Impulses by V.L. Brock Read Free Book Online Page B

Closing my eyes, I silently count to ten.
    When I feel my body and rampant emotions balancing, and my exasperation dwindling, I flutter my eyelids and gather the remaining documents that Mr. Wentworth informed me that he needed before I left. With the butterflies stretching their wings in my stomach, and threatening to escape through my throat, I make my way down the corridor to his office, and knock timidly on his door.
    “Come.” His low, husky voice booms through the door, causing my nipples to strain against my bra as I shudder. Come, eh? I sure wish you would make me, and I feel the muscles deep within me clench as I twist the gold doorknob.
    “Mr. Wentworth, I have the documents that you required.” I steadily make my way over the thick, lavish, beige carpet to his desk.
    His office lamp is positioned at an angle towards the left side and sends out a dreamy glow through the antique, green glass. The window behind him offers a view of flickering lights scattered like an array of tea light candles bobbing quietly on a calm tide.
    From the opposite side of the desk, I offer the papers to him. His eyes search mine, crystal blue into hypnotic, full-bodied brown, and I am briefly pinned by his intensity. The familiar throbbing deep down in the confines of my panties threatens anew. Squirming inwardly, I force a swallow.
    “Thank you, Miss Kennedy.” His eyes deter from mine as he redirects his focus toward the papers in his hands. “Well…” he sets the parchment onto the surface then presses himself back into his seat. His elbows are on the arms of the chair. His fingers locked and his index fingers steeple. He presses them against the stubble along his chin. “Two weeks you have been with us now, Miss Kennedy. How are you finding it? Settled in well?”
    Oh, if only you knew, Mr. Wentworth, if only you knew.
    I lower myself into the burgundy seat.
    Before I can even filter what comes out of my mouth, it’s, too late. The words pour out of me with the velocity of an unsuspecting landslide and it’s too late to retract them.
    “I am so grateful to you, Mr. Wentworth for providing me this amazing opportunity, to be a part of all of this,”––I wave my arm in the general direction of the room––“But I don’t feel as though I can be what you need me to be.” My voice cracks, my heart thumps rapidly against my ribcage, and my chest feels constricted with the overpowering sense of longing, and a form of regret for opening my damned mouth in the first place.
    If I leave, I will never see him again.
    Bewilderment is evident in his enthralling eyes. He listens to me closely, gliding his tongue across his lower pale pink lip at a languid pace. Enticed, I’m powerless to do anything other than stare unreserved. I wish he was running that tongue over me.
    “What, exactly, Miss Kennedy, is the problem? Is it Chloe?” His eyes are grave and his voice is doubly serious.
    I hang my head, listening to the vibrating throatiness of his voice but not hearing his words.
    “Is there tension between the two of you?”
    I risk a peek up at him, the steeple of his index fingers leisurely tracing across the seam of his lower lip. He’s angled his chair so his right elbow is practically touching the edge of the desk as it rests on the armrest. Although his voice is considerate and bewildered, his body language screams a thousand words, all of them aimed at my libido.
    I part my lips and flagrantly suck in strenuous breaths.
    “No, sir, there is no tension. Actually…” my voice is small and hesitant. Should I say this? Could I say this? Three words, Samantha, Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda, my subconscious sings while Mr. Wentworth observes me, waiting patiently for me to delve deeper into my mounting self-doubt.
    I bite my lip as anxiety piques. I cannot resist those eyes, those penetrating eyes that he’s burning into me, searching and attempting to read my mind.
    “Sam?” he pleads.
    “It’s you, sir,” I breathe.