Page 39 of Work: Strictly Professional

Pay me?

What the actual fuck?

As insane as that sounds, it’s far from the most insane thing that’s happened. Far from being infuriated or insulted, both of which are entirely appropriate emotions given the circumstances, I’m so turned on at the thought that I’m starting to feel like a danger to myself.

Did he say he wanted to taste me, or did I hallucinate that?

No, no. I’m pretty sure he did.I want to try things and taste things.I’m pretty fucking sure he said that.

I emit a small, pathetic “Meep” at the thought, which draws the attention of one of the men working on the installation, so I ball my fist and shove it against my lips, trying to disguise it with a cough.

I haven’t jerked off since I got here, and it’s really starting to show. My lube and two of my favorite toys are stashed in my bag, untouched. Still beautifully packed in their own purpose-bought luggage cube. I tried to make a break for it earlier this morning. Twice. Only to be thwarted by housekeeping the first time and a beachy, wet-headed, manly as all get out, Derek MacAvoy the second time.

If my dick doesn’t explode soon, my head will.

I’m in a bad way. A terrible way. I don’t think sex sabbaticals are for me after all. I really don’t. I don’t feel good. My skin feels too tight, and my heart’s beating too fast, and I’m hot all the time, like seriously overheating, going red in the face, hot. It’s not nice.

“Wyn!”

I look up and almost crumple with relief. It’s Emily. Emily’s here. Thank God.

She half dances, half skips across the room, causing her top to fall off one shoulder and her bag off the other. I stand and bounce on the spot until she reaches me. Given that Bridget has been man-down from the breakup, Emily has been my rock for the past few weeks. We’ve FaceTimed almost every day, but there’s nothing like meeting someone in the flesh.

“Oh my God, you’re so beautiful in real life,” I cry.

“You’re beautiful!”

“No, you’re beautiful!”

“No,you!”

Kat, Emily’s girlfriend, leans a heavily tattooed arm against the doorpost, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. “God, the two of you are as bad as each other,” she drawls.

I abandon my post to show Kat and Em around.

“Holy cow, the venue is amazing!” squeals Emily.

“Right?” I all but screech. Finally. Thank God someone understands that one should get overexcited about things like this.

“The view! Those windows! And, oh my God, the ceilings. They’re soaring! It’s unreal. It’s—”

“Better than the brochure, right?”

“Way better. I honestly didn’t think it could be, but it really is.”

Kat looks around and says, “Sweet.” I have a feeling that coming from her, it’s a high form of compliment.

“Come on. I’ll take you to Ryan and Miller. They’re at the swim-up bar. It’s not far, but it’s tricky to find. There are a hell of a lot of palms and ferns around here. It takes a bit of getting used to.”

Once we get there, there’s a profusion of arms and cheeks and the type of hugs that swing you clean off your feet. Everyone looks happy, even Ryan, and for a brief moment, all my troubles are forgotten, and I feel like the god of wedding planning and having my shit together.

Derek arrives on the scene, fresh out of the water, barefoot and dripping wet, wearing nothing but a pair of swim shorts that do impressive things to his bulge. Before he even has time to plant a sopping kiss on my cheek, I realize I am the god of wedding planning only. I have nary an ounce of my shit together.

He stands at my side, a heavy, cool arm draped over my shoulder, and makes small talk with Emily and Kat about their trip as I give new meaning to the word unraveling. My body tenses and relaxes spasmodically, leaving me leaning against him involuntarily, laughing almost manically whenever he speaks, and then whipping upright and overcorrecting when I realize what I’m doing.

I walk with Emily to the ladies’ restroom as Kat gets them checked in. I use the time to attempt to center myself.

“Oh my actual God,” she whispers loudly. “Icannotbelieve you’re with the Dark Lord.”

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