Chapter 19
CHAPTER 19
R ockwell
The call waiting for me at the Mark Hotel was Eli. He’s found out who the sedan belongs to. And I don’t know how to tell her when it’s time.
Due to security issues, I’m not allowed to share any information about the car that’s been watching her apartment. Although keeping this huge secret from her is unsettling for her own safety, I’d never do anything to put her in harm’s way.
For the first time in my life, I’m struggling to concentrate at work.
Also, I’m rethinking sending my sister with Lily shopping for business casual clothes.
I swear the outfits get sexier every day.
Ever since she asked the engagement ring question, I’ve cooled things down between us. The weight of her head against my chest, her soft breaths coming steady and relaxed, the scent of her filling my senses, it was too much. After punishing her and then her falling asleep in my arms, I had to put space between us or risk getting hurt again.
Risk… everything… by falling for her.
It’s been two weeks of business chat at work, polite conversation at home, and her sleeping in my room while I’ve taken the sofa. I want her safe, so she’ll be staying at my house until all loose ends with her ex are wrapped up.
Then?
I guess she’ll move on. And my life will be the same. No pain.
But no Lily.
It’s difficult living like this, but it’s safe.
Professional at work. Friendly at home. Separate cars. No touching.
There’s been flirting; of course, there has been. Lots of it. The girl is a walking, purring sex kitten. But no hot, stolen kisses, no caressing, not even the comfort of a platonic side hug.
Even the safety of a side hug would turn to fire; the sexual energy between us—you can feel it when you walk into the room.
I’m going to fucking implode.
When I told her we needed to keep things professional and that we’d both let things get out of control, she said she totally understood. At first, she seemed disappointed, but now, she seems almost…
Well, she almost looks…relieved.
I’d be lying if I said my ego wasn’t a bit bruised if I would have preferred she pushed back a little, demanding things stay the same between us.
But that’s not Lily.
Lily shows up to work every morning like some kind of attractive librarian fantasy, little touches like seams going up the back of her stockings. Making me want to follow that trail up, up, up till I reach heaven. A bow just at the top of her waist where the zipper to her skirt hides. Making me want to grab her and tug it down. A blouse that buttons just to the tops of her breasts, showing me just a peek of the curve of her flesh. Making me want to reach down below her collar and put her plump nipple in my mouth for a sexy kiss.
She’s smart too. I knew the first time I met her, saw the flash of intelligence in her pretty eyes. Since the not-a-real-breakup-because-we-weren’t-really-together non-breakup, she’s taken our sexual energy and turned it into something else, a productive work drive like I’ve never seen out of someone her age.
Among countless other tasks and improvements she’s made without being asked, she’s using her art degree to play with graphic design. She’s taken my gray and white ‘old man’ logo for Rockwell Enterprises and turned it into a sexy, edgy new emblem.
One simple dark line zigzagging horizontally like a mountain, an R and E in the perfectly chosen font placed inside the line, tiny words all caps below telling the world, ‘Solid Financial Decisions.’ Playing both on the rock in my name as well as the services we provide.
I love it. I’m proud when I look at it. It makes me feel young, energetic. And most important, it reminds me why I started this business. It wasn’t about money, not at all. The dream of offering the middle class the same opportunity as the top percent to create generational wealth through investment.
She pops into my office, her face bright with glee. She holds a small square cardboard box in her hands. “It came!”
“What?” I ask, having no idea what she’s so excited about.
Practically dancing into my office, she perches on the edge of my desk, handing me the box. “Your mug.”
“I didn’t realize you’d ordered me one.”
“Of course I did, silly. The second you approved the design for the logo, I created one online and ordered a single mug to be sure it’s quality and everything is lined up perfectly.” She taps a pretty fingernail, now a natural pink with a bright white tip—French gel dip, lasts two to three weeks, she told me when she returned from her standing Friday trip to the salon to see Emma. “Open it.”
Folding back the thin cardboard top, I lift a black coffee mug from the box. The new emblem is boldly adhered to the front in a shiny white lacquer.
“It’s perfect.” And it is. She’s done an incredible job. “Order one for all of our customers.”
“Will do.” She takes the mug from my hand, inspecting it herself before asking, “Would you like some coffee, sir?”
“I’d love some.” She goes to walk away, those hips swaying in the back of her tight skirt. “And wash the mug before you fill it, please.”
“Of course I will,” she tosses over her shoulder. “I’m totally on to your anal ways. Though, I wash everything before I use it. Clothing included.”
“Only a monster wouldn’t,” I murmur.
She leaves, a light laugh trailing her.
The second the door closes, I slam my elbows on the top of my table, burying my hands in my hair. “God. She’s so fucking sexy.” If she gets a thick-rimmed pair of glasses, I’m going to come right here at this desk.
The graphic design work isn’t all she’s improved. We have an updated website now, one that plays smooth jazz when it pops up on your screen. A professional headshot of me, the hair around my ears looking more silver than dark, takes up a quarter of the homepage—I could really do without it, but she insists it gives us credibility, that I’m willing to put my face behind my business.
And we now offer feminine products in the bathrooms, so I’ve been told.
She brings me back coffee. Hot with extra cream, the exact shade I like it to be. “Here you go. Enjoy your new mug.”
