We walk up behind the office block and climb up the fire escape. The SilentWitn3ss office is six floors up, and the escape itself leads to a balcony stretching all the way along the back of the building.
"She won't see us from here. Wrong angle," he tells me. "I checked it out good."
"Does she still think you're from Us Weekly?"
He gives a quiet snort. "Ha, yeah. Keeps tossing her hair at my camera."
I could never have used members of my own security team to keep tabs on Leo; she'd have recognised one sooner or later. But Tommy has done me favours over the years and is a seasoned PI. After her suspiciously clean background check, only a moron wouldn't have commissioned someone to watch Leo, and now the Fordham crap is complicating things, I'm far more comfortable using an investigator who's a little more removed from my personal life.
"You gotta drop down on one knee," Tommy explains, gesturing toward a wide window. "That's the main office, right through there. She's been clearin' up. Box after box, all sweaty. You sure give me the shittiest jobs."
"I know how much you hate staring at pretty girls all day." I do as he instructs, my knee hitting the cold metal floor with a soft creak. Up ahead, the office comes into view—a mess of design posters, stacked boxes and half-assembled iMacs. "You're certain they don't have cameras around here?"
"Certain, yes sir. There's one just above the window—see it? The grey box. But it doesn't cover this spot."
At that moment, Leo strides into view. She wears a dark green dress that sweeps across her breasts in layers of tight jersey; her hair is tied up to reveal the nape of her neck. "Leave me here," I murmur.
Tommy gives my shoulder another pat as he creeps past. "Enjoy, chief. Enjoy."
Jesus. I'd berate him for touching me, but firstly, it disrupts my One of the Guys act, and secondly, it's a waste of breath when I could spend it watching Leo.
For long minutes, she and I are alone together. Her office is mostly empty—no doubt she's sent them all out to celebrate the acquisition—but there are files for her to organize and tech workstations to pack away. It annoys me that the rest of her team just fucked off and left her with all the hard work. Who are the real assholes here, huh?
The space itself is modern and open plan, white with the occasional spatter of black or green; she moves about it with a confidence that keeps her shoulders back and her eyes half-lidded with suspicion. The world, it seems, fills her with disdain, and she is not fit to look upon it.
God, I love a good superiority complex in a woman. On some level, she loves that I challenge it, too. We're sandpaper, rubbing each other in all sorts of painful ways, but she doesn't realise until one of us is bleeding—even then, she can't resist a taste. That night she licked my blood from her finger, it was a sucking kiss of corruption. The games, grasshoppers, have begun.
Through the window, I watch her on the micro level. The way she carries herself, the way she moves; the soft heave of her breasts as she breathes harder when lifting, and the tight peak of her ass when she turns her back to me. The longer I stare at her thighs, the more the memory of her * on my fingers filters into my mind. Tight and wet and shuddering with the start of a violent orgasm—an orgasm I refused to let her have. Now she's punishing me for it. Sulking. Has cast herself as the villain in the silent throb of our war.
I've always looked down on men who touch themselves in public. Oh, I don't judge; it's not about morals or decency. It's about brain cells, or the lack thereof. What do you stand to lose if you get caught? Too much. But on this syrupy summer evening, as I watch Leo bend over yet another box or play with her damp, knotty hair, I want to get my cock out. Let it thud into the cool mattress of my palm, smack it about while she bites her lip. She'll be walking around my building dressed like this on Monday, and then what will I do with myself?
Daddy needs to scratch an itch.
I'd peel that dress up and yank down her panties. Get my fingers in her *, smear the juices up over her asshole. Shove my face between her thighs and lick everywhere, everywhere, my stubble rubbing her inner thighs sore, my teeth sharpest on the plump lips of her * and her swollen, begging clit. I'd push her down over the garbage-strewn desk and work the stapler into her ass while I fucked her rough and deep. Imagine that—my Leo, spread and completely full. Holy fuck. Haughty little whore. I'd destroy her, lick her wounds, cut her a couple bigger ones.
And then destroy her all over again.
***
When I get home that night, Ash and Ethan are parked on the couch with buckets of popcorn, watching American Idol reruns. Ethan clutches Optimus Prime and narrates the performances in a robotic voice, which has Ash in fits of giggles.
In the kitchen, I crack a beer open and walk through to join them. I'm still in my office shirt, a button open and my tie pulled loose. Ash yells a greeting as he notices me. He shuffles over so he's sandwiched between me and Ethan.
"Good day?" I ask, to neither of them in particular.