I swallow down over the thick lump in my throat and exit the cabin, keeping my pace in tandem with his. But the second my other foot drops, the very real awareness that there are two little balls nestled in my pussy hits me. No, like literally hits me.
My steps falter as the small jostle of the metal pushes them against my clenching walls, the intense sensation making my insides coil. He pauses, allowing me a moment to adjust, if that’s even possible, and I have to shift at least three times and take double the deep breaths before I’m ready to walk again.
His stance is straight and unbothered as we near the doors, his hand running through his hair to fix the wayward mess I left it in. My eyes trace the movement, my clit pulsing around both the Ben Wa knowing how his hands feel grabbing at my body.
As though he can read my thoughts, he smirks, his dark eyes flashing to me in his periphery. “I know you can do it for me, darling.”
My breath stutters at his words, and the desire—the need —to show him I can do it engulfs me. I want him to be proud of me.
What the fuck is happening?
His arm slips from mine to open the door, and while I understand why we can’t enter a work party linked to each other, a small piece I hate even acknowledging whines in protest.
Roman gestures with his open hand, and I reluctantly nod, entering in front of him to the warmth and chatter of the already in progress party embracing me.
It’s completely dark, with the floor only illuminated by the soft white lights and twinkling silver; it really does look like the winter wonderland I designed.
“You did amazing, pet.” His voice is nothing more than a fleeting whisper, spoken so low I almost think I imagined it until he winks as he passes by me.
My traitorous heart flips, the praise filling my chest with a lightness that makes me freaking giddy. But before I’m able to register how I really do like when he gives me his appreciative words, a bouncy Monica saddles up to my side.
“What. Was. That?”
My face jerks to hers, a warmth spreading across my cheeks. She has a knowing smirk sprawled across her face, and I struggle with either the urge to hide inside the Christmas tree or feign ignorance.
I do the latter.
“Nothing. I was just thanking him for the dress.”
Monica sucks her teeth between her lips, rolling her eyes. “Or were you thanking him for the quickie y’all just had?”
“Monica!” I screech, my eyes darting around frantically to see if anyone heard her. When no one seems to notice us, I lower my voice to a stern hiss. “We did not have sex.”
Her smile grows impossibly bigger. “But you did something .”
I let out an exasperated sigh, running a hand over my hair to make sure my bobby pins are still in place. “It was nothing.”
“I’m sure. But I’ll leave you be until you’d like to spill. And speaking of spill.” Monica juts her head toward a dozen people gathered by the tree, taking pictures. “I can’t believe Shawna showed up.”
My eyes travel through the small crowd to find the popular social media influencer we currently work with. The woman is everything nosey Nancy wishes she was. Standing at five-nine, with natural blonde locks, Shawna’s probably the healthiest woman to walk the earth. That’s how we booked her—a nutritional influencer who needed to be plugged in with farm-to-table companies.
Naturally, she’s surrounded by a few photographers, and a couple of my coworkers, but it's who she has her arm on that gives me a moment of pause.
Roman stands beside her, his arm loosely wrapped around her thin frame, laying on the upper part of her shoulder.
It’s not jealousy, but something dangerously close to discontent that washes over me, drowning out everything else.
Here I am, barely wanting to shuffle around because of the balls making my pussy clench—the reminder of what we did never too far from thought—while he’s having a photo opp.
Ignoring the strange swell of emotions, I excuse myself to walk around—albeit slowly—and do my job. I mingle, make sure the board is happy, and connect with guests of our VIPs to establish rapport. The entire time, I do my best to keep my back from Roman and his dark gaze, but I can’t deny the constant tingle I feel when I know his eyes are on me.
Soon enough my core is sore from remaining tight and I find Monica. She’s not far from where I left her, and just over her shoulder I feel him staring.
I chew on the inside of my cheek, a sudden need for that liquid savior. “You didn’t smuggle in any of the good stuff by chance, did you?”
Monica laughs as though I've told her the best joke. “Yes, ma’am, I did. Right this way.”
Reluctantly, I follow behind, trying my best to navigate walking across the large hall again while simultaneously squeezing my pelvic floor to keep the balls inside. Even after so long, and with the distaste in my mouth for Roman’s nonchalance, my nerves are still spiking, sending waves of shivers up my core.
We reach the table where our names shine in a pretty silver script on the folded card-stock marking our seats. To my surprise, Nancy is sitting with her chin resting on her fist, a pouty look scrunching up her features.
At first, I think of not speaking, but after following her narrowed gaze, I find the source of her misery—Shawna.
Monica hands me a glass half filled with ice and something clear. The sweet, woodsy smell invades my airways, and I waste no time taking the drink back in one heady gulp.
The liquid burns its way down my esophagus, and I welcome the instant tingle. I hand the glass to Monica and nod for another as I gingerly take a seat next to Nancy.
Her muddled eyes flash to me momentarily before she grunts. “What? Come to throw it in my face?”
My brows snap together in confusion. “What?”
Nancy jerks her hand toward where the influencer stands, who’s utterly enamored in whatever her and Roman are talking about. I roll my eyes at the way my chest tightens. What happened in the elevator doesn’t change who he is. He’s still an asshole who can charm a girl within the first ten seconds of meeting her, and I’m foolish to think otherwise.
“She’s wearing the same dress,” Monica says, seeming frustrated I didn’t see the similarity immediately.
Sure enough, I see they do both have on a black evening gown, with a sweetheart top and cluster of embellishments running through the formed bodice.
Monica hands me another drink, and I down this one as quickly as the first. “Sorry, Nancy. But try not to let it mess up your entire night.”
“Easy for you to say. Look what you have on. Where did you even get that?”
My mouth pops open to respond, but a warm, heavy hand finds my shoulder. “Doesn’t she look incredible?”
T he tingle radiating down my center disappears when I realize it isn’t Roman hovering behind me, but instead Johnathan.
Stupid Presley. Get yourself together.