Page 75 of By A Thread

Confessed my fears.

But none of that stopped me from seeking her out. It didn’t stop me from thinking about her. And it sure as fuck didn’t stop me from wanting her.

My days began to organize themselves around her.

Emailing after hours. Verbally sparring over some bullshit in the office. One of us getting a rise out of the other.

It seemed innocent enough. Except for the undercurrent.

There was something addicting about our interactions now. As if every word had a double meaning. Every glance was a coded message. We were both attracted to each other. However, we were also both adults. It should have been an exercise in self-control.

But then I’d find myself locking the door of my private bathroom and jerking off while fantasizing about her on her knees in front of me, her on my desk with legs spread, demanding that I fuck her with my tongue.

Every. Fucking. Day.

Knowing that Ally was attracted to me made me feel both less guilty about the actandmore frustrated by the fact that it was my fist I was fucking and not her.

Basically, I was becoming a complete disaster, and the woman had only been here… God. Less than three full weeks.

Some days I held out until after everyone else had left for the night. Other days I barely made it to lunch.

And then there was today.

At 9:05, she waltzed into my office in a pair of thigh-high boots and a Dolce & Gabbana dress. The dress was a garnet red. The front V wasn’t scandalous by any standards, but to a man on a hair trigger of arousal, the hint of creamy white curves was dangerously seductive. The dress nipped in at the waist and flowed out again, ending just an inch or two above the soft suede boots.

“Sign these,” she said, slapping a file down on my desk, and gave me a cheeky grin.

I dragged my gaze away from that inch of skin to the papers in front of me.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” she continued. “Malina was going to deliver this to you personally. I stole them off her desk.”

“Thanks. What the hell are you wearing?”

She looked down at the dress and back at me. “Why are you so obsessed with my clothes?”

“It’s Wednesday. On Wednesdays, you wear your navy pencil skirt.” The one that hugs her ass. The one that I’d fantasized about shoving up over those smooth, round hips a few hundred times or so.And, dammit, why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut when this woman was in the room? Maybe I needed therapy. A 12-step program.

“If I were a man and wore the same thing every Friday, you wouldn’t have a comment. Karen from accounting wears the same black pants and black sweater every other day. Yet you insist on paying special attention to me?” She fluttered her eyelashes at me. “What did we say about special attention, Dominic?”

She was fucking teasing me, and I loved it. Almost as much as I hated it.

“You’re annoying me. Go away,” I said dismissively.

Instead, she perched on the edge of my desk, kicking her feet as if she had all the time in the world. If I rolled my chair a few inches to the right, I could push her knees apart and bury my face between her legs.

Any blood left circulating my body gave up and headed straight to my cock, which now throbbed like it had a migraine.

“Sign the paperwork, and I’ll be gone from your life for the rest of the morning,” she promised. “And, if you must know, I have a date tonight.”

“A date?” I was surprised the pen didn’t snap in half in my hand. I felt something dark and oily spread through me. “Don’t you have to work?”

I couldn’t identify the feeling that grew inside me.

Rage? Fear? Blinding hate directed at a man I didn’t even know?

“Just because I’m notyourtype doesn’t mean every other man feels that way,” she teased. “Payday is Friday, so I’m giving myself an actual night off.”

I didn’t trust myself to say anything. So I signed the contracts, pen tip scoring the paper. Her dress rode high on the thighs, and I couldn’t help but notice. Inappropriate didn’t even begin to describe the feelings stirring in me.