Plush, foam cushions and wedges in addition to yet another massive bed decorate the brightly lit space, but the group having sex ignores the furniture in favor of doing the deed on the floor and against the wall. At twenty-seven, I’ve never made love with the lights on. And, to be perfectly honest and prudish, I’ve never watched porn in my life.
Now, my heart is lodged in the back of my throat as I witness another person—scratch that, several other people—have sex in front of me, the lights illuminating every inch, every curve, of their bodies.
Somewhere nearby, I can hear snatches of B and Jace's conversation. Mr. B wants to do a massive upgrade to the Voyeur Room. He wants the cushions and bed removed in favor of a large metal table, one that spins like a Lazy Susan because he thinks a game of “Spin the Body” sounds like fun. My boss strokes his ego, swearing that the man who owns all this has the most brilliant ideas.
Yeah, he’s brilliant all right because all I can do is focus on the scene unfolding in front of me.
I need to look away. No, I should look away. But ... it's damn impossible. With every thrust and sigh, each hair tug and slap of skin on skin, there's a sharp pull deep in the center of my core. This isn't something I want myself, isn't something I'd do under any circumstances, but it doesn't stop the heavy weight from building in the pit of my stomach. It doesn't stop the heat from gathering between my thighs.
And it sure as hell doesn't stop the thrill that plunges through me.
I don't realize I'm gripping the opened collar of my white shirt until I feel a hand on the small of my back and long fingers spread over my skin.
I swallow the moan that threatens to push past my lips.
"Lucy," a low voice murmurs my name. It reverberates through me, seizing me by my core. It drags that breathy sound I was so desperate to subdue from the back of my throat. I fist my hands by my side, willing myself to be professional. To not let this affect me. To not punch Jace Exley in his goddamn face.
Putting on a blank expression, I lift my chin until my eyes lock with his. Jace’s full lips twitch, and I don't know whether he wants to laugh at me or tell me I'm already fired. Right now, I'm not sure I would argue with the latter.
"Yes?" I exhale.
"We're done here." He moves his hand from the base of my spine and steps away from me, toward the exit of the viewing room. "It's time to go ... unless you'd rather stay, that is." Mockery drips from the edges of that statement, and a mixture of scarlet and black spots prance in front of my vision.
Fuck him.
I hate saying that word—hate thinking it—but fuck. Jace. Exley.
I shake my head and slide my palms down the front of my blouse, a wave of mortification rumbling through me when my palms stroke over taut nipples. He must have noticed—there's no way he didn’t—and I shove past him without sparing a glance in his direction.
"I'm more than ready," I snap, my voice twice as harsh as I intend. Because the shock I felt for the last fifty-three minutes has finally worn off. It's been replaced by an even stronger emotion.
And I, other than the moment I found out my ex was cheating on me, have never been more furious in my entire life.
Six
Jace
The numb expression on Lucy-I-Know-Fucking-Everything’s face takes me back to our junior year of high school. When she’d accidentally stumbled upon Reese Hawthorne, one of the cheerleaders, and me behind a vending machine.
I never found out where she was headed in the middle of a pep rally—knowing Williams, it was probably to get an early start on schoolwork that wasn’t due for months—but the second she spotted us, she froze. Standing with her pretty mouth open, her eyes darted from Reese’s vise-like grip on my hair to my fingers, which were showing my own version of school spirit beneath the cheerleader’s skirt.
Since Reese’s back was turned, she never knew Lucy was there, but I did. Warmth had spread across her creamy skin when I lifted hooded eyes and raised my chin to acknowledge her presence. She had lurched in the opposite direction, toward the sound of some awful eighties victory anthem rattling from the gym sound system, but I’d smirked and shook my head. I wasn’t ready for her to go.
Not until I saw her reaction.
I’d circled my thumb over Reese’s clit and crooked the fingers inside her cunt at the same time, drawing a noise from the back of her throat that had left prim and proper Lucy Williams flushed and shaking.
Once Reese’s cries died down, Lucy stalked off without so much as a sigh.
She had never mentioned it directly, but that moment always hung between us. It was in the back of my mind whenever she gave me hell about forgetting my homework—she did enough for the both of us—or every goddamn time she cast those hazel eyes my way.
At the end of the day, I hadn't given a fuck that she saw me that day in the hall because I’d loved witnessing the look on her face.
I’d loved shocking her.
My motivation for tonight was to get her unfiltered response to my world; if she thinks she can sell my gear, she’d better get used to groups like B’s. They pay our bills—make us successful—and I’ll be damned if I let Lucy’s holier-than-thou attitude come through around my clients. But even though I was looking for a reaction, I expected to feel a little more satisfied when Williams discovered we don’t make clocks.
Seeing how she’s huddled against the door of my car with her arms crossed tightly over her firm breasts, though, I feel … guilty.
It’s the second time that’s happened this week.
“You’re quiet, love,” I say over the song booming from the radio. She hangs her head low, and her inky hair tumbles over one shoulder. I want to reach out and brush it back, but I have a feeling she might bite my goddamn hand off.
"Say something,” I implore.
She tightens the corners of her mouth and glares down at her lap.
You want to do this the hard way, Lucy, so be it. "Was it everything you expected?"
Jabbing the radio's power button, she ends the song in the middle of the lead singer bragging about parents crying when women bring him around. She whips her head in my direction, and the fury behind her stare catches me off guard. “Sorry, but I couldn’t listen to that anymore. It was so fitting for the type of man you are, I could scream,” she spits out. “What do you think I expected, Mr. Exley?"
"I expected you'd be better prepared, Williams." I concentrate on the dark highway, speeding up. She’s so pissed off she doesn’t bother to highlight that I’m going twenty over. "I expected you wouldn't just stand there with your mouth dangling open, looking like you were just invited to join in on the fuckfest and—"