Fuck…
Third cup of coffee in hand, Cat sipped and stared at the blank computer screen, willing the caffeine to take hold and clear the fog from her lust-saturated mind long enough for her to write something creative. At this particular moment, she’d even settle for something decipherable. Unfortunately she found herself too preoccupied with last night’s delicious experiment for her to string together a coherent sentence.
She blinked and fought valiantly to focus her mind on the task ahead. Lord knows, no New York newspaper would ever touch her if she couldn’t even conjure up the words to put together one measly little fluff article.
She closed her eyes, gifting herself with one more minute to remember the way Sam touched her, promising herself after sixty blissful seconds, she’d focus her thoughts and pull her article together before tomorrow’s deadline.
As her lids slipped shut, heated memories of how Sam’s hands caressed her naked flesh, pushing, pulling, raising her passion higher and higher, drawing her in deeper until she was drowning in pleasure, rushed through her mind.
Skin flushed from heat and desire, Cat pressed her fingers into her thighs and squeezed as she thought about all those strategically placed mirrors. Her body quaked just thinking how Sam went to so much trouble to seduce her mind as well as her body. Her skin moistened. Her pulse leapt. A small moan crawled out of her throat.
She remembered the way her breasts trembled as Sam lapped at her, making slow, skilled passes over her nipples with the soft blade of his tongue. She clamped her legs together as they began to quiver with yearning.
Cat recalled Sam’s deep hypnotic voice and the way he coaxed her to let go and enjoy. Not that there had been much coaxing going on.
Cat inhaled, but what she drew into her lungs was not delectable memories of Sam’s heady aroma. The offensive scent of cheap aftershave assaulted her senses and pulled her from her musings. Passion receding, she blinked her eyes open. Out of her peripheral saw Eric Hawkins crane his neck around the fabricated divider separating their desks.
Oh joy.
Of course, she knew it had to be Hawk; no one else in the office reeked of cheesy cologne. He reminded her of that cartoon skunk Pepe Le Peu, with ribbons of his funky scent billowing behind like a cloud of dust.
“Eric,” she greeted through clenched teeth, refusing to give in and call him Hawk, no matter how much he insisted.
He leaned forward, his dark hair cloaking his beady eyes. “Rough morning?” he asked, gaze panning the length of her. “You were making strange noises.”
Cat shivered and folded her arms, her skin crawling from his physical inspection.
“No,” she said flatly, shifting in her seat, making it clear with her body language that she had no interest in pursuing a conversation with him.
He wasn’t deterred. Hawk grabbed his jeans, right around the vicinity of his crotch, and tugged before propping himself onto the corner of her desk. Cat resisted the urge to retch.
This man, and she used that term loosely, barely two years older than her, assumed his senior position gave him pull with the ladies, inside the office and out. He strutted the streets like he was God’s gift to women. Lord, if Hawk was the gift, Cat hated to see the consolation prize.
Hawk raked his hand through his black hair, pushing it off his forehead. “It appears that little article of yours sure has caused a lot of trouble for that scientist.” The man wasn’t known for his subtleness.
Cat grumbled something incoherent under her breath.
He inched closer, until his thigh touched her arm. “I could probably talk Blain into letting you write another one.” When she met his glance, Hawk shot her a suggestive look.
She watched as he toyed with his pen, an annoying little habit he had. Cat gripped her coffee cup tighter, resisting the urge to grab that pen from him and pierce a hole in his over-inflated ego.
The truth was, Cat had asked Blain to let her write another piece, to clear up the media’s erroneous take on her first article. Unfortunately, Blain refused to let her follow up on the story, insisting she keep to her “Cat on the Prowl” articles because that’s what the readers expected from her. The only reason he had let her try her hand at an article in the first place was to appease her after months of hassling him.
Of course, it occurred to her if she wrote a follow-up and managed to convince activists Sam wasn’t testing the serum on Rio, he’d no longer need her assistance for his experiment. As much as she knew another night with him would be her emotional undoing, she couldn’t help herself. She needed to be with him again as much as she needed her next breath.
“So what do you say, Kitty-Cat?”
Her head snapped up. “I told you not to call me that.”
Ignoring her, he continued. “Do you want me to talk to Blain for you?”
As much as she’d like to write another article, she didn’t want any favors from Hawk. God only knew what he would want in return. She shivered just thinking about it.
He lowered his voice and leaned in. His eyes skirted over her once again. “Come on, Cat. You really need to start being a player if you want to get ahead in this competitive business. Come out with me Saturday night and we’ll talk about the ways I can help you.”
She’d rather pull her toenails off with a pair of pliers than spend a Saturday night with him.
Feeling compelled to show him exactly what she thought of his nauseating idea, she slammed her coffee