She goes to leave but I don’t want her to go. I want to stall her, to keep her here longer. “Dinner?”
She turns on her heel, putting that pretty manicured hand on the doorframe. “Yes. Just like every night. Will Claudia be joining us?”
“Not tonight.”
“Hmm,” she says, not giving me an idea if she’s disappointed Claudia won’t be joining us, or happy to have me to herself. “What is she up to?”
Claudia, the reason I’ve been able to keep my priest-like state of celibacy. She comes over after work. Dines with us, enjoying whatever meal we’ve ordered and had delivered for the evening. Then the girls watch movies while chatting over all the dialogue or change into leggings and oversized tees and walk the Village for fitness.
I’ve overheard Lily telling one of our analysts that she doesn’t like yoga. That she feels like she’ll fall over or fart during the class, then die of embarrassment. I think she’d be humiliated if she knew I heard her say that.
“Claudia has hot yoga tonight.”
“Oh. Okay.” She bites her bottom lip, thinking. “Can I cook for you? You’ve done so much for me, and I have no way of paying you back?—”
“You work hard,” I say.
She gives a huff. “That’s my job. But you’ve done so much other stuff for me. Let me cook.”
She looks at me, her eyes pleading. She’s too adorable to say no to. Finally, I concede. She leaves the office smiling with satisfaction. Later, she leaves early, eager to do her shopping for this evening’s meal.
Walking home, my stomach growls. I’m starving. This girl has given me an insatiable appetite for food and sex. I pat my flat stomach, thinking I might start working on a pooch if she’s as good at cooking as she is at oral sex.
I open the door, ready to be greeted by the smell of good food cooking. Instead, an acrid scent hits my nose. Burning food. “Hello?” I rush to the kitchen to see where the source of the smoke smell is coming from.
“Hey…” She’s standing in the middle of the kitchen, her head in her hands. She’s surrounded by pots and pans and dirty dishes. The countertops are covered in what looks like every cooking utensil I might own.
She keeps her face buried, trying to hide her tears.
“Are you crying?”
“I just wanted to make a nice meal for you. You’ve done so much for me, and here, I can’t even make you dinner!” Grabbing a wooden spoon, the charred remains of something unknown marring the round end of it, she tosses it into the sink. “This is pathetic! I’m pathetic.”
She does look pathetic, but in the most adorable way. A strong need to comfort and protect her rises in me. I grab her into my arms, wrapping her up tightly. “I don’t care if you can’t cook. I love that you tried. I can’t remember the last time someone cooked me dinner.”
“I didn’t cook your dinner! I tried to poison you with burnt chicken and a collapsed cake.” She wriggles out of my arms to open the oven. I peer inside to find what looks like my cake pan, filled with a chocolate soup, the edges burnt to the pan.
“Correction,” I say, trying not to laugh at the puddle of a cake. “I can’t remember the last time someone tried to make me dinner.”
“Ugh. Tried and failed.” She looks like she’s going to start crying again.
I need to get her away from the monstrous mess she’s made. I grab her hand, dragging her down the hallway. “Come with me.”
She pulls back toward the kitchen. “Where are we going? I can’t leave these pans. I should let them soak.”
“I have people who do that. I’m putting in a call. We’re going to walk down to Vinny’s. Pick up a pizza to bring back here and we’re going to put our feet up and watch a movie while we stuff our faces. Sound good?”
She raises a brow to me. “Are you even for real?”
“Kiss me and see.”
Smiling, she rises up on the balls of her feet, wrapping her arms around my neck, and kisses me softly. Warmth creeps through my chest, feeling the sweetness of her lips against mine.
We walk through the city, hand in hand. Chat and laugh over sodas at Vinny’s while we wait for our pepper and sausage pizza to cook. The scent of garlic and cheese follows us home.
We arrive to a sparkling clean kitchen, the scent of lemon lingering in the air, every dish clean and put back in its place.
We curl up on the couch and find a cheesy action film so we can laugh at the terrible one-liners. Afterward, we cuddle and chat until she’s yawning. Then I put her to bed, a chaste kiss on her cheek.
Once she’s asleep, I slip into the bathroom in need of a hot shower. The warm water streams down my back and I lean against the cool tile, thinking of her lips against mine.
Her laugh.
Her tears.
Her ass.
“God, I should have made this a cold shower.” I can’t stop thinking about her. Running my soapy hands over my cock, I wrap my hands around it, stroking and pulling while I imagine all the ways I want to take her.
Her presence in my home, my office, has awakened something sleeping within me. Just being around her is like taking an intoxicating drug that I can’t get enough of. I caress my cock, gaining rhythm, knowing she’s just in the next room, lost in the haze of sexual desire.
I imagine bending her over my desk, taking her in the bathroom stall, pushing her up against the windows of the bedroom, her hands pressed into the glass, her naked body on display for everyone as I have my way with her.
I’m insatiable. “God,” I moan as I come. A few breathless moments later, I finish washing up, towel dry, and tiptoe through the room without disturbing the angel sleeping in my sexless bed.
I’ve kept things platonic.
But I don’t know how much longer I can play this game, pretending that I’m not driven by the primal urge to make her mine.