The Plan (32 page)

I love you, too.

When he said the words, the feeling that overtook me was indescribable. Like the physical answering of a prayer unfurled in my chest and rapidly seeped out to the farthest points of my body. An incorporeal warmth in places I hadn’t even known to exist within myself, as though my very soul heated and healed.

I’m still my whole person, but with this special new addition.

All that, but more, better. New and improved: Now with more sex.

At that time, for a split second, I had opened my mouth to tell him that I wasn’t sure how I felt, that I wasn’t sure I was ready to confess it was Real, True Love that had snuck up and came about when I was busy ogling his ass. But his phrase rang in my ears.
“…too.”

He wasn’t waiting for a response; he responded to me.

“Um…Hey, Emma.”

His chest vibrates with groggy words. I look up and can see that he’s still bordering on slumber.

From between us, unbidden, my right hand ghosts up from beside me.

I want to touch him.

Everywhere and always.

I can see my hand’s shadowed outline, fingers like dark tree branches against the window’s scant light, Each one carved into the night with more distinction that would’ve been noticed under the midday sun. They rise above the landscape hills of his side.

The slope of his right shoulder is silhouetted against the midnight light that filters through the shade. The air warms briefly with each breath.

He shifts, momentarily restless, only to gather me up closer still and hum as he falls back under sleep’s spell.

My hand remains aloft. I let it descend and trace the outline of his form. First, up his sculpted arm, then around the bend of his shoulder, across his collarbone. Still, he breathes softly. Then, emboldened, I smooth my hand down his side, his hip, thigh, and around to his butt.
Nice.
My fingers run along his curves, his flesh pebbled under my touch. The whole area is addictive and oddly comforting to touch. Like a stress ball. Or dough. Really, really great dough. I began to gently knead it like I’m baking bread for the troops.

Ass. It seems like a wonderfully crude word for such an amazing piece of…art.

“Um, Emma?” Alaric’s voice, groggy but amused, breaks my musing. “What precisely is it you think you are doing?”

Whoops.
“Oh, sorry…I thought you were still sleeping.”

“I would be concerned if I—or anyone for that matter—could sleep through that.” He kisses me with a practically audible smile.

“Well, I was just…doing a little impromptu exploring.” I squeeze his cheek, and my index finger runs down the first inch or so between.

“Oh, well, so be it.” He hums a bar and pulls me to him, my hand falling unceremoniously to his groin. He huffs. “I feel positively objectified.”

My breath catches. He grows, more, under my touch, and he seems unaware, or unwilling, to stop his small tremors and rocking motions.

“Emma,” he whispers and repeats and pulls me up into a kiss, his soft lips brushing over mine with every syllable as he continues to kiss me.

Alaric dips further, heat pushing into me. My head arches back into the pillows, I incline myself.

He slides fully. Throaty, deep moan.

Everything is hips…

and lips…

and real.

Only ever out partially, rejoin fully. A concentrated, delicious rocking motion. Scruff along his chin grazes my face and neck. I duck further into his embrace. Kiss the hollow of his neck; he tastes of sleep and sweat and…I can’t imagine ever getting enough. I dive in, kissing and biting and pulling him into me as much as I can with my softening limbs.

Instantly, he stills inside me. All his movements halt, the caresses he had been trailing along my ribs, the rocking. He holds his breath.

Eyes clench. Face unreadable. I’m unsure what he’s thinking, but I know I will remember this moment, that I will find the right time to ask what clamors inside his thick skull.

Moments pass, voice still AWOL. He looks down at me in what seems like relief.

“Oh, God…Em…Emma…” He rolls me over, holds me against him tighter than ever. Thrusts—frantic, possessive—names tumbling over then over again like a staggered ballad. We wrap around and hold on. Strokes, fan the flames.

I resist the urge to dig into his back, instead fisting the sheets in one hand and holding on tight across his shoulder blades with the other, straining my fingers straight to keep what little nails I had from scratching his skin, marking my territory.

Find my voice. “I’m…I’m…” Stars, novas. Pop and burn.

“Come on, Emma…Yes…let me have it.”

Clenching, I cry out something close to his name. He falters. Shudders. Fingers clench hips. Stills. Moans low from the bottom of his lungs. His arms seem to fail him; his body crushes into mine, pressing. I feel covered, protected, even if I don’t need protecting.

He flops beside me again, one arm still under me, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“That was…” His free arm does a solitary, boneless flop.

“Uh-huh.”

“Yeah,” he breathes and looks toward the growing light of dawn.

After a few moments, he rolls to kiss my forehead. “Looks like it’s about that time,” he says and inclines his head to the window.

And just like that, our night is over.

Probably a good thing. With our stockpile depleted, unless the Trojan man makes house calls, I shall henceforth be looking all gift horses in the mouth.

“Emma, you are pouting.” His thumb plays with my bottom lip, and I suck it in quickly. He huffs an almost laugh, shakes his head once and rolls, sitting up on the edge of the bed.

“Stay,” I hear myself speak before I have even thought the word.

He leans back to me and sweeps what is probably a matted mess of hair over and behind my shoulder. “We will be together, right back here—together…in about ten hours.”

That, actually, sounds like a dreadfully long amount of time.

I do my damnedest not to pout again; the entire concept of me doing so is shameful in the extreme, but I fail. Alaric shakes his head and runs the back of his index finger along my lip. “What can I do?”

