Maliciously Obedient (BBW Erotic Romance) (24 page)

“What are you doing?” Matt echoed her thoughts, a quizzical frown on his face.

“I was just, uh,” she stammered.
Think, Lydia. Think!
“I was leaning against the door to fix my shoe, and you opened it, and then...abs.” And then
abs
? AND THEN ABS? Did she really just say that?

“Abs.” A slight smile lifted the corners of his mouth, the outer edge of his eyes, little folds making him suddenly look younger, tousled, casual and free. An extraordinary shift from his uptight, alpha-male self, the effect was disconcerting. Intoxicating, even. More like she remembered him in her apartment, casual and kind.

“Abs....olutely! I absolutely fell over.”
Lame, lame, lame,
and they both knew it, but Lydia would take lame over aroused and mortified any day.

He just nodded, backed out the door, and whispered, “Black.”

“What?”

“I like my coffee black. And, preferably, with water in it.” As he closed the door and she swore she heard him chuckle, the sound a rich baritone of genuine emotion that made her just find him more appealing.

Oooooo!
That man.

Two minutes later she set a cup of coffee on the ground in front of his closed door. Two tablespoons of coffee grounds with cold water mixed in. She returned to her desk and sent him an email:

Dear Matt,

Your coffee is outside your door.

Best,

Lydia

Seething, she opened a new window on her computer screen. Economize? A trip to Detroit, huh?

Oh, she'd show him how well she could economize.

“Jeremy?” Fingers flying fast on her keyboard, she looked up to see a familiar face. He grinned, and she smiled back, instantly comfortable and casual. Some quality in him did that; it was hypnotic.

“Lydia! You remember me?” He seemed simultaneously surprised and nonchalant, dressed today in a nice tan polo, jeans, and Chuck Taylor tennis shoes.

Way better that the Beetlejuice getup from the ball.

“You're kind of hard to forget.” She held her hand up to indicate his height.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his face animated and – was she imagining it? – a bit overly-fake. His hair was a mess of waves and those soft, brown eyes invited her to smile.

“I work here!” she answered, smiling. “What are
you
doing here?”

That stopped him cold in his tracks. “My friend M – uh, Matt works here.” Gazing at her, he added, “Your eyes really are speckled – the colors are intoxicating.”

Pulse racing, she held his look. Familiar warmth flooded her belly, clit beginning its light
cha-cha-cha
of arousal.
No! You're attracted to Matt
, her mind chided.
No! You're attracted to no one
, the feminist in her roared.
Career over clit.

“You know Matt?” she whispered, finally breaking a growing tension she couldn't name, but that felt a hell of a lot like extreme attraction. What was a high roller like Jeremy doing hanging out with Matt, of all people? Maybe there was more to her knew boss than she'd suspected. The resemblance to Michael Bournham was uncanny. Her earlier suspicions that he was related roared back.

Lydia stood and beckoned Jeremy to come closer, which he did, a lascivious grin on his face. This guy didn't hide his attraction, and it was quite pleasant, oddly enough. Nothing condescending or creepy. He struck her as one of those rare guys who simply
enjoyed
women.

Which just made her panties hot and wet, damn it.

“Is Matt related to Michael Bournham?” she blurted, desperate to stop being one big, sensual nerve.

Choking, he pulled back, a strangled laugh braying out of him. Just then, Matt walked over to her desk, a look of utter outrage and consternation twisting his features. “Jeremy? What the hell are you doing here?” A quick look at Lydia, then at Jeremy, his eyes wider as he looked at the man, transmitting some kind of message she didn't understand.

“Oh, just in the neighborhood and thought I'd pop in to visit my old friend,” he replied, his words fading with the Doppler effect as Matt grabbed his forearm and marched him rapidly into his office, the door nearly slamming.

What the hell was that all about?

“What the hell was that all about?” Mike demanded.

Jeremy shrugged. “You've been ignoring my texts for days, and I wasn't going to resort to,” he shuddered, “voice mail, so here I am.” For a guy who lived in thrift shop clothes, his friend was remarkably well-put-together today. His jeans were actually unstained and was he wearing
socks
? Unreal.

Furious, Mike lowered his tone, nearly hissing. “If you blow my cover, Jeremy, so help me – ”

“Or what? You won't take me to prom?” Jeremy laughed. “I evaded her question about how I knew Matt Jones.” Smirk. “I figured Matt's a smart guy. He can come up with an answer.”

Sigh. “You're here to make trouble?”

“I'm here to give you one last chance to go with me to Thailand. I'm booking the plane tickets for two weeks from now.”

Mike made a sound of disgust. “You know I can't go. This reality television show is still filming.” Why did Jeremy do this to him constantly? Luring him away from responsibility, dangling
fun
in front of him like some toy he could see but never play with. There was a strange sort of cruelty to it, even if Mike were fully aware that it was his own decision not to participate in the revelry and antics that was most destructive.

Live a little?

Not until he'd conquered the world. Or, at least, the Board of Directors.

