Rugged(86)

“Give it to me,” I command, my voice strained with lust.

“So demanding,” he chuckles in my ear, gripping my hips with his big, strong hands.

“Now,” I groan, feeling myself bordering on a climax just thinking of his cock, ready and tight inside me. “Please.”

I feel his teeth on my neck again, my shoulder, and then he drives into me so hard I see a flash of white. “Fuck,” I cry, drawing out the word. “So good.”

And then, instead of going easy, he pistons into me with everything he has, keeping up a fierce, steady beat, the length of him stroking into me over and over without stopping, totally relentless. I moan his name, not caring if anyone hears us—or, more likely, the sound of the dryer banging against the wall. None of it matters, I’m so obliterated by the sensation of getting completely owned by this man.

“I’m gonna come,” Flint grinds out, pumping even faster, holding me even tighter as his mouth finds mine in the dark.

My hands tangle in his hair and as we kiss I feel my own orgasm building, hot and fast and unstoppable. Suddenly Flint shudders in my arms, and I can hear his groan echo in the small space as a simultaneous shockwave slams through me, and I’m coming so hard I see stars in the dark and all I can do is hold onto Flint as I ride it out.

We catch our breath, leaning against each other as oxygen reenters our brains. Because yes, I do have one. It’s just been AWOL as of late. Flint turns on the light and I shield my eyes, cowering half naked on the still-tumbling clothes dryer.

“You’re really amazing when you let go like that,” he says, handing me my skirt and tucking my hair behind my ears. And all of a sudden, my eyes go wide in horror.

What have I done?

I did it again. Somehow, being a complete idiot, I let it happen all over again.

And I didn’t just hurt myself this time. I hurt another woman. I mean, Flint did, but I was part of it. I wholeheartedly took part. I could have stopped this. Should have.

“I, I have to go,” I stammer, sliding off the machine and almost falling down, my legs still Jello. I fumble for my panties, feeling like the world’s f*cking derpiest contestant in the walk of shame. Flint’s buttoning his shirt, but his gaze snaps up to me and I see a look of dazed confusion cross his face.

“What do you mean?” he says. He takes my hand, but I’m already backing toward the door. “Laurel, don’t go.” The look on his face is sincere; it’s earnest. But my shame turns into white hot rage, and I yank out of his grip.

“You’re disgusting,” I shout. Flint looks like a gruff, adorable dog that I’ve kicked in the side, but I can’t stop the words spilling out of my mouth. “First you sleep with me to take the edge off while we build your goddamn dream house, and then when your ex-fiancée waltzes back into your life, you don’t even have the decency to tell me. And then, to top it all off, when you have to be without her for only a few f*cking weeks, you come right back to me? I thought you were a decent guy, but you are the serious f*cking worst.”

Nothing, not even Flint McKay, is worth feeling this ashamed of myself. Nothing is worth degrading myself or other people. I’m done with this bullshit. No f*cking more.

“Listen to me.” He moves closer, fury radiating off of him.

“I’m sorry, do you not have pictures of Charlotte on your phone, dress shopping in New York with your little sister for your big Hollywood premiere?”

“You looked through my phone?” Great, now he’s really getting angry. Like that’s the worst thing that has happened. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

There’s a buzz and a rumble, and I hear the grinding sound of the parking garage gate opening. Great. We have company.

I’m not doing this. Not here.

“Call a cab. I need to go,” I say. I pull open the door and storm toward my Camaro, trying not to listen to Flint calling my name. After I slam the door behind me I gun the engine and drive out so fast the gate almost doesn’t have enough time to re-open.

I can’t see Flint again. I have to go to the only place where everything makes sense to me—work.



It may be after hours, but there’s still a hum of energy about the cubicles. Even the industrial carpeting seems alive at night. Sounds stupid, yes, but it always seemed that way to me. This office is where things happen. Where people become important. Doing well here is all I’ve ever wanted.

So why doesn’t that feel like enough anymore? I turn on my computer monitor and notice, as it boots up, that my reflection has streaks of mascara running down its cheeks. Fantastic. I grab some tissues and clean myself up before I get lost in some emails I forgot to take care of this morning. This is what I need. Work. Lots of work. Everybody’s workin’ for the weekend. Or on the weekend, whichever comes first.

“Ms. Young?” someone above me says. I look up, a ball of tissues still crumpled in my hand. A young man stands above me, his eyes looking owlish behind his round glasses. “Were you just humming something from Loverboy?”

“Uh. ‘Everybody’s Workin’ for the Weekend,’” I mutter. Man. 80s nostalgia really is at its damn peak.

“We’ve met before,” he says, registering my look of total not-remembering. “Ed French. I’m working on your budget.”

Right. The guy who’s so anal about managing every penny, he asks us to verify what brand of rubber bands we’re buying. Ed sniffs and slides his glasses back up his nose. He’s a good-looking man, mid twenties, with oiled hair that’s perfectly in place. Which leads to my next question.