The Other C-Word (37 page)

Authors: MK Schiller

Relief rendered my entire being dizzy. I plopped onto the safety of the bench. “Let’s—”

He stood in front of me, hands on his chiselled hips. “Let’s…?”

“You didn’t come up here to look at a painting, did you?”

That now-familiar smirk flashed. “What if I did?”

“Then this sweater isn’t doing its job.”

“Yes, it is.” He said it low and soft, his voice the timbre of honey. I imagined him whispering dirty somethings into my ear and shivered. “Your sweater is the hardest-working member of the staff here at Steak on a Stick.” Before I could even cobble together a joke from ‘hardest’, ‘member and ‘staff’, he leaned to plant his shoulder in my belly. In a flash, I was tipped caboose over noggin and carried out of the room. He shoved the vault door shut with his foot.

We arrived at the leather sofa. Without ceremony, he dropped me onto it, bottom first. He lowered himself beside me and wordlessly gathered me to him.

My last remaining ounce of good sense fled as I settled into the warm expanse of his lap.
My shaking palms splayed against his chest. We’d do it on my boss’s couch, and he’d never call, but oh, Lord, his hands…
They ran up my spine, under the sweater, and his full lips brushed my neck, sending a fevered bolt of desire straight down my body. I let my head fall back, and my brain stop questioning. My greedy fingers wove into his wavy, silky hair. Grabbing a handful, I pulled until our lips met with that blazing electricity unique to us. His kiss was why people had lips.

Without releasing my mouth, he deposited me on the couch and twisted on top of me, setting his weight between my legs. At the raw contact, I whimpered and arched against him, one leg hooking over his hip. Fingers teased the back of my knee, then higher. His hand caressed the underside of my ass on the way to slip into my panties. I jumped at the intimate shock. The sound of his helpless little moan made my sex ache.

A blinding, painful light made me squint. “What are you two doing up here?” Walt the security guard, usually friendly, sounded harassed.

Sam rested his forehead against mine. “What does it look like?” he asked irritably.

“Samantha, you shouldn’t be in here after hours.”

“I know, Walt, I’m sorry.” I felt as if I’d been caught by my dad. My lust deflated like an old tyre. I shimmied up to a semi-vertical position. “Can we please keep this between us?”

“You shouldn’t have taken him into the vault. Me and Tommy have been watching you through the windows.” Behind Walt, his young assistant Tommy waved.

No!

“We have to tell Mr Taylor.”

Noooooooooooo!

My head swam. Swam from Sam. Swam from my blood having travelled south in gleeful anticipation of ending a year’s worth of celibacy. Swam from accidentally getting caught making a live porno. I pushed Sam off me and pulled my skirt down.

Walt gave me a comforting smile. After all, we were buddies who chatted about our mutual hatred of the same TV shows. “It’ll be okay. He’s not going to fire you…probably. Are you drunk?”

“Would that make it better?”

“Maybe.”

I squeezed out a breath. “I’m whatever you need me to be for this to go away. I’m sorry. So sorry. Come on, Sam, let’s go.” I took Sam’s hand and slunk from the room, eyes falling to avoid meeting Walt’s gaze and Tommy’s creepy grin. I wanted to explain that I usually did not engage in public lewdness, but I kept my wanton mouth shut.

My desk of pain stood right outside Oliver’s office, so I grabbed my purse and coat while Sam waited in the shadows. I hustled to the elevator and stabbed at the down button. Naturally, it took forever to get there. Three sets of eyes stared at me. I studied the single dent in the elevator doors, perhaps caused by a ruined secretary of Christmas past. Tommy’s rapid breathing rattled in his lungs.

The doors slid open, thank the gods. Sam and I got in.

“I’m sorry. This is all my fault,” he said.

“Yes.”

His eyebrows rose incredulously—he probably had not expected me to agree with him. “In my defence, chaos does seem to follow you everywhere you go. You can’t even eat without creating an office incident.”

“What a charming observation.” The wet spot on my sweater pressed soggily into my skin. Traitor. Perhaps it was the sweater’s fault. “I’m sorry to have ruined your evening.”

The elevator sang and hit bottom. The doors had barely whooshed open when I shot through them. In the lobby, he caught me by the arm and turned me around with gentle firmness. “I never said you ruined my evening. Quite the opposite, actually.” Dropping his hand, he sighed and asked, “Can I call you?” It was the first uncertain sentence he’d said to me all night.

“Sure. Let’s go make out at my mother’s house next.” It wasn’t really fair to blame him, but becoming office gossip—again—would put a girl in a mood. And I might have just lost my crummy, yet necessary job.

Stalking into the cold, grey Los Angeles rain, I let the sky dribble on my face. Happy freaking holidays. I wondered how this night could get any worse.

One should never wonder that to oneself, FYI.

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About the Author

MK Schiller is a hopeless romantic in a hopelessly pragmatic world. By day, she dons a magic cape, calculator (sometimes an abacus), and an assortment of gel pens for her work in the world of finance. But by night, she sits by the warm glow of her computer monitor, and conjures up handsome heart-warming heroes and the vivacious heroines they love.

A wife and mother of two loveable, but angst-ridden teenagers, she enjoys movies, gardening, and travelling. Although she loves to write, she is a reader first and enjoys nothing more than curling up with a good book and some tasty Italian (the food, of course!). She hopes you will enjoy her stories and write to her.