NINETEEN
GRAHAM
I should’ve fucked her.
I should’ve picked her up, tied her delicate wrists to my headboard, and pounded my cock into her body until the sun came up. I should have covered her mouth, her body, with cum and sweat, but I hadn’t. It was something she did that stopped me from claiming what she was offering me on a silver platter.
Elle had lost to me, but as she slid her fingers back and forth inside her pussy, her motions slow and deliberate to show me everything I was missing, the look in those blue eyes was one of triumph. My sweet, prim pawn had quickly figured out just how potent the power between her creamy thighs really is.
And then she’d challenged me with it.
So instead of fucking her, I told her to leave. Decided to give her a taste of her own medicine by disappearing for four days and leaving her hanging. The problem with that brilliant idea is that I’m also punishing myself. Even though her dumbfounded expression and stuttering had given me some consolation, it does nothing for my cock now.
For the last forty-five minutes, I’ve debated whether to stand up my accountant and break my word to myself by going to Elle’s apartment and screwing her brains out against the wall or head into the shithole where she used to work for my last financial meeting of the year.
Reluctantly, I decide to ignore my balls, reminding myself that I’ll have plenty of time to use Elle’s body.
Two days, I think, getting out of my car and feeding the meter. I’ll make her—and myself—wait two more days and then I’ll see her.
Daniel hasn’t arrived at 202 yet, but I ask to be seated anyway. My waitress—one of the blondes I’d noticed interviewing with Elle the night I first saw her—takes me to a quiet spot near the back of the house, putting an extra bounce in her step so that her tits and ass bounce inside her tight tank top and shorts.
“Do you want to order, sugar?” she asks, clasping her hands behind her back and rocking from side to side.
“Yes, one waitress who doesn’t talk to me like she’s about to hand me the happy endings menu, please.” When her mouth drops open, I smirk. “The answer is no. I don’t want to order yet.”
She sulks away, leaving me to lament my current sexual frustration over Elle and her hypnotizing cunt while I pore over the limited menu. When I hear a shuffling sound on the other side of the table, I’m in the process of unlocking my phone to send Vero a message. I flare my nostrils. “For starters, Daniel, you’re late. For enders, I’m sick of talking about my money in a glorified strip club.”
“I’m sorry, I’m just here to take your order,” a feminine voice says innocently.
I glance up, finger frozen over the last digit of my passcode—and the muscles in my neck tense when I see who’s staring right down at me. Fuck. This woman is the last person I want to see. I regard the redhead waitress formerly known as Incredi-Ass with a congenial smile.
“Janelle.” She’s wearing more clothes than the last time I saw her, considering she was bent over a box of liquor with her shorts around her knees. “I’ve already told the blonde, I don’t want to order.”
“Why haven’t I seen you in a while?” She slides into the other side of the booth with her order pad in hand, hovering her pen over it.
“Because you make shit awkward, and I meant it when I said I would never fuck you again.”
She pokes her lip out and scribbles some nonsense on her notepad so it looks like she’s working instead of trying to pick up customers. “You can’t tell me you haven’t thought of me.”
“I have,” I admit. “Every time I think about coming in here against my better judgment, I remember it’s where you work and decide otherwise.”
“You are a total—” She stops herself, takes a deep breath, and blows a fiery lock of hair out of her face. “Just so you’re aware, I undid your handiwork.”
My handiwork? I narrow my eyes. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“With that poor girl you got fired because she probably wouldn’t sleep with you.” She pastes a smile on her face that rivals the glitziest fucking beauty queen. “Chad gave me a promotion, so I offered her job back. We even had a nice little talk when she came in here Christmas night.”
I lean back on my side of the booth. So Janelle was the one who told her what I did. No surprise there. What is shocking is that Elle had gone to 202 on Christmas. I’m curious to know what they talked about, but I’m sure as fuck not going to ask because it must not have been that nice. Not since the night ended with Eleanor’s panties in my possession.
“Did you now?” I drawl.
“Damn right, Graaaaaaaham,” she sings, saying my name in the same drawn out, annoying voice she’d used when I had her bent over and trembling beneath me. It irks me twice as much now.
Cocking my eyebrow, I glance around the restaurant. “Looks like she was smart enough to decide against taking you up on your offer because I don’t see her.” Offended, Janelle grunts, and I add, “But thanks for reminding me, again, why I only fucked you once.”
Angrily, she reaches for the salt shaker. She’s becoming creative with her choice of weaponry. The last time she saw me, she threw a roll of paper towels at my back. I cock my head to the side. “You’re drawing attention to yourself.”
Holding her pen like she’s about to shank me with it, she slips out of the booth. “Someday, someone is going to tear you down, Delaney. I hope whoever that is ruins your shitty career.”
I shrug. “It just won’t be you. You need this job. The money you’d get from claiming you fucked me in a storage room would be minimal, and at the end of the day, I don’t give enough fucks to pay you off because there’s nothing wrong with a single person getting their rocks off.” I gesture behind her. “My accountant is coming this way to sit down, and it looks like your boss is standing in his doorway waiting for you to do ... whatever it is your promotion entails.”
“You’re a dick,” she growls before storming off, casting a dark glare over her shoulder like this is news to me. She’s called me everything from an asshole to a pussy tease—labeling me a dick is tame.
Daniel sits down, rattling off an excuse about shitty traffic. Then, his worried expression turns more agitated than usual when he asks me if everything is okay. I tell him the same thing I’d told Janelle when she approached the booth: Fuck 202.
“It’s the best scenery in town,” he complains, and I spot the redhead throwing rusty daggers at my forehead from the other side of the room. She’s the lapse of judgment that keeps kicking me in the balls. “And you’re my only client who doesn’t seem to mind.”
“It’s the scenery that’s the problem, so believe me, I mind. But if you insist on having your meetings here, I’ll have to go with someone else at your firm who doesn’t insist on scheduling appointments just so he can ogle half-naked waitresses before going home to his pregnant wife,” I say, and Daniel immediately backtracks.
“The office will be fine, or I can come to your office or apartment. Whichever is more convenient for you.”
“Good,” I say. “Now that we’ve settled that matter, go ahead and start the fiscal fuckening so I can get the hell out of here.”
I leave 202 an hour later. Even though I should think about taxes or the fact my mother’s been calling me every couple hours to give me an earful for blowing off her function in New York last night, I’m still distracted by Elle. Images of her wet fingers working over her clit play in my head like a slideshow, taunting me.
I should be inside of her right now.
Two more days.
Forty-eight fucking hours.
It feels like a lifetime.