Nine
Ruby
The next morning, I was holding my breath the entire time the elevator was descending to the lobby. It was 7:43 and I knew without question that Niall would already be downstairs—suit: immaculate, hair: perfect, body: banging. What I didn’t know was exactly which Niall I would encounter today.
Would it be the teasing, flirtatiously forward maybe-almost-my-boyfriend-Niall from dinner last night? The one that sent my hands straight down my panties within seconds of closing the door? Or the strangely terse, abrupt Mr. Stella from the phone call only an hour later?
Niall’s brain seemed to be his own worst enemy, unable to shut down or stay silent long enough for him to just have fun. At dinner he’d let the walls down, teasing and being downright filthy across the table from me. But give him an hour in his room, alone with his own thoughts, and any afterglow I’d been experiencing was doused like a bucket of ice water.
A tiny voice warned that I should pay attention, that I should heed the warning bells—however dim—inside my head. Although he looked like a man who carried the world in the palm of his hand, Niall was also a hypercautious overthinker, and maybe I should rein in my desire to dive headfirst.
Good advice, I was sure.
But when the elevator doors opened and I saw Niall Stella himself across the lobby, that advice was all too easy to ignore.
Like always, my pulse sped up at the sight of him, my skin prickly and almost hot to the touch. He looked over and met my eye. People filed out in front of me and the seconds seemed to tick by while I waited for a reaction from him—any reaction. My shoes clicked on the marble floors as I walked, and I had to look away, adjust the belt on my trench coat, and force myself to keep my shoulders straight. Niall was just a man, after all, and from what he’d told me last night, I had more experience in this sort of situation than he had. I had the upper hand.
Keep telling yourself that.
His overcoat slung over his arm, he checked his watch, his brow lifting when he glanced back up at me. “Punctual, I see.”
Teasing. My breath eased out of my lungs and I straightened my shoulders. I could do teasing.
“Punctuality is a critical virtue,” I told him.
“Couldn’t agree more. I happen to find it very attractive.” His voice sounded deeper this morning, more confident. There was something about the way his accent sharpened very, shaping it into something dirty that sent goose bumps up and down my arms. If this was anyone else, I would have questioned whether he was up to something, but this was Mr. Straight and Narrow. I was fairly certain he wouldn’t be ravaging me in a hotel lobby, or while meeting with the New York Transit Authority.
I knew he’d be careful to keep everything between us strictly professional at work, but after last night, when he’d suggested he wanted to show me all the things he didn’t consider “gentle, or chaste or very proper,” the question of where we stood was still largely unanswered, and I was trying my best to let him tell me how fast we should move. One would think he would have wanted to start right away. One would think he would have even simply kissed me good night.
I looked at him expectantly as he slid his arms into his coat and motioned for me to lead the way. “Shall we?”
Halfway through the first meeting, we adjourned for a break. I felt pretty useless during these discussions about budget and public perception rather than the cogs and wheels of the actual structures themselves. But I listened, knowing the conversations that felt challenging right now were actually the ones I needed to grasp the most.
Still, even Niall seemed to be distracted, staring down at the same page of his agenda repeatedly, and twice needing to be nudged when called on to answer a question. He barely glanced my way, but there were lingering touches as I’d handed him a stack of papers. His calf rested a bit too comfortably against mine to be written off as anything but intentional.
In fact, his lack of focus was bordering on unnerving, and so I was grateful when he pulled me aside, asking if I’d mind sitting the rest of the meeting out.
“I know this is terribly rude of me,” he said, motioning to the phone in his hands. “But I’ve just checked my mobile and I’ve a few things that need attending. Nothing too urgent, but Jo’s called with some names and dates I need for a conference call with Tony. Would you—” he paused, eyes apologetic. “I know you’re not my assistant, or under my report in any way, but would you mind listening and jotting the information down?”
I heaved a sigh of relief, both that there seemed to be a reason for his distraction, and that I might be spared the pain of another two hours of this.
“With pleasure,” I said, taking his cell. “These team meetings have nothing to do with my department. Give me a job, any job, before I lose my mind.”
