Parker

Tuesdays are made for tacos, and this Tuesday, I’m having all the tacos. Chili lime tacos, Baja shrimp tacos, beef and pineapple tacos… I really do mean all the tacos.

As soon as I get out of work. Which isn’t looking like it’ll be anytime soon.

It’s almost seven, and I’m alternately adding notes to a pitch response on some new organic ice cream and making myself a to-do list for tomorrow when I hear a familiar knock at my top-floor office door. “I know,” I say to Sia without looking up, “it’s taco time. Another thirty minutes, and I’ll be ready.” Maybe.

“Wrong,” she says cheerfully.

I start and check out the door, and while I’d like to say my pussy perked up and cheered, that obnoxious organ in my chest swelled harder.

There’s just something about a book-smart jungle man holding a bouquet of pink carnations that my inner girly-girl heart can’t resist.

I straighten and accidentally toss my pen at the potted cactus in the corner that I should’ve had taken out when I moved up here. “Knox. Hey.”

“Parker Parker. So this is where the magic happens.” His smile is about twenty watts too dim, and my heart sinks.

Break-up flowers.

We’re not even honestly dating, and he’s bringing break-up flowers.

“Yep.” I swallow hard. “Magic. All of it, right here.”

“I found him hanging out at the security desk,” Sia says. “Oh, and I can’t make taco Tuesday. Neither can Willow or Eloise. Guess you’ll have to find someone else.” She shoves Knox deeper into my office, ducks out, and slams the door shut.

Pretty sure she would’ve locked it if she could’ve.

While I stand awkwardly, Knox angles to my desk and sits on the edge. “Taco Tuesday?” He wouldn’t look intrigued if those were breakup flowers, would he? And—did he just check out my chest?

He did. His gaze is back on eye level now, but he was definitely checking out my lemons.

I coyly roll my shoulders back like I know what I’m doing. “It’s a thing we do. On Tuesdays.”

Oooh, his eyes are getting darker, and they keep flicking downward. “Not Mondays?”

“That’s Margarita Monday.”

The wattage in his smile is amping up, and he’s angling closer across the desk. “What’s Saturday then?”

“Sopapilla Saturday.”

“Wednesday?”

“On Wednesdays, I’m just sad. Do you know how hard it is to find a Mexican food that starts with a W? But usually my taco hangover consoles me.”

He laughs, and my chacha goes all tingly and perky. He tilts the flowers toward me. “If I’d known how serious you were about your tacos, I would’ve brought you one instead."

“You don’t have to bring me anything.” My fingers brush his, and a streak of elustricity ignites my skin from my fingertips to my hooha. Yes, elustricity. “But thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I come begging for a favor.”

Now that I’ve convinced myself these aren’t break-up flowers, my lady bits are driving my brain bus. And they’d like to volunteer themselves as his first favor. “What’s up?” I ask as I let my gaze take a lazy meander at his crotch.

Am I being too subtle?

Or too obvious?

Doesn’t matter, I decide, because when I lock eyes with Knox again, his have heated to a gazillion degrees and now the air in my entire office is crackling with elustricity.

“Parker Parker Elliott,” he says soft and deep, “are you coming on to me?”

I lean forward and stroke the corded outline of his forearm. I’ve been thinking about licking that tattoo on his bicep since Sunday. “If I were, would it be working?”

He answers me by hooking a hand around my neck and pulling me in for a hard, hot tongue-wrestling match over my desk. He rumbles his approval when I slide my tongue against his and open wider. I dimly register the sound of papers scattering through the air. Something thumps to the ground—my stapler?—and then Knox is on my side of the desk, and I’m standing between his legs, raking my hands down his chest and tugging his shirt out of his jeans and oh yes, his skin is so hot and silky over the hard ridges of his muscles and bones and he’s grabbing my ass and yanking me against him so I can feel that thick, hard bulge in his pants that I want to grab and stroke and—

“Security,” I gasp.

His eyes go wide and he lifts his hands. “Whoa, sorry, I thought—”

“No. I mean, not no to you. Yes to you. Security cameras. We’re not alone.”

I point to the corner where the camera is aimed at my door and window.

We lock gazes again, and then both look at the corner under the camera.

That friggin’ cactus is sitting in the only spot in my office that isn’t visible to the camera. It’s a giant-ass prickly pear with like fourteen paddles and a bajillion prickles in a two-foot-wide pot, and I keep wondering if it’s ever going to die or if the night cleaning crew is watering it. I don’t know shit about cactuses, but I know that one’s a dick. A cock-blocking cactus dick.

“Parker Parker Elliott, you still have work to do,” Knox says softly.

