I lean my head forward, pressing it against the cool glass. I feel him step closer, his hand reaching out to brush my hair away from my neck. He leans down, his warm breath coming out in puffs against my skin.
“Do you ever think about that night on my desk?”
I nod my head.
“Me too. I think about it too, probably too much. All those little looks you mentioned I give you? I’m remembering that moment, Margot. I’m remembering the way your body trembled beneath my tongue. The way your taste filled my mouth.”
My entire body is burning with desire. My heart is telling me to just tell him how I feel. To fix it and make it work.
I spin around to face him, placing my hands on his chest.
“What did you do with my panties?”
He gets a devilish grin and walks over to his desk, leaning down to open a drawer. He reaches inside and produces the panties, holding them up so I can see them.
I watch as he brings them to his nose, closing his eyes and inhaling.
Holy shit. I clench my thighs tighter.
“Do they still smell like me?”
“A little.”
I feel a sudden surge of confidence soar through me and I capitalize on it, maintaining eye contact with him as I slowly walk toward his desk. I lift myself, sliding my backside onto his desk. His lips part in anticipation as I slowly spread my thighs open and lift my skirt.
I watch as he grips the panties in his hands, slowly sliding down into his seat. He reaches his other hand forward, but I smack it away, shaking my head.
I pull my skirt all the way up to my waist as I lean back on one hand, the other dragging down my body and into my panties. I close my eyes and allow myself to get lost in the moment as I begin to explore my womanhood.
I tease myself. Running my fingers through my wet folds and around my sensitive nub. I don’t hold back. I moan and bite my bottom lip, letting myself enjoy every second of this, not questioning what will happen after or tomorrow or next week.
I can feel my wetness soaking my panties as I slide my fingers inside. I thrust over and over again, bringing them out to play with my clit before delving them back inside. My release builds. My thighs tremble and shake as I fall over the edge, my orgasm shooting through my body to my toes as I come undone.
Graham is gripping the armrest of his chair so hard his knuckles are white. His jaw is clenched and tight and the tenting in his pants tells me he’s just as excited as I am.
I remove myself from the desk, reaching beneath my skirt to wipe myself with my panties before sliding them down my legs and bending to pick them up.
Without a word, I drop them in his lap and exit the office.
26
GRAHAM
Four days…
I stare at the ceiling in my bedroom as rain taps against the glass of the window. It’s soothing but it’s no use, I can’t sleep.
I sit up and lean forward, scrubbing my hands over my face, debating if I should take another shower to help me relax. I glance over at the clock on the nightstand: 1:23 a.m.
I pull on my pajama pants and trudge downstairs, opting to bury my feelings in Oreos. I think I saw a pack in the pantry yesterday.
I flick on the light above the stove and open the pantry door.
“Can’t sleep either?”
I spin around to see Margot sitting at the kitchen island, a mug of tea in her hands.
“Thought I might drown my sorrows in Oreos. Want some?”
She nods and pats the stool next to her. I reach inside and grab the package, bringing it over to where she’s seated.
We both take a cookie. I watch as she splits it in two, eating the plain cookie first before scraping the cream off the other with her teeth. She then proceeds to eat that cookie as well.
“That’s an interesting method.”
“What’s yours?”
I too split the cookie in half. “I eat the naked one first and then”—I pause as I pop it into my mouth and chew—“I eat the other one, with the cream still on it.”
“Isn’t that what I did?” she asks.
“Close but you ate the cream alone.”
She shrugs. “Guess I don’t even pay attention to how I eat Oreos.”
Silence settles between us as we each eat another cookie.
“I want to tell you something.” She turns in her stool, angling her body to face me. “You opened up to me about you and your wife the other day and I appreciated that.”
She reaches for another Oreo but doesn’t eat it, just fiddles with it between her fingers.
“Warren Dorsey met my mom at the jazz club that she used to sing at—The Bluebird. She was young, really young actually. He was close to twenty years older than her at the time. She was only nineteen.
“She was naive and she thought that his infatuation was love. He showered her with gifts and even paid her rent. He’d show up to the jazz club and woo her basically. All the time she had no idea that he was already married with a family. She didn’t know who he was; he wasn’t as well known back then as he is now. He was certainly rich—richer than anyone else she’d ever met—but he was just making a name for himself.”
She places the cookie on the counter and wipes the crumbs off her fingers, taking a sip of tea.
“Anyway, she fell head over heels for him and she thought he loved her too because he told her he did. He made her all these crazy promises about running off and getting married. Traveling the world. None of it actually happened and none of it was genuine. It was a whirlwind romance. They met and fell in ‘love’ all within like three months. By month five she was pregnant and he was gone.”
“What a fucking prick,” I mutter.
“He literally just ghosted her. Poof. Everything seemed perfect between them, she told me. She said that she was excited about being pregnant and he seemed genuinely excited and happy too. He told her he was going to move her into his high-rise apartment in Manhattan. He left one night, telling her he had a business trip so he’d be out of town for a few days and that was it. She never saw or heard from him again.”
“Not even when you were born?”
She shakes her head no.
“Nope. He never paid a single cent of child support. Never sent a birthday card or asked how she was or I was. She had no idea what happened to him until one day when I was around seven, she saw a new headline about this up-and-coming billionaire, Warren Dorsey.”
“Wait. Did he lie about his name to her?”
“Not completely. He did say his name was Warren, but he gave her a fake last name. She recognized him in the photo and she realized as she read on that it mentioned his wife Cheryl and three kids, two of which were older than me.”
I shake my head. I didn’t think it was possible, but I hate that fucker even more now and I feel especially horrible for the fact that I almost did business with him. Now I understand her reaction toward him.
“Glen Silver, my adoptive father, is my real dad to me. He raised me. He met my mom when I was nine months old and stood by her side till he passed.” I laugh, recalling a memory. “Mom told me that Dad called her his desert rose for two reasons. Because he felt like his potential to find true love at that point in his life was dry and barren and because my mom was a redhead.”
“Did Warren ever reach out when your mom died?”