There was a long moment of silence on the other end of the phone. Then he said, “Did you look in his office?”
It sounded like Eldon was spitting the words out of his mouth as if they tasted bad. “No, where’s his office at?”
“Second floor, west wing. Third door on right.” He hung up.
“Grumpy, grumpy,” she said to herself, hanging up the receiver. With a cheerful saunter, she headed for the west wing and went up the stairs. The door to his office was easy enough to find—there were not many doors in the West Wing, which meant that these were large rooms instead of the hall where she slept, a long corridor full of doors that were guest rooms.
She hesitated in front of the door and then knocked.
“Enter,” Hunter called from within.
Bingo.
Gretchen opened the door halfway and slid inside, shutting it behind her. There was a lock on the door and she turned it. Good. She didn’t want Eldon barging in on them.
Hunter’s office was surprising to her. While the rest of the house was decorated in a Victorian, almost Rococo ornate elegance, the office was spare and gray. The walls were painted a pale, wintry shade. Photos of buildings of every kind and shape covered the walls. An enormous TV on the far end of the room was turned to a financial channel, and the ticker moved quietly across the screen, the volume down. To the left of Hunter’s desk was an entire panel of windows that overlooked the gardens. There was a long, curving balcony there, and she imagined that he stepped outside in the summer to look over his beautiful, blooming plants.
The most surprising thing to her was that Hunter’s desk faced the far wall . . . and an enormous mirror. How very odd. She wouldn’t have thought Hunter, of all people, would work facing a mirror.
He looked up as she closed the door, glancing at her in the mirror, desk phone in hand. Confusion showed on his face. “Gretchen?”
“Hey. You busy?”
He set the phone down in the cradle and turned his chair to face her. “Just have a few meetings today I can’t reschedule. What are you doing here?”
She took a few steps forward, her hips swaying. Her hand went to the corner of his desk and she ran a finger along the edge of the wood. “I thought I’d come by and devirgin you.”
His brows furrowed together. “What?”
“Your virginity—I’ve come to take it.” She pulled the condom from her pocket and held it aloft like a trophy. “Unless you’re not interested, of course.”
“What happened to going slow?” His face was thunderstruck, his gaze darting to the condom she held tucked between two fingers.
That wasn’t a no. Gretchen moved forward, pressing her knee between his legs on the chair and sliding forward until her br**sts were in his face. “I promise to go slow, if that makes you feel any better?”
“Gretchen—”
“The way I figure it is that we’ve been going about this all wrong. I thought taking it nice and slow would make you feel more comfortable, but now I’m thinking we should treat this like ripping off a Band-Aid—make it rough and fast so you won’t overthink things.” She removed her knee and slid down until her elbows were resting on his knees. His c**k was already getting hard in his slacks, tenting the front. “Parts of you are interested at least.”
“All of me is interested, Gretchen,” he said, his voice hoarse. “But I have a conference call in two minutes and I can’t reschedule it.”
“Mmm.” She trailed a finger over his groin. “I can stick around, you know. I promise to be quiet.”
“I won’t be able to concentrate—”
She put a finger to her lips, smiling, even as his phone rang.
With a muttered oath, he grabbed her and spun her around, dragging her ass down to his lap. He pulled his chair in, tucking their legs under the desk, and grabbed the phone. “Hunter Buchanan here.”
Gretchen wiggled slightly in his lap, keeping quiet. His c**k was already hard underneath her ass, and getting harder by the minute. His thighs were thick and rather strong, and she liked that, she decided, tucking her legs over his knees to spread her ass cheeks a bit more. She leaned forward on his desk and gave a bit of a wiggle again, so her pu**y would rub up against his cock.
Immediately, Hunter reached past her and hit the mute button on his phone. He groaned, his free hand going to her hip. “Don’t move like that. Please.”
“I’ll be good,” she promised in a voice that told him she’d be anything but.
He clicked off mute, giving her a warning look. “No, I’m here. Go on.”
Gretchen propped her chin up on her hands, glancing around at Hunter’s desk while he discussed a property acquisition with whoever else was on the line. His hand remained at her hip, his thumb lightly rubbing back and forth as he talked. It was hard to be still, especially when she could feel the thick length of him nestled against her pu**y, but the conversation seemed to be an important one—they were discussing how many millions of dollars to offer for a shopping mall—and so she tried not to disturb him.
His desk was rather austere. Most people had small trinkets or personal possessions on their desks to mark them as theirs. Gretchen’s desk at home was covered with knick-knacks, postcards of exotic places, and a stack of unpaid bills. Hunter’s desk was spotlessly clean, and the only photo he had on his desk was of yet another building that she didn’t recognize. He sure did like pictures of buildings. On one corner of the desk was a single rose—matching the one he’d given her that day—in a slim crystal vase. Since he wasn’t using his computer, she tapped his mouse to get rid of the screen saver and glanced at his desktop. Jeez, he hadn’t even changed it from the factory setting. Boring. She opened his Internet browser and looked for a desktop wallpaper that would suit him, and ended up picking something that was a gorgeous shot of roses sparkling with dew. There. At least that was something.
She glanced over at the mirror, studying it. It didn’t make sense that a man as concerned with his appearance would want a big full-length mirror directly in front of his desk. “Why the mirror?” she whispered.
He tilted the phone away from his mouth so only she could hear his response. “So I never forget who—and what—I am.”
“That’s depressing,” she told him, and then rolled her eyes when he shushed her. “You know who does that? Emo people.”