Nothing but me and that unforgiving door.
Clearly, I have read far, far too many trashy romances in my lifetime—because I cannot help myself. I imagine it opening.
Canon would emerge. Starched white shirt. Crisp.
Jacket over his arm. Hair…doing whatever the fuck it is that it does.
I would be at my desk.
Fans blowing my hair back. No. No, that’s a bit much. Scratch the fan.
I would be at my desk. Pretending to work.
Pretending not to hear him approach.
“Miss…Baker, is it not?” His voice would spill over my shoulder, warm like coffee along my neck.
I shiver at the thought alone.
I’d spin, look up at him through my lashes. Suppress the urge to say I will be whoever he wants me to be.
“Yes. Mr. Canon, is it?” As if I don’t know.
He’d look down at me. Tongue darting. Lips glistening.
“I’m told you handle—” stepping so close I could feel the heat of him “—spread—” hand running along my chair “—sheets.”
“Yes, I do.” I’d cross my arms, pushing my breasts together. Subtle. Or maybe not. “Anything you want me to handle, you can put in my box.”
“I need to whip it out by five.”
“Well, that will be hard.” My eyes will dart to his zipper. “I’ll need you to give it to me, right here on my desk, now.”
I want to assume an entry-level position.
He’d look around the empty office and then to me. Like a predatory cat, he would make a final move forward, lean around my body, breathe into my hair, as his white linen-clad arm swept the papers from my desk. Rather than cascade down en masse, they would flutter around us like feathers. Our own private, ticker-tape libido parade.
His hand would slide under my hair, fingers digging into my neck. He’d bend me, bowing my back. I’d crush into him, part my lips, and breathe in the scent of him. He’d lean in, searching my face, eyes to lips to neck, then he’s on me. Pouncing. Covering my mouth with his. Again. I’m open and swallowed up.
Underneath his tongue would be smooth and sweet.
My ankle would wrap around his leg, and he’d lift me against him before pushing me down against the desk that I would henceforth never be able to look at again without thoughts of Alaric Canon.
Hands everywhere. I’d feel him at my ribs.
I’d fumble with his buttons. He’d tear mine free.
I would touch his face. He’d wrap my legs around his waist, grind into me. Deep. Hard.
Even through clothes, it’d be better than any of my real sex.
One hand at my throat, thumb under my jaw, lips parted and panting down on me, his fingers would tear through my hosiery, slipping, slipping—
“Emma?”
Wha—?
“It’s after five.” Rebecca looks at me questioningly. “Are you having difficulty completing all of your work? I haven’t overloaded you, have I?”
“I’m fine.” Load-free even. Regrettably so.
We both turn to the sound of Canon’s door opening. He looks to Rebecca briefly then goes on his way.
I feel my cheeks burn.
It’s no big deal.
One more office daydream.
Not like I’m going to let myself get even more obsessed with him.
I clock out.
Day of Employment:
362
8:11 p.m.
*
Day
: Different.
*
Shit
: Same.
*
Workload and Course Load
: Big, steamy load.
*
Consider
: Pro v. con of liquid diet.
*
Shopping List
: One bourbon. One Scotch. One beer.
MR. THOROGOOD, YOU SIR, are a culinary genius.
Inebriated academia is not in the mix for me. High alcohol tolerance and low fiscal flow preclude sufficient acquisition of libations.
In summation: What is commonly referred to as “broke.”
Clara is in my room and, with all her traditional subtlety, suggesting I get gussied up to go out with her and have gentlemen buy our drinks. That’s just not my thing. My bar crawl phase was short, sweet and sour.
Not to say I no longer have scandalous, wild times now. Example: I routinely spend long, late night hours having as many as four men entertain me in my bed. Men like Fallon, Kimmel, O’Brien, and Letterman.
“Do you even own fancy duds anymore?” Clara says, scavenging through my barren closet.
I shrug. Turn the page in my textbook.
“Emma,” she faux whines. “Let’s get stolen.”
Stolen? My brow furrows. “That doesn’t sound pleasant.”
“Then you have never been properly stolen.” She sticks her tongue out playfully, then winces. I am pretty sure she just realized she smudged her lip color; however, this setback, much like everything else, doesn’t ruffle her for long.
“What has become of my fine, feathered friend?” A few hangers slide against the rod in punctuation.
There is no point in pointing out the ludicrousness of most of Clara’s asides. If it were my job, my 401(k) would be fully vested.
Further, my personage has not, at any point in my longer-than-I-care-to-admit existence, been either fine or feathered. I may have, however, recently allowed Canon to make me cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.
Jury is still out on that.
Ha. See? And they said law school is not a joking matter.
What really is not a joking matter is the $1,800 in textbooks that, conveniently for the university’s budget, never ever, ever seem to be used by any instructor the following semester. I have given up even venturing to the campus bookstore for buyback.
Clothes shuffling racket stops abruptly. On the uppermost shelf, a black box seems to hold Clara’s attention.
“Hey, when is your company’s yearly shindig? In just a couple days, right?”
My left eyebrow lifts. Clara fishes the box down with a hanger.
“Oh, no, you do not. Something along the lines of what I wore last year will be quite enough.” Heck the identical outfit as last year, more than likely. It’s not like anyone is gonna notice.
“People will notice,” Clara says, as if she can hear my every thought. “I know what you’re thinking, Emma.”
I wasn’t even kidding.
“It does no good for Emmarella to acquire fabulous shoes if she never wears them to a ball.” One half of a pair of crystal adorned strappy heels is a pendulum from her index finger.
1:03 a.m.
*
Textbook
: Pillow.
*
Osmosis
: Needs to be a viable study method.
I AWAKE TO THE SOUND of my bedroom door being knocked on. Well, beaten on. Repeatedly.
Needlessly, too, I might add as it is wide open.
Clara bounces on the balls of her bare feet.
No other parts bounce. She is disgustingly fit for someone who spends all day surrounded by baked goods.
“Gooooood morning, Emma,” she half-slurs sarcastically and points back toward our living room. “I have something for you!”
“Is it a sleep?”
“What?”
“Never mind. What is it?”
“Inspiration.” She smiles beatifically, spins, wobbles, and commences to tromp about the house.
On the sofa sits a shopping bag filled to the brim. It bursts with items ranging from satin to silk to what I hope against hope is not white latex. Predominantly lacy, uncomfortable looking underthings. Frederick’s of Hollywood kind of things.
I do wish there were assless chaps. Not that I would wear them. But there is nothing funnier than the words assless chaps.
But, tangentially, answer me this: Do any chaps actually have asses?