I need to get that man out of my brain. I can tell he is bad news. Even though I know how bad he would be for my life, I can't stop thinking about what it would be like to have those hands running over my body. His lips kissing my neck as my hands run through that full head of coal black hair make my body tingle from tip to top.

I close my eyes, replaying that last look he gave me before he left. Those dark eyes promised danger. The kind of danger that would curl my toes shortly before breaking my heart. I am not going to be a mistress or some playtoy for a playboy who just happens to be my first real client. I have worked too hard to climb the corporate ladder at the firm and I am not going to risk it for a few moments of heart-stopping bliss.

I check the clock and realize it's almost lunchtime. My brain has been stuck on that man for hours. Snap out of it!

I know the problem. I grab my phone to text Jessica. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

I need to get laid.

I put the phone down and pick up the file containing the documents I need to get over to Mr. Hawke's assistant. My phone does the little bird chirping sound, indicating Jessica has texted me back.

Happy to oblige. I knew I'd get you to the dark side.

I roll my eyes and quickly text back,

I like dick. You don't have what I want. Nitrogen. Tomorrow.

With a plan in place to ease my racing libido, I can focus on work. I scan the documents, making notes about changes I propose to the contract. I can't believe I am working as Mr. Hawke's legal counsel. Amazing! Well, not his actual counsel, but I'm on the team and that is a big deal.

My phone chirps again, I check the message to see a thumbs up from Jessica. All I have to do is avoid Mr. Hawke for the rest of the day and tomorrow. By Monday, I will be sated and won't feel like jumping in his lap the next time I see him. I hope.

The contract is a proposal for the acquisition of another software company. Mr. Hawke pretty much dominates the software world and this is how. He buys up any smaller companies that could one day threaten his own position as the leader in the field. The small company makes a small fortune and he gets richer and secures his position. It's a smart move. How did he learn the business I wonder?

I flip up my laptop and quickly type his name into the Google search bar. The first few pages of the search are filled with stories about who he dated, was seen with and who he was supposedly banging. I tell myself I don't care, but I look anyways. He has dated athletes, models and a few Hollywood celebrities. I analyze each woman. I can't pinpoint his type. Gorgeous, obviously, but other than that, he doesn't seem to have a preference for tall, short, busty or flat. He likes women in general.

Stop it! I scold myself. I am supposed to be researching his business education, not who he likes to take to bed. My eyes bulge as I discover he started college with the intention of becoming a lawyer. His father is some bigwig lawyer in LA. I am a little excited that we have one tiny thing in common.

“Dylan,” I say his name out loud, letting the sound roll across my tongue. I love it.

I go back to reading and discover Dylan dropped out after two years to start his company. According to his biography on Wikipedia, he and his pal Blake realized they were surrounded by young hopefuls who wanted to get their software inventions on the market. It started with one app and then evolved into the multi-billion dollar business he ran today.

Impressive! The guy was mega rich and didn't even have a college degree. I feel like I took a wrong path. I spent eight years in school—yes, longer than the average person, but I had to work and go to class. I have a law degree and am barely making ends meet. I managed to get scholarships and work full time, but I still have some nasty student loans that will keep me in poverty for at least the next three years.

I can't stop myself. I say his name again, “Dylan.” I imagine screaming that name in the throes of passion and wonder what it would sound like. I look around my tiny office, are the walls thick enough to muffle the sound if I give it a test run? Better not. That could be really awkward.

Focus! I mentally scold myself. My brain has been mush since I first laid eyes on Dylan, that's what I'm going to call him now. I like the way it sounds a little too much and realize I need a distraction. I'll eat lunch and then I will get back to work, get the contract sent over and call it a day.

With my mind made up, I close my laptop and head for the cafeteria downstairs. No fancy, partner lunches for me. I am relegated to eating the cold sandwiches and warm salads served up in the cafeteria.

As I'm stuffing a too-big bite of wilted lettuce into my face, my phone rings. I take the bite, fish out the phone from my purse and look at the caller ID. I don't recognize the number, but I better take the call.

“Hewo?” I manage to say around the mouthful of lettuce.

The other end is silent for a moment, “Hello, is this Alexa?”

It's Dylan. Dylan Hawke is calling my cellphone. That deep baritone voice fills my ear and sends a delicious chill down my spine. I choke. The lettuce suddenly feels like cardboard in my mouth and I can't seem to chew or swallow.

“Uh,” I murmur, trying to figure out what to do with the food that seems to be quadrupling in size in my mouth. I swallow. The gulp is big and hurts and sends me into a coughing fit.

Oh lord, I think to myself. The voice on the other end of the line cuts in, “Are you okay? Should I call back?”

I clear my throat, “No, sir. How can I help you?” I choke out, tears clinging to the corners of my eyes from my near death experience in the cafeteria.

