Egomaniac(33)

I walked back into my apartment, completely lost in thought, only to be greeted by Emily. She was standing in the doorway that led to my living room, wearing nothing but those sexy-as-shit skinny-heeled shoes and her black lace G-string.

Nothing like a pair of perky D cups to cheer you up when you’re feeling down.

She tilted her head and crossed her legs at the ankles. The shoes were definitely staying on. I could almost feel them digging into my back already. “Like what you see?”

I responded without words, stalking over and lifting her up, guiding her legs to wrap around my waist. “You can ride me later. Right now, I’m going to fuck you on my kitchen table. You okay with that, Emerie?”

She chuckled. “Emily. I think all the blood is rushing south and messing with your ability to speak.”

Fuck. I’d called her Emerie and hadn’t even noticed.

“That must be it.” I walked us to the table and spread her out so I could quickly unbuckle my pants, but when I looked back up at her smiling face, I saw Emerie.

Emerie.

Not Emily who I was just about to fuck.

I blinked a few times, and my eyes came into focus. Chestnut hair, dark Italian skin, big brown eyes. The two looked nothing alike. Hovering over her, I held off on taking down my underwear to clear my head and get back in the moment. Then I took her mouth again, and we were kissing.

But I couldn’t shake the image of Emerie crying alone at her desk. Her big blue eyes red, fair skin blotched, sad about some asshole who was probably eating escargot and would wake her up with shaking walls at two in the morning.

Fuck.

Fuck.

“Fuuuuckkk.” I stood up and dragged my hand through my hair, wanting to yank it out in frustration.

“What? What’s wrong?”

I pulled up my pants as I responded. “It’s a client. She called while I was downstairs, and I blew her off. But I need to go work on something.”

“Are you kidding me? Now?”

“I’m sorry, Emerie.”

“Emily.” She covered her breasts as she sat up on the table.

“Emily. Yes. Sorry. My mind is elsewhere.” Like on Emerie, instead of Emily, where it should be.

“It’s fine,” she said.

I could tell it wasn’t. Of course, I didn’t blame her one bit. I’d be pissed as hell if a woman pulled the crap I’d just pulled on her. But there was nothing I could do about it. Except apologize.

“I’m really sorry. It’s time-sensitive, or I wouldn’t do this.”

“I understand.”

She got herself dressed, and less than five minutes after I’d walked into my apartment with a smoking hot naked woman waiting for me, I was walking her to the elevator.

The ride down was uncomfortable. In the lobby, she kissed me on the cheek and walked out without looking back. I should have felt badly, but instead, all I felt was anxious, wondering if Emerie was still here.

She’d better not be gone already.





Chapter 18


Drew



“Jesus Christ!” Emerie was just behind the front door to the office when I whipped it open. If she’d taken another step, I probably would’ve slammed her in the face.

She clutched at her chest. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

“Good. You’re still here.”

“I was just getting ready to leave. What’s the matter? Is everything okay?”

“Everything is fine. But I’m taking you out for your birthday.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t. But I want to.”

She squinted. “I thought you had company.”

“Got rid of her.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you ditch your date?” The confusion on her face melted as a realization of some sort seemed to hit her. “Oh.”

My brows drew down. “Oh what?”

“You’re done with your date.”

“I was far from done,” I grumbled, then nodded my head toward the street. “Come on. You deserve a nice night out on your birthday. That dumb putz has no idea what he’s missing. Let’s go get shitfaced.”

She smiled from ear to ear. “That sounds awesome.”

***

“I’m never getting my balls in.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re so uptight. You haven’t been laid in so long, you forgot it’s not the balls that go inside.” I smirked at Emerie as the five ball rolled into the left corner pocket. It was our first game of pool, and I’d just banked in my fifth ball in a row. She was right. I might clear the table before she chalked up her stick.

She narrowed her eyes. “How do you know how long it’s been since I’ve gotten laid?”

“You’re wound a little tight.”

I expected her to go off on me, but instead she surprised me. Literally. Just as I was about to take my sixth shot, she yelled, “Watch it!” My hand veered mid-shot, and the two ball landed nowhere near the pocket I’d intended.

She sported a smug smile, all proud of herself.

“Is that how we’re going to play this?”

“What? I’m so uptight, I can’t help myself. Sometimes words get bottled up, and they just pop out of my mouth like a cork from champagne.”