“You’re turning red,” Lo notes. “Are you thinking about my ass?”
I drink in his rich amber eyes. “More like my ass and your—”
He covers my mouth with his hand and whispers in my ear again, “My cock isn’t going anywhere near your ass, Lily Calloway, but I’m glad to put it somewhere else.” He whispers a couple places, and I realize that I’ve latched onto his lap like a monkey, clinging so hard that I’m already wet and ready.
“But?” I say, reminding him that there was a big fat roadblock that he constructed.
“You can only pick one option. Or you can forgo all of them and choose to wait until tonight, and we’ll have sex. It’s up to you.” All I hear is we’ll have sex. But I have to wait for it. And right now, waiting eight minutes is torture that I don’t want to endure. How can I wait eight hours?
“I don’t like this deal.”
“Neither do I, but we have to practice self-control. Both of us.” Oh.
I mull the options and realize that if I choose something right now, he won’t be receiving any sort of pleasure. “I choose head. To give you head, I mean,” I say one of the most unladylike phrases I’ve ever used, but the last thing I care about right now is sophistication. And for a brief moment, I wonder how Connor and Rose are in bed—do they spout off anatomical parts or speak in beautiful prose? I’d ask Rose, but she’s private about that stuff. And I’m pretty sure her sex life is nonexistent since she has intimacy issues. And I hope she would tell me if she lost her virginity.
“Leave my dick out of this,” Lo says, equally classy.
“Why?” I frown and then my eyes widen. “Are blow jobs on the blacklist?” We still haven’t attended therapy together, but I imagine I’ll be begging my therapist for the details of that list next time I see her.
He covers my mouth again. “Stop…talking,” he says sternly. He shifts a little underneath me, and I’m about to glance down, but he lifts my chin before I catch a glimpse of his hardness.
Obviously I’m not the only one with raging hormones. I could smile, but I also feel guilty that he has to suffer because of my addiction.
My eyes flicker to his lips, and there’s a part of me that wants to give in and choose kissing. But kissing always leads to more with me, and being denied that will be harder than not having Lo at all.
I grab his wrist and pull his hand from my mouth. He gives me a warning look to not bring up his body parts. But that’s precisely the reason why I’m choosing tonight, the only option that offers him any sort of pleasure too.
“We can wait,” I say softly and slowly. Begrudgingly, I slide off his lap and the bed. I flip my laptop closed and go to straighten out my shirt in front of the mirror. The worst part—I won’t be able to release my pent-up frustration right now. The pulsing between my legs will have to stay. Because I’ve committed to no self-love. Once I start down that road, there’s no stopping. I’ll turn back into a compulsive beast, and I don’t want Lo to see me like that.
“Are you sure?” Lo calls from the bed.
He’s as surprised as me. Normally I’d take one of the immediate gratifications, even if it was fleeting. I’ll regret my decision in a couple of hours, but at least I’m making the smarter choice now.
I meet his eyes, and I swear they lighten, like he’s proud of me.
“Positive.”
In retrospect, I should have gone for the fondling over the clothes bit. I would have come and all would be well. Even after a shower, I sit behind my desk at the Calloway Couture offices with tension so crazy that I reflexively rub my lower half against my chair. My face flames when I catch myself, and I look up, wondering if Trish and Katie notice.
But both blondes type away behind their white desks, the workplace more like a loft, no cubicles. Racks of clothes shield the walls. Rose has a glass office that overlooks the rest of us, and right now, I miss her constant peeks across the room, her reprimanding gaze darting from her computer screen to my desk.
Her chair is empty, and I keep eyeing her office, wanting her to remind me why I shouldn’t sneak into the bathroom and do something naughty and just plain wrong.
But it will feel so good.
I’m two seconds from smacking my forehead on the desk. But I focus on my computer and the Excel spreadsheet. I try not to picture a naked Lo, which has already popped in my head three times. I fantasize about him too much, but I am thankful that no other guys infiltrate my thoughts. Missing him for three months has temporarily cured me. It was like my brain could only process one image: Loren Hale. All day, every day.
But by being alone—surrounded by clothes and two busy assistants, their eyes glued to computers—I can’t stop the sinful images from seeping right on in.
They begin with Lo walking towards me, still in the office. He shoves everything off my white desk and lifts me up roughly, none of his movements soft and slow. And in this particular fantasy, I’m wearing a dress.
And all he needs to do is shift my panties a little, and then he yanks my legs so they wrap tight around him, my back cool against the desk. And everything thrums so much. He tears down the top of my dress, his lips finding my breast, sucking, and then he thrusts…
Okay, I need to stop.
I squirm in my seat, the spot between my legs now pulsing, for real. There’s no doubt about it.
Maybe I can just log onto a porn site and once I stare at the pictures, all will be good. I’ll scroll through Tumblr’s naughty photos, and no one will know. I’ll hit that high I crave, and it will be okay again.
It’s an itch, a subconscious pulse. This time, I do slam my forehead down onto the keyboard, pounding my frustration until my computer lets out a screech. Shit.
I roll back a little, exhale deeply. And then a doorbell buzzes. Trish stands, her suede gray booties making the short trek to the door.
Rose is probably here. My anxiety starts to lessen. Her presence will surely keep me in line. I zone in on the Excel spreadsheet that details the collection’s current inventory. We have to ship a few more pieces to H&M because I messed up the order. I accidentally put a maxi-dress in the spring collection, and Rose has been trimming most of her clothes because they’re more flattering on the everyday girl.
My phone pings just as Trish opens the door. I check the text.
Whore – Unknown.
My heart explodes.
He has my number. He’s no longer going through Lo. What if it’s not the same person who texted him? I never thought it was possible that there could be multiple people involved in the text-threats.
I quickly log into the search engine and type my name, wondering if my secret has already been spilled. My fingers tremble as I scroll through a list of Lily Calloways. Most articles about me discuss my involvement with Fizzle. Some even call me a “soda heiress” which is a cooler title than I think I deserve. No trashy headlines pop up. Nothing about sex addiction.
I let out a short breath of relief, even if the word “whore” is still on my cell phone. Replying back may just fuel him to do something drastic—like call the tabloids—so I abandon the pursuit.
“Come on in,” Trish says. “Just stand along the back wall by the window. It’s tinted, so you don’t need to worry. I’m going to bring out the men’s clothes from our backroom. Help yourself to coffee and water on the table.”
What? I thought the male models were coming later today. Like in two hours. I check my clock on my phone. Oh…time really does fly when you’re stuck inside your head.