seen me through a hole in a wall and knows what I look like, down to my skin.
I twist my head, and see his wrist braced by my head, the sleeve of a business shirt loose with no cuff link. I can see an inch of wrist; hair, veins, and tendons. The hand bunches into a fist and the mere thought of him being overcome makes me clench inside.
I can’t see his face. Even though this may destroy everything, I roll over onto my back, the blankets and sheets beginning to twist me up. I’m tangled up in his arms and legs. I realize I’m turned on, and the realization that I am probably wet hits me as I look into his brilliant navy eyes. I let out a theatrical gasp of horror. A husky laugh is his reply.
I’m afraid so. He doesn’t look sorry.
There’s so much delicious weight, pressing me down. Hips and hands. I move against Dream-Joshua
sinuously, feeling him bite back a groan, and I realize something shocking.
You want me desperately.
The words echo out of my mouth, true and undeniable. A kiss on the pulse in my jaw confirms what I already know. It’s stronger than attraction; darker than wanting. It’s a restlessness between us that has never had a true outlet, until now. The cream sheets are blazing hot against my skin.
You’re tied up in fucking knots over me. I feel hands sliding along my body, weighing curves, buttons popping and seams unfurling. I’m being peeled, inspected. Teeth bite, and I’m being eaten. I have never had anyone burn for me like this. I’m shamefully turned on and even though I’m on my back, the look in his eyes confirms it’s me who is winning this game. I try to tug him down to kiss me, but he evades and teases.
You’ve known all along, he tells me and his blazing smile tips me over the edge. I tremble awake. I jolt my hand away from the seam of my damp pajamas, my face burning red in the darkness. I can’t decide what to do. Finish the job, or take a cold shower? In the end, all I do is lie there.
The hanging shape of my black dress at the foot of my bed is menacing and I stare at it until my breathing slows. I look at my digital clock. I have four hours to repress this memory.
IT’S SEVEN THIRTY A.M. on a Cream Shirt Day. The reflection in the elevator doors confirms my trench coat is longer than my tiny dress, so I look like a high-class call girl, en route to a hotel penthouse with only lingerie on underneath.
I had to get the bus today. I could barely climb from the curb onto the first step without showing my underwear, and as the doors closed behind me, I knew this dress was a catastrophic lapse in judgment.
The enthusiastic set of honks from a passing truck as I teetered up the sidewalk to B&G confirmed it. If Target were open this early, I’d duck in and buy some pants.
I can get through this. I will need to remain seated for the entire day. The elevator doors open and of course Joshua is at his desk. Why does he always have to be at work so flippin’ early? Does he go home?
Does he sleep in a morgue drawer in the boiler room? I suppose he could ask the same of me.
I was hoping I’d have a minute or two alone here in the office to get settled in for a long day of remaining seated. But there he is. I