It pops off the magnet easily, but I have to bring it fully into my vision—directly between myself and Remy’s member—in order to look at it. I mean, damn. That beautiful, giant thing was inside me last night.
Twice, my mind reminds me.
My breathing escalates at just the thought. Evidently, despite my very best intentions and my drunken, orgasm-blurred confidence of last night, I’m actually not emotionally prepared to handle the situation like a full-blown adult.
Oh my God! Remy and I slept together last night. But, like, without the sleeping. Holy, holy shit.
My mind continues to taunt me, reminding me of last night’s events in flashes of visuals that are most definitely NSFW.
His head between my legs as he sucked and licked and tasted me.
The heady look in his eyes when he slid himself inside me.
The way he practically growled “I need to be inside you again” when he woke me up in the middle of the night.
It’s all so much and too much at the same time, and I force my vision to tunnel on my phone once again as a distraction.
“Oh no,” I mutter, a new text message notification only adding to my anxiety.
Any message from Claudia this early is the first sign of bad news, but when I tap the screen to read its contents, things only get worse.
Claudia: So, I think I forgot to tell you last night that I got the showing rescheduled to this morning. 8:00 a.m. sharp.
Eight a.m.? I glance frantically at the time. It’s almost forty after seven right now!
The Blakely family isn’t one you just cancel on twice. The Blakely family owns a third of the available freaking real estate in Nassau County! Getting in on the ground floor of their wanting to expand their portfolio in Manhattan is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
And Conrad Blakely isn’t the type of man that tolerates bullshit.
Claudia has hung me out to dry with them twice now. Actually, three times, really! Because anytime anyone overshares about the shits, it counts for double.
I jump from the bed, thoughts of both termination and murder swirling in a completely psychotic mix inside me. Oh yes. A brutal, torturous, messy murder. Guantanamo Bay will have nothing on me when I get my hands on Claudia after this.
I’m never going to make it on time, and if I do, I’m going to look like I just got out of an intense laundry spin cycle.
“Shit! Shit!” I yell, scrambling from one side of the room to the other without even focusing on anything. I don’t know where to go first, what to do.
At the sounds of my frantic voice, Remy sits up ramrod straight in bed, and a whole other wave of panic washes over me. His…his penis…it’s sitting up straight too.
Okay, universe, one crisis at a time, please!
Remy
Sleep sticks to my eyes as I force them to focus on the blur of Maria as she runs back and forth from one side of the room to the other, shouting expletives as if it’s her main goal in life to use every single one of them.
It’d be cute, honestly, on any other day, but after the way last night ended, I’m not sure this is the best sign.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, jumping from the bed and hurrying after her. She doesn’t answer, instead turning on her heel again and changing directions with a very random sock in her hand.
“Ria. Hey, what’s going on?” I plead again as she zooms by, the wind from her speed creating a breeze against my face.
“My assistant is a curdled cheese bag!” she shouts nonsensically, and my eyebrows pull together.
“Your assistant is…a what now?”
“She’s an idiot!” she clarifies, whizzing past me yet again. “And so am I for not firing her before now!”
“Okay, Ri. Relax. What’s going on? How can I help?”
“Unless you’re an expert in time travel, you can’t! I have to be at a showing in Midtown in fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes!” she shouts with a hysterical cackle. “Superman himself could swoop down and pick me up, and I’m still never going to make it there in time.”
She takes off, and I head back to the side of the bed to slide my boxer briefs on. Something about chasing her around the room with my dick flopping every which way seems less than ideal. I’ll run a lot faster if it’s not dragging the ground, you know. Or something like that.
Maria’s the roadrunner, and I’m the coyote, only my plans for when I catch her don’t involve any sort of anvils.
She scoots from the closet to the bathroom, and the sink runs and quits almost manically as she brushes her teeth. I listen for a sign that she’s reaching the end of her truncated getting-ready routine, and I finally get it when she flips off the lights of the bathroom and heads for the hallway at a run.