“In the few weeks I’ve ever taken off due to illness, I’ve never come back to the office to find I’m caught up. Good work, Livvy.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lincoln.”

I dive straight into a set of new proposals he asks of me while he meets with Callan upstairs, and later that same day, I get a message on my office messenger from the CEO himself.

Terrace @ 6 p.m.

I read it over several times and can’t help the stupid thudding in my breast.

You know that thing you know that won’t do you any good, but you can’t stop doing it anyway? It’s a little bit like smoking, or getting high, eating too much chocolate, chasing the bad boy. Well that’s what Hot Smoker Guy is to me.

I’m beyond wanting to keep a distance now. I can’t stop getting close. I’m the millionth woman in the universe who’s found her flame and realized she’s just this tiny, fragile little moth, helpless to fly away from it.

I work, and work, and work until my alarm rings, signaling that it’s six o’clock.

I put my stuff away and lock my drawer, then I take the elevator up with mixed emotions. Mainly excitement, and a little dread for the things I can’t help but feel inside me.

I step outside and breathe in the warm summer air. The sun blazes orange on the horizon. I stay clear of the railing but my eyes scan the terrace, side to side, for him.

I spot him in a lounger, checking his phone, a cigarette dangling at the corner of his mouth.

A frisson of electricity runs through me when he senses my presence and lifts his head to look at me, his hair tousling in the wind.

It’s hard to remember he is not my Hot Smoker Guy right now.

Hard to remember my name is Olivia stupid Roth.

“Would it be terrible of me to ask for a hit?” I ask him when our eyes meet.

His lips twitch a little higher, and he pries the cigarette out of his mouth and pats his side.

I head over.

I take a seat, take a drag, exhale and pass it over. He looks down at me with a smile, and I smile back.

It’s 8 p.m. and we’re still on the terrace, with two cigarette stubs in an ashtray on the low table before us when his strong hands circle my waist and lift me to his thigh.

I curl my arms around his shoulders and clutch his hair.

“Not here,” I beg, a soft laugh leaving me.

“Olivia,” he says even as I kiss his full lips, prompting him to softly kiss me back, “if I’m to make you come for every one of those hundred men who failed to do so, we’re going to do this all over the place.”

His voice is thick with desire.

“Have you been thinking of this?” he asks.

I bob my head up and down. “I saw you at the cafeteria and I hated everyone for being there, keeping me away.”

“One of the interns, I think his name is George, wouldn’t stop looking at you.”

“What?” I gasp in surprise, and choke out, “I didn’t notice.”

“I did,” he assures me. “Do you want to know something?” He strokes both my nipples over my shirt with his fingers now. I’m wearing a bright pink bra for his benefit and his eyes darken when he notices it through my cream silk shirt. “I used to like it when you taunted me. I’m not that sure I’ve got it in me to play this game anymore.”

My heart starts pounding.

“I want to punch every guy who looks at you for more than five seconds.” He cups me between my legs, lips curving. “Because I want more of your sweet, wet little bush.”

“Callan!”

“What? Won’t you give me more of this sweet little bush?”

“Stop saying that.”

He grabs my hips and leans close. “Saying what? Sweet, tight little pussy.”

“Don’t.”

“Your perfect, pink pussy.”

“Callan!” I kiss him to shut him up.

“Say it, come on,” he huskily croons.

“No, you’re having fun with it. If you want my golden little bush . . .” I start laughing.

“God, you make me hot.”

“I’m not done,” I assure him. I really want to taunt him now.

“You talk about how much you like dick, I’m going to lose it,” he warns.

“Dick. Oh yes, I love it.”

“You saying naughty things makes me insane.”

We’re so hot for each other when we arrive at his place. Callan brings out the red scarf I’d worn as a hair band and I tremble head to toe as his touch begins to brush over my skin and my nipples. He wraps my bandana around my eyes.

I can’t see him—but this intensifies every touch to the maximum.

Callan turns me around and presses me against the wall. I thrust my butt out as he opens his mouth on the freckles on the back of my shoulder and licks his tongue over them, twirling it over my skin, opening his mouth even wider to suck on my shoulder.

He kicks my legs wider apart. “Make room for me.”

I flatten my palms on the wall and turn my head, and he’s there, taking my mouth as he drives in.

He’s in me—his flesh full and throbbing—and I groan and start slowly dying.

He jams his hand around my waist and between my legs, caressing my clit as he takes up a rhythm.

“How does that feel, Livvy?” he asks. His gruff voice sends pricks of pleasure running through my skin.

I lick my lips, aware of how fast I’m breathing. Of Callan’s own deep breaths.

“It feels . . .”

I trail off, no words for it.

Nobody, nobody, knows how to work and play better than Callan.

At Carma, we’re all business. But every evening, it’s all playtime.