My to-do list is somewhere on the floor. My phone is off the hook, the unit itself hanging over the edge by a cord, and my tray organizer is crookedly dangling precariously on the corner. The flowers are somewhere on the other side of my desk.

And I don’t want to pick it up, or do work, or do anything except find a broom closet without a fucking security camera in it.

“Sit,” Knox says.

“I don’t want to—”

“Sit.”

There’s a mischievous gleam in his eyes, coupled with something dark and sexy and enticing. I don’t know why he wants me to sit so badly, but just this once, I follow orders.

He straightens my phone and tray organizer, then bends—oh, god, that ass—and scoops up my to-do list.

“Oh, Ms. Elliott,” he says, “looks like there’s something under your desk.”

I push back and peer under my desk. “There is?”

He scooches my chair back another smidge and bends over too. “Yep.”

“I don’t—” I start, but then he’s crawling under my desk.

Crawling. Under. My. Desk.

“Yep.” He hooks his hands under my knees and pulls me back to the desk. “Looks like I’m under your desk. I think this warrants further exploration.”

And before I can think, or move, or form any semblance of a coherent reason why this is a bad idea, he gently parts my knees and slides his palms up my bare thighs.

“Do those cameras have sound?”

“N—no,” I whisper.

“I love this skirt.”

And I suddenly love the blowhard who insisted on this massive carved mahogany desk that’s the size of a small Caribbean island.

Knox’s fingers brush the edges of my panties. “Scoot closer, kitten.”

Ohmygod.

I quickly jiggle my hips until I’m perched on the edge of my seat.

“Spread wider, baby.”

My legs fall open until my knees hit the walls of the desk. He presses a kiss to my inner thigh, my chacha shivers in delicious delight, and I struggle to keep a straight face for the cameras. If I get caught—

Ohmygod, he’s licking my other thigh while he strokes me over my panties, and my pussy is quivering and pulsing and drenched in anticipation. I whimper and clench my hands into fists on my desk.

“Good?” Knox asks.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Tell me more. And grab a pen and pretend like you’re working.”

The closest I’ve ever gotten to talking dirty to anyone—phone sex with Knox aside—was that time my date asked me to call his dick Mr. Carrot.

But I can do this. “I like the way you’re touching me.”

“Where?”

I swallow hard. “On my pussy.”

“I like touching your pussy.” He slips a finger under the edge of my thong, and the feel of flesh-on-flesh makes me jerk in my seat.

“More?” he asks.

“Oh, god, yes.” I share one wall with the new chief financial officer and the other with the head of HR, both of whom are probably working as late as I am.

I could get fired for this.

Knox licks the lace of my panties, right over my clit, and I almost explode on the spot. “Ohmygod.”

“You are so fucking sexy.”

I’m so fucking turned on. My pussy is aching and hungry and painfully desperate for more—for his touch, for him to fill me, for everything—and my breasts ache and I’m struggling to keep from panting. The security cameras can’t see Knox, but they can see me.

He slides my panties to the side, stroking and teasing me. His hair tickles my inner thighs, and when he presses a kiss to my very core, I clench my teeth together to keep from crying out.

Or possibly to keep from crying at all, because there’s a man kneeling under my desk to go down on me in my office, licking and stroking and heating me into a frenzy as though my pleasure, my power, my satisfaction is the only thing in the world that matters. I tilt my hips into his mouth, into the glide of his tongue. I’m clutching the edges of my keyboard.

“More,” I whimper.

He sucks my clit and slips a finger into my pussy, and everything shatters hard and fast and deep in a blinding stroke of lightning that detonates in my core and bursts out in an intense explosion of pleasure hovering on the point of pain. My inner walls clench tight around his finger, the spasms crashing one after another on top of each other, a roaring in my ears drowning out everything but white light and pure ecstasy and this otherworldly sensation that I’m floating.

I’m still clenching my jaw shut, still hanging on to the keyboard for dear life, vaguely aware that the mewling noises I’m making are probably drifting through the walls as I come down off my first man-made orgasm, my breath coming in hard, short pants, my heart racing.

“Ohmygod,” I whisper when I can talk again.

Knox is smoothing my skirt back down. “You’re fucking beautiful, Parker. And we’re getting my next taco to go.”

I clamp a hand to my mouth to stop the giggle, but it won’t be suppressed.

“Oh, look. I found a paperclip.” He crawls out from under my desk with a paperclip in hand, and I swear he must’ve had that thing in his pockets because I’ve never seen that blue paperclip before in my life.

But I take it, make a serious show of thanking him for the paperclip, and test my knees to see if they’ll hold me if I stand.

My jungle hottie just ate me out in my office.

I may never be able to sit at this desk without thinking of him again.

And I can’t see how that could ever be a bad thing.