Desperately Seeking Epic(80)

His hand gently slid across my cheek before he slapped it firmly. I grunted with the sting, but stayed in position. I heard the office chair squeak as he rolled it back and took a seat. Then I felt his teeth on my flesh, that delicious bite of pain, before he kissed the same spot, soothing it.

With his finger, he gently tugged my panty aside, exposing me to him, before running his tongue over my wet skin. I moaned, my eyes fluttering closed in pleasure.

“You taste so f*cking good,” he growled before licking me again. Damn, I loved when he talked dirty to me.

“Does she now?”

My eyes flew open at the question.

At the voice.

Fuck.

Marcus.

Marcus was standing in the doorway of the office, staring right at us.

Paul let my panty slide back into place before hastily tugging my skirt down and standing. My body felt like a wave of fire had brushed over it, and I knew I had to be bright red. Neither of us said anything. Paul stood a few feet away, and given the moment, the awkwardness of it, it felt off. Obviously off in the sense Marcus had just walked in on Paul’s face on my ass, but also how Paul had seemingly moved away from me. Did he think distancing himself from me would make what Marcus just witnessed look any less what it was? Did it really matter what Marcus thought? So what if Paul and I were together, if that’s what one wanted to call it, even though we never really officially said we were. Why should Marcus care? I felt alone and exposed in that moment. I crossed my arms as a silent stare down ensued between the two men.

“Banging your uncle’s sloppy seconds,” Marcus mused. “Classy, Paul.”

My blood pressure shot up like a rocket. “Fuck you, Marcus,” I seethed. “I did not have any sexual relations with Dennis. Get. Over. It.”

“Did he like bending you over desks, too, Clara?” Marcus jeered, ignoring me. He wasn’t going to let up. Not this time. He’d caught me with my pants down—or skirt up—and he was taking no prisoners. I shot my gaze to Paul, looking for some backup. But he said nothing.

Not. One. Fucking. Word.

He’d never really stood up for me. And in the few times Marcus and I went at each other in Paul’s presence, he danced around both of us on his tippy-toes like he was on a floor made of eggshells. My heart dropped to my stomach. Marcus was calling me a whore, basically. Again. And Paul said nothing.

His dark eyes were trained on the floor as he shoved his hands in his pockets. I stared at him. I knew he could feel it; there’s no way he couldn’t. But he stood silent and let Marcus’ insults hang in the air.

I turned and grabbed my purse. When the strap caught on the arm of the desk chair, I yanked at it angrily, my frustration rearing its ugly head. Keep your cool, Clara. Don’t let Marcus win. When I finally freed it, I slipped it over my shoulder and met Marcus’ stare. He was smirking. He thought he had me figured out. I wanted to smack that smirk right off his face. It took all of my strength not to. And that’s when I got petty. I was so angry and . . . well . . . hurt, I lost my way for a moment. Meeting Marcus’ gaze head-on, I gave him a tempered smirk.

“I guess you’ve figured it out,” I chirped. “Dennis and I were lovers.”

You could have heard a pin drop in that room. They were both stunned. I knew Paul’s eyes were trained on me now, but I refused to look at him. I couldn’t. I hated him in that moment. Marcus may have been the one that insulted me, but Paul’s mute stance hurt worse. It was the bigger insult.

“We did it right here on this desk a few times,” I purred. I shook my head as I sighed, “I was in one of those phases some girls go through, ya know, the ones where we’re so young but want to have sex with really old men.” My tone was dripping with sarcasm. I was saying it happened, but making sure they both realized how ridiculous it sounded.

“I have never had a better lover,” I continued.

Silence.

No one said a word.

I stared at Marcus as he stared back. Both of us glowered at the other.

But I wasn’t done. Not at all.

“I guess I should tell you a few other things, too,” I went on. “I have a superpower. When I sleep with a man, I can make him do anything,” I boasted, my eyes wide with exaggeration. “For example, I can make a sane man leave me half of his business.” I shrugged nonchalantly. “I can also turn a man into a spineless mute,” I seethed, directing my gaze to Paul. I flung my arm up toward him. “See!” I laughed with ridicule. “Look at what I can do!”

Paul’s expression was conflicted. He looked somewhere between angry, embarrassed, and guilt-ridden.

I moved toward the door, forcing Marcus to move aside so I could exit. Looking down at him, I sneered, “Just imagine what I could make you do, little man.”

He glared at me, but didn’t speak. It was a first. He always had a comeback; an insult. Always. I had won this time. This one and only time when it came to Marcus—I got the last word. But I didn’t really feel like I had won. Not at all. I marched out of the office and left Paul to sort it out with Marcus. As far as I was concerned, we were done.

Finished.

Over.





We’re meeting Ashley daily now. It’s hard to relive the past. It’s hard to remember the bad things. The good, too. Especially while Clara and I are still at odds right now. We’re not fighting. We talk, but only in regard to Neena. It’s very minimal. We take shifts sleeping downstairs with her at night. Our disagreement is silly. Really. I know she’s just frantic a lot of the time; concerned for Neena. I know that she tries to shoulder everything, like if she hadn’t left Neena with me that night, Neena wouldn’t have taken such a rapid turn for the worse. But I recognize that while she blames me, she really blames herself. Why is it when we’re hurting we always take it out on the ones we love the most?