I left the office late on Friday, as my work had taken me twice as long because my mind kept drifting to thoughts of Morgan and all the sex I wanted to have with her.

I’m a guy. Of course I think of sex on the regular. Not every seven seconds, as theorists suggest, but definitely a lot.

I fucking love sex. What’s not to love about screwing a hot woman until you’re both hot and sweaty and coming hard?

But, after Morgan left my office, all I could think of was her. How hard she made me from one look. And I was fast heading toward breaking the every-seven-seconds theory. I couldn’t get thoughts of her out of my head. Her bent over my desk while I fucked her from behind. Then, on my desk. On my sofa. Up against the wall. Her on her knees, sucking my cock. Me on my knees, licking her pussy. Then, in the shower of my private bathroom, fucking under the hot spray. I even veered off to thoughts of screwing her on my bed at home. That was when I knew shit was getting crazy.

I stopped off in the diner near my apartment building to grab a takeout burger. The waitress who served me was hot. Not Morgan hot, but hot.

She slipped me her number as she handed me the burger.

I wasn’t going to call her. But then I got home, and while I ate my burger and drank a beer, the Morgan-sex-scenario reel in my brain started playing again, and my dick was aching from all the teasing my brain had been doing.

So, I called the takeout girl and went to her place after her shift ended.

What? Don’t judge me. I’m a guy, and I needed to have sex. I needed the release.

Only it didn’t make me feel as good as I had been hoping it would. My balls still felt blue even though I’d just come, and I had this weird feeling in my chest. If I didn’t know better, I might say it was…guilt.

Which was weird because I had nothing to feel guilty about.

Afterward, I went back to my apartment and lay awake, thinking about—yep, you got it—sex and Morgan. Or sex with Morgan.

I figured I’d be okay by Saturday night. Once I was out with the boys, I’d be back to normal.

Yeppers, you guessed it. I was wrong.

I wasn’t feeling it. Or any chick in the bar. So, for the first time in a really long time, I went home alone on a Saturday night.

I skipped brunch with the guys, feigning illness, as I didn’t feel like listening to their sexual proclivities from the night before or admitting that I hadn’t had one of my own to share.

I honestly don’t know what the hell is going on with me.

It must be a blip. Maybe I’m having some kind of early-thirties crisis.

I figure I just need to avoid seeing Morgan as much as possible, which is hard, considering I have to work with her. But, if I keep her at arm’s and eye’s length, then my cock will get over this little obsession that he has with her, and things will go back to normal.

It’s Tuesday morning, and I’m heading into the office. I wasn’t in yesterday, as I was in Kentucky all day, meeting with our supplier of satin knit, which we use to make our panties.

I say, “Good morning,” to Leah, ignoring her come-fuck-me eyes. I’ve got enough going on with my internal battle without having to contend with her.

I head straight to the elevators and press the call button, waiting.

The elevator door opens. When I’m inside, I hear the click of heels on the tiled floor.

Please don’t be Morgan.

I really don’t want to be stuck in a small space with her while my cock is acting up like it has been.

But it’s not Morgan. It’s a brunette who I don’t recognize.

I should be relieved that it’s not Morgan, but I’m not because a tiny, sadistic part of me was actually hoping that it was Morgan.

“Which floor?” I ask the brunette.

I slide a look at her. She’s cute. But I don’t know her, and I know everyone who works here. Maybe she’s here for an early meeting with one of the teams.

“Fourteen.”

That’s my floor. My brows come together in confusion as I reach out to push the button. Then, it dawns on me. She must be Morgan’s new PA.

“Your Morgan’s new PA,” I say as the door closes.

I dip my chin to look at her and find that she’s already staring up at me.

I feel a jolt of familiarity.

“I did wonder if it was you when Morgan told me the name of the CEO. Wilder’s not a name you hear often. And it is you. Clearly, you don’t remember me.”

Her green eyes flash with something, and she tips her chin up and takes a step closer.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

She knows me. And I have a sinking feeling I know exactly how she knows me. Because I’ve had sex with her. Most women only know me for that reason.