“I want you,” he started, making my heart do some weird skip, flop, drop thing. “To be at my office at 8 am tomorrow. I want the contract in hand.”

I nod, before realizing he can't see me, “Yes, sir. I'll be there. Or, I could have a messenger deliver it later today?” I ask, hoping he will take option B. I can't see him. If I see him before I find a random guy to take the edge off, it's hard to say what I may do.

“No. I want you to bring it to me,” he demanded, leaving no room for arguing. The way he says it turns me on. I don't know why. It's far too overbearing for my tastes, but it is sexy as hell.

“Okay,” I squeak out. “Thank you.”

There was a pause, “You're welcome?” he replied.

I'm an idiot. I thanked him for demanding I come to his office. I quickly end the call. My palms are sweaty and my stomach is a giant ball of nerves. I have to actually see him—face to face. I can't eat another bite and quickly dispose of the rest of my salad before racing back upstairs. I need to get that contract finished.

As I climb the stairs, I consider going out tonight. I don't go out on weeknights, but I could make an exception this once. No, I can't. I can't afford to be less than perfect tomorrow. Maybe I could call an ex. Booty call. I am not above a booty call, especially if it can prevent me from making a complete fool of myself tomorrow morning.

No. I don't want to do that. It always leads to questions and conversations and promises of calling again. I don't have the time to deal with men and the drama they cause. Tomorrow, I'll go to the club, hook up and leave. No numbers. No names. Complete anonymity. No strings attached. Not even a tiny thread. Just a good, quick and dirty roll in the hay, I joke to myself.

With my mind made up and my resolve in place, I get to work. The contract has to be perfect. I need to impress the man with my skill and my brain. This job could be what I need to give my career the break I have been looking for.

After a long day of reading and rereading and then making final edits to the contract, I am beat. It is nearly eight. I missed dinner and my stomach growls loudly to express its irritation at the fact.

I decide to call Jessica as I walk the city streets to my apartment. The weather is warm, a little humid, but it feels good to be outside after being cooped up all day.

“Hey,” I say when she answers after the first ring.

“What's up?” she asks. I can tell she is drawing. She works as a furniture designer and was always sketching new ideas. She is one of those crafty girls who can look at a pile of trash and create some gorgeous masterpiece.

“Have you heard of Dylan Hawke?” I ask.

“Mmm, yummy. I sure have. I even met him at a party last year,” she said. “Not that he would remember considering there were about five women drooling all over him.”

“He's my new client,” I blurt out.

“You have a client! Yeah! We are definitely celebrating tomorrow!”

I sigh, feeling I may have overstated my connection, “I am on his legal team, but Mr. James is his main counsel. I get to do all the dirty work and he gets all the credit—as usual.”

I can hear her smile through the phone, “But you get to work with the most eligible bachelor in America. And you know this is going to be your big break. You are going to impress the socks off Mr. Hawke.”

“I hope so,” I mumble. If only she knew where my thoughts had been all day and what the image of his socks falling off did to me. I consider telling her how I first met Dylan in the coffee shop, then decide against it. That is a moment I don't want to relive without a few drinks in me first.

“Wear something short and slinky tomorrow,” she orders. “I swear to God I will not be seen with you if you wear one of those God awful suits you insist on wearing to work.”

I laugh, “You know why I do that. After that jackass William damn near raped me and then had me fired for turning him down, I learned a lesson. That guy got ME written up for dressing provocatively.”

The whole bad scene replays in my mind. That had been my wake up call. I had been working as an intern, my first year in law school when one of the partners grabbed my ass and tried to feel me up. It was an experience that had truly scarred me for life. I had to go through sexual harassment training. I was blamed for inciting his lustful ways by wearing skirts that showed too much leg and shirts that accented my full breasts.

I quit, but not before the damage was done. I had earned the reputation as being promiscuous and trying to sleep my way to the top. The reputation followed me all through law school. When I applied for this job, I went undercover as Jessica put it. My long blonde hair is always in a tight bun. I wear no makeup and hide my face behind the most hideous glasses I could find. My work attire is too big, frumpy and ugly. Nobody is going to look at me and think sex.

I can hear Jessica's pencil scratching against her sketch pad, “I'll let you go. See you tomorrow,” I tell her.

“We'll get you laid and if we can't find anyone, I can take care of you sweetie,” she purrs.

Jessica is a wild woman. She loves men and women. She isn't picky. She doesn't care what's between their legs. She's a free spirit. I envy her and often wonder if it makes life easier.

I hang up and my mind instantly drifts back to Dylan and what it would be like to have him. It was obvious he was used to getting what he wanted. He had that alpha male vibe. It turned me on and scared me away at the same time. I can't help but imagine what one night with him would be like. Was he kinky? Domineering? Or did he turn into one of those sappy guys who asked questions before making a move? I shudder. Been there, done that and it did absolutely nothing for me. I like a guy who knows what he wants and goes after it.