29. Wyn

So that's an orgasm then. I see. Looks like I've been doing it wrong all my life because, holy hell, it's never felt like that before. Nothing has ever come close. I'm glued to the desk, limp and unable to move. Not sure I want to either.

Derek pulls out of me carefully. I wince and try to clench my ring to stop his load from leaking out of me, but it doesn't help. I'm fucked out and open. I feel a warm trickle run down my taint to my balls as he spills out of me.

Behind me, Derek is breathing roughly. Harsh, uneven gasps that aren't slowing and don't sound like a simple case of physical exertion.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

He doesn't answer.

Oh Jesus. Did I break him?

"Um, Derek, is everything okay?"

The heavy breathing continues, air rasping through teeth until finally, he says, "I need a minute."

"Okay," I squeak. "It's okay. Take your time. I can go."

My heart clenches and twists sharply, tell-tale signs that I'm about to start unraveling.

While I'm perfectly fine being experimented on, I'm in no way okay with sending a guy into a tailspin because he put his dick in me. I can't stand that. I really don't think I can handle it at all.

I straighten without daring to turn back and look around Derek's office to identify the most direct route from where I am to the heap my pants and boxer briefs lie in on the floor near the door. Before I start moving, my feet leave the ground again, only this time, they actually leave the ground. It's not just a feeling. It's happening. I'm being lifted, hoisted, picked up by a strong arm around my waist, and dragged backward. Derek sits heavily on his desk chair, sending it skidding back a few feet and pulling me down with him.

I find myself, ass still naked and leaking, sitting firmly on Derek's lap.

"A-are you freaking out? Are you freaking out right now? Because if you are"—my voice lilts up at least an octave—"it's fine. It's completely fine. It happens sometimes, and it's no big deal."

"I'm not freaking out." He sounds like he's developed a head cold or at least a very sore throat.

"Oooh," I trill. "It kind of sounds like you might be…"

"I'm not freaking out." His lips are on the back of my neck, soft, warm skin on my skin. I'm about to argue when he adds, "I'm sad."

"Sad?" I wail. "Sad? But that's worse. Sad is way worse than freaking out." By some miracle, I manage to stop talking and take a breath. I highly doubt that me freaking out will bring anything helpful to the situation, so I keep quiet and sit still as Derek clutches me to him as tightly as he would if I were a soft toy or maybe a favorite blanket. "Why are you sad?" I ask when I'm almost positive I'm ready to hear the answer and do a half-decent job of pretending to be fine with it.

His lips are still on the back of my neck, a light pressure that tickles as they start moving again.

"That was me," he whispers. "I'm forty-eight years old, and for the first time with someone else, I was myself. That was me being me. Really me."

I slump back against him, confused and still hesitant to look back at him. "So why are you sad?"

He blows a puff of air into the hair on the back of my neck. "I could have been doing that for the past thirty years, Wyn. I should have been doing that. I've wasted years, most of my life. I've wasted it. It could have been like this the whole time."

"Well," I correct, lungs filling with relief followed quickly by indignation, "not to burst your bubble, honey, but no, it wouldn't have been like that for the past thirty years. It was only like that because it was with me. You may not realize it, but in addition to being a master of organization, a gifted teacher, and an exceptionally professional individual, I have a rare talent for bottoming. I'm known for it. Not famous exactly, but close." I manage to stop talking there. I'm very thankful for that, but then I hear myself add, "In fact, when you start fucking other men, you'll notice the difference. It won't be the same. You won't enjoy it nearly as much. It's best you start preparing yourself now to avoid disappointment."

What?

It's true.

It's called managing expectations.

What a fucking day.

Trying to act normal as my ass throbbed and tingled from Derek's ministrations wasn't nearly as conducive to productivity as one might think. My cock jumped to attention at the lightest breeze, and I was so overwrought from everything that happened that when I served Derek his lasagna for lunch, I almost lost my concentration and leaned over and licked the side of his face.

I managed not to, but it was too close for comfort.

I'm in bed early again. This time, Bridget didn't need to suggest it. I sent myself. It's where I belong. I'm not fit to people right now, not even with Bridget. Especially not with Bridget. Especially not when I've spent the entire day obsessing about Derek and my need to overthink and overtalk the entire mess I've gotten myself into with him is reaching crisis point.

I spent the entire afternoon thinking about what will happen when I've taught him everything I know and he no longer needs my services. I put the idea into my own head, and I'm annoyed by it. The thought of Derek being with anyone who isn't me makes me feel unwell. If that isn't enough to contend with, my performance is slipping. Much as it pains me to say, I'm not sure it could pass for professional at this point. I was a nightmare today. As if Derek hadn't seen quite enough of my ass for one day, I did that ridiculous leaning over his desk, arching my back thing again when I took some contracts that needed his signature into his office before I left for the day. I was so horrified by myself, I knocked his glass of water over, narrowly missing his keyboard, and then apologized by saying, "Sorry, Satan Honey" aloud. To his face.

He heard it, and I heard it.

He smiled, and I died inside.

