Breaking All the Rules (2 page)

“Bullshit.” I ball up the handkerchief and whip it at him. Nate catches the fabric and nonchalantly stuffs the handkerchief into the right pocket of his pants, his control infuriating me.

“You’re very interested.” I thrust my arms into the sleeves of the blazer and yank the garment closed. “Right now you’re wondering if my breasts are as full, as soft as they appear.” His eyes flash a warning I can’t and won’t heed, my pride smarting from his rejection. “You’re asking yourself how I taste, if I’m wet, hot, tight.”

The elevator doors open and I don’t move. I stare at Nate, huffing with indignation and sexual frustration. I want him and I know he wants me. Why won’t he touch me?

“This is your floor, Miss Trent.” Nate’s voice drips ice. His response should cool me down. It doesn’t. It heats me up, pushing me to the point of combustion.

“The answer is yes. I
am
wet, hot, tight.” I grab my backpack. “I’m all of that and more.” I stomp out of the elevator. “And Nate?” I glance over my shoulder and meet his glacier gaze. “I taste delicious.” The doors close between us.

He’ll be thinking about me all day. I strut down the hallway, my head held high, a jaunty bounce to my walk.

The office walls are painted gray. The industrial carpet and cubicle dividers are a shade darker. My coworkers are dressed in black and white, their suits crisp and their hair neat.

I call out cheery good-mornings as I pass people. A prissy woman with carefully arranged blond curls shushes me. A grim-looking woman clucks her tongue. Silence is the unspoken rule on the legal floor.

I don’t follow other people’s silly rules and wish the next coworker I meet a louder good-morning. My dad says I can’t help myself. I’m the evolution of the hippie, the offspring of two rebellious souls, genetically inclined for anarchy, taught to question everything.

All I know is I don’t fit in. Anywhere. I left the commune because the members wanted to restrict my computer time, their weak-assed attempt to convert me failing. I got booted out of the hacking community because I pushed too hard for peace and love. I certainly don’t belong here, at Blaine Technologies.

I venture deeper into corporate America. The sea of gray is constant and never ending. The lights are fluorescent. The hum of printers softens the quiet. Somewhere Mother Earth is weeping.

“Green,” Miss Yen, my boss, hollers, the tiny lawyer always knowing when I arrive. I hurry into her office, rapping my knuckles against the door as I enter.

My stylish boss clearly had no input in decorating her office. Ugly vertical blinds cover the floor-to-ceiling windows. An even uglier modern painting hangs on one interior wall, meaningless stripes of white and gray slashing a stark black canvas.

Filing cabinets line the perimeter, forming a wall of temptation I couldn’t resist. Their flimsy locks were no match for me. I scanned the contents one late night and found nothing of interest, Miss Yen keeping her secrets elsewhere.

She stands behind her black lacquer desk, her hands on her hips, a scowl on her beautiful face. Her dark suit hugs her slim body. A long silver scar skims across one of her cheeks. Gray file folders stuffed with paper are stacked on the desk in front of her.

My shoulders slump. I recognize these files, having spent six endless days compiling them. “Is there a problem with the expense reports?”

“Is there a problem?” The woman known as the dragon lady snorts. “You might say that. Finance rejected them.”

The finance department is Nate’s realm, staffed with employees as uptight and unbending as he is. “They rejected
all
of the expense reports?”

“All of them,” Miss Yen confirms. “If finance finds an error in one report, their new policy is to reject the entire submission.” Her lips twist. “Supposedly they’re busy with security issues.” She glances at me. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Green?”

“Why would I know anything about that?” I strive to appear as innocent as I possibly can. If Nate had correctly named me as the culprit, Mr. Henley, Blaine Technologies’ head of cybersecurity, would have already fired me. He warned me that my next violation would be my last. It seems the company caps allowable employee offenses at thirty-two.

“Leave the other departments alone and focus on this task.” Miss Yen pushes the stack of files toward me. “Confirm each and every line. Once Mr. Lawford sets rules he doesn’t deviate from them. If the expense reports have errors he
will
reject them again.”

