But, as reluctant as I am to admit it, he’s not wrong. I grip the arms of my chair until my knuckles turn white and make myself exhale to calm down.
Because the stapler’s not the only thing that missed by inches.
I had her there, right f*****g there, moaning and mewling on the floor. A thin scrap of lace was the only thing keeping me from her.
Fuck knows her reluctance wasn’t involved. She wanted it. She f*****g wanted it just as bad as I did.
So why pull back? Why play these games?
And why can’t I stop thinking about her?
I’m saved from having to answer those questions when a knock sounds on the door. “Come in,” I call.
It opens and a man who looks utterly out of place in this prim and proper office building slips in. His face is haggard and tattooed, and his bald scalp is splashed