The wall separating the conference room from a smaller waiting area was about twenty feet long and floor-to-ceiling glass. Inside the space were a pair of white leather couches, a handful of sleek iron tables, and two matching chairs. A wall of exterior windows looked out over a street lined with restaurants and newly flowering trees. I deposited myself on the couch, pulled out a notebook and pen, and began opening his phone.
“One more thing.”
I startled at the sound of his voice in the doorway.
“The passcode is my birthday—”
“Oh-six-oh-nine, I know,” I blurted, and then blinked up to see him staring at me in surprise. I gave him a slow, wincing smile. “You should probably know I want the floor to eat me now,” I said. “Because, hello, stalker.”
He laughed. “Perhaps I’m not very clever with my passcodes.”
“I guess if you stare at a person enough you pick up all sorts of things,” I said, throwing in an awkward cough for effect.
But Niall only laughed again, shaking his head and throwing in another “thank you” before turning to leave. “Oh and Ruby?” he said, pausing just at the door.
“Yeah?”
“Be sure you listen straight through. Some of them are quite long and . . . there’s one at the end that’s particularly important.”
“Got it,” I said, and didn’t even pretend I wasn’t watching his butt as he walked away.
From the sofa, I could see him perfectly. He’d stopped at the refreshment table for a bottle of water before taking his seat, and I wondered if it was a trick of the light that made him look slightly flushed.
Given that some of the voice messages were apparently on the long side, I reached for my purse, happy when I found my earbuds tucked away near the bottom. I inserted the plug into the jack and placed one of the buds in my ears, then keyed in his password. Four messages. The first, predictably, was from Jo, and I listened while she rattled off a list of names and corresponding dates, and carefully wrote each one down. The second and third followed along the same lines, and within three minutes an entire sheet in my notebook had been filled.
I looked up and checked into the meeting again, catching him discussing something with a person seated nearby. Without the benefit of his voice, I could see the way his mouth formed the words differently than those around him, his accent visible at a distance. He used his lips more, held the shape of the words longer. I wondered what it would be like to hear that voice at home, in my ear while it panted out commands, telling me what he needed.
One day I should write a novel full of all the things I wondered about that man.
Pressing play again, I caught Niall’s eyes for just a second before he blinked away. The last message started, and I waited, trying to discern exactly what I was hearing. Someone breathing . . . the hum of an air conditioner . . . faint traffic? The shuffling of fabric filled the line—almost as if a piece of clothing were being dragged over the receiver—and I picked up the phone again, checking the connection to make sure I hadn’t knocked something loose.
But then I heard, “Ahh,” and that . . . well, I definitely wasn’t expecting that.
“You look so bloody gorgeous.”
I knew that voice. I’d spent the last six months with my ears straining to hear him step out of the elevator and onto my floor, to speak during meetings. For him to speak to me. This was Niall, and he was . . . I think . . .
“Go slow. I want your tongue to play with me before you show me what you look like when you beg for it.”
OH MY GOD.
I blanched. Had I somehow stumbled onto something I wasn’t supposed to have? Was this even Niall? It seemed impossible that he would record anything like this, let alone give it to me to hear.
Unless he didn’t know it was being recorded. Was he . . . with someone? Should I tell him I had this?
“Did you think about this earlier?” he said through the tape. “When you licked your dessert from your spoon, or sucked the sauce from your thumb, did you imagine you had my cock between your lips?”
Dessert? Was he talking about . . . ?
I straightened and glanced toward the conference room, not sure if I was surprised when I found him already looking at me. I didn’t know how long he’d been watching, but when he nodded, slowly, I was certain he knew exactly what I was listening to, and that he’d orchestrated this entire thing so I could.
“You want it?”
“Like that.”
“Oh, sweet girl . . . suck me . . .”
He was getting himself off, thinking about me going down on him . . .
He must have done this last night after dinner—Holy shit!
It was sixty-eight degrees in that office, and I was sweating.
Niall didn’t look away from me once, and I swear this situation could only have felt dirtier if he’d had me spread out naked on the floor. And then, only barely. How did he do that? We’d hardly touched, and yet it felt like he’d touched me in ways that nobody else ever had.
“I’ll never get this sight out of my head. Never.”
I crossed my legs and pressed them together, shifting in my seat. I could feel how wet I was, how ready my body felt to do exactly the things he was talking about.
“I’m coming. Ruby. Ruby. Please . . . please let me come inside.”