His Innocent Love | 18+

Chapter 7

"Yep, Dad, everything is fine so far. Sawyer and I are old friends, you know." I trumpet the last part, barely able to keep the bitterness from filling the words.

"I know you are," he says. "But you know, he wouldn't have taken you on if he didn't think you were capable and qualified." His voice is warming up now. "And I told him you would do the best job ever for him. I'm so proud of you, kitten!"

"You are?"

"You bet I am. I'm telling all my buddies about how my little girl is going to make it big in the corporate world. Before long, you're going to be a shark! And you're going to learn so much from Sawyer, I just know it. You stick with him kid—he's a powerhouse of industry—always has been. I'm so excited for you! If I had had half that kind of opportunity when I was starting out, I would make the most of it..." I let him go on as I try to think how to frame my quitting, but the more he talks, the less easy the conversation seems to be. "Yep, you're a lucky girl, now you go out there and seize the world. My Mia!"

"Your Mia," I echo gamely. Ever since my mom passed, it's been my dad and me. A team. He and I against the world.

Yeah, there's no way I'm getting out of this.

"Okay, hon, we'll talk soon. My tennis lesson is in an hour, and I have to get out to the club. Love you, honey!" His voice disappears but I sit there holding the phone to my ear and staring at the ceiling for at least five more minutes.

How in the hell was I supposed to just up and quit? I'd be disappointing my dad and Sayer. I'd be letting myself down in the end.

But I don't know if I can go back there. Not now. Not after everything I know.

What am I going to do?

Fuck.

My dad must have been thinking about Sawyer because when I open up Facebook, I see that he put a video of him on his page. They're on a yacht, looks like it must be Sawyer's. My dad is only in the first few frames, then it's Sawyer, drinking a beer out of one of those tall glasses, sailor hat on, and no shirt.

He looks just as ripped as he does in the office, except the difference is that now I don't just have to sneak a peek while I'm pretending not to look. Now, I get to let my greedy eyes roam over every inch of his body. It's a good feeling.

It makes me feel good, at least.

I download it and crop out the part with my dad, and then I go through and save the best parts of it. There's one frame in particular where Sawyer is grinning. I can see his beautiful golden eyes are shadowed but the lashes are still visible. He's looking to the side, and his body looks so perfect. It should honestly be a crime to look that good. And he doesn't even seem to realize that he's practically a Greek god. He just walks around his office, casually slipping in and out of his clothes, in and out of the shower, torturing me with the sound of it all through the wall of my closet-office.

With the image from the boat practically memorized, I set my phone aside, letting my hand travel down my body as I lie back on my pillow.

So, fine. I can't quit my job.

And okay. I can't quit thinking about my boss. Naked. Wet. Also... naked.

Yeah, I might not ever get that image out of my head—not that I'm complaining—but at least I can do something about that part.

My oversized nightshirt is already bunched around my waist, so it doesn't take much effort to lean up and shrug it off completely. I kick the covers down around my legs and I'm exposed completely, closing my eyes and leaning back again and letting my hands take over as I try to imagine what Sawyer would do if he were here with me right now.

Would he think we were just old friends if he could see my hands moving down, cupping my breasts as my fingers graze across my nipples? Would an old friend stand and watch while I arch my back, moaning quietly into the morning silence as those little pink nubs become rock hard while I pinch and pull?

Or maybe, if Sawyer walked into my room and saw me like this, he'd be willing to help out an old friend.

Maybe he'd walk over to me, silent and focused with those sparkling, intense eyes. Maybe he'd push my hands aside—yeah, he'd definitely do that. Sawyer would want to be in control. And he's so damn hot that I'd gladly let him take over, moaning again as I imagine his rough hands against the soft, tender skin of my breasts. My nipples are already sensitive and aching, but the thought of his touch takes the sensation to a whole new level.

I'm doing my best to arch up off the bed, to let him feel as much of me as possible.

He gets the hint—the Sawyer in my fantasy is perceptive like that—and begins to move his hands lower, making my whole body shake in anticipation as he lets his fingers trail down my stomach, then lower as he reaches for my hips. I thrust upward, ready and willing and so damn impatient to give myself to him, to let him do whatever he wants.

But he's got other ideas.

Sawyer is meticulous and methodical. He would want to savor every moment and explore every part of my body, wouldn't he?

And my body is completely on board with that idea.

Those fingers trace a line from my hips around to my inner thighs, teasing the tender flesh there as he gets closer and closer to my most sensitive spot. I'm biting back a full on moan, but I still gasp as the fingers play along my folds, gently parting them and then brushing across my waiting, pulsing clit with a touch so light that it nearly makes me cry out for more.

It's torture. It's not enough.

I turn my head and murmur a plea into my pillow, losing myself in the fantasy. "Please, Sawyer... more."

Fantasy-Sawyer smiles at me, that sexy half-grin that he wears so well only serving to tease me further as his fingers finally start to become more firm, more insistent in their movements. I dip a finger inside, then quickly add another, using two of my own slender fingers to make up for the size of just one of his. It's enough to keep the fantasy going, and I roll my hips up to accommodate more as those two fingers plunge deeper.

I'm so wet, so ready for him, but he's going to make me wait. Fantasy-Sawyer knows how impatient I am, and I can just imagine that half-grin go wider as I groan and writhe in frustration and full-on desperate need.

He massages my clit as he fingers me, knowing exactly what I want, exactly what will push me over the edge. He's getting into it now, and I start to build up a rhythm, my hips pressing up to meet those probing fingers with each rapid thrust.

"Oh my God," I pant, not even trying to keep my voice in check. "Yes... please... I need you..."

I can feel it building, like a wave about to crest, rushing and churning just below the surface. Those fingers are like magic, sliding in and out, faster and faster until I cry out from the intensity, my release flooding through me so fiercely that my entire body feels pinned to the mattress as I lie there trembling.

A few moments pass, but I don't want to move from the spot I'm in, content to let the little aftershocks of my orgasm send tremors through my body. It's like I'm floating. Like the best dream I've ever had mixed with the very real sensations that I needed.

If only all of it had been real.

But wishing for that will only lead to disappointment because I can't have the real Sawyer. I'll have to make myself happy with my own two hands and my vivid-but-still-not-real fantasies.

Real Sawyer is going to keep his distance. He's going to keep his friendship with my dad. He's going to keep me in the friend zone.

Because that's what old friends do, isn't it?