I thought it would be funny to call him Satan on a Post-it the other day, a little laugh, you know. A little humor during an otherwise boring day. I had no idea it would plant the seed for me to start saying that kind of shit aloud.

I'm hot and sweaty, and it's not because I'm under the covers at eight-forty-five. It's because, as insane as it sounds, when I was sitting on Derek's lap and his lips were on me, his words resonated with me. Deeply. Unbearably, painfully, deeply.

I was myself.

That was me, being me.

Really me.

As he said them, I felt them in my chest. I felt his heartbeat against my back and his words in my heart. They felt like my words, my feelings. It felt like there was something between us. Something invisible but thick. Corded and strong. Something that tied me to him despite knowing full well how stupid that is.

"Bridgie!" I cry. "What are you doing here?"

Bridget and I have dropped in at each other's places of work plenty of times in the past. It's not unusual for us. She used to pop in to pick me up for lunch pretty regularly when I worked for Sasha. For several reasons, I haven't encouraged her to visit MacAvoy Group, and I was very much hoping to keep it that way.

"Good surprise or bad surprise?" She knows I'm a bit on the fence when it comes to surprises.

There's a look in her eyes when she says it that gives me pause. At first, I think it might be the heavy black eyeliner she's rocking, but no, it's more. It might not even be a look. It might be more of a knowing, and that sends an icy stab of dread straight through me.

"Wonderful surprise!" I overcorrect, talking a little too loudly, so I steady myself quickly and take it down a notch. "The best surprise ever. Let's go to lunch. It's been far too long. We can go to this cool little place around the corner called Joey's. The salads are amazing. Seriously, you hardly even feel like you're suffering. Come on, let's go. My treat."

I'm firm about paying, but I make no mention of the fact I'm almost a billionaire in my own right from the cash I've earned in exchange for sexual services this week alone. Not to mention that in addition to being railed by Derek every day for the past ten business days—in increasingly daring positions—this morning, I found myself on my knees in the hutch under his desk, busily at work, when Clarissa popped up to invite me to drinks for her birthday tomorrow.

So high was my motivation to earn five hundred and seventy-six dollars and eighty-three cents that I totally forgot to lock the door. I heard the elevator ding, and I felt Derek's hand snake into my hair to warn me we weren't alone.

"Wyn's running an errand," called Derek, voice tight and laced with gravel, "but I'll send him down as soon as he gets back."

I've never had such a fright. I nearly jumped out of my skin, and while I did slow my pace and completely stopped moaning, one thing I didn't do was let Derek's hard cock drop out of my mouth.

It was too close for comfort.

Bridget being here is too close for comfort.

I put an arm around her and guide her to the elevator. Derek is due back any minute. There's no time to waste. She lets me guide her for a couple of paces and then doubles back.

"Sweet digs," she says, looking around. "Love the marble. Super fancy-shmancy. I think this is one time that shiny tile really works. Oooh, would you look at that sofa? God, it looks comfortable."

She throws herself down on it and stretches out, arranging one throw pillow under her head and another under her knees.

I rush over and pull her up by the wrists, but she's managed to turn herself into overcooked spaghetti, so getting her on her feet isn't easy.

"Brownies!" I say, using the squeaky voice that's good for getting the attention of small children and dogs. "Let's skip the salad and have brownies at Joey's. They're amazing. All chewy on the outside and mushy on the inside, just how you like them."

"Eh."

Bridget not being in the mood for chocolate isn't something I have a lot of experience dealing with, so I find myself at a bit of a loss about what to do next.

"We better go," I suggest with some urgency, "the Dark Lord will be here any minute. He just stepped out to…"

"Hmm."

Now, I love Bridget. I adore her, but I definitely prefer the version of her who speaks in full sentences.

Above the elevator door, the number twenty-two lights up, stabbing me with a similar dread to what I felt earlier. "Let's go." Some urgency has been replaced with extreme urgency. All of the urgency. "Here. Quickly. We can take the stairs. It's only twenty-two floors. It will be fun."

Bridget doesn't move. She's facing the elevator, and even though I'm standing next to her and can only see the side profile of one of her eyes, I know immediately that I was right. The look from before wasn't a look. It was a knowing.

Shit, shit, shit, she's onto me.

The elevator doors open at precisely the same time my ass starts to sweat.

Bridget is still facing forward, a soft fake smile tugging at her lips as she speaks out of the corner of her mouth.

"He'd better not be good-looking, Wyn Foster."

Derek's face lights up when he sees Bridget. His eyes crease, and he manages to look simultaneously younger than his years, dashing, terribly mature, and worldly.

"And who have we here?" he asks.

"I'm Bridget, Wyn's…"

"…roommate, best friend, and platonic soulmate," Derek finishes seamlessly, putting his hand out to shake hers. "Derek MacAvoy. Lovely to meet you, Bridget. Wyn speaks highly of you."

I don't need to look at her to know Bridget is charmed. Utterly charmed. As they exchange small talk, Derek is so attentive that I can tell it will take me months, possibly years, to convince her anything negative I've said about him in the past is true.

"You know what's funny, Derek?" says Bridget. "You look exactly the way I pictured you. It's uncanny."

