Page 50 of Sleeping with Her Enemy (49th Floor 2)

“So you guys have corresponded beyond Tinder? You know he’s not a psychopath?”

“Yeah, we’ve emailed a bit, exchanged some pictures.”

The idea of this guy with pictures of Amy on his phone did not sit well with Dax. Not at all. But he was done opining on matters that didn’t concern him. “I gotta get back.” He stood and replaced the lid on the soup he never wanted in the first place.

“Me, too.” Amy mirrored his actions. “That McQuade deal is heating up. I have meetings all afternoon.”

He’d been trying to lose her, but he could hardly object when she followed him to the elevators that would take them to their common destination. A bunch of people got on with them, and the elevator stopped every few floors, disgorging lunchers back into their offices. Amy was on the other side of the elevator from him, and she’d taken her phone out. It was crowded enough that he couldn’t quite tell what she was doing. Was she tapping? Scrolling?

Swiping?

The forty-ninth floor was only four short of the top, so by thirty-nine the last two passengers besides them got off. Amy didn’t notice, so engrossed was she with her goddamned phone. He watched the display tick past forty.

Forty-one.

She right-swiped. There was no mistaking it.

So he crossed the empty space between them, snatched the motherfucking phone out of her hand, and kissed her, bringing his lips down on her surprised gasp.

She didn’t seem to be objecting, though. After a moment of passivity—no doubt he’d shocked her—her hands came to his chest and pushed. Hard. But not like she wanted him to stop because she also tilted her head back and loosened her jaw, letting his tongue invade her mouth. So he let himself be propelled backward until his back hit the side of the elevator. There were mirrors on the back wall, and when he glanced to his side, he could see them from behind, her pressed up against him, the purple dress riding up as she lifted up onto her tiptoes and hooked one leg around him, her foot winding around his calf.

Tinder, his ass. With her, it was a five-alarm fire. A goddamned inferno. They probably only had a few seconds before the elevator arrived at their floor, so he threw caution and good judgment to the wind and pulled her more firmly against him, reveling in the feeling of her soft breasts against his chest, tangling his fingers in her hair, and inhaling the maddening strawberry scent of her.

When she made a soft little moan, he was about to hit the emergency stop button. But he wasn’t fast enough. On a ding, the elevator ground to a halt and the doors opened.

She reared back, stepping away as if he were radioactive. They stared at each other, panting. He hoped his eyes weren’t as wide and lust-glazed as hers.

“Ahem.”

He turned. Shit. It was Jack Winter along with Marcus Rosemann, the CEO of the eponymous ad agency that, along with Dax’s and Jack’s companies, rounded out the forty-ninth floor of the Lakefront Centre.

“You two getting off here?” His friend—and Amy’s boss—smirked. “In a manner of speaking, I mean.”

Marcus, normally a serious-minded workaholic who wouldn’t know a joke if it bit him in the ass, let loose a peal of laughter.

Amy touched a palm to her forehead for a moment. She was clearly mortified. But she summoned a bright smile and stepped off the elevator, and he followed, holding the door for the still-smirking Jack to enter.

They stood there staring at each other as the doors closed on Jack. She licked her lips. She was probably waiting for him to apologize. Or at least to say something meaningful to make sense of that lapse. He searched his brain.

“Enjoy your dates this weekend.”

…

Amy did not enjoy her dates that weekend. Date number one was like having a conversation in the kitchen at work, except the conversation never ended. It turned out she could only converse so much about Doctor Who, food court cuisine, and Game of Thrones—the books, not the TV show—before she was just…bored.

It wasn’t Steve’s fault. He was sweet and cute and obviously trying very, very hard. It was just that she wasn’t looking for a boyfriend, and she’d already ruled out sleeping with him. Even though she was looking for casual, after all the weirdness with Dax, she wasn’t stupid enough to mix it up with someone from the forty-ninth floor. After all, she still had to have kitchen conversations about Doctor Who, food court cuisine, and Game of Thrones—the books, not the movies.

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