Page 21 of Dirty Husband
"Oh my God, he is!" she shrieks. Looks around, at the other assistants turned our way. Lowers her voice. "I'm sorry. I know it's not the time. But, really, Jasmine. This is amazing." She holds out her arms, offering me a hug. "I'm so happy for you."
I let her squeeze me.
"Things are really looking up, huh? I expect great things for you."
That makes one of us.
* * *
I skip the file box.Put everything in my knock-off designer bag. The one Dad bought for me two birthdays ago.
He still beams with pride every time he sees it. He still reminds me about the deal he got in Chinatown, the way he haggled the price down from fifty dollars to twenty-five.
It's not the most well-made. The stitches are crooked. One seam is peeling. The red is faded.
But it's still my favorite handbag. I love it for his love. I love it more than I'd love the real thing.
Everything fits. Not that I have much. A few pictures, an oolong tea, a toiletry kit, spare makeup, extra underwear. For long nights. Not illicit ones.
Now that Shep—
My body buzzes at the thought of his firm hands. That low voice in my ear, whispering dirty promises.
I'm going to get you on your knees, Jasmine. I'm going to make you beg for my cock.
How can something so wrong be so hot?
He is not going to make me ask.
He is not going to make me beg.
He's certainly not going to get me on my knees.
Not that I—
I mean. I want that too. The feel of him in my mouth, his hands in my hair, his low groan as he spills—
Ahem.
That's so far beyond my point. I don't care how much I miss sex with Shep. Or how much I miss sex, period. There's no way in hell I'm begging him.
I suck a breath through my nose, but it does nothing to cool my cheeks. I'm hot all over.
And I asked him to pretend with other people. He's going to kiss me, touch me, hold me—
He's going to kill me. I'm going to die of pent-up desire. I'm going to be the first person to die from sexual frustration.
At least I'll go out swinging.
I step out of the building. Onto the sidewalk. It's not as busy a little past rush hour, but it's plenty happening. Heels and dress shoes tap the pavement. The sun bounces off the glass buildings, turning the ground bright white.
"Ms. Lee?" A smooth voice asks.
I turn and see Shep's assistant. Aalock, though he prefers Lock. An Indian man with a British accent, a sleek suit, and gorgeous brown eyes.
I'm not sure which is sexier—his voice or his broad shoulders. I try to hold on to that. To fill my head with images of his hands on my skin, his voice in my ears, his body over mine.
It doesn't happen.