Derek looks amazed. "Really? It's rare for that to happen. Wyn told me about your revenge hair, but for some reason, I thought you'd be blonde."

They both hoot at that.

"Isn't that funny, Wyn?" asks Bridget, giving me an even more pointed look.

"Mm, funny," I croak.

"Would you prefer a table inside or out?" the hostess at Joey's asks, scooping two menus up and readying herself to show us to our table.

"Inside, please," says Bridget brightly, "preferably near the back. A confessional would be ideal, but if those are all taken, a booth will be fine."

She orders two margaritas, shaken, not frozen, as soon as we're seated and says, "Spill."

And I do. Omitting only the fact that I was Derek's fake boyfriend in Hawaii and that he routinely pays me for sex, I tell her everything that's happened between us. It pours out of me in a torrent, a gushing stream that barely allows for pausing for breath.

When I'm done, Bridget sits, mouth ajar, and shakes her head slowly at the mess I've made.

"I blame myself," she sighs. "I wasn't myself because of the breakup. I dropped the ball and look what's happened."

I nod in resigned agreement. "I blame you too."

"I mean, what were you thinking, Wyn? Your boss? What happened to the sex sabbatical? I thought you were looking for the one."

"Sex sabbaticals aren't for me after all."

"And what happened to Derek being a walking red flag?"

"Oh, he's still a red flag. Don't let that performance before fool you. He can be charming, but he's still a massive red flag."

It's true. There's a plethora of things about Derek that would give any sane person pause. There's the boss business, for one thing. And the fact he's almost twenty years older than I am. Not only that, he's brand-newly divorced, he's never been with a man, he feels sad after sex, he pays me for sex—and that's just off the top of my head.

The trouble is, I have a thing for each and every one of his red flags. I want them. Have to have them. Want them all. Want to collect them and stitch them all into one giant red flag. Then I want to cut a neat slit in the middle of that big ole red flag and drape it over my head so I can wear it as a kaftan.

I'm not completely sure, but I might even take a leaf out of Barbara Anne's book and pair it with an obnoxious hat and a big pair of sunnies.

I think I could make it work.

"What about you? Don't think I haven't noticed that you have yet to spill the tea about your little hookup. The only reason I haven't interrogated you more is because I had so much to hide."

"Oh," she says, waving me off elaborately, "that. No. That's nothing. That's just one of those stupid things you need to do eight or ten times to get it out of your system."

"Eight or ten? You said one. When I got back from Hawaii, you clearly stated it only happened once."

"Yeah." She drains her glass. "It had only happened once then. That was then, and this is now. God. Would you look at the time? I'm late. I need to get back to the office."

At three in the morning, I sit bolt upright in bed, gasping in shock and outrage. I roll out of bed and fly into Bridget's room, not bothering to knock.

"Bridget Thelma Louise Jones's Diary." It's not my best work, but I don't have time to get upset about it right now. "You said stupid."

She sighs deeply and lifts the covers for me to get in.

"So you see," she says when she's given me a play-by-play about what's been happening with Anton, the overtight T-shirt-wearing fuck boy from upstairs, "from an evolutionary point of view, fuck boys actually serve a valuable purpose. I never realized it before, but they're here to help us recover from terrible breakups. When you think about it, it's an act of service. It's a wonder they aren't more celebrated."

As soon as she says it, she realizes how bad it sounds and stops talking.

"So what d'you think?" I ask. "D'you think tomorrow you should call my mom and I should call yours? They should probably come and get us. I don't think we're coping. I think adulting is kicking our asses."

Bridget murmurs in agreement. "Yeah, probably, but I can't tomorrow. I have a thing."

"A stupid thing?"

"Yep."

I giggle sympathetically. "That's okay, Bridge. I can't do tomorrow either. I have something scheduled too."

"Ah, a work thing, right?"

Like the idiots we are, we cackle hysterically at that. We laugh and laugh until Bridget is snorting and sniffling and my eyes are watering profusely.

Our laughter dies down abruptly, and the room falls silent. Things catch up with me suddenly. All the things I've been trying hard to hold back and push down all rush to the surface. It's dark, and since I already have tears running down my cheeks, I let a few more fall. I'm tired, so tired. Keeping this whole Derek thing from Bridget has really weighed on me. I feel so much better for having shared this with her that I don't censor myself. I tell her the thing. The big, awful thing. The terrible, undeniable thing that's been circling me since the first time Derek fucked me.

No, it's been with me since the night we talked into the early hours after the wedding.

Since the first time we kissed.

Since the first time he called me into his office and scolded me.

Since the day I met him and his eyes told me he was unmanageable.

"I'm scared, Bridget," I whisper.

She takes my hand and squeezes it tight. "Like him that much, huh?"

I don't answer, but my jaw clicks as I nod into the pillow, hiding because as ill-advised as it is, and as much as I know it's a stupid, reckless thing to do with my heart, I'm really not sure like is the right word anymore.

And yes, in case you're wondering, we're panicking now.

It's official.

We definitely aren't laughing. There's no looking back and thinking how funny my crush on my boss is.

We're losing our shit. That's what we're doing.

Correction. We've lost it.