But I don’t remember her. Not even a flicker.

Have I screwed that many women that I no longer remember them?

Honestly, I think I already know the answer to that question because it’s standing right in front of me.

I’m starting to sweat. “Of course I remember you.” I swallow roughly against the lie.

She laughs. It tinkles in the small space, which feels like it’s getting smaller by the second.

“Wow. Was I that forgettable?” Hurt flashes through her eyes. “It was less than a week ago when you were in my bed, screwing me senseless. But I guess it makes sense that you didn’t call me if you’d forgotten me the moment you left my place. I’m guessing that’s why you snuck out while I was still sleeping.”

Less than a week ago? The only women I’ve had sex with this past week were the waitress from Friday—and she’s definitely not her because she was a redhead and a true one, as the carpet matched the drapes—and this chick…

Oh, fuck no.

Arlington Heights. The shirt-writer.

“Arlington Heights,” I blurt out, feeling a shot of familiarity, the more I stare at her face. “You wrote on my shirt.”

“That’s me. And my name is Sierra,” she says in a haughty voice. She folds her arms over her chest. “I’m the girl from Arlington Heights who you hooked up with last week and never called.”

“And you’re…” I can’t bring myself to say the words.

“Morgan’s PA,” she finishes for me.

Oh, fucking no. Just fucking no.

The elevator pings its arrival, and the door opens, but I can’t stop staring at Sierra. The shirt-writer from Arlington.

It’s like the worst kind of joke. It’d be funny if it wasn’t so goddamn bad.

“Oh, hey!” The chipper tone in Morgan’s voice makes me nearly shit my pants. “You two have already met.”

I turn my head to look at Morgan standing there, outside the elevator, smiling and looking sexy as hell, and my dick shrivels up and dies in my pants.

Well, I wanted him to quit getting hard around her. I guess screwing her new PA has done that.

Granted, I didn’t know she was going to be Morgan’s PA when I fucked her. But I somehow don’t think Morgan would see it that way.

“Yes, we’ve already met,” Sierra says in a sweet tone. But there’s nothing sweet about the look in her eyes as she walks past me and out of the elevator. She looks like she either wants to punch me in the mouth or kiss the shit out of it. Either way, it’s not good.

Shit. Fucking. Shit.

“You staying in there?” Morgan chuckles, bringing my eyes to hers.

“No.”

I step out, and she gets in the elevator.

“Oh, Wilder, can we chat later? I’ve got an idea that I want to run by you.”

“Sure. I’m here all day,” I say. My mouth is dry. I feel like I’m talking through cotton wool.

“Great. I’ll call Chrissy and have her schedule me in.” She reaches over and pushes the elevator button.

My eyes move to the retreating figure of Sierra going through the door to the executive offices.

I hold back the sigh I feel.

“Hey.” The sound of Morgan’s soft voice pulls me back. She’s watching me, a little furrow in her brows, her head tilted to the side. “You okay?”

Well, let’s see. The chick I screwed last week after I got hammered because I was pissed about you coming to work here—thus being the reason I was late to our meeting, where I found she’d also left me a sex note on the back of my shirt—is now working here, for you. That kind of puts a kink in my strict rule of never sleeping with employees. And, also, I have this maddening urge to fuck you on every surface of my office and home until neither of us can walk straight.

So, to answer your question, no, I’m not okay.

“Yep.” I smile wide. “I’m great. I’ll see you later.” I turn and speed walk in the direction of my office.

Chrissy isn’t at her desk when I get there, and for once, I’m relieved not to see her, as conversation isn’t something I’m up for at the moment.

I get into the safety of my office, close the door, and lean back against it. I cover my face with my hands and let out a groan.

Fuck my life.

What are the odds? First, Morgan, the girl who hated my guts in college, comes here and takes half of my job. And, now, one of my recent one-night stands is here, working for her.

I swear to God, you couldn’t write this shit.

If I were a superstitious person, then I would seriously be thinking that the universe had it out for me.