The Two Week Arrangement (Penthouse Affair, #1)

Dominic

I can’t focus. My fingers drum an unsteady beat on my desk as I listen to Oliver rattle off our executive task list for this quarter. One task requires me to go to a dinner with this potential investor of ours tonight.

If I’m being frank, I couldn’t care less about impressing this man today. The only thing that’s leaving any impression on me is my zipper on my permanent hard-on. All week, I’ve been at the end of my goddamn rope. Seeing Presley’s tight little body, smelling her vanilla shampoo, hearing her warm-honey voice, watching her knock every assignment out of the ballpark. . .Nôvel(D)ra/ma.Org exclusive © material.

It’s been insanely distracting, and I’m not proud of myself for it. All I need right now is a good hard fuck to flush out all of these unneeded impulses.

“. . . and after we build the spaceship and fly it around the world at least twice, we can go get our assholes waxed.”

“What?” I finally break out of my reverie, staring blankly at my best friend, but Oliver only raises his eyebrows. “Oh, sorry. Shit.”

“Hey, Dom. Didn’t know you were still here.” Oliver tosses his folder onto my desk. “Look, man, if you don’t want to talk work, let’s not talk work. That’s the last thing I want to talk about anyway.”

“All right. What do you want to talk about?”

“How about we talk about how uptight you’ve been ever since you took on your hot little intern?”

Shit. “My stress level has nothing to do with Presley.”

“Right, just like my dad’s late nights had nothing to do with his smoking-hot consultant. Come on, Dom. You like her, just admit it.” He smiles, his eyebrows waggling.

“I like her? What are we, twelve?”

“You know what I mean.” He sighs and props his feet on the edge of my desk.

I hate it when he does this. I frown at the prospect of scrubbing those scuff marks away again.

“I really don’t,” I grumble, using his folder to swat his feet off my desk. “Don’t feel obliged to elaborate.”

“Don’t feel obliged to elaborate.” He mimics me like the little prick he can be. “Oh, I’ll elaborate all right. You wanna fuck her. You want to turn her over on this very desk, spread her legs, and ram it home. You want to fill her with your—”

“Okay, Jesus, do you have to be so . . .” I can’t find any word that won’t make me sound like my father. Crass? Inappropriate? Childish? But, fuck, I am a father now, strange as that still seems to me.

Oliver laughs, then lets out a sigh as he suddenly sobers. “You can’t fuck her, though.”

“I know that. I’m not going to.” This isn’t a college frat party.

The look on his face tells me he’s not buying any of my bullshit.

“I’m not,” I say. “I’m just fucking horny. But I’ve got it covered. I’ve got a date lined up.”

“A date?” Oliver’s eyes widen with hope.

“No, not a date.” Damn. I shouldn’t have used that word. Oliver wants me to seriously commit myself to someone. It was cruel of me to dangle that bone in front of him. “I have an arrangement.”

“Oh, one of those arrangements. Like, you’re-fucking-a-hooker arrangement.”

“They aren’t hookers, they’re escorts. ‘Hooker’ has a very negative connotation. And sex isn’t part of the arrangement, it’s—”

“It’s just an added benefit,” Oliver says, finishing my sentence for me.

Right, he’s heard all of this before. No need to try to enlighten a friend who isