The Stranger Behind My Orgasm

Abigail

"Hold! Please!"

I breezed through the marble lobby in haste as the elevator doors slid shut, those polished steel panels closing like jaws while I was still twenty feet away.

"Hold the elevator!"

My heels clicked rapidly against the floor as liquid sloshed in the Stanley cup in my left hand, threatening to spill iced coffee all over my crisp white shirt. My bag kept sliding off my shoulder, the strap catching in the crook of my elbow while I tried to keep the stack of folders from scattering everywhere.

A hand shot between the closing doors and they bounced open, so I lunged inside, breathless and flushed and probably looking nothing like the composed professional I was supposed to be.

So much for a good first day.

"Thank you," I gasped, slumping against the elevator wall. "Thank you so much."

Three people stared at me, two men in black and grey suits respectively and one woman with a bluetooth earpiece and a bored expression.

I fumbled with my folders, trying to get them organized while preventing my bag from sliding down my arm again. The Stanley cup was still in my hand because I hadn’t had time to take a single sip yet, and my stomach was eating itself because I’d skipped breakfast in my rush to get here on time.

"What floor?" The blonde man had his finger hovering over the panel.

"Top floor. Executive suite."

The woman’s eyebrows shot up while the brunette let out a low whistle.

"Oh shit."

I pressed my lips together and nodded.

"Exactly."

The blonde looked confused. "What’s the problem?"

"She’s the Boss’s new EA, Ted." The brunette chuckled darkly, which had the blonde cursing too.

My stomach dropped even farther. Was this man really that terrible?

I glanced at my watch—eight forty five—which meant I had fifteen minutes to prepare his coffee and set up the files on his desk.

Was it just me or was this elevator moving slowly?

I shouldn’t have stayed up late with Annette last night because waking up fifteen minutes behind schedule had completely thrown me off.

"Yeah." The brunette shook his head, regarding me with a look of pity. "You’re fucked."

"Language, Marcus. We don’t want to scare the new recruit," the woman said absently, still typing on her phone.

"Good luck," the blonde offered as the elevator dinged for the twelfth floor.

They all stepped out, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts.

I can’t get fired on my first day. I can’t.

When the elevator finally opened on the top floor, I stepped into a space that screamed money—glass walls, expensive art, thick carpet that muted my footsteps.

My office was right outside the CEO’s, bigger than my last one, with a desk, computer, filing cabinets, and a door that connected directly to Mr. Wolfe’s private office.

I rushed inside, dropped my bag and folders on the desk, and checked my watch again.

It was eight forty seven and his coffee had to be on his desk by eight fifty, so I hurried through the connecting door into his office.

The space was massive with floor to ceiling windows overlooking New York, a desk that looked like it cost more than my car, and sleek modern furniture that probably came from some exclusive Italian designer.

I found the coffee station Ms. Carlson had mentioned—a sleek espresso machine built into the wall with a small prep sink and marble counter. A mini fridge sat in the cabinet below.

Okay. Double shot espresso, one sugar, splash of cream, 180 degrees. I can do this.

The machine had more buttons than necessary, so I found the one labeled ESPRESSO and pressed it.

Nothing happened. I pressed it again but still nothing.

Come on, come on!

Noticing a small switch on the side, I flipped it and the machine hummed to life, its lights blinking at me.

Eight forty nine.

"Shit," I muttered, searching the cabinet above for coffee grounds until I found several jars labeled Espresso Forte. That sounded right.

I dumped grounds into the machine, locked it into place, and hit the button for a double shot as dark liquid started streaming into the small cup I’d found.

While that brewed, I searched for sugar and cream in the mini fridge in the cabinet below and found them, along with bottled water and what looked like meal prep containers.

Damn, this man really had the ideal setup.

When the espresso finished, I checked the temperature with the thermometer sitting next to the machine and the display read 165.

Not hot enough. Could I microwave it?

I looked around frantically but there was no microwave, just the espresso machine, which had a steam wand attachment.

Perfect.

I positioned the cup under the steam wand and turned it on while the machine hissed and steam shot into the coffee. The temperature display climbed—170, 175, 180.

I yanked the cup away and switched off the steam. My watch read eight fifty one.

Fuck. I was already late. I could only hope he chose today of all days to come in late.

I grabbed the cup, turned toward his desk, and my hip slammed into the edge of the counter. The cup flew from my hand as hot coffee arced through the air in slow motion, splattering across the marble, the floor, and into the sink.

The coffee hit the faucet at exactly the wrong angle and water exploded—a full pressure blast shot straight up like a geyser, hitting the ceiling before raining down on me.

"No! No no no!" I lunged for the faucet, trying to turn it off, but the handle was slippery and my fingers couldn’t get a grip and the water just kept coming, soaking everything.

My hair, my face, my white shirt and skirt until the fabric clung to my skin. I finally wrenched the handle to the right and the water stopped.

I stood there, dripping, breathing hard as water pooled on the floor around my feet. My carefully styled hair hung in wet ropes while my white shirt was completely see through now, my black lace bra clearly visible underneath.

This couldn’t be happening.

My hands trembled as I realized I needed to change, needed to go back to my office and find something, anything, dry to wear. Almost immediately, the office door opened.

"Yes, sir. I’ll have the analysis on your desk by 12 noon."

"Not a minute later."

I froze and turned around slowly, water still dripping from my hair, my clothes, pooling at my feet.

Two men stood in the doorway. The first was younger, maybe thirty, in a tailored grey suit, and his jaw dropped as he stared at me, his hand hovering over the door knob.

The second man stepped forward from behind him. And the entire world tilted on its axis.

No, no, NO!

That devastating, unforgettable face I’d seen through the bathroom door gap. The strong jaw covered in dark stubble, the sharp nose, those lips, that pair of emerald green eyes that had tormented my sleep for days.

What sort of game us the universe playing with me?

My heart slammed against my ribs. My gaze traveled down to his forearm where his white dress shirt sleeve was rolled up to his elbow.

The tattoo was there—intricate black ink spiraling up his right forearm.

Then his cologne hit me. Tom Ford. The same scent that had wrapped around me in that tiny airplane bathroom.

It was him! Holy Jesus.

The stranger who had fucked me so hard I had wet dreams about him for a week was standing in front of me. My new boss was the stranger from the plane.

Oh, my God.

I looked up, locking gazes with his.

For half a second, something flickered across his face. Then it was gone.

His expression went cold. His gaze swept over me, taking in my soaked hair, my see-through shirt, the water on the floor, the coffee splattered everywhere.

When he looked at me again, there was nothing. No recognition. No memory. Just ice.

"Who the hell are you?"