She seems to be unwell, like some sort of fever.
Crouched down beside her, I have to fight the urge to brush her hair back, to hold her hand, and the thousand other ways I suddenly feel compelled to show her how much I care, how much I want her.
But I can’t, not right this second.
That can come later, once I make sure she’s okay.
Try telling that to the splintering hard mast in my pants though.
I shift uneasily, trying to ease some of the pressure in my groin, but it’s no use. Every second being this close to her is only making me harder with each pounding beat of my heart.
I finally ask her if she’s been unwell if she’s sick. She admits a mild fever and some dizziness but is suddenly more upset by the fact she’s dropped all those silly programs on the floor in reception.
After a moment of looking like she’s going to burst into tears, she tries to sit up, murmuring something about having to go, having to get back to the office.
I feel panic rise in me, replacing the raw edge of my own arousal, the sudden thrill at having been so close to her even for just a few minutes.
“You can’t go,” I order, still being mindful not to follow my instincts and take her into my arms again.
Her eyes widen, then narrow a little. Maybe from dizziness still but in the end, they look defiant.
“I have to go,” she says coldly, and I feel my heart starting to tear open.
“At least let me call someone,” I continue, using my body as a shield to try and keep her on the couch when she tries to get up. “Your boyfriend…husband?” I venture, hoping the answer is no.
She looks like I’ve just insulted her, shaking her head and sitting up, using her own hands to get herself up.
“No! There’s no on. Now, please,” she stammers, the tears starting to flow now. “I’m very sorry but I have to go.”
I stand to move out of her way. I can’t force her to stay, I can’t and would never force her to do anything.
But why leave? You just got here.
I’m about to say something, anything I can think of to make her at least stay long enough to talk for five minutes when I hear two male voices.
My jaw clenches and I hear another growling sound escape me, the warning kind.
In three long strides, I’m back in reception.
The floor is littered with programs, with the mysterious girl skidding on a few as she bustles past two security guards to get to the elevator.
On guard looks to me, the other has his eyes on her, an arm reaching out as he steps towards the elevator.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I hear myself roar, both men freezing on the spot, shrinking.
“Sorry, Mr. Thorne. We thought your office was empty. We only sent her up to drop off…” his voice trails as his eyes stray to the floor once he senses how angry I am.
“She’s mine!” I hear myself grow again through clenched teeth, my hands knotted into two fists.
Then, as quickly as it all seems to have happened, I hear the elevator chime and turn to see the doors close.
She’s gone.
The guards start murmuring more apologies, one offers to chase her down and bring her back, but as soon as the doors close, I feel my heart sinking.
I really thought…
But she was… she is…
I try and tell myself a dozen different ways, but honestly?
If she really was the one, why would she run? Why couldn’t she see…?
My mouth is dry with shock. I feel a little dizzy myself.
I hear the guards starting to pick up the programs, arranging them neatly back into the boxes as I turn to go back into my office.
“I never even got her name,” I say to myself when one of the guards pipes in.
“Ah, sir?”
I close my eyes, trying not to let my anger boil over again, looking up at the black space behind my eyes as I turn, one last time to the two guards.
“What?” I snap.
The guard who spoke is checking his notebook. “Ms. Jules McPherson. Works over at the Gainsborough building, her department is organizing tonight’s gala.”
Jules.
Jules?
Jules.
The more I say it to myself, the more it makes sense.
Jules. Like the jewels I know she has in that chest of hers, in those hips, in that space between her-
“Sir?”
I open my eyes, not realizing I’d closed them again.
I’m smiling now, I can feel my mouth stretching wide across my whole face.
Happy in the knowledge, the reminder that I am Mason Thorne. A man who knows what he wants, and more importantly… knows how to go about getting it.
Well. At least I know her name, and where she works.
It’s a start.
“Thank you, that’ll be all,” I announce, dismissing them both with a wave of my hand and returning to my office, and closing the door behind me.
Still smiling, I pick up the copy of tonight’s program as I sit at my desk, adjusting the front of my pants, realizing I still have a hard on that could probably cut glass.
Jules McPherson.
A name, a work address, and about a minute from finding out everything my company has on file.
I punch in her name on my laptop, scouring the vast database of my companies, and there she is… her employee profile at least.
I feel another grunting gasp escape me, her picture filling half the screen, her details underneath.
My finger traces her lips, but my other hand. That’s got a life of its own.
In a second, I have my dick out under my desk, feeling my hand pounding against the hardwood underneath, my own wood nowhere near relieved by my own touch.
I need her hands on me, not mine.
My urge to climax, just at the thought of her is so powerful, so strong, but my will is stronger. Slowly, I stop palm fucking myself, and bring my hand