“Yes, Miss Yen.” Nate’s sexual frustration is causing trouble for everyone, and I should feel contrite. What I feel is smug satisfaction. His control is severely compromised, my victory over him imminent. I haul the files back to my gray cubicle.

No one else sits in temp row. Kat, my friend and fellow intern, has been promoted. She’s spending all of her personal time planning her fashionista wedding to Mr. Henley. Anna, another best friend, is a new mom and works for her husband, Gabriel Blaine, the CEO and founder of Blaine Technologies. Both women are head over heels in love with their executives.

I have nothing except a sure-to-be short-lived sexapalooza with an Iceman and a charitable side project I don’t know how to launch. The pinch-faced lady seated one row over fills the air with floral-scented fumes. I add one crazy work neighbor to my list.

I toss my backpack into an empty desk drawer, log onto my computer, and peruse the first expense report, confirming line after line. The coding is correct. The numbers tie back to the receipts. The only mistake I find is a two-cent variance on one of the totals, a freakish error due to exchange rates and rounding.

Blaine Technologies is a billion-dollar company and the expense reports have been rejected for a two-cent discrepancy. I grin. Nate will be mine before the end of the week.

I tap on the keyboard and access his schedule. The security issues that have him concerned don’t include his account. His password, MoneyMan7, remains the same. I add “Think about Camille’s breasts” to his to-do list.

Mere minutes pass before he checks this line item as completed. Nathan Lawford is thinking about my breasts. This lifts my spirits and I hum happily as I examine the next expense report.

Is he stroking himself while he fantasizes about me? Has he closed his office door, unzipped his pants, and curled his fingers around his thick cock? His shaft will be as straight and as rigid as he is, the hair around his base blond, fine, and neatly trimmed.

I shift in my chair, my pussy moistening. He’ll pump himself vigorously, in sure up-and-down strokes, as unrelenting with his own body as he is with the expense reports. A dab of pre-cum will form on his tip. I lick my lips.

Will he taste as clean and as fresh as he smells? I’ve hacked into his medical records, the escort company he favors requiring regular checkups. Nate is healthy, virile, a male in his prime.

And he’s thinking of me, quirky, crazy Camille Trent. I unclip my phone from my waistband, open my blazer, and take a photo of my breasts. The black corset I’m wearing contrasts vividly with my ivory skin and the overhead lights deepen the shadow between my curves, making me appear even better endowed than I already am. I send this naughty image to Nate’s personal e-mail account, giving him more to think about.

Teasing my sexually frustrated executive brightens my otherwise dull day. I smile and apply all of my attention to the stack of expense reports, determined to follow the rules for once in my insubordinate life and give Nate the perfection he requires.

Chapter Two

B
Y NOON THE
numbers on the expense reports blur, the lines running together. I set the stack aside, remove my lunch from the backpack, and saunter to the break room. The space is empty, my coworkers preferring to buy food from the company-subsidized cafeteria.

The meals served there are good, but not as good as my beef panang curry, a recipe I learned from Auntie Ratana, one of my mom’s best friends. I warm up the dish and carry it back to my desk, looking forward to enjoying this little taste of home.

The pinch-faced lady seated one row away from me complains loudly about stinky foods. She must be complaining about her own dish. She’s eating steamed broccoli, and the scent of flatulence hangs heavily in the air.

I ignore her grumbling, open my data donation program, and eat slowly as I code, savoring the flavors of curry paste, coconut milk, lime, and basil.

The program I’m crafting is my gift to the world, a means of sharing unused data and voice capacity. The less fortunate often receive free used phones, but not the plans needed to utilize them. My program will fix that problem.

There’s no money in it. When it goes live next year I might snag a Blaine Technologies’ Change the World grant. The mentoring provided is direly needed. The funding, however, will only pay for additional business expenses, not for my rent or my grocery bill. Nate would call my project’s lack of profit unsustainable.

I peruse his schedule. He has booked a lunchtime meeting with Mr. Blaine. My friend Anna’s desk is situated outside of her enigmatic CEO’s office, and I should drop by, see Emily, the adorable heir to the Blaine Technologies’ empire. If I bump into Nate as he leaves his meeting, I can claim it’s a coincidence.

