Page 35 of Wolfish Player
“Thank you.”
THE CEO
ADRIAN
A couple nights later
Heather writhes against me as I grip her hips, and I come seconds after her. I run my fingers through her hair, waiting until she stops shaking.
Slowly pulling back, she slides off me. Then she adjusts her dress before sighing.
“I can’t keep doing this,” she whispers. “It’s starting to hurt me.”
“This?” I arch a brow. “What do you mean?”
“Casual sex with you,” she says, her voice soft.
“What would you like us to call it then?”
“That’s not what I’m trying to say.” She moves back. “I mean it needs to mean something.”
“It means pleasure.”
“I’m referring to commitment.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Knowing that I’m the only person you’re having sex with.”
“You are.”
“But I want more than just sex…I want romance.”
“Then keep writing it.”
“Stop playing word games with me.” She glares at me. “I need to know you want me outside the sheets. I need dinners, late-night calls, mornings where we don’t touch each other but you’re still here. Not just sex and work. I can’t handle it anymore.”
I blink, the word commitment scraping at something raw inside me. It doesn’t compute. It never has.
“This is the part when you tell me whether you’re willing to do that or you’re not,” she says. “I need to know so I can make my next move.”
“I’m not the relationship type, Heather,” I say. “I never have been and never will be. I like having sex with you and I like the time we spend together outside of work.”
She nods slowly. “Thank you for being honest.”
“You’re welcome.”
She moves back and grabs her purse, slinging it over her shoulder.
I watch as she slips her laptop into her bag, and I expect her to come back to me, but she strolls to the door instead.
“I’ll have my notes for Ryan Arlington’s backlist in your inbox by Thursday, Mr. Wolfson,” she says. “And I’ll respectfully request to work with the marketing department from here on out, via Human Resources as well.”
“Heather, there’s no need for you to—” My sentence ends on her slamming the door on her way out.
I stare at it, waiting—knowing that she’ll return within a few minutes and make amends for being dramatic, but the door remains shut for the rest of the night.
THE AUTHOR
HEATHER
My brownstone welcomes me home with cold arms, its untouched furniture and decor eyeing me with suspicion.
