Page 46 of A Little Moore Action
Before my body collapses from the onslaught of sensation, Chase lifts my torso up, holding me against his chest while he continues to power up into me, prolonging the raging storm of pleasure washing over my body.
As the waves of my release ebb, Chase tenses against my ass, gripping my shoulders as his orgasm pulses inside me.
We collapse on the bed, our heavy breathing indistinguishable in the night. Minutes pass before my mind begins to piece back together. The bed jostles when Chase leaves for a moment, probably to take care of the condom. I don’t move. I can’t.
A minute later, he returns, gathers my still-limp body in his arms, and kisses my temple.
“Two days won’t be enough, Bell.”
I don’t answer. The sounds of the city filter back into my consciousness. I become aware of Chase’s body wrapped around me. The heat, the hard planes, the steady rhythm of his heart.
The panic that threatened me earlier has quieted. But not enough to silence my last thought before I drift off to sleep.Two days is all I can give.
FIFTEEN
Bell
Pretendingto be asleep is exhausting. I passed out hard after round three last night. The oblivion of orgasm-induced, blissful sleep was wonderful. But as soon as the sounds of the city awoke, so did I, and now my mind won’t stop spinning.
Eight years ago, my parents died. And in my grief, I agreed to give my co-worker, Denise, the finished project I had been working on so that I could go home for the funeral.
I came back to New York to find that she’d taken credit for my work. When I tried to speak up, Denise went in for the kill.
I’d been so stupid. So overcome with grief, and frankly, too naïve to think someone would take advantage. Handing over the project gave Denise an excuse to use my computer, which she used to not only take credit for my work but to send ridiculously sexed-up emails to our clients from my email account. In light of this, my objection to her turning in my work as her own fell on deaf ears. With the complaints from clients pouring in, I was fired. Escorted from the building by security, my name blackened in the industry.
I get that this is different from what I was accused of years ago. I’m my own boss. No one is going to fire me from my own company. I mean, I could lose the Moore’s contract, but I’d survive. King Marketing would survive. But it’s still my reputation. A reputation I once had to repair by changing my last name when other marketing firms blackballed me once both the lies Denise spread about me and the pornographic emails were sent from my account.
Chase and I may both be interested, consenting adults, as last night’s multiple orgasms helped prove, and neither of us is competing against each other at work, but it stillfeelsdangerous.
Like it or not, a woman sleeping with someone she’s working with/for/alongside is judged ten times more harshly than a man. Especially when that man is handsome and rich.
What’s even scarier is that this time, it may not only be my professional reputation on the line. This time, my heart may be involved too. The heart is currently beating a mile a minute as I think of the various awkward scenarios that await me when this thing between Chase and me crashes and burns.
Scenario one: Chase is annoyed I’m still here in the morning. I leave and Monday morning is awkward. I quit, or more likely he fires me.
Scenario two: After our two days, he falls out of lust with me. I have to watch from afar as we work together over the next month or so while he dates other women. I quit, or more likely he fires me.
Scenario three: I won’t extend our sleeping arrangement beyond the two agreed-upon days. His anger filters into our work. I quit, or more likely he fires me.
Scenario four: I—
“Morning.”
Great. Chase is awake. And he knows I’m awake.
My pretending has been for naught.
I crack one eye open, enjoying the morning fantasy laid out before me. Chase, on his back, hair on end, face shaded with scruff and eyes narrow from sleep.
He’s never looked so good.
“Morning,” I mumble, seeing as I probably have dragon breath.
His sleepy eyes light up as they travel over my face. On top of morning breath, I probably have pillow creases in my face, and let’s not mention under-eye mascara smudges.
“Guess what?” he asks, his usual sexy voice ten times more affected when deepened by sleep.
“What?”
