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“There,” I breathe. “Right there.”
Eric watches my face as he does it again, harder. He keeps the same angle, each thrust landing exactly where I need it. One hand moves between us, and his thumb finds my clit. The firm circles, paired with the deep strokes of his cock, become too much.
My orgasm hits hard. I tighten around him, unable to hold back my moans. He keeps moving through it, his thumb still circling as each thrust draws out another wave.
“Fuck, Rachel.”
His strokes turn uneven as my body keeps tightening around him. He grips my hip, presses close, and comes with a rough curse. I feel him pulse inside the condom as his whole body tightens against mine.
His movements slow, then stop. He stays between my thighs, still inside me, his chest heaving as we catch our breath. After a moment, he eases out.
“So, where would you say Voss-Hartwell relations stand now?”
I laugh and press a hand to his chest. I’m still trying to catch my breath, but his ego doesn’t need a five-star review.
“I’d rate them satisfactory.”
Eric steps back and takes care of the condom while I slide off the table. My legs wobble when my feet touch the floor, forcing me to catch the edge for balance.
I pull my underwear into place and smooth my dress over my hips. In the narrow strip of glass between the curtains, I catch my reflection. My cheeks are flushed, my lips are swollen, and my hair is falling around my face. I do my best to fix it.
Hopefully, I look like a woman who didn’t just have sex on a conference table during a black-tie event.
The thought almost makes me smile. Then I remember Granddad beside me at these awards every year, dressed in his tuxedo. He spent his life building the Hartwell and protecting Old Downtown from companies like Voss. He trusted me to carry on that work. Eric is still trying to build a hotel that could put ours at risk, and I just had sex with him.
The warmth inside me fades. I wanted Eric, but wanting him doesn’t change who we are or what’s at stake. For a few minutes, I let myself forget.
My stomach turns. I need to get out of here.
I open the door and hurry into the hallway. Eric calls my name behind me, but I don’t stop.
17
ERIC
On Sunday morning, I’m sitting at my kitchen island, trying to read the latest report from Chicago. Sunlight covers the counter, my coffee has gone cold, and I’ve been staring at the same line for five minutes.
The report isn’t the problem. Rachel is.
When I returned to the ballroom last night, she was back at her table with Chloe, sipping champagne as if nothing had happened. She didn’t look at me once. Ten minutes later, they were both gone.
I keep replaying those last few minutes in the conference room. Rachel looked me straight in the eye, rated the experience satisfactory, and walked out without explaining why. I thought she was joking. I was there. I know she enjoyed it. But the way she avoided me afterward has made that word far more irritating than it should be.
Maybe I was only satisfactory. I don’t usually come that fast, but watching someone as controlled as Rachel fall apart destroyed what was left of my restraint. Frankly, I’m impressed I lasted as long as I did.
Besides, I wasn’t trying to fit everything into one round. I thought there would be another.
I close my laptop and push it away. This is ridiculous. I have a real crisis in Chicago, yet all I can think about is why Rachel ran and whether she regrets what happened.
I need to talk to her.
Her number takes less than a minute to find. It’s listed on the contact page of the report she submitted to the council. The same report that delayed my hotel has finally given me something useful.
I add her to my contacts, stare at her name for several seconds, then press call. It rings until her voicemail answers.
“Rachel, it’s Eric. Call me when you get this."
It’s Sunday morning. She could be asleep, working at the Hartwell, or doing any number of things that don’t involve waiting for me to call.
