buzz that lets me know I'm missing other incoming calls in the meantime.
On his end, it just rings and rings. I grit my teeth, dig my nails into my palms and pray with every ounce of energy I have.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
"What's up? This is Zayne, leave me one—"
I hang up before his sexy baritone voice even finishes the voicemail message. Screw him.
You did, my helpful subconscious reminds me. Over and over and over again. Hell, if I clench my pussy tight enough, I can still feel the sweet, deep ache where his clock was just this morning when we had one last quickie before I headed into work. When he kissed me on the lips and I felt like I could conquer the whole world with him beside me.
He didn't do this. He wouldn't. I know him. Maybe not well, maybe not for a long time, but enough to know this isn't his style. If he just wanted to humiliate me, he got this photo way back on Friday night. He had all weekend to ruin my life. He didn't need to spend the whole weekend fucking me senseless in the meantime.
I manage to try him again in between the ongoing deluge of creeper calls. It goes to voicemail, again. After many rings, too. So he’s either seeing my call and dodging it, not hitting the ignore button either, so I won’t know he’s there, or he’s honestly away from the phone. I’m guessing the latter, since if he did something like this on purpose, he wouldn’t care about my feelings being hurt if he sent my phone call straight to voicemail.
Crap.
He was supposed to be at work, but when I passed the reception desk earlier, Paul was on. Maybe he took off for some reason, or had to run an errand? Maybe he’s back at the desk by now?
I can’t recall exactly when the shifts change here, and screw it, this is important. I pocket my phone, grab my wallet and my keys, and charge for the elevator. I head up to his apartment first, figuring if he hasn’t started work yet, he might still be up there getting ready.
My pussy tightens as the elevator slows to a halt on his floor. One weekend and my body has already gotten accustomed to anticipating sex when I reach this spot. Already, my mind fills with memories—him pinning me against the front door after I returned from an errand downstairs to my apartment. He couldn’t even wait to drag me inside—he stripped me right there, and fucked me against the door, my legs around his waist, our hips digging into one another.
Then, of course, there was later that night, in the kitchen just off his hallway, as we tried to cook together but kept getting distracted by the brush of our arms as we reached around one another for supplies, and the way the heat from the stove made him smell even more delicious, practically edible… I’d bent over to pull some extra veggies from the fridge when he grabbed me from behind and flipped up my skirt. The sensation had been unique to say the least—the cool air from the fridge spilling over my shoulders as he gripped my hips and slid into me from behind, fucking me right there in the middle of dinner prep.
I’m breathing hard by the time I reach his front door, even though it’s only a few steps from the elevator. Get ahold of yourself, I order, trying to slow my breathing, calm my frayed nerves. This visit isn’t about sex. This is about something so much more important. It’s about my career, my future, my work… My whole life hinges on figuring out who is trying to ruin me and why.
I hit the buzzer.
Then I wait. And wait. And wait.
I check my phone to be sure I’m not imagining it, because it feels like time is crawling. I hit the buzzer one more time, just to be sure. Maybe he was in the shower and didn’t hear it, or maybe he’s listening to music. But the bell goes off, loud as ever, loud enough that I can hear it all the way from out here in the hallway. And from within Zayne’s apartment, I only hear silence in response.
I shake my head. Okay, not home. So maybe he is downstairs at work.
I climb back into the elevator and clench my thighs tight around my pussy. It feels disappointed, almost angry at me, for bringing