balls make your hole weak.”
Laugher breaks free from the depths of my chest. “Why Aimee, I didn’t know you cared about my hole . . . being.”
“I beg your pardon?” She turns as she reaches the door, her nose scrunched.
“Never beg, Emmie. Not unless you’re into that kind of thing.”
“I am truly traumatised. And I’m going home. Early.”
“Get a cab,” I call as the door slams closed. “Put it on expenses.” Because the train will be packed.
After she leaves, I stare at my laptop for an indeterminable time, unable to concentrate on anything as the rain begins to fall harder, now hammering against the windows.
I call up my emails, but the one I’m waiting for isn’t there.
I realise I’m drumming my fingers against my desk, so I push back my chair with a little too much violence and begin to pace.
I hate this fucking office. The Aubusson carpet and library shelves. The drinks cabinet. Well, maybe not that. The fucking Edwardian desk that’s so large it makes me think that the old bastard must’ve had a tiny dick.
I could have it remodelled. Burn the old, bring in the new. Cleanse the place, like Aimee said. But somehow, I feel like in doing that, he wins.
And he will never win.
I stalk over to the window and slide my hands into the pockets of my pants as I stare at the streets below. The pathways are slick with rain as the weather washes the city clean.
She deserves better than me, I think as the rain lashes against the glass.
But what do I deserve?
Tomorrow, I guess. An Ardeo night, when I won’t be cleansed but bathed in sin for the first time in weeks.
The thought comes to me like an epiphany. I haven’t had sex since before I found Fee in my bathroom, so that must be it. That’s why I’m fucking obsessed!
Saturday night will put an end to that. I’ll fuck, and I’ll move on. Leave her to her life. Stop my thoughts from bending to the image of her in my bed, her hair spread out like angel wings across my pillow, her eyes dark, and her arousal sweet and sticky against my lips.
One night and one brief interlude, and my body still remembers it all.
Remembers her.
I’m a fucking lost cause.
As my phone begins to buzz against the desk, I stalk across the office and snatch it up.
“Hi, I have a missed called from this number,” a somewhat familiar voice purrs in a terrible parody of a woman’s voice. “I’m ringing from Ardeo. A place where all your dreams come true.”
“I don’t remember my dreams being made of anal beads.”
Laughter rings down the line. “Don’t knock ’em until you’ve tried ’em,” the voice asserts, much more masculine now.
“Try them? I couldn’t even if I wanted to because I’m pretty sure my sphincter turned in on itself in panic.”
“I always said you were full of shit.”
“Full of shit and making you a fortune.”
“There’s no denying that.”
His response makes me smile. It’s strange how something that started out as a one-off thing, a way to cheer up my brothers in arms, is now an entity all of its own. I’m gladdened that I’ve been able to help them. Emotionally. Financially. The platoon and beyond.
“How are we looking for tomorrow night?” I ask, dropping into my seat.
“Things are looking good. Security has swept the place to protect the good senators and the other paranoid folk. Numbers are up on the Nice party, and we already have more interest in next month’s gathering in Berlin.”
“Gathering.” I find myself grinning. “I never had you down as the euphemistic type.”
“Okay, so business in the fuck fest industry catering to the rich and powerful is awesome. How does that appeal to your analytical sensibilities? Or even analytical.” Tucker snorts, entertained by his own puny pun. “And speaking of assholes, he applied again. Offered to triple the membership fee.”
“Fuck him.” I retort, my jaw already clenching.
“That’s pretty much what I said in my email. Only in more professional terms. Do you wanna know what the bids on your little sideline are up to?”
“Sure, but no names.”
“It’s all in the anticipation, right?” I stifle a sigh. Maybe it just used to be. “As of an hour ago, it’s at a hundred and fifty G’s.” He blows out a whistling breath. “Well, I gotta go.”
“People to do, things to see?”
“You know it.”
The call ends without either of us saying goodbye, and my phone buzzes immediately, this time with a text.
TUCKER: Addison