The Two Week Arrangement (Penthouse Affair, #1) novel Chapter 9

Dominic

I can’t focus. My fingers drum an unsteady beat on my desk as I listen to Oliver rattle off our executive task list for this quarter. One task requires me to go to a dinner with this potential investor of ours tonight.

If I’m being frank, I couldn’t care less about impressing this man today. The only thing that’s leaving any impression on me is my zipper on my permanent hard-on. All week, I’ve been at the end of my goddamn rope. Seeing Presley’s tight little body, smelling her vanilla shampoo, hearing her warm-honey voice, watching her knock every assignment out of the ballpark. . .

It’s been insanely distracting, and I’m not proud of myself for it. All I need right now is a good hard fuck to flush out all of these unneeded impulses.

“. . . and after we build the spaceship and fly it around the world at least twice, we can go get our assholes waxed.”

“What?” I finally break out of my reverie, staring blankly at my best friend, but Oliver only raises his eyebrows. “Oh, sorry. Shit.”

“Hey, Dom. Didn’t know you were still here.” Oliver tosses his folder onto my desk. “Look, man, if you don’t want to talk work, let’s not talk work. That’s the last thing I want to talk about anyway.”

“All right. What do you want to talk about?”

“How about we talk about how uptight you’ve been ever since you took on your hot little intern?”

Shit. “My stress level has nothing to do with Presley.”

“Right, just like my dad’s late nights had nothing to do with his smoking-hot consultant. Come on, Dom. You like her, just admit it.” He smiles, his eyebrows waggling.

“I like her? What are we, twelve?”

“You know what I mean.” He sighs and props his feet on the edge of my desk.

I hate it when he does this. I frown at the prospect of scrubbing those scuff marks away again.

“I really don’t,” I grumble, using his folder to swat his feet off my desk. “Don’t feel obliged to elaborate.”

“Don’t feel obliged to elaborate.” He mimics me like the little prick he can be. “Oh, I’ll elaborate all right. You wanna fuck her. You want to turn her over on this very desk, spread her legs, and ram it home. You want to fill her with your—”

“Okay, Jesus, do you have to be so . . .” I can’t find any word that won’t make me sound like my father. Crass? Inappropriate? Childish? But, fuck, I am a father now, strange as that still seems to me.

Oliver laughs, then lets out a sigh as he suddenly sobers. “You can’t fuck her, though.”

“I know that. I’m not going to.” This isn’t a college frat party.

The look on his face tells me he’s not buying any of my bullshit.

“I’m not,” I say. “I’m just fucking horny. But I’ve got it covered. I’ve got a date lined up.”

“A date?” Oliver’s eyes widen with hope.

“No, not a date.” Damn. I shouldn’t have used that word. Oliver wants me to seriously commit myself to someone. It was cruel of me to dangle that bone in front of him. “I have an arrangement.”

“Oh, one of those arrangements. Like, you’re-fucking-a-hooker arrangement.”