Page 46 of Roughing the Player
Chapter 12
Eleanor
I RUNTO THE ELEVATOR as if all the hounds of hell were chasing me. When I get there, I push the down button, once, twice, three times. Not that it will make it come any faster. I pace back and forth so I won’t have time to think. So I won’t have time for regrets. But it doesn’t do any good. My thoughts hound me anyway.
I play back what just happened. Brock pushing me against the wall, touching me, demanding I admit my need for him. Time and again I denied him, and time and again my body made a liar out of me. Every day we’ve lived together, I’ve fought against my desire for Brock. I want him plain and simple. Always have. Always will. But I can’t succumb to this madness. It would destroy my career if anybody found out.
“But he’s not really your client.” The devil on my shoulder whispers. “He’s Marty’s.”
“Semantics, Eleanor,” my professional self roars back. “He’s the agency’s client and sex with him is strictlyverboten.”
So what if it’s forbidden? Who’d know? He wouldn’t tell, and I’d take that secret to the grave. Would it be so wrong to go to bed with him? To enjoy each other for one night? So we’d both get what we want?
“What about me?” my dignity demands. “Regardless of what he said, he doesn’t wantyou. He wants only what you can give him. Sex.”
So what? Don’t I want the same thing? To get as much pleasure from him? After all, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.
The car arrives, and the doors slide open. Inside, a woman glances at me expectantly. Thing is, I can’t make myself climb in.
“Are you coming?” she asks.
“No. I-I forgot something.”
The doors close and the elevator zooms off, taking with it my last chance of salvation. But then, I never said I was a saint.
I shut down the voices in my head and retread the path to perdition. Along the way, I figure out just what to say should Brock ask. Which he won’t. More than likely, he’ll just pick me up and throw me on the bed. And I’ll love every second of whatever he does to me. Without further thought, I drive the key into the lock, rush in, knock on his bedroom door. “Brock?”
When there’s no answer, I take a deep breath and step inside the den of sin. He’s not there, but the water’s running in the bathroom. He must be taking a shower. The reprieve gives me time to reconsider. He doesn’t know I’m here. I still have a chance to leave. To save myself from this colossal mistake.
I remain rooted to the spot.
The water shuts off. An eternity later, Brock strolls into the bedroom, towel slung around his neck, wearing only his skin. And what gorgeous skin it is. Well-muscled chest, brawny arms, massive legs. Rampant cock. He’s hard and getting harder. But then, why wouldn’t he? I’m staring at it like it’s manna from heaven, and I’ve been starving for far too long.
He strides forward, like a feral creature stalking his helpless prey. But then, isn’t that exactly what I am? Helpless. God knows, I have no defenses when it comes to him. I might as well run up the white flag of surrender.
But there’s something wrong. He’s upset I’m here. His gaze tells me so. “Did you forget something?” he asks.
My mind. I lost it over you. But I can’t say that. He already has the advantage. I can’t hand him any more ammunition. I have to take another tack. Clutching my hands in front of me, I adopt my most businesslike tone. “I’ve reconsidered our situation.”
He arches a brow. “What situation is that?”
“You’re a man. I’m a woman. We’re living in the same space.”
He folds his arms across his chest and widens his stance. “Go on. I’m listening.”
Somebody should paint him like that. He is so unbelievably beautiful. Eight-pack abs, sculpted pecs, massive thighs. And a treasure trail that travels down to the most masculine part of him. The one that’s telegraphing in no uncertain terms what it wants. “You have . . . certain needs. And as busy as you are, you haven’t had a chance to . . . satisfy them.”
He doesn’t say anything. His mouth is one rigid slash.
“So, I thought.” God. This is a lot harder than I thought it would be.
“You thought?” he prompts.
“You scratch my back. I’ll scratch yours.” The words rush out of me.
His brow wrinkles. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Blowing out a breath, I say, “We have sex.”
