Chapter 11 #2
The air between us feels heavy, charged like the moment before lightning strikes. Pierce leans closer, and I hold my breath, watching his lips part as if in slow motion. His other hand rises toward my face, and I’m already tilting into the touch before it lands.
The sudden burst of fluorescent light makes us both jump. The cleaning crew bursts through the door with their cart of supplies, chattering happily, ready to start work on this floor. Pierce jerks away from me as if he were burned, his professional mask snapping back into place.
“Today’s meeting notes,” he says loudly, unnecessarily, straightening papers that don’t need straightening. “Make sure they’re on my desk first thing tomorrow.”
I fumble with scattered documents, trying to hide the flush I can feel burning across my cheeks. “Of course,” I manage, proud that my voice sounds almost normal. “First thing tomorrow.”
The cleaning staff moves around us cheerfully, oblivious to the moment they’ve shattered. Pierce won’t meet my eyes now, his attention firmly fixed on his computer screen as if the last few minutes never happened.
“I should probably go home. It’s getting late,” I announce, even though most of the cleaners have earbuds, probably listening to music or audiobooks, and can’t hear us.
I retreat to my desk, gathering my things with hands that still tremble slightly.
“Goodnight,” I call, aiming for casual and probably missing by miles. “See you tomorrow.”
As I get down to the lobby, a guy wearing a T-shirt for a local Chinese restaurant and holding a bag filled with takeout boxes walks past me. The delicious smell makes me want to follow him up, but I don’t think I can face Pierce again. Not today. Not until I get rid of the big problem in my pants.
By the time I’m safely inside my apartment, my skin has gone from tingly where Pierce touched me to a burning inferno.
The shower calls like salvation, promising relief from the tension I’ve been carrying since his fingers wrapped around my wrist. Hell, it’s become a daily need since that first time.
I drop my messenger bag by the door and head straight to the bathroom. My clothes, discarded on the floor, somehow carry traces of Pierce’s cologne from when he leaned close.
The water heats quickly and steam rises, fogging the mirror before I can catch my reflection.
Better that way. I’m not sure I want to see how obviously affected I am by memory and want.
My cock is already hard, has been since Pierce’s fingers traced my knuckles in the dark office, since his voice dropped low and intimate while saying my name.
I step under the spray, letting hot water sluice over my tired muscles and heated skin. My hand moves automatically to my cock, drawing a gasp that echoes off the tile walls. The first stroke sends electricity through my whole body, making me brace my other hand against the cool tiles for support.
More than on any other day since I started working for Pierce, memories flood back unbidden.
I remember how he tasted when I dropped to my knees, how his fingers tangled in my hair with surprising gentleness even as his hips jerked forward with need.
The weight of him on my tongue, thick and heavy, making my jaw ache in the best possible way.
My hand moves faster now, remembering how he felt, how he sounded when I took him deeper. The way his control cracked just a little.
But now…I want more. Want to know how he’d feel inside me, stretching me with those perfect fingers that spend all day signing reports and adjusting his tie. Want to watch his face as he enters me slowly, carefully, until I make him lose control.
The fantasy shifts, transforms into something new as I lean against the tiles with my shoulder and use my now-free hand to touch my balls, teasing my sensitive skin.
What if he’d let me take control in that bathroom?
What if he’d turned around, braced himself against the sink, and let me open him with patient touches until he begged for more?
I imagine him spreading his legs wider, still wearing that ridiculously expensive suit but with his pants around his ankles, his tie hanging loose like it was in the office tonight.
I’d press into him slowly, watch his face in the mirror when he feels my Prince Albert piercing as I fill him completely, and then the effects it would have when it rubbed against his prostate.
Would he maintain that professional expression?
Or would he finally let it crack, let real need show through?
Water pounds against my back as I stroke faster, lost in the image of Pierce giving himself to me completely.
I can almost hear how his voice would sound—rough and desperate, maybe still trying to give orders even as I make him fall apart.
“Harder,” he’d demand, always the boss even when he’s taking my cock so perfectly. “More, Thatcher, please…”
My orgasm hits with unexpected force, making my knees buckle as pleasure courses through my body. I come with Pierce’s name on my lips, imagining how he’d feel clenching around me, but already knowing how he sounds when he finally lets go.
The water washes away evidence but can’t erase the memory of what I want, of what I need, of the possibilities I shouldn’t keep imagining.
I stay under the spray until my breathing steadies and I can trust my legs to hold me up again.
Steam fills the bathroom, making everything soft and dreamlike, but I can still feel the phantom touch of Pierce’s fingers on my wrist. Still see the intensity in his eyes before the lights came on, still wonder what he was going to say before reality interrupted.
Tomorrow, we’ll return to our professional roles, assistant and CFO, chaos and order, want and restraint. But tonight, alone in my steamy bathroom, I let myself imagine a world where Pierce Dellcourt gives himself to me completely.