Page 191 of Catfish

“What did you have before?”

"Frank Sinatra." My brows furrow, and I try to plaster a serious frown on my face.

“What are you, eighty?”

“What?!” Her eyes practically pop out of her head. “Sinatra is a classic." My frown fades into a smirk, which results in her pen flying in my direction. "I'm quitting."

“That’s a big payout to null our contract, Miss Shelton,” I retort. “All the money and time I would lose if you left.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“Not in the least.” I lean forward in my chair. “The view alone is worth all the smartass remarks that come out of your mouth.”

She scoffs, but the corners of her lips lift. "You're a tyrant."

"And you're sexy as hell, but I'll keep the rest of my comments to myself and this desk between us right now."

“I came in here to—”

“You came in Emmy’s office, Shelton,” I confirm. “Did you have an orgasm so incredible that you forgot where you were because, damn, that would take my ego up several notches.”

She plucks a pen out of my pencil holder and chucks it at me. “And impossible.”

"And handsome, powerful, and with a huge craving to eat you out on my desk right now." She crosses her legs and straightens her spine, alluding that she's imagining it right now in her head.

And fuck, my cock is hard, ready, and—

“Code red is approaching your office.” Emmy’s voice booms over my desk phone.

Speaking of fuck…

Standing from my chair, I motion for Reagan to stand. “You need to hide.”

“What?”

Rounding the desk, I grab her coffee out of her hands and pull her from the chair. “You don’t want to meet my father again, trust me.”

“There’s nowhere to—” I stop us on my side of the furniture, looking down at the small space where my feet go. “You’re kidding...again?”

“I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

Her brows knit. “You seriously want me to go—"

“As my wanting to fuck you—yes.”

Her head snaps to me. “Are you seriously talking about fucking when your father is about to walk into—” I give her a semi-soft shove to the ground.

“As much as I would relish seeing you on your knees in front of me for the first time, I won’t get to enjoy it.”

Reagan grumbles and drops a few cuss words as she crawls under my desk while I sit back down and straighten my tie. The moment I do, Henry is opening the door to my office and striding in like he owns the place.

“Wade,” he greets cooly, letting the door slam behind him. “How are you today?”

“Annoyed,” I deadpan as he helps himself to a seat.

Motioning with his hand, he orders me to pour him a drink. Hesitantly, very hesitantly, I do, pulling out the drawer where I keep my bourbon.

“How are things going?” he asks me like we’re about to have a friendly father-son conversation. Like this is our thing, and I want him here.

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