Chapter 14 Addison
FOURTEEN
ADDISON
Is it possible to have an orgasm from intermittent stimulation over the course of ten hours or so? Because I swear if Roman even asks me to pass him a pencil, just the sound of his voice will set me off.
I had no idea what to expect when I showed up for work today after last night’s agreement.
I’d been a little surprised—and a whole lot disappointed—when we didn’t tear each other’s clothes off right then and there, but I should have known better.
Everything with Roman is about control, so he’s not going to do anything remotely spontaneous.
Now that I know him well enough, I can safely say it’s a small miracle I was able to get him to do anything with me at all in the alley that first night.
(Then again, I believe we’ve established I’ve been known to make miracles happen. See earlier reference: Jance.)
I guess I’d assumed things would be business-as-usual, which is why my jaw literally dropped after our first encounter this morning.
He’d walked into our kitchenette—dressed all in black with an ice-blue tie that matched his eyes on some illegal level—as I was doctoring my coffee, and we offered our usual pleasantries.
As he poured himself a cup of high-octane caffeine, he kept his eyes on his mug and said, “What a lovely blouse, Ms. Paige.”
“Thank you, Mr. Reeves,” I replied, keeping the formal tone. “I didn’t realize you had an eye for couture. How very metrosexual of you.”
Replacing the carafe on the warmer, he then turned toward me and leaned in so that he could speak softly in my ear.
“It’s actually just plain sexual. I don’t have a clue what kind of blouse it is, nor do I care.
But it’s thin, which means it’ll be easy to see the way your nipples bead against the fabric when you get turned on.
” He dropped his gaze to my breasts, but I didn’t have to look to know what he saw.
I felt it. “Lovely.” Then he stepped back, took a sip of his coffee, and left me with my jaw hanging open as he walked from the room.
It only got worse—or better, depending on your viewpoint—from there.
All day, as long as no one else was around, he tossed out innuendos and blatantly undressed me with his eyes.
Apparently, when you give Roman Reeves the green light, he puts his foot to the frickin’ floor.
The crazy part, though, is that even with the occasional double entendre underscored with a healthy dose of eye-fucking, we’ve managed to continue working without issue.
And I love working with Roman. Have I mentioned that yet?
Because I totally do. I love how intense he gets when researching a case, how he dives in so completely that he forgets the world around him until Maggie chides him about needing to eat or drink something other than black coffee before he gets an ulcer.
Watching him is exhilarating and inspiring, and I’ve learned more from helping him these past several weeks than in my entire tenure with Dick Schmeel.
Last night, I was pretty cavalier about how simple it would be to give us a shot at something more—whatever that more turned out to be—how we could try it and if it didn’t work out we’d just revert to the way things were before.
But now that we’re actually doing it, the weight of what’s truly at stake for me is finally sinking in.
If for some reason things get messy, it won’t be Roman who loses out on the best opportunity he’s ever had to further his career.
Nope, that little (major) setback (tragedy) would be all mine. So, I’ll be doing everything in my power to make sure this doesn’t get messy. I’m putting a metaphorical bib on the whole damn thing and throwing a tarp under it for good measure. This is a mess-free zone.
I kept that thought firmly in the back of my mind all day, which made it ironic when I dropped a file, spilling its contents on my office floor, when Roman’s voice came through the intercom on my phone. “Addison?”
I cover my mouth to hold back my nervous laugh. I’m jumpier than a perjurer on the witness stand. Clearing my throat, I answer, “I’m here.”
“Great. Before you leave for the night, I have a call I’d like you to join me on.”
“Of course. Who’s it with? Do you need me to bring any files in with me?”
“Just bring yourself.”
He clicks off before I can respond, and I wonder which case it involves.
I can’t think of any we’re currently working on that need a conversation with anyone, but maybe it’s with a potential new client.
Sometimes they require meetings after-hours because they can’t get off of work during the day to meet with us for their initial consultations.
I check the time on my laptop before powering it down.
It’s after six, so Maggie is for sure gone, but there’s a chance John and Martin might still be over on their side of the suite.
I grab a pen and my notepad, just in case, and walk down the hall to Roman’s office.
