Page 41 of Mr. Hotshot CEO

Good God, I can’t even imagine.

Somehow, I have to live with her for the next two weeks, a situation entirely of my own making. I don’t think I can tolerate two weeks of extreme sexual frustration, especially when she keeps making comments about phallic plants and orgasms in that endearing, slightly awkward way of hers.

Because, fuck, I want to bury myself inside her and coax screams out of her pretty lips, and I have no interest in any other woman, not now.

I still hold out hope that she’ll change her mind eventually.

Only so I can take her to bed, though. If I were someone else, perhaps it could be more than a few nights of sex. But unfortunately, that’s all I can offer, even if I’m attracted to her more than just physically.

I’ve tried to have more before, tried it with many different women.

It never works.

I get out of bed and find Courtney in the kitchen, staring at my espresso maker with a bewildered expression. She’s wearing shorts and a loose T-shirt, the kind of clothing I imagine she wears around her apartment, and I’m glad she’s making herself at home here, even though her presence drives me crazy.

“I’m trying to make a latte,” she says, “but I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Let me do it for you.”

“No, I want you to teach me, in case you’re still asleep when I leave for work tomorrow.”

I use this as an excuse to touch her, my hands moving over hers as I show her what to do, what buttons to press. A few minutes later, she has a latte in a clear glass mug.

“I love your dishes,” she says. “Lattes look so pretty in a glass, don’t you think?”

“I can’t take credit for my dishes. That was Elena.”

She wrinkles her nose. It pleases me that she doesn’t like thinking of another woman choosing my dishes, but...

“Elena is my housekeeper.” I pause. “What do you want to do today?”

“The question is, what doyouwant to do? Don’t think of what yououghtto want to do. Just listen to yourself and tell me the first thing that comes to mind.”

The first thing that comes to mind is sex, but I don’t tell her that. Instead, I say the second thing, which is totally random.

“Soup dumplings. I want soup dumplings.” My mouth starts watering. It’s been ages since I’ve had soup dumplings.

“Should we learn how to make them?”

“No. They’re probably fussy to make, and I want themnow.”

She laughs.

I’m already reaching for my phone and clicking on the number of a Chinese dumpling place, which, happily, is open on Sunday mornings.

“What about you?” I ask after I end the call. “What do you want?”

“I hope you ordered enough soup dumplings to share.”

“Well...” I pretend to ponder this for a while. “Maybe.”

“Julian!” She hits me playfully on the shoulder. “Order me some dim sum, then. Be sure to getcheong fan.”

I make another phone call.

“Wow,” she says. “You really think we can eat all that?”

“I’m hungry.” Even though I haven’t worked out yet today, apparently thirteen hours of sleep is good for one’s appetite. Now that I think of it, it’s been ages since I’ve been truly ravenous like this. My appetite hasn’t been the greatest lately.