“We could invite Lydia,” Jeremy ventured, his voice carrying a slightly lilt, as if throwing out a light-hearted suggestion instead of positing an international tour of hedonistic threesome bliss.

Mike's jaw ached from stress. This was worse than Jonah's crap, largely because this sounded like something he
wanted.

“So you did come here to scout her out.
Again
.” Mike's nostrils flared and he kept his breathing steady with great effort. He'd decided he was done with her, so why did this bother him so much?

Narrowing his eyes, Jeremy studied him with those brown orbs that could read people like a CIA operative sniffing out a double agent. “You're falling for her!” he said loudly, slapping his thigh. “Holy shit, Mike.”

“Matt!”

“Matt,” Jeremy repeated, lowering his voice.

“She's no Dana,” he growled, his body hot with need and anger.

Jeremy stood, frowning, and help up his palms. “I can see that. And I can see you won't be joining me, Mike.”

“Matt!” they said in unison.

Knock knock
. “You guys OK in there?” Lydia's curious voice made Mike glare, hard, at Jeremy, who just bit his lips to suppress a laugh.

“We're fine,” Mike shouted back. Pausing, he waited for more.

Nothing.

“You're living in some dream world, Jeremy. Give it up.”

“Give up what, exactly? The idea that you'll actually let yourself live? Stop driving yourself crazy acquiring more and more and more? How many magazine covers? And Dianes? And Lydias are enough before – ”

Grabbing Jeremy's bicep, he squeezed hard enough to make the taller man flinch. “Don't talk about her like that!”

“I didn't know you were so protective of Diane.”

Mike laughed in spite of himself, releasing his friend. “We're never going to agree on this one, Jeremy.”

“I agree she – ” he pointed to the door “ – is something special.”

In silence they both stared at the back of the door, like watching a well-formed, curvy ass that wasn't there until Jeremy said, “If you won't go to Thailand, how about Pad Thai for lunch right now?”

“Deal.”

“Was that Jeremy going into Matt's office?” Krysta asked, her voice heavy with surprise. Today she wore a bright red, form-fitting silk sweater and black pants that made her body look better than Lydia had seen in years.

“Are you losing weight?” she asked, genuinely curious.

Krysta blushed, completely distracted now. Lydia didn't want to answer her question just yet – she was still trying to figure out where to put her reaction to Jeremy in her emotional shelving system. “If I am, I don't know how much. I started swimming and biking a few weeks ago.”

Krysta was about as athletic as Honey Boo Boo's mother. “You what?”

An eyeroll greeted her. “I know, I know.”

“Some cute guy you met has you doing this?” Impossible. Krysta would have mentioned it.

Shaking her head, Krysta sighed. “No. I just decided I needed to get out more and just move. Plus,” she whispered, leaning in to Lydia's face, “it reduces my anxiety.”

Hand over her heart, Lydia smiled. “Oh, I'm so glad. I know how hard it is for you.”

Before Krysta could reply, they heard both men shout “Matt!” from his office. Exchanging a startled look, they both walked over to the door.

Knock knock
. “You guys OK in there?”

“We're fine,” Mike shouted back.

“Well,
excuuuuse me
for caring,” Lydia muttered.

A quick glare at the door, then a look at her watch, and Krysta said, “Let's go get a coffee. Fuck him.”

“I almost did.”

“Coffee will take your mind off him.”

If she got two lattes, would it take her mind off Jeremy as well? The only way to know was to follow Krysta to Starbucks and hope.

Chapter Nine

Flying coach? He did a double-take reading his ticket. He hadn't flown coach in thirteen years. Lydia should have known better; Matt Jones couldn't fly on the corporate jet, so he'd accepted the cattle call of mass travel, but coach was its own form of hell. Business class, at the very least, was what he expected.

Snob.
That was his dad's voice in his head, and he had to laugh at himself. Fair enough. For a twenty percent spike in sales he'd fly coach.

Being seated in front of the only toddler on the plane meant he got a free vibrating massage, to boot.
Whee!
Frequent flyer perk. He'd have to thank Lydia later. As he sank down into his seat, shoulders pinned in and muscles aching already in anticipation of the cramped quarters, he buckled his seatbelt, one of the last to do so on the overbooked plane.

And then...warmth. Wetness. A distinct sense of something seeping into his ass. Fumbling for the seatbelt, he unlocked it as fast as he could and stood, whacking his head on the luggage rack, right on the eye socket.

“God damn it!” he shouted. The flight attended eyed him warily. Great. Just what he needed. A good old visit with Homeland Security courtesy of TSA. He heard their coffee sucked, but the strip search would make any Bangkok prostitute blush.

“Sir, is there a problem? A male flight attendant appeared as if conjured from thin air. Brow furrowed, the guy was burly and concerned. Not concerned for Mike's welfare, but rather concerned for the other passengers.

The bouncer of the plane, basically.

Mike pointed to his seat. “It's soaked! There's some sort of liquid...on – ” If he were a woman, he'd have shuddered. Instead, he clenched his fists and spoke through gritted teeth. “I just sat in something wet, something
I
didn't put there, and now my ass is soaked.”