Page 45 of Was I Ever Here

“So nothing’s changed?” she asks.

“Nope.” I shrug my shoulders in defeat. I finally cracked a few days ago and admitted to Lenix what happened between Byzantine and I.

She was mad at me for a whole three seconds before relenting her grudge for all thejuicy details—as she would say.

“Well maybe this is your opening,” Lenix says as she leans over the bar giving me a mischievous side glance. “You know…kiss and make it better, kind of thing?” she adds, wiggling her eyebrows playfully.

I throw my rag at her and she giggles, catching it mid-air before it hits her face.

“I’m just saying.”

I don’t bother giving her a response and quickly make the drinks she just punched in. With a thanks and a wink she pops them on her tray and saunters back to their table. I notice Byzantine watching me before I turn back around determined to ignore him for the rest of the night.

My heart is in my throat as I rap my knuckles on the office door.

“Come in.” I hear Byzantine’s voice echo from behind the door before I creak it open and inch my way into the room.

He’s sitting on the couch to the right of his desk, some type of frozensomethingthat he probably stole from the walk-in freezer slapped over his eye. I lean on the wall behind me, having lost the ability to stand without looking awkward in front of him.

“I was starting to think you didn’t feel pain,” I mutter.

He side-eyes me with a grin. “What does that mean?”

“Well, look at you.” I wave my hand up and down at him as if it’s obvious. “You just waltz in looking like this, and then order a drink as if nothing’s the matter.”

He chuckles but says nothing.

“You look awful by the way,” I bite out just to spite him, my arms crossed squarely on my chest, a well-curated bored look on my face.

“Is that so?” he says calmly, placing the frozen bag beside him and looking at me inquisitively. “Why are you here, Sunny?”

My eyes lock with his as I stutter out a response, “Well…I mean…I’m done closing the bar so…” I stare at my shoes, unable to finish my sentence, suddenly feeling like a complete idiot as if it’s too bold for me to assume he’ll be driving me home after weeks of doing exactly that.

“Is that all?” he asks cooly, his question weighted down by all of the other unanswered questions attached to those three simple words.

I slink towards the two-seater facing him and sit down, drumming my fingers on my knees while the left one bobs up and down, anxiety coursing through me. I swallow hard and finally say, “I know I’ve been acting strange since, well since—”

“Since I made you come against my tongue?”

I nearly choke on the lust that barrels through my chest as I watch him proudly lean back on the couch. His arms laid out behind him, his legs wide and relaxed, an arrogant smirk curling his lips. I bite my own lip while I try to scrub the image of me kneeling in front of him out of my head.

“Well, when you put it that way,” I answer, having no clue what or how to reply.

He stays silent, studying me for far too long before finally speaking, “Are you naked under that skirt?”

Half-shocked and half-burning up I sputter out, “What? Of course I’m not. It wouldn’t be professional you fucking weirdo.” I cross one leg over the other now worried he can see under my skirt from his vantage point.

Well, worried maybe isn’t quite the right word to describe how I’m feeling right now.

Byzantine, looking every bit the smug prince, watches me as I squirm from the opposite couch, his eyes darkening as he licks his bottom lip slowly.

“Take them off,” he demands.

“Take what off,” I reply quickly, playing dumb while resisting the urge to obey his command, my core tightening with the thought.

He lets out a dark chuckle and it travels straight down my spine and all the way down to my toes.

“Take. Them. Off,” he repeats, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging loosely in front of him. “Stand up, reach under your skirt and slide your panties down your legs before I do it myself,” he orders while he leans back on the couch resuming his original position.

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