She’s fucking with me.
I can only imagine her reasoning for it… Why she’d need to. It makes me feel like shit, so I lean my head back against my chair and cover my face with my hand.
Goddamnit.
Why didn’t I tell Weiss I know her on day one?
A few deep breaths and I’m more in control. Trying to resume what I was doing. Because I can’t touch her. I can’t instigate anything. Not with Amelia. Not this time.
It’s only a few seconds before I feel dizzy.
Like I can’t breathe.
I grit my teeth and tell myself she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know my secret. I need to leave. Go home right now, before I fuck up either one of us.
I stand abruptly. “Think I’m gonna go home early.” I slap my sketchpad, my sweaty palm knocking it to the floor. I don’t stop to pick it up.
I keep my eyes away from Ammy as I make for the door.
And then my palm touches the handle. The coolness grounds me. My mind surges forward, then back…
Did I ask for that?
I didn’t ask for what just happened.
It was all Amelia, playing games.
Fury fills me. That and lust.
I turn back to find Amelia standing in front of her chair. When she doesn’t speak, just blinks, I feel my pulse hammer. “Tell me, Am, what do you want? If you want me to go, you better fucking it.”
She licks her lips, her face twisting: uncertain.
“Go on. Say it. Say ‘Dash, go home.’”
She shakes her head.
“I can’t do this shit, Amelia. I can’t fucking do this.”
I give her time: seconds to say something. When she doesn’t, I twist the door’s lock and close the distance between us. Then I drop down to my knees. My hands are steady on her pants button. Steady as I unzip her dainty, pantsuit zipper.
Underneath, I find the thong—first with my hands…then with my mouth. When my tongue trails over tender flesh, Amelia gasps, and her knees buckle.
“Sit down.”
She does.
I peel her pants down to her thighs and lift the thong up. Then I look into her face.
Stop me. Say something.
She sinks her hand into my hair—and so I drag my tongue through her slick heat. I eat her thoroughly, the way I’ve wanted to for years, since that first time.
I slide a finger into her and give her everything I’ve got. I’m fed with her moans, her little sighs, the tremble in her legs. I feed until I’m full—and she’s come twice.
Then I pull the thong back and stand.
“See you tomorrow, Amelia.”
Thirteen
Amelia
I wake up early the next morning and stand in the doorway of my closet, eyeing my work clothes like a landscape painter surveying a field. I choose a linen pencil skirt in emerald green and a sheer, flower-patterned blouse.
Before slipping into my bra and panties, I slather my whole body with lotion. It doesn’t smell like much of anything—maybe a little bit vanilla—which is just the way I like my lotion. My undergarment set is lacy, but not overly so. I know I look good in it.
I play some Sibelius in honor of Dash as I zip my skirt, pull on a spaghetti-strapped undershirt, and don the blouse. I’m not in the mood for a lot of makeup, so I go with just a touch of mascara and unobtrusive lipstick. Hair: down.
I’m at work twenty minutes early, stalking our studio like a tiger. Finally, Meredith shows up, followed by Bryan and Carrie, and we get to work sketching minor characters. That’s what I’m doing when the door opens and Dash steps in.
Today he’s wearing slate gray chinos, loafers, and the rattiest white undershirt I’ve ever seen. As soon as I get a peek of his skin through a small hole near the collar, lust fogs up my mind.
I want to lift that shirt up and lick my way down to his pants. I hear my conscience like a far-off fog horn. I know what my friends would say.
But yesterday felt good.
It felt good when I was fucking with him, teasing him, and what he did to me felt even better. Does it matter that I hate him, if I also love him? It’s fucked up, of course, but does that mean I shouldn’t do it? I hate the way he wrecked me, but I don’t feel like it’s over. I never have.
His eyes on mine are like a drug.
“Good morning.” I press my thighs together, and my pulse picks up. I feel like we’re acting from a script. Probably because I already know what’s going to happen. As unlike me as this is—irresponsible, insensible, insane—I’m going to keep fucking with Dash. It’s like an itch I have to scratch. I just can’t help myself.
“Good morning, Amelia.”
“Did you have a nice night?”
“I did.”
He touches base with Adam and Ashley, sends Amber to start locating local animals that he can use for modeling, and then starts doing something on his computer. I manage to keep my sanity intact until lunch rolls around, and the office clears out. When I can see for sure that Dash is staying here—he quickly downs a power bar—I walk past him and brush his shoulder.
“Something on your shirt.”
He makes a low sound in his throat. Shortly after that, he disappears, returning a few minutes later, likely from the restroom. As he walks back to his cubicle, I think he looks tired. He won’t look me in the eye.
This time, instead of getting on his computer, he starts sketching. I watch him obsessively, noticing when his hand hasn’t moved in a while.
I roll my chair over to his. “Whatcha drawing?”
“The dog.”
“Hopscotch?”
He nods. I’m jotting down some details about Hopscotch and his interactions with Dove when I notice Dash rubbing his forehead. A few minutes later, he does it again.
I stand up. “Want some water? I’m going to grab myself some.”
“Coffee,” he says. “Please.”
I make it the way he mentioned drinking it before: just a little bit of milk, plus a nice pinch of real sugar.
“Thank you,” he says when I set the mug in front of him. Again, he doesn’t look at me. I want to do something to make him look, but somehow I reign myself in.
After a few sips of his coffee, Dash seems more somber, not less. I can feel discomfort or maybe irritation coming off him, and I know it’s my fault.
Eventually he says, “I might go early. I was here last night late.”
“You live in my building?”
He nods.
“Can I get a ride? I have a dentist appointment.”
Liar.
Geez, I’ve lost my mind. And yet…
We take the elevator down together, and I follow him into the parking deck. He leads us to a charcoal Land Rover. When we get there, he hesitates before opening the passenger’s side door. He turns his eyes on me.
“What are you playing at, Amelia?”
He looks tired and frustrated. Unhappy.
“Nothing,” I choke.
“Yesterday? What was that?”
I feel a flash of shame, but I immediately squash it. “Me fooling around with someone I’m attracted to.” My stomach somersaults as my voice kicks up a notch. “It’s not unusual.”
“And today?” he snaps.
“Today’s today,” I hedge. “What do you mean?”
“How do you feel today?” His words are rough.