Page 9 of Dear Hattie

And you know what? The feeling is mutual.

Because whateverthisis, whatever unholy chemistry makes our bodies react like this, it’s addictive. The best thing I’ve ever felt. And maybe I’m throwing my career away, maybe I’m trusting the wrong man, maybe I’m going to hell in a hand basket, but right now I don’t care. All I want is Wesley’s hands on my bare skin, and his fist tight in my hair. I want his teeth, his tongue, his hunger.

“Mmph,” I say, shoving at his chest until he sprawls against the desk once again. His keyboard slides back, knocking over a cup, and pens and pencils rain down onto the carpet. We both ignore them.“Help me up.”

Wesley grips my ass, breathing hard, and lifts me to straddle him. My knee hits his mouse, and one of his screens goes black. I pause, gripping his shoulders. “Oh. Uh…”

“Leave it.” Wild-eyed and messy-haired, Wesley ducks down and sucks hard on my throat, then speaks into my skin. “For fuck’s sake, leave it, Harriet. The building could burn down around us right now for all I care.”

Judging from the rock-hard bulge beneath me, Wesley Tanaka is not lying. He’s as turned on by this as I am—and believe me, I’m thrumming like a plucked guitar string.

Biting my lip, I grind down against that bulge. It rubs against my clit just right through my clothes, and my breath stutters.

Wesley’s eyes fall closed. His hands tighten on my ass, and his voice is ragged. “Do that again.”

Heart in my throat, I grind down on him, humping him against the desk. Heat spreads over my skin, pooling between my thighs, and it’s so primal, so shameless, so freakinggood.

Can’t get close enough. Never want this to stop.

This teasing friction is the best thing I’ve ever felt.

Better than my own hands, better than the toy Simone bought me as a joke last year, better than the shower head. The. Best.

And Wesley’s barely touched me so far. He hasn’t removed a single item of clothing; has only kissed me and squeezed me and panted all over me. Thrust up between my legs and made my head spin.

His mouth on my throat draws out another needy groan. “If you give me a hickey I’ll trash your work pod, Tanaka.”

His smile curves against my fevered skin. “I’d expect nothing less.”

Not that in this state, I’d even mind. Hopped up on these pheromones, driven out of my mind with lust, Ilikethe idea of Wesley leaving his mark. Claiming me for all to see. Declaring that I, Harriet Fry, she of the eminently forgettable face, drove the wunderkind halfway to madness with a few kisses in the recording booth.

Yeah.

Eyes squeezed closed, I tilt my head to give him better access.

At the scrape of teeth, I let out a desperate whimper.

And as the door in the next room flies open, muffled chatter filling the recording studio behind us, Wesley dumps me onto the floor.

“Shit!” He gapes at me sprawled on the carpet like he can’t understand how I got here. I stare back up at him, open-mouthed.

Did he seriously just do that? Did he fling me away like an old banana peel?

“I’m so sorry!” Wesley jerks forward to help me up, but I scuttle backward like a crab. The chatter dies down in the next room, and Iknowwe have an audience through the glass. Oh god, I need a lightning bolt to strike me. A sinkhole to swallow me whole.

Anything but this.

“I put you on your feet!” he says, and he has the audacity to sound upset. He’s not the one flashing his damp panties at a random group of podcast hosts.

“My legs were wobbly, you gigantic ass hat.”

Wobbly forhim.Quaking with the pleasure of being in Wesley Tanaka’s lap—being squeezed and kneaded and gripped.

Hope my thighs are learning this lesson. No man is worth losing the ability to stand—that way lies humiliation, and carpet burns on my ass.

Wesley lurches forward again, reaching to help me up, but I smack his hand away. “Don’t.”

The small, hot, suddenly stifling room spins around me as I tip onto my knees and struggle to my feet. My t-shirt is all twisted around my body, the silk creased, and my cheeks have never burned like this. I’m turning to magma.

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