Chapter 9 Don’t You Dare
DON’T YOU DARE
DEREK
Three fucking days. That’s how long Paige had been living in my penthouse, and I was already losing my mind.
Not because she was difficult. The opposite, actually.
She fit into my space as if she had always belonged there.
Her coffee mug beside mine in the morning.
Lily’s toys scattered across my living room floor.
The sound of Paige humming while she made breakfast, completely off-key and so fucking perfect.
It was killing me softly, and I was starting to think I didn’t mind dying that way.
“You’re not even listening to me, are you?” Paige’s voice cut through my thoughts, and I looked up from the contract I had been pretending to read for the last ten minutes.
She stood in front of my desk, arms crossed, and wearing the navy blue dress I had always liked. The soft fabric pulled taut across the swell of her chest and over the feminine curve of her hips. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, with a few blonde strands escaping to frame her face.
She looked livelier than before. I had asked Donna to make Paige’s favorite food, and I was glad she had started to finish her portion and slept through the night. Whenever Lily fussed in the night, I woke up to take care of her in the nursery, reading her books.
“I’m listening,” I lied smoothly.
“Really? Then what did I just say about Lee's testimony?”
I opened my mouth and paused, seeing her smirk.
“That’s what I thought,” she said, moving around my desk to point at something on my laptop screen, leaning close enough that I could smell her shampoo. Something floral and light that had been driving me crazy for three days.
Is it jasmine? No, something else—
“I said they pushed it back to Friday, which means you have time to review the witness statements I compiled. Unless you’re too busy daydreaming to care about winning cases anymore.”
“I don’t daydream,” I said, forcing my eyes to focus on the screen. Definitely not on the way her dress dipped at the neckline and how I’d kill to lick her soft skin. Does her skin taste like flowers or vanilla? “I strategize.”
“Is that what you call it?” She asked, reaching across me for the coffee mug on my desk, and I caught a glimpse of black lace. Fucking hell. “Because it looked more like you were staring into space with that dumb expression you get when—”
The mug slipped.
Uh oh.
I watched in slow motion as it tipped, coffee arcing through the air in a perfect trajectory. Hot liquid splashed across my lap, soaking through my pants, and I jumped up with a curse.
Thankfully, it wasn’t scorching hot.
“Oh, my God!” she gasped, her face going pale. “Derek, I’m so sorry—here, let me—”
She grabbed napkins from my desk and dropped to her knees before I could stop her, dabbing frantically at my pants.
Right at my fucking crotch.
I’m gonna die. I could imagine the news headlines.
Hot Bachelor Lawyer Dies When the Sexy Assistant Who He Has Been Pining For Years Pats His Fucking Crotch.
Her hands pressed against the fabric, patting and rubbing, trying to soak up the coffee, and I froze. Her fingers grazed the wet fabric that covered my throbbing member.
“Paige, it’s fine—”
“It’s everywhere. I’m so sorry. I don’t know how I—”
“Paige,” I said, my voice coming out strangled.
Her face was in level with my belt, her hands moving against me, and my body was responding in a way that was extremely inappropriate for the workplace. For any fucking place.
She was helping me, and I was being a perverted idiot, fantasizing about her on her knees in front of me.
I have dreamed of this exact scenario multiple times. With her under my desk wearing that same dress, her hair mussed in the ponytail but not… like this.
I tried to step back, but she followed, still apologizing and patting, and I had to close my eyes and think about the most mundane things possible.
Tax code. Root canals. My grandmother’s funeral.
But her cleavage and curves and that fucking dress—
It wasn’t working.
“I think that’s good enough,” I said, reaching down to grab her wrists before I completely lost control. “Really. It’s fine.”
“But look at the—”
“Paige,” I gritted, tightening my hold on her wrists. My voice came out rougher than I meant it to. “You can’t pat my crotch and not expect me to react.”
She looked up at me, her hazel eyes widening when she realized what I meant. Her lips parted when she eyed the bulge that strained against my soaked slacks, and the sight of her on her knees, blonde hair slightly tousled, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, nearly made me ruin my pants.
“Oh,” she whispered, not moving an inch.
That’s when my office door slammed open.
“What the hell is going on here?”
Jack stood in the doorway, his face twisted with anger, and for one moment, I forgot about my soaked pants and my inappropriate thoughts and the fact that Paige was still on her knees in front of me.
Because Jack thought exactly what it looked like. And the satisfaction that flooded through me was fucking delightful.
Ha! Take that, asshole.
“Jack,” Paige said, scrambling to her feet. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to talk to you, but clearly you’ve been busy,” he said, his eyes raking over her, then me, and then back to her with disgust. “Are you kidding me right now? Three days, Paige. Three fucking days, and you’re already screwing your boss?”
“Watch it,” I said, stepping between them. My hands curled into fists at my sides.
“Or what? You’ll what, Peterson?” he taunted, moving closer. “You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you? Waiting for me to screw up so you could swoop in and—”
“I spilled coffee on him!” Paige said, interrupting him. “That’s all. I was cleaning it up.”
“Sure you were,” Jack said, laughing bitterly. “Just like I was ‘just talking’ to Olivia, right? Isn’t that how this works?”
“Olivia?” she whispered her old friend’s name, her voice devoid of any emotion. “You screwed my friend?”
Her hazel eyes turned glassy. I saw red, and I couldn’t stand the look on Paige’s face.
“Just like you are screwing my friend!” Jack pointed out. “He was my best-man at our wedding, and now you’re sucking his—”
“I’m not!” Paige said, her voice full of anger and disgust. “You were in our bed with her, Jack. She’s… she was supposed to be my friend and you—”
“She meant nothing!” Jack said, throwing his hands up. “It was a mistake. One fucking mistake, and you’re acting like I killed someone. This is exactly what I’m talking about—you’re being fucking dramatic. Using your postpartum hormones as an excuse to blow everything out of proportion.”
The words hung in the air for one fucking second.
And then I punched him. Hard.
My fist connected with his jaw with a satisfying crack. Jack stumbled backward, hitting the wall, and I advanced on him with anger burning through my veins.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” I growled, grabbing his collar and pulling him close. “Don’t you dare dismiss her pain like that. Don’t you dare blame her for your choice to cheat.”