Her lips work to the side and I can see her mulling it over. Huh, maybe I actually got through to her and penetrated that thick, leathery exterior and truly made her consider the way she treats people.
“You were rude by not adhering to my wish of leaving, therefore, I had to be rude to get my point across. I didn’t want you there.”
Fucking businesswoman, what a spin. I’ve got to hand it to her—mentally claps—she really dug deep for that one.
“Yeah, okay, I was rude first. Sure.” I roll my eyes and then take a giant bite of my sandwich. The cheese seeps into my taste buds, and if Dottie wasn’t here right now, I’d be eating this sandwich naked . . . while gripping my cock. That’s how good it is.
This is a cock-gripping sandwich—or pussy-cupping sandwich if you’re a lady. I’m an equal opportunist, after all.
“Are you really not going to share that?”
I look up, sandwich halfway to my mouth. “Are you kidding me?”
“No. I’m hungry too; who knows how long we’ll be stuck in here.”
“After everything that has happened between us, you really think I’m going to share my sandwich with you?”
“If you are the decent man you claim to be, then yes, you will.”
Isn’t she just a joy to be around?
The pop of fingers being licked and sucked echoes off the small walls of the elevator as I stare blankly at Dottie. She just devoured half my sandwich and three quarters of my fries. I’m currently sitting here with a bellyache from having to shovel my sandwich down fast enough so it wasn’t snatched from my grasp in the midst of her treating my dinner like her own bitch.
And despite seeing cheese drip from her chin, and watching her carnivorous teeth break apart the cheesesteak meat as if it was dust, I still got hard taking in what I can only describe as a spectacle—Dottie eating a meal.
With a dainty lift of her napkin, she pats the corners of her mouth and sighs.
“Was that good?”
“Yes.” She glances at me. “Thank you.”
Well, would you look at that, a thank you. I’m not sure I’ll ever hear those words drip from her lips and be directed at me again, so I’m going to savor them.
“What are you doing? Why are you holding your chest like that?”
“Just committing your ‘thank you’ to memory, as I’m not sure I’ll ever hear it again.”
“Doubt that you will,” she says, her surly attitude resurfacing.
I set the empty to-go container in the bag and off to the side. I take a sip from my water and watch as she surveys it like a hawk, eyes trained and focused on snatching away my drink.
Groaning, I hand it over to her.
“Thanks,” she says with a smile, looking like a completely different woman. She downs the rest of my water and then smacks her lips together. “Now I can pass out.”
“You’re going to pass out in the elevator?”
“What else am I going to do?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Talk to me?”
She gives me a slow once-over and then rests her head against the wall of the elevator. “Think I’ll pass out.”
Look who’s rude now.
“You’d be much more comfortable if you used my lap as a pillow,” I say, after five minutes of her shifting from side to side. There’s no passing out in here if you’re unwilling to spread across the floor, which she is.
“I’m not into tiny pillows.” She gives up her attempt to sleep and stares straight ahead instead, resting her hands on her lap.
“Clearly you haven’t seen the towel bulge picture.”
From the corner of my eye, I see the smallest of smirks pull up the corner of her lip. Or maybe she has seen it . . . interesting.
When silence falls between us, I try to think of things I can talk to her about, but anything that pops up into my head is quickly turned down, because they’re questions about her life and I’m pretty sure she’s not going to answer them. She’s pretty closed off, so I have to warm her up first.
And yeah, maybe I should just not talk to her since she does seem to have a protective wall erected all around her, but I’ve never been that guy to give up.
So . . .
(Are you cringing? Hold on to your tits, I’m going in.)
“So, you’re cranky most of the time.”
You’re cringing now, aren’t you? It’s all about causing a reaction to get her to start talking. Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.
“You sure know how to win over people, don’t you?” she says with a disdainful side-eye. God, there is something about a woman with hard edges that really gets to me. Because I suspect, deep down, they were hurt somehow and they deserve happiness. They deserve someone to be nice to them, to help smooth out those rough edges. Most men would label her as a bitch and walk away, but I see past that façade. I want to get to know her, what has made her so brash and hard, and I want to see if I can unlock her sensitive side. I know it’s in there, I just need to find it.
“Were you like this in college?”
“Like what?” she asks, lulling her head to the side to look at me.
See . . . it’s working.
“Easily ignitable.” I tack on a smile to the end of my sentence.
“Are you saying I have a short fuse?”
“Well, you sure as hell aren’t easygoing and relaxed.” I chuckle, really trying to lighten the mood and when she responds, I think it might work.
“It’s hard to relax with a job like mine,” she admits, shocking me with her sullen voice.
“Why’s that?”
She plays with the fabric of her shirt. “Everyone needs and wants something from you. There’s no stopping, and one slip-up can cost you a multi-million-dollar deal.” Her voice fades and right there, I see it. The vulnerability. It’s small, but it’s there. From what I learned about her from Google—and from Emory—she wasn’t given her position on a silver platter. She’s fought her way to the top. Well, it’s her family’s company, so she’s more than likely worked hard to get where she is, and that’s commendable. But that sense of sadness makes me think she’s disappointed people along the way. Unintentionally. And she’s judged herself more harshly for it than she would others. Perfectionist. “I have to be tense and rigid for a reason, because the second I let go, I could mess up a lot of jobs for a lot of people.”
I nod and gently say, “I can understand not relaxing when you’re at work, or in the conference room, or at a business dinner, but when you’re alone, in your apartment, you’re telling me you don’t let loose a little?”
“Never.”
I laugh. “You’re such a bullshitter.”
She chuckles and I whip my head to the side, catching the humor in her face. “Holy shit, you just laughed. Wait.” I hold my arms out as if to still the air. “Are you . . . relaxing right now? Right this very minute?” I cup my hands around my mouth and shout with my booming voice in the small space. “Ladies and gentleman, Dorothy Domico is relaxing.”
“You’re obnoxious,” she says when I lower my hands.