It wouldn’t truly be a coincidence and this would violate the rules of my game. Nate must choose to see me outside the confines of our morning elevator rides. I can’t see him. I force myself to remain at my desk, to concentrate on my project, to not think about the object of my doomed and completely absurd obsession.

My progress is slow. Coding is natural for me. I’ve been taking programs apart and putting them back together since I was a child, computers being a necessary evil at the commune. Designing the site is more challenging. I stress over every marketing decision, every color choice, every graphic and text I utilize.

The small hairs on the back of my neck rise and my body hums with awareness. Only one man has this effect on me, but it can’t be him. He has a meeting. I glance upward and my jaw drops.

It
is
him. Nate stands at the end of the row of empty cubicles, his expression blank, his back straight, and his feet braced apart. His fingers clench into fists and release, clench and release. He’s the Iceman, renowned for his restraint, yet he’s struggling with his control. This is how much he wants me.

“I thought you had a meeting with your boss.” I issue this statement as a challenge. He’ll know I checked his schedule, accessed his account.

“I canceled the meeting.”

He canceled his meeting with Mr. Blaine. Nate never cancels meetings. His schedule once drafted is set for the day.

“Did you?” I ask.

“Yes.” Nate’s gaze meets mine and I suck in my breath. His pale gray eyes are turbulent with stark, raw emotion, his need calling to me, seducing me.

“I see.” I stare at him. He stares back at me, his square jaw jutted and his lips pressed together. Tension radiates from him, heavy waves of desire dragging me down, down, down.

“Okie dokie, then,” I concede. He came to me. He canceled his meeting for me. I can do the rest.

I push away from my desk and walk toward him, my hips swaying, my soul filled with purpose. Nate watches me, not moving, not speaking.

“Come with me.” I cover his fists with my fingers. Energy surges from his hands to mine, the connection instant and intense, shaking my soul.

“Come,” I repeat, leading him toward the shredding room, grabbing a box of tissues as we pass an unoccupied desk. Nate follows me, issuing no protests, offering no resistance.

I want resistance. I want push back, challenge, him. Nate’s unbending personality is an integral part of him and I don’t want him to change, not for me, not for anyone.

We enter the shredding room, the space soundproof, private, utilitarian. A monstrous machine is bookended by two stacks of folded cardboard boxes. Shelves line the perimeter. White dust hangs in the stale air and covers the gray frayed carpet.

“This isn’t posh, but it will do.” I set the box of tissues on a nearby shelf and close the door, blocking the outside noise and hiding us from curious eyes, creating a secluded office oasis for the two of us.

“We’re not doing anything, Miss Trent.” Nate stands dangerously close to the exit and watches me warily, prepared to leave at the slightest provocation. “I only deal with professionals.” The erection tenting his black dress pants belies his words.

He wants me, needs me, yet he fights me, his continued resistance presenting a challenge I’m driven to accept. “I can please you as well as any professional can.” I lean into him and cover his impressively large cock with my hands, feeling the length and width of him through the fabric.

He jerks. “No.” Nate catches my wrists, drawing my hands away from his groin. “I pay for sex.” His fingertips press into my skin, his palms surprisingly rough. “I have to.”

He has to. I tilt my head back and read the determination on his face. This isn’t negotiable for Nate. If I want to touch the man of my dreams, I have to be paid for it.

I can’t figure out why this is a bad thing.

“First clarification: I’m giving you a hand job. We’re not having full-blown sex.” I twist my arms, easily breaking his hold on my wrists. “Second clarification: of course you’re paying for this.” I roll my eyes. “You didn’t think you were getting a freebie, did you?”

“You don’t need money.” Nate steps backward.

I follow him, not allowing his retreat. “I don’t pay my landlord in peace signs and rainbows, sweetheart.” I plunge my hand into the pocket of his pants. My fingertips touch soft cotton and my heart skips a beat.

My fastidiously neat man hasn’t discarded the handkerchief I used this morning. He has kept the soiled fabric, carrying it around with him as he moves from meeting to meeting.

My chest warms. Nate cares for me. I’m not just any woman for him. This encounter is more than a businesslike exchange of money for sex.

I remove his wallet, giving no indication I’ve discovered his secret, and fan through the contents, acting cool and detached, professional.