She’s a ball buster, just like Elle. Though Elle has said that Tiffany is the devil on her shoulder, I suspect it’s a bit symbiotic. Equal opportunity devils spreading trouble, merriment, and wild, crazy fun wherever they go.
“Yes, Miss Young.” I use her name as if I remembered it myself and am all too familiar with her annual review. “Good morning.” I add a charming smile, expecting it work as it always does, but she simply scowls.
“Don’t play her.”
She says it so quickly I almost think I imagined it, but the bold way she meets my eyes tells me she both said it and meant it. She’s protective of Elle, something I can understand and support.
“I have no intention of doing so,” I promise solemnly.
I turn, walking briskly toward the elevator, presuming the conversation is over. Tiffany is under no such compunction.
She appears at my elbow, holding a file folder which seems to be a cover story.
Her voice is low, her eyes dark. “To be clear, that wasn’t a request. I will gut you like a second-rate fish from the market and spread your entrails across the seven seas as shark chum and deny ever having this conversation if she so much as sheds a single tear over you.”
I force my mouth to close from its shocked gape. “That was rather . . . graphic and thought out. Been waiting long to use that?”
“Busted.” A smile. “But that doesn’t make it less true.” Another scowl. Her face is like a menu of emotions, bare and unfiltered.
The elevator doors open and I step inside. Tiffany puts her V’d fingers to her eyes and then flips them around to me, mouthing, “I’m watching you.”
As the doors close, I can’t help but chuckle. That is definitely not a scene I would’ve ever had before Elle. No one but her—or her friend, apparently—would dare talk to Colton Wolfe that way.
Upstairs, I bid Helen a good morning and enter my office with high hopes of seeing Elle, only to find the room empty even with the additional furniture of Elle’s workstation jammed up against the east wall.
Seems the girl really does have a presence.
And without her here, my gut drops in fear. She didn’t bail after last night, did she?
“Helen, where’s Elle?” I consciously keep my voice steady.
“Oh, she ran down to make some copies for me, work on the Harrigan project since she wasn’t sure what you needed this morning on the HQ2. She’ll be back shortly.”
My heart starts beating again.
Of course, she’s just working. Not bailing on me, not running after one night of magic.
“That’s fine, of course,” I tell Helen, who’s already moved on. No, she never stops moving, always working hard to keep up with my busy schedule. “You were right about that Michael chap, and I told him as much. Useless waste of my time.”
I can’t see her, but I hear the pleased smirk in her answer. “Mmm-hmm.”
I get to work, sitting at my desk and clicking my way through my morning emails. Just as Helen predicted, Elle is back shortly. It’s like she’s brought the sun back with her.
Somehow, she’s even sexier than yesterday in a cerulean skirt that’s a little tight, a dark sweater with a V-neck that doesn’t cut down low enough for my unprofessional side’s taste but that accentuates her curves, and . . .
“I didn’t know you wore glasses.”
Elle smiles, plucking the frames off and setting them on her desk. “I don’t really need to except when I’m doing a lot of paperwork. Helps avoid eyestrain headaches.”
I smile, taking another moment to look her over in her outfit. She’s accentuated her cheeks with just a touch of blush, and her lips . . . well, I know of only one place I want to see them right now, and that’s fastened around my dick. She’s having none of that.
“Good morning, Mr. Wolfe.”
Back to professionalism. I would’ve expected nothing less from her.
“Good morning, Miss Stryker. I trust you slept well and are ready to get to work?”
“Yes, sir.” The slightest smirk graces her lips, teasing me.
“List for the day is in your email now. Let me know if you run into any issues.”
And so it goes for hours. I work, she works, and I find some comfort at just her presence in the room.
“Can you create a pie chart of the potential profit margins for year one of HQ2 under my proposal? The first year is always skinny financially with the upfront investment, so I want to make it look good without being misleading. I want it polished but honest.”
She dips her chin, acknowledging the request, and spins to her computer.
I watch for a moment. We’re being productive, and I like having someone at my side through the grunt work, but we’re not necessarily having any fun.
“Miss Stryker?” I wait for her eyes to meet mine. “Open up.”
I hold up a grape from the barely touched lunch still sitting on my desk, a grilled panini sandwich and a tastier-than-breakfast fruit cup.
One of Elle’s brows arches high and the other drops, giving me a ‘seriously?’ look.
“I dare you . . . open up.”
Her victory is written on her face. “I think I’ve created a monster. You’re really getting into this.” And then she drops her mouth open, her tongue sticking out and giving me much filthier thoughts than tossing a grape for her to catch.
I growl at the sexy sight but continue with the light fun. I close one eye to aim, giving the grape a few practice arcs before letting loose. It’s a little wide as it flies through the air, but Elle leans forward, catching it perfectly. She smiles and chews it open-mouthed, no attention to manners. Somehow, I prefer this to a well-mannered Elle.
Around the mouthful, she roars. “And the crowd goes wild . . . ahhhh!”
It breaks the nose-to-the-grindstone feel, and from there, we work and we play.
Luckily, the door is closed or Helen would probably think I’ve lost my mind.
I prefer to think that perhaps I’ve found it.
“I dare you . . . to send me a silly selfie.” I maybe would’ve preferred a sexy selfie, but I rather enjoy the delight on her face when she sees my goofy smile on her phone and saves it as my contact photo.
“I dare you . . . to do the chicken dance. And again with the American animal idioms.”
She does it, even singing the song quietly.
And that’s when things get a little riskier.
We promised to keep things professional at work, and we are working hard between dares, but professionalism seems like a rule to be rebelled against.
“I dare you . . . to sit in my lap for sixty seconds.”
“Mr. Wolfe . . .” she warns. But then Elle glances at the door, double checking that it’s secure, and a sly grin takes over her expression. I’m pushing her big time, but I can see the gears in her head turning. She blinks, somehow making her eyes look wide and innocent as an angel when I know she’s anything but, and then she reaches under her skirt. She fiddles around for a moment and then slips her panties out.
“If I’m sitting in your lap, I’m going to drive you crazy too.” She stuffs the panties into my hand, and I’m only able to resist the urge to sniff them by putting them securely in my pocket to indulge in later. Then she turns oh, so slowly, knowing damn well what she’s doing, and inch by inch, she lowers her ass to my lap.