“Stay.” I reach up, peck his lips.

“Believe me, I want to. We can’t just skip work, Emma.”

“I’m sure Diana will manage to contain her disappointment.” At least, better than she does her unruly bosoms.

He says nothing, just a nod and a shrug before kissing my cheek again and bee-lining for the shower, leaving me with only the view of the same ass that started all this to comfort me.

It does a fair job.

Day of Employment:
387

12:45 p.m.

*
Temporary Desk
: About to become “former.”

*
Probably
: Not the most romantic word choice ever.

*
Canon
: Alaric.

T
HIS
C
OMPANY’S
F
OREIGN
A
CCOUNT
processes are not terrible, but they are not safe. Not in the current climate, that’s for sure.

There are too many payments to get things going in certain countries that could be construed as bribery. Small things, like taking clients to dinner. Clients who happen to work for foreign governments.

I know this info is not going to be welcome news. I know I’m not positioned as someone to take seriously on these matters.

That doesn’t mean I’m not right.

I’m on page three of my detailed report. In the end, the evidence will be irrefutable. They will have to believe me, despite the source. Despite the fact that I’m just a PA.

“Just” associated with the term “personal assistant” doesn’t feel right. I’m just the ring-bearer. I’ve just gotta keep the bus over 50 MPH. I’m just gonna go fishing. Oh, and by the by, it just so happens to be for an egregiously ill-tempered white whale?

Alaric has been in and out of the room all morning.

Fact-checking. Finalizing. Looking fine.

Now, he looks more relaxed. Open briefcase with papers scattered.

“Would you like something to drink, Emma?”

I know this game. “What can I get you, sir?”

He looks up, eyes bright. “Well, since you offered…”

I roll my eyes and push back my chair.

He laughs softly. “Since you are going…I would probably like a Coke.”

“Coke?”

“Yeah, probably.”

I narrow my eyes.

“Oh,” he says, “could you probably get the transfer files?”

I’m at the door.

“And probably order lunch. Probably barbeque.”

I spin around. He looks exceedingly pleased with himself.

I’m back with drinks in just a few minutes, but the air is different. He’s on a call.

He paces at the far corner of the room. “Yes, I will, Dad. And a happy, belated merry Christmas to you too.”

The phone closes, but he doesn’t turn around. He studies the nothing of the wall.

Slowly, I go to him and nudge the can against his arm. He twists, smiles weakly, and nods slowly in thanks.

I’m back at my desk for a while when I hear him inhale deeply. I didn’t even realize I was staring at him until I noticed the change.

“Cynthia.”

I opt not to speak. I assume he knows I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“She worked as my father’s administrative assistant for only a few months before everything changed.”

His eyes stay trained on the bare wall. “When I was five I went to my father’s office building with my mom. Cynthia came out of his office looking haggard. Every hair out of place. Blouse half done.”

His shoulders visibly tense. Even through the suit jacket I can see the change. I can practically see him dredge the memory up to the surface.

“I didn’t understand the rage coming out of my mother that day. Cynthia was always nice to me. She was the lady who gave me candy and baseball stickers. I was enamored. So was my father.”

I sit still, careful not to stop him.

“My family changed after that. I don’t know how long it went on. It felt like forever, but time is relative, especially to a child. It might have been only a day or two. Every time a door closed, they screamed. They screamed and screamed. Every day. Every damned day, until my mom left. To go for a ride. I wanted to go for a ride too. She always took me. But not that time. I understand now. But then…then it felt like she didn’t want me.”

He shifts and finds his chair, but never looks to me.

“Then they called. I suppose it was something as simple as ‘There has been an accident.’ They said she may have been ‘distracted.’ I don’t know. What I do know is that all I can remember of my mother was her yelling…and then dying to get away.”

His fingers drum without rhythm. “My father brought Cynthia around a few times later. I couldn’t even bring myself to look at her.” He looks up, at nothing in particular. His gaze cold. “I learned to hate when I was five.”

He begins shuffling papers, and I try to focus on an appropriate response.

Since it doesn’t look like one was coming, I go with this: “Are you telling me this is why you are a…um, demanding and hate distractions…why you are an…?”

“You mean
asshole?”
His voice is lighter, the mood leaving with the memory.

“Well, yes.”

“No, I don’t think so. Maybe somewhat.” He stretches back in his chair. “God, who sits back and analyzes themselves like that?”

“It might not be a bad idea…in some cases,” I say as playfully as I can manage.

“There is a lot riding on my shoulders. People’s jobs, futures. Nice gets you friends. I don’t need friends; I need results.”

I pop my can open.

“So, Emma, maybe you would care to enlighten me as to why you seem so hesitant about us?”

“You mean beyond the obvious drawbacks of being involved with a self-proclaimed and unapologetic asshole?”

His mouth turns up. “Well, when you put it that way…”

I take a swig. “No, it’s mostly me, I suppose,” I say and breathe deeply. “I’m used to being on my own. I control that. It’s comfortable. I never cared much if anyone came or went before.”

He smiles, shuffles some papers. I think he’s trying to act nonchalant. “So you
probably
care now?”

“Okay, fine! It was a ridiculously inappropriate way for me to say it, and you deserve better, and I’m embarrassed about it if that makes you feel any better, but if you think you’re going to get me to declare I love you for the first time in the middle of this crappy office with printouts and empty Coke cans everywhere, you are going to be sorely disappointed.”