EXCERPT
Grace taps
her knuckles on my doorway. For some reason, the door is ajar, the muffled
sounds of copiers buzzing and people talking to each other a dull roar in the
distance. They all annoy me.
“Declan?
The jeweler called. The ring is ready.”
My blank
stare is all I can muster.
She smiles.
“Are you?”
“Am I
what?”
“Ready.”
Grace looks like she could get into a catfight with Honey Boo Boo’s mom and
come out the winner. When she frowns, something deep and primal in me clenches.
That’s why
she’s the best damned admin a guy could have. No worries about office sex
(Grace is a lesbian married to a rugby player) and in a pinch, she can act as a
bodyguard.
“Ready for
a meeting?” Based on the look she gives me, I am not with the program this
morning. Frankly, I am not on the planet this morning. Between a helicopter
ride from New York that was so choppy I might as well have been riding a
bucking bronco, and no sex at all from Shannon for three entire days (due to
business meetings in NYC), I am lucky I can read a basic stock report and tie
my shoes.
“Ready to
get married.”
Oh. Yeah.
And then there’s that.
Did I
mention the no sex part? Because that’s really occupying my addled brain more
than the whole pick-one-woman-for-the-rest-of-your-life thing.
And only
one woman.
One.
It’s not so
hard to pick one woman to be with for all eternity, right? Grace did it, so I
can, too. “Yeah. I’m ready.”
“You look
sick. Not ‘ready’.” Grace steps in my office all the way and gently closes the
door, holding the doorknob like it’s a ticking time bomb, waiting for the
gentle click before turning to me with that look.
You know
that look. The look older women give you, their eyes going soft and concerned,
like you deserve to be the object of pity, the recipient of chicken soup and
completely unusable advice.
Three thin,
gold bracelets jangle against her freckled, wrinkled skin. She’s nothing like
my future mother-in-law, and—
My entire
body tenses for no apparent reason whatsoever. It’s as if the Ghost of
Testosterone Past has slipped into my office unannounced.
Future
mother-in-law.
Marie.
“I’m fine,”
I insist. This is getting old. I have three video conferences with accounts, a
business lunch with a client who thinks tequila shots confer the same health
benefits as a field green salad (and by the fourth shot, I always agree with
him), and a woman right here in this building who I need to locate, pull into a
supply closet and bang senseless.
(That would
be Shannon, for the record.)
“Declan,
I’ve known you since you were in high school, and I’m going to take off my
admin hat for a moment and put on my not-quite-mother hat,” Grace says,
complete with hand gestures, as if she’s pretending to wear a hat.
Grace was a
pre-school teacher in her first career. It shows.
“I have
enough not-quite-mothers in my life,” I say in the most I am annoyed voice
I can manage, which is a pretty damn strong one. Shannon tells me I have
Resting Asshole Face. It’s like Resting Bitchface but for men.
I try it
out on Grace right now.
She waves
me off. “Oh, stop it. Listen to me. You’re about to propose to the woman you
love. Any man in your shoes would be nervous.”
“Nervous,”
I scoff, standing up and buttoning my suit jacket, unbuttoning it, buttoning it.
The buttons are a bit tight and it just came back from the tailor for
readjustment. I am not nervous.
“You’re
human, Declan.”
“I’m a
McCormick. We’re not allowed to be human.”
“No matter
how often your father says that, you know it’s not true,” Grace says with a
smile, clasping her hands in front of her, making the gold at her wrists jingle
again.
Someone
knocks on the door. We both turn and look.
“Come in,”
I call out. To Grace, I mutter, “Maybe we’re secret immortal werewolves and
we’ve fooled you.”
“You’re too
vain about your suits to let them get torn when you shift,” says Shannon,
entering the room with a smile.
One part of
my clothing threatens to split quite suddenly.
Grace gives
me a look that says We’re not done here. Oh, yes, we are. We’re done
talking about whether I’m ready for marriage and, instead, we’re going to talk
about how ready I am for sex.
If we’re
measuring that readiness, it’s a good nine inches long.
(You expect
me to be modest? Good luck with that. Facts are facts.)
Shannon works
three floors below me. I like knowing she’s under me all the time. Right now, I
want her on top of me, beneath me, spooned in front of me, on her knees at my
feet...hell, I’ll take anything. I can hear my heart beat in the quiet between
us, except the blood isn’t pounding through my chest right now.
Grace
departs, and I take in the vision of my future bride. Bride. I like that
word. Could get used to saying it, especially since it has the word “ride”
tucked right in there.
Shannon. My
ride.
She’s
wearing a dark grey suit with a double-breasted jacket and a light colored
shirt under it. Nylons and high heels a little taller than the ones she
normally wears. Her brown hair is pulled back in a braid, her lips freshly
painted with bright red lipstick. Long lashes frame those perfect eyes. Shannon
is working the hell out of the naughty librarian look.
She moves
toward my desk, not touching me, walking past to tease. She knows damn well how
hard I want her, er...how much I want her, and she’s prolonging the moment,
stretching it out in an endless series of sultry moves designed to make me
fling every paper off my desk and take her in front of the giant glass windows
here on the twenty-second floor, with a view of the Back Bay our orgasmic
scenery.
The seam of
my zipper begins to split as she pulls herself up to sit on the edge of my
desk, slipping her heels off with stocking feet, and she widens her legs.
Garters. Red
garters. And—
My inner
werewolf is trying to climb out of my body through my pants fly.
She’s wearing
no panties. At all. Shannon doesn’t do this.
Oh, thank God she’s
doing this.
