Chapter 2 After Hours 2

Claire's POV I woke before my alarm, thinking about the rent arrears due Friday and the final payment on my mother's hospital loan next month. I had spent much time working for Daniel Mercer, and until yesterday, I'd managed to keep my attraction to him from interfering with my job. His message arrived at 7:04 a.m. Bellini's. Eight tonight. Wear whatever you like. I smiled despite myself. At work, Daniel behaved normally. He gave me assignments, attended meetings, and barely looked in my direction. When we found ourselves alone in the lift that evening, he finally spoke. "Still coming tonight?" "Depends. Are you planning to make me work overtime?" "Only if dinner counts as work." "Then you couldn't afford me." He laughed as the doors opened.

****** At Bellini's, Daniel was waiting with his jacket removed and his sleeves rolled up. He stood when I approached. "You look beautiful." "Careful, Mr. Mercer. Someone might think you're flirting." "Would they be wrong?" Dinner was better than I'd expected. Daniel was relaxed, funny, and surprisingly easy to talk to. Afterward, I asked him what I'd wanted to know all evening. "What exactly do you want from me?" "I'm attracted to you, Claire. Have been for months." "And Vanessa?" "We've lived separately for eight months. The divorce proceedings are underway." "I'm not interested in becoming someone's mistress." "I understand. I'm not asking you to make promises tonight." I considered him before answering. "Neither am I." After dinner, Daniel offered to drive me home. On the way, he mentioned that his apartment was nearby. "Would you like another drink at my place?" "One drink," I agreed. His apartment was spacious but barely furnished. I teased him about the empty rooms while he poured us whiskey. We settled on the couch, talking until I realized I was paying more attention to his mouth than his words. "Daniel?" "Yes?" "Are you going to kiss me, or do I have to do everything myself?" He smiled. "I was waiting for you to decide." I moved closer and kissed him. He returned the kiss, then drew back. "You're sure?" "I'm sure." "And this has nothing to do with your job?" "Absolutely nothing. I'm here because I want to be." "Then come here, Claire." I climbed into his lap without a word, because I'd been thinking about it since the restaurant and there was no point pretending otherwise. "You've been thinking about this all day?" he asked. "Longer than that," I admitted. He got a hand in my hair and kissed me back like he'd been holding something back all night, tongue and teeth and the two of us breathing through our noses because neither of us wanted to stop long enough to come up for air. I ground down against him and felt him already hard under his trousers, and he groaned into my mouth and grabbed my hips to slow me down. "Don't," I said. "I like it rough." "You like it rough." "Don't sound so surprised." "You've been in my office for eleven months wearing those skirts." "And you've been staring at my legs for eleven months. We both know." He laughed, low and caught out, and then his hands were up the back of my thighs and under my dress, pulling my underwear to one side. When his fingers found me, I was soaked - properly soaked, wet enough that he slid straight in two fingers without any ceremony at all. "Fuck," he said, into my neck. "You're drenched. "Told you." "How long have you been like this?" "Since you rolled your sleeves up at dinner." He curled his fingers inside me, and I dropped my head back and let him work. He was good at it, consistent and deep and hitting the spot every single time, thumb working my clit in a slow circle while his other hand held my hip still so I couldn't ride his fingers the way I wanted. "Let me move," I said. "Tell me if you want me to stop." "Control freak." "Mm." He took me apart on his lap with his fingers, fully dressed, his mouth on my throat and his teeth dragging over the tendon there, and I came with both hands fisted in his shirt, and my thighs clamped around his wrist and a noise that was not remotely dignified. He kept his fingers in me through it, working me slow until I twitched and pushed his hand away. "Get your clothes off," I said. "Now." He got his clothes off. I got the rest of mine off. He was thick and heavy in my hand, and he watched me stroke him once, twice, like he was cataloguing it. "Bed," he said. "You said the rug." "The rug was before I knew what I was dealing with." "Bed," I agreed. We didn't make it to the bed. He got me against the wall in the hallway with my legs around his waist and one forearm under my arse, and pushed into me, standing up. It was a rough angle, and it burned a little on the first thrust, and it was exactly what I wanted. "Oh, fuck," I said, into his shoulder. "Too much?" "Harder. Fuck me harder." He fucked me harder against the wall. My back was against the plaster and his hips were slamming up into me, and I was making noises I'd be embarrassed about if there was anyone else in the flat. He got a hand between us again, three fingers flat against my clit, rubbing fast and rough in time with his hips - and I came again, hard, clenching around him, and he swore into my hair and kept going. "You're going to make me come like this," he said. "Good. Do it." "Not yet. I want to bend you over." He pulled out and set me down and turned me round with a hand on my hip and walked me into the bedroom and bent me over the end of the bed. Face down, arse up, his hand flat between my shoulder blades. He pushed back into me from behind, and the angle changed everything; it was deeper, fuller, his hips slapping against my arse with every stroke. "Christ, Claire." "Harder." He grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled my head back and fucked me properly. Rough, fast, no rhythm to it, just the sound of skin and both of us grunting and the bedframe complaining. His free hand came round to my clit and rubbed it in hard, fast circles, and I was already close, already coming again, my knees giving out so he had to hold me up by the hips while he finished. "I'm going to come," he said. "Come. Come inside me." He drove in deep and held and came with a low noise that vibrated through his chest and into my back. His hips stuttered twice more, and then he collapsed over me, chest to my spine, breathing hard against my shoulder blade, still buried in me. Neither of us said anything for a while. My cheek was squashed against his duvet, and I could feel his heartbeat against my back. "Okay," I said eventually. "Okay?" "You passed." He laughed, breathless, still inside me, and kissed the back of my neck. "Thank you."