I find him in his large leather chair, turned to the side and peering out at the sun descending over the city, a squat glass of his cherished Glenfiddich in one hand.
“Close and lock the door, please.”
According to Roman, John has a bad habit of walking in without knocking, so it’s not uncommon for us to lock the door when we’re meeting with clients or on important calls.
I do as he asks, and make my way across the large office.
As I take my place in my usual chair in front of his desk, he turns his to face me, but doesn’t make a move to do anything else. He just…stares.
The overhead fluorescent lights are rarely used in his or John’s offices since so much natural light pours in through the back wall of windows.
They could probably be turned on now that the sun is slipping from the sky.
The fast-approaching sunset has transformed the space into a kind of dusk or twilight—still enough light to see by, but only for maybe another half hour.
I should offer to flip the light switch by the door, but I’m transfixed by the way Roman is backlit by the pale orange hues, by the barely there shadows cast over the strong angles of his face.
I shift uncomfortably, uncrossing my legs and crossing them in the other direction. Finally, he nods to a glass identical to his that I hadn’t noticed. “I poured you a drink.”
“Thank you,” I say and, because I have a feeling nothing will happen until I do, I raise the glass to my lips and sip the amber liquid.
His gaze burns me like the trail of smooth fire the whisky leaves behind in my throat.
His eyes slide down to my lips, then my neck, and finally to my breasts, where I feel them grow heavy and my nipples furl into beads against the silk bodice of my slip.
Heat that has nothing to do with the alcohol I’m sipping swirls in my belly and spreads to the aching space between my thighs. And with the way the edge of his mouth tilts up on one side, he knows it.
“Who are we calling?” I ask, pleased I don’t sound as weak as I’m sure my knees would be if I were standing. “Is it a potential client?”
“No. We’re calling a friend.”
“A friend?”
“Last night you told me you were mine to command.” His voice is deep and smoky, slipping from corporate boss into bedroom boss, and it does things to me I don’t have words for. “Is that still the case, Addison?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent,” he says, reaching over to his phone. He opens a line and after pressing a few buttons, the ringing of an outgoing call echoes from the speaker. “This will give you a taste for how a three-person dynamic works.”
I’m glad I’ve already finished the finger of whisky because I would’ve choked on it otherwise. Before I gather my wits enough to ask him what the hell he’s talking about, a man picks up the call.
“She there?” the voice asks.
“She’s here,” Roman replies with a wicked grin that both excites me and terrifies me.
“Hey there, darlin’.”
I recognized the smooth, Southern voice.
Austin. I let out the breath I’d held on to from the moment he picked up.
Roman hadn’t been lying when he said we were calling a friend.
Not that I expected Roman to lie about anything, but I’m so off-balance I can’t think straight.
Which, I’d bet my entire savings, is the name of the game.
“Hi, Austin. How are you?” God, was that lame? Normally, it would be considered pleasant and polite, but all clues are pointing to this not exactly being a social call, therefore, lame is entirely a possibility.
His warm chuckle comes through as he says, “I’m good, girl. But I’m not Austin right now. Tonight I’m Rowdy, your fairy-stripper-godfather, here to make all your wishes come true.”
I know Rowdy is Austin’s stripper persona, but what that has to do with me I can’t imagine. “Um, okay.”
“Don’t sound so nervous, Addie. We’re just here to have a good time. Where are you right now?”
“We’re calling from Roman’s office,” I say.
“No,” he says, “I mean where in his office are you? I’m not there so you have to help me and be my eyes.”
“I’m sitting in one of the guest chairs in front of the desk.” Roman lifts his glass and takes a slow drink, his heavy gaze trained on me. “Roman is in his chair,” I finish.
“Okay, Addie,” Austin says. “I want you to get up and go around to stand in front of Roman.”
My mouth opens to say something, but my brain hasn’t caught up, so nothing comes out. I look at Roman, knowing my questions show on my face. He gives a slight nod and says, “It’s okay. Do as he says, Addison.”
For whatever reason, hearing Roman’s encouragement helps me to find the strength to rise and move to the other side of the desk, directly in front of him. “What are we doing, Roman?”