Friction(27)
Gosh, he has such a lovely way of phrasing things—said no one ever. I weigh the smooth metal between my hands for a few more moments and then drop it in his outstretched palm. He returns it to the shelf, right next to what I know with one hundred percent certainty is a gleaming, dual-ended dildo.
Stepping directly in front of me and pulling my attention back to his bearded face, he gives me a smoldering look that once again makes it difficult for me to think clearly. "Welcome to the EXtreme family, Williams."
Nine
Lucy
The first few days at EXtreme are ... well, unlike anything I've ever experienced. I quickly learn that while Jace is a perfectionist, he's also well-liked among his employees. They're all friends. It's the first time I've ever worked at a company where everyone gets along. At WLC, I had gotten used to the constant competitiveness, and of course, I was the bearded dragon at Java-Org. Most of Tom's employees loathed each other and would stab their co-workers in the back at the first chance to advance their career. It’s different here. Sure, the guys joke about making the best-looking set of metal wrist cuffs or who produced butt plugs and heavy-duty suspension bars the fastest, but they all have a common goal:
To make one hell of a sex machine.
Which I not only respect but also find impressive. Even if using the phrase "sex machine" still makes me glance away and clear my throat like a middle schooler watching a Family Life video.
When I knock on Jace's door at the end of the day on Friday, he immediately barks for me to make it quick. He's been in a mood all day because he had gotten the dimensions of B's seven-thousand-dollar dungeon-esque version of a Lazy Susan wrong and he has to restart from scratch. Theo had pointed out that they can still sell the other table since it's flawless, but Jace had merely pulled off his welder's mask and retreated to his office to let B know he would need extra time. Daisy had let it slip that Mr. B doesn’t like to wait for anything, which became obvious when Jace didn’t return to the workshop for close to an hour.
Hoping he’s in a better mood now, I approach him tentatively and he grants me a frustrated look.
"Stop standing there fidgeting, Williams.” He crooks his fingers, motioning me forward. “You can ask, I promise I won't bite."
I sit across from him, folding my hands together demurely in my lap. "I spoke to my friend Andi about the website today, but I just wanted to make sure it's in the budget to—"
"Whatever you need to do, do it." He reaches into the top drawer of his metal desk, rummages around, and eventually locates a slim business credit card. He holds it out to me. When our fingertips come in contact, I bite my tongue, so I won't show a reaction to the current humming through my veins and seeping into my bones.
"I also spoke with Katia at Lorelei’s about the promo opportunities for IFD earlier today. It's going to be fantastic." A few days ago, Griff finally taught me what IFD means: International Fetish Day. Researching it at home, I spent the entire evening with a permanent blush staining my features until my mother finally asked if I had a condition she wasn't aware of. The whole time we watched The Voice together, all I could think about was chains and bondage.
Because, what better thoughts to have while listening to covers of K.D. Lang's "Constant Craving" and Rihanna's "S&M?"
"And I’ve been working on plans to reach our target audience," I add anxiously.
"Our target audience?" Jace covers his mouth with his large hand for a moment, and when he finally lowers his fingers to his desk, my skin grows hot because he's laughing darkly.
"What's so funny?"
"Our target audience is everyone who likes to fuck, love."
Oh, my. Why does he have to phrase it quite like that? I swallow hard, clutching his credit card close to my chest. My heartbeat is a swift and heavy thud against my knuckles. "That's not necessarily true," I argue. "Don't you—"
He lifts a hand to halt my words. "You have one, yes?" When I stare at him blankly, he gives me a look that turns my stomach into a maze of knots. He’s asking if I have a vibrator. Sweet Jesus, how the hell did I wriggle myself into this one? Grazing my tongue over my lips, I desperately try to think of a retort that will steer this conversation back to the safe zone.
"Your eyes are darting, Williams, and you’re licking your lips again. Stop trying to come up with a bullshit response because you know exactly what I meant. I was asking if you have a nightstand drawer of playthings, a treasure trove of—"
"Stop." I hate the sensations that flow through me. I don't want him to know what's in my nightstand drawer. I don't want him to sit right in front of me trying to figure it out. Because then he'd know that when I touched myself just last night with the only toy I have—when I squeezed my eyes tight just before I let go—I thought of unruly dark hair and mocking blue-gray eyes.
"What I have has nothing to do with our target audience," I say, emphasizing each word.
He leans back in his chair, props his feet up on his desk, and a grin splits his bronze face. It's the first genuine one I've seen from him today. "So you do.”
"You're being inappropriate again. In fact, you excel at it."