Plus One(11)

By: Aleatha Romig

Okay, I’ve never seen his cock, but in my imagination, it’s big.

Yes, I have imagined it.

The image of Duncan Willis becomes clear as I sigh in disbelief and yes, in frustration too.

THE WATER AND scrubbing action works to remove the coffee stain. With a little patience and use of the hand dryer, the damp spot on my blouse fades. I don’t bother with the one on my panties. I try not to think about it, him, or them.

At least the coffee stain is gone.

No matter how hard I try, I can’t un-hear their vocalizations. With each step toward my desk, my erotic fantasy lessens and my fury builds. I’m not against a good orgasm as a great way to start the day, but shit. Do it in bed. Have it brought on by your favorite battery-operated boyfriend. Have it brought on by long, thick masculine fingers or better yet, a hard, large cock.

I try not to put a face with any of those fantasies, especially one with shining green eyes.

Any of those possibilities is an acceptable way to start the day.

What isn’t a great way… is to listen to your boss get off with some office slut after you had to deal with a telephone conversation with your mother.

I’m a human resources specialist. Fraternization is fine outside of the office.

Not inside.

Not in the bathroom.

It doesn’t matter what time of day. Sex in the company bathroom is wrong and against company policy. It’s an offense that can result in termination. Not that I can fire one of the owners. But damn, the man needs to keep it in his pants.

Last week at Gaston’s, I thought maybe the rumors were false. I thought maybe Mr. Willis wasn’t the player everyone made him out to be. He’s sexy and smart. He was nice and listened to my sad saga. After that night, I even considered that maybe the stories women whispered around the office were only wishful thinking. After all, that night he’d sought me out and made a point to uphold Jennifer’s reputation, not that I would have said anything. Nevertheless, by doing what he’d done, I’d been impressed.

Now, as I try to compose myself, I reconsider my assumption. Just because I heard second- or third-hand stories doesn’t mean I want to hear his moans or growls.

Holy shit!

That growl was so hot.

But seriously, who was she?

And then it hits me. Jennifer. Was everything he said at the bar just a cover?

That revelation makes me more upset.

Once back at my desk, I remove my coffee’s lid. The sudden jerk makes the liquid slosh precariously close to the rim. Don’t spill the coffee, I mentally warn myself.

I need to think about this as the HR specialist I am. Who the woman is isn’t the problem. The concern is that whomever she is, she could sue his ass and this company—Buchanan and Willis. What he did places my job as well as the jobs of others on the line.

Sitting at my desk, I carefully lift the cup. With the rim at my lips, I finally take a drink of my coffee. As I do, a deep voice causes the small hairs on my neck to stand to attention.

“Miss Jones.”

My breathing stops. Before I dribble on my blouse again, I carefully and cautiously move the cup away from my lips and turn toward the entrance to my cubicle. Standing there, all sexy and perhaps slightly perturbed, is Duncan Willis.

His arms cross over his wide chest, straining the seams of his suit coat. His shimmering green eyes move unashamedly down my body, beginning at my hair and leaving a trail of smoldering flames in their wake. Each inch that his gaze lowers widens the path of fire that his growl ignited in the bathroom. The heat builds as I wait for his next word. As seconds tick by, I’m ready to combust.

It’s not until his gaze reaches my shoes that his grin broadens. “Nice shoes, Miss Jones. I thought I noticed them this morning… in the coffee shop.”

My shoes. He noticed them? Why did I wear red? Nude or blue… so many options. How many women have on red pumps?

Undoubtedly, he not only saw them in the coffee shop, but also in the bathroom.

“Mr. Willis, it’s nice of you to notice my attire.”

“You’re very noticeable.”

As he turns to walk away, I remember to take a breath. One more second and I would have passed out or been consumed by the heat of his eyes. In either event, my head would have fallen onto my desk and probably spilled my coffee. Why not? After the way my morning had begun, anything is possible.

I turn back to my desk, and as I do, I remember the sound of his voice. Nice shoes.

My teeth grind.

He knows I know.

He wants me to know that he knows.

Well, Duncan Willis may be my boss, but I was hired here to do a job.

Any other employee and I would say something. I am bound to say something.

Steeling my shoulders, I begin to move my desk chair, when out of the corner of my eye, I see the screen of my phone light. In the message icon is a little red number—five. No wonder my wrist was vibrating.