Page 41 of Trashy Foreplay

I want to go to him. The urge is a force I can barely fight.

He’s fucking off-limits, Jules.

Married.

And my boss.

They say history has a tendency of repeating itself. I’m afraid that’s going to end up being the case with him.

“I’ll be back soon with that info.” I scurry from his office, my pulse pounding in my ears. It doesn’t matter that we didn’t bring up the texts; they refuse to be forgotten, and that becomes more apparent throughout the day. Meetings, emails, phone calls, coordinating schedules—all of it is a shitty distraction from what I feel every time he looks at me.

Because the things we confessed the night before, and even things we didn’t, flood back every fucking time.

Just like our run-in at the market, those texts sit between us, nothing but tempting morsels of secret and stolen moments I can’t help but cherish. I’ve never tasted his lips, have never felt his hard muscles against my soft curves, but we’re definitely having an affair—only it’s the emotional kind.

And that’s worse than if we were fucking like horny teenagers. Fucking can be done on a purely physical level. Chris and I were more than familiar with the practice of emotionless coupling—just two bodies rutting between the sheets. We were young when we got together, neither really knowing what the hell we were doing. Our love was innocent and new, but it didn’t go deep enough to flourish over the years. Something was always missing—that spark they talk about in movies and write about in books.

It took a chance encounter with Cash to realize how powerful chemistry is. We’ve barely touched, yet what is blooming between us is far deeper than lust or desire.

And it feels like the dirtiest form of cheating ever.

The work day ends later than I’d like it to, and as I wait for the elevator, Cash comes to a stop beside me. I try not to look at him. Try not to fidget as his nearness washes over my skin like a tangible caress. Someone passes behind us, their heels clicking across immaculate white marble.

Neither of us speak.

We’ve spent big chunks of the day together in the same room, but we had the distraction of work and other people to keep us company. To keep us in line. Now, as those elevator doors open and we step inside, I’m as nervous as I was when I first entered his office this morning.

My heartbeat flutters fast as the doors slide shut. As we start the slow descent to the bottom, I lift my gaze, meeting his head-on, and the yearning I find in his eyes is so powerful that I grip the bar behind me as a lifeline.

Being alone with him is fucking dangerous.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

He has no idea.

My stomach rumbles, reminding me of a different kind of hunger since I didn’t have time today for a proper lunch. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Want to grab dinner?”

I arch a brow. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“I’ll be on my best behavior, Jules.”

He will be, but what about me? A day doesn’t go by that I don’t lose my head around him. Especially when he looks the way he does now, with his hair mussed from running his hands through it all day, jacket and tie gone, and cuffs rolled up.

He walked into the building this morning looking like an executive, but he’s walking out sexily disheveled. And he’s asking me to walk out with him.

“What about your wife? Isn’t she waiting for you at home?” I know she left Mont Center hours ago. Over the past few weeks, I’ve noticed that she isn’t the type to put in extra hours.

Not like Cash does.

“The last thing I want to do is go home right now, Jules. It’s just dinner, I promise.”

When it comes to him, it’s neverjustanything. But as usual, I’m powerless to say no. As we arrive on the first floor, I wonder what would happen if he really touched me. If he came on strong enough to leave no doubt about his intentions.

Would I be able to resist him?

To resist what every fiber of my being is aching for?

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