wanting to make sure they’ll have a vegetarian option for her.
Plus I was just bored. I have my laptop, and I logged on to check on some properties and reply to work e-mails, but I’m unaccustomed to being out of my own city and am too restless to concentrate on work.
I wonder if this is what Emery’s transition to LA has felt like? If so, I give her even more credit for how well she’s handled things. I glance at my phone again. Twenty-nine more minutes.
Fuck.
• • •
Thirty-five minutes later, I’m standing in the private dining room of the restaurant, talking to a junior associate named Donald Kemp and his wife, Tabitha or Tracey, I can’t remember. He’s about as exciting as a wet towel. My eyes keep wandering over to the set of French doors, hungry for the first sight of her. Where is she?
Finally Emery floats in on a pair of high heels that make her legs seem to go on forever. And my heart rate trips over itself in a race to catch up.
She’s in a cocktail dress. Classic. Black. Little spaghetti straps delicately resting on her shoulders. Her yoga-toned legs are something I’ve rarely gotten a glimpse of since she’s usually in jeans or a business suit, and they live up to the very high standard set in my many dirty fantasies.
I open my mouth to excuse myself from Donald when an older man with floppy gray hair and a bad set of veneers approaches Emery, placing his hand on her waist and leaning in to tell her something. She cringes.
Murderous rage boils inside me and I want to deck the son of a bitch. Clenching my fists at my sides, I excuse myself and stride over toward her. Thoughts of pissing on her leg, like a dog does with a hydrant, to mark my territory flash through my mind. Shit . I can’t do that to Emery. Stopping beside her, my eyes land on Mr. Pudgy, Gray, and Slimy.
“Hayden, this is Mr. Pratt, my boss at the firm,” Emery says pointedly, obviously sensing my murderous attitude and trying to calm me down. “And this is Hayden Oliver. He’s a real-estate developer.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I bite out in a clipped tone.
Mr. Pratt nods, and I wonder if this is Larry The Creeper she’s told me about. Most likely she has a couple of bosses at the firm, but a gut feeling tells me this is the head honcho.
“Emery’s doing phenomenal work. It’s a pleasure having her, as I’m sure you know,” he says, giving me a sly wink that makes my stomach turn.
Doesn’t this guy realize he’s old enough to be Emery’s father? Ick . No wonder she’s sworn off men. Then again, now that I’ve met Emery’s mother, there’s no way she’d stand for a douche-nozzle like this guy. I’ve discovered where Emery gets her no-nonsense attitude.
“By the way, call me Larry,” The Creeper says, leaning in toward me. His breath is a mix of rancid mayonnaise and week-old bologna. Gag.
Taking a step closer to Emery, I tug her away from his grabby hands and closer to me. Her eyes widen and meet mine.
I lean down to whisper near her ear, letting my lips touch her neck just slightly. “I’ll behave. I just don’t want him touching you.”
She gives me a tight nod, her eyes darting between mine and his. It’s clear she doesn’t want to get in the middle of the standoff happening between me and her boss. But I sense she’s grateful to be away from him just the same.
I guide Emery over toward the bar. “Something to drink?” I ask, my voice calmer once we’re away from her foul boss.
“Please.” Her eyes plead with mine, and I can sense that whatever happened today, it was a hell of a day. “Something strong. But not too strong,” she adds.
I scan the drink menu and motion the bartender over. “A red sangria, please.” It’s made with a nice cabernet and a splash of orange liqueur, so it’ll be a little stronger than plain wine, but not strong enough that she’ll be tempted to act undignified in front of her colleagues. And with the sliced oranges and cherries as a garnish, it’s fun and girly without being obnoxious.
When I turn to hand her the drink, she beams at me.
“Thank you. That’s perfect.”
I place my hand at the small of her back, the strange need to be close to her flashing through me.
Once Emery has her drink and she’s taken a few sips, I can see her begin to relax. Her shoulders drop by about two inches and her mouth relaxes into a welcoming grin. I bet there are knots in her back and neck that I could work out later . . . but I’m getting ahead of myself.
Finally, we sit down for dinner. I pull out a chair for Emery, only to watch Asshat Larry slide into the seat next to hers. I have to lean down and ask one of her colleagues if he minds trading seats with me so that I can sit beside her. Many of the associate attorneys have brought their wives. In fact, the only person riding solo is Larry.
