Damaged Goods (5 page)

office phone were allowed on the desk for any length of time. Paperwork was filed,

my mouse and keyboard were underneath, and even pens lived in a drawer unless

they were in use.

To clients and newcomers, I was organized and not swamped at all. Anyone

who"d worked with me for any length of time knew it was an illusion, a sign not of

my efficiency but of my neurotic aversion to clutter. With two kids at home, I could

only keep the chaos under so much control, but here, in my office? Immaculate. It

just gave the appearance that I wasn"t nearly as busy as I was.

In spite of my brain taking occasional forays back to Saturday night, I hit my

stride within a few minutes of coming through the door. Calls to return, e-mails to

answer, meetings to attend, more meetings to schedule.

At one point, a glance at my appointment book sent my body temperature up a

few degrees.

2:00—Meeting with Clark McEnroe.

Clark was one of those clients who had probably appeared in the impure

thoughts of the majority of the women in this building. He and his good looks came

in about once a month to discuss contract modifications or implementing his latest

marketing strategies into his advertisements. When he did, it was no great secret

that at least a dozen of my female colleagues would find reasons to be on my floor,

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Lauren Gallagher

milling around my assistant"s desk or heading to nonexistent meetings. After he

left, Laura always fanned herself with a file folder and commented that the powers

that be must have been screwing with the air-conditioning again.

I"d long ago gotten the hang of getting through a meeting with him without

stumbling over my words or throwing myself at him. That wasn"t to say I"d never

imagined hooking a finger under his tie and loosening it while accidentally pulling

him closer. I could probably have been accused of the odd daydream about what he"d

look like without that crisp white button-down. I
might
have entertained a fantasy

or two about a long kiss. A
really
long kiss.

For the most part, I"d kept myself cool and professional around him, just like I

did with any client.

When he sauntered into my office at two o"clock this afternoon, though, he

didn"t look like a man I could keep cool around. He always wore suits, but this one

was tailored just right to showcase his broad shoulders and narrow waist.

Maintenance must have changed some of the overhead bulbs over the weekend,

because I didn"t remember my office lights ever picking out the highlights in his

hair or the blue of his eyes quite like that.

I"d also never noticed how long his fingers were. Long, fine fingers, every

movement careful and precise even when he was doing nothing more than flipping

through loose-leaf pages. While he read the latest proposed modification to his

company"s contract, he absently turned a pen over and over between his fingers,

completely oblivious to all the things going through my head.

I shifted in my chair. My mind was like someone else"s today, dragging Clark

much deeper into my fantasies than ever before. Usually, I just caught myself

wishing for a clandestine kiss or even a well-timed glance down the front of my

blouse.

Maybe having my name on an escort agency"s client list had freed my inner

slut, and she wasn"t the least bit ashamed of imagining Clark bending me over my

desk or putting me on my knees to suck his cock. Forget having his shirt off. I

wanted it rumpled, half-buttoned, and bunched in my hands. I wanted—

He suddenly looked up. “I think I like the new terms here, but I"m a little

concerned—” He paused. “Did, um, did I say something wrong?”

“Hmm? No, of course not.”

“Oh.” He smiled, the hint of shyness making me tingle in places no

professional woman should tingle when trying to stay in a client"s good graces. “You

looked like you were blushing a bit.”

Me? Oh, nooo…

I coughed and made a dismissive gesture, then glanced at the vents above my

desk. “They"ve been…screwing with the air-conditioners in here lately. Gets a bit

warm.” I cocked my head. “It"s not too hot in here for you, is it?”

Yeah
, that
didn’t come across as a baited question.

“No, I"m fine.”

Damaged Goods

19

I cleared my throat. “You were saying, about the new terms?”

“Right. Right.” He laid the pages on the desk, and while we went over his

concerns, I didn"t look at him like that again. Nor did it make my heart skip when

he absently adjusted the knot of his tie.

Jocelyn, seriously, calm down.

“Looks like everything"s in order.” He slid all the paperwork back into its file

folder. “I"ll shoot you an e-mail if the powers that be object to anything.”

“Sounds good.” I rose and extended my hand. “Thanks for coming by.”

“Not a problem.” He shook my hand and smiled. “It was a pleasure, as always.”

Yeah, you could say that
. After some more polite small talk, I saw him out of

the office.

Laura and I watched him through the tinted glass doors. I fanned myself with

a file folder.

“Screwing with the A/C in your office this time?” she asked with a smirk.

I laughed. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Don"t blame you.” She craned her neck to catch one more glimpse of him

before he disappeared around a corner. “You"re the one who gets to stare at him for

an hour.”

“Yeah, and try to maintain some semblance of dignity in the process,” I said.

“Not easy, my friend.”

She put a hand over her heart. “Oh, I
ache
with pity for you.”

We both laughed. Then I went back into my office and dropped into my desk

chair. For a moment, I just stared at my desk, not even sure which task to jump on

next. I had plenty to do and not enough time to do it, but damn if I could focus. I

never had trouble concentrating at work, least of all because I was too busy

entertaining racy thoughts about a longtime and respected client.

Except it wasn"t just Clark. It wasn"t the new guy in accounting who stopped

into my office to pick up some papers and inadvertently wander through a fantasy

involving chocolate sauce. It wasn"t the pair of gorgeous models on their way down

to photography after their combined presence made me seriously consider adding

ménage a trois to my life"s to-do list.

It wasn"t
who
I wanted; it was
what
I wanted, and that was dirty, sweaty,

unbridled sex. Lovemaking was fine and good, and someday, when a man came

along with whom I connected enough for that to happen, fine. For now? I craved

sheet-mangling, shoulder-clawing, headboard-pounding
fucking.

I caught myself looking at the entire world around me in a different light,

including my work environment. The stack of Xerox paper boxes in the supply closet

would be uncomfortable as hell against my back or under my forearms, but wouldn"t

that be hot? I imagined myself getting fucked over the conference room table or

right up against the pull-down screen, bathed in the multicolored glow of the

projected death by PowerPoint presentation. My own office chair was the perfect

20

Lauren Gallagher

height for a kneeling blowjob, and I absolutely did not spend a single second

mentally measuring my desk"s height in relation to my hips or those of any man

who came into my office throughout the day.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” I muttered into the stuffy stillness of my

office.

That was an easy answer. I"d tasted the kind of sex I"d been craving for the

past few years, and now I wanted more. I wanted more, and it was still available for

the taking. Money wasn"t an issue. I would, of course, schedule it on a night when

the kids were at Michael"s. So why shouldn"t I? No one knew about last Saturday,

and they wouldn"t know about the next one.

So much for taking the edge off. Obviously it wasn"t a good idea to do it again,

then. If it just made me want more and drove me to distraction, it was a bad idea.

A bad idea, but a hot one.

No no no. Once was enough.

By the time I left the office that evening, I was in dire need of ten minutes or

so alone, which I didn"t get until I went to bed at almost eleven. By the end of the

week, ten minutes or so alone didn"t cut it anymore, even twice a night. By Sunday

evening, I"d run out of reasons why a repeat session with an escort was a bad idea.

So, after Michael came and picked up the kids, I made the call.

And I requested Sabian again.

Though he probably wouldn"t remember me from Eve, he"d be familiar enough

to me to ease some of my nerves. I told myself there was no sense putting myself

through the same “what the hell am I doing with a total stranger?” anxiety this

time if there was a way to alleviate it. That, and I knew he could satisfy me.

After all, Mama always said, if it ain"t broke…

Damaged Goods

21

Chapter Three

The hotel"s coarse wallpaper burned my shoulder blades, but Sabian fucked me

too hard and too deep for me to give a damn. Every thrust meant more friction

against the wall, but the only thing that mattered was his cock sliding easily in and

out of my pussy, sending me closer to yet another orgasm.

I clawed at his shoulders, my fingers sliding across his sweat-soaked skin. I

screwed my eyes shut and
tried
to cry out,
tried
to beg him to fuck me harder, but

the air wouldn"t move. Sabian certainly moved, though. Whatever it was he did with

his hips, it was incredible. I didn"t know if he twisted them somehow, or rolled

them, or had sold his soul to the devil for the ability to get that deep at that angle

and that speed and—

I whimpered and dug my nails into his shoulders, and damn if he didn"t fuck

me just a little harder
right
when I lost it, and the entire universe turned white. An

unrestrained cry of ecstasy left my lips, and Sabian"s breath caught. He thrust in as

deep as he could, forcing himself into me so hard my back ground against the wall.

Then he threw his head back and groaned.

In seconds, it was over, and I tangled my fingers in his sweaty hair while he

panted against my shoulder. His arms shook. My legs shook. We tried to kiss, but

we were both breathing too hard, so we gave up.

He let my legs down. For a moment, I leaned against the wall and held on to

him, just trying to get my shaking legs under me. Sabian braced himself with his

forearm. His eyes were closed. Drops of perspiration slid from his disheveled hair

down the sides of his face and over his body, adding a sheen to his muscles and

tattoos.

After a moment, he opened his eyes. “You all right?”

I nodded. “Just…shaking. A bit.”

“Good. Means I did my job.”

“I"m not complaining, believe me.”

He kept an arm around me until I made it to the bed. While I tucked my

trembling legs under the scratchy hotel blanket, Sabian stepped into the bathroom

to take care of the condom.

Staring up at the ceiling, I let out a long breath. My back burned, my pussy

tingled, my hips would probably hurt like hell in the morning, and this was exactly

what the doctor had ordered. There"d be time for regret later.

22

Lauren Gallagher

Sabian came back into the room and got into bed beside me. I turned onto my

side, and he draped an arm over my waist.

“You don"t mind if we take a breather, do you?” I said.

“Not at all.” He wiped some sweat from his forehead. “I could use one myself.”

“Should I be gloating about wearing you out?”

He laughed. “Give me a few minutes, darlin", and we"ll see who"s worn out.”

Something told me he wasn"t kidding.

“So, while we"re catching our breath,” I said, “I"m curious. And this might be a

stupid question…”

“Try me.”

“Do you have…regular customers?”
Please tell me I’m not the only repeat.

“A few,” he said with a nod.

“Really?”

“Yeah. It"s not that uncommon.” His palm drifted up and down the curve of my

waist. “Makes my job easier sometimes.”

“Does it?”

“I start remembering what she likes, that kind of thing.”

“That actually brings me to something else I meant to ask you,” I said. “Your

company"s site mentions all kinds of other services. What else do you do for your

clients?”

He shrugged. “Depends on what she wants. Sometimes it"s just an evening out;

sometimes it"s a night like this. Some women like to do a little role-playing once in a

while.”

“Role-playing? What do you mean?”

“Pretty much anything.” His lip curled into a playful smirk. “Have you ever

fantasized about fucking a customer, or a vendor, or even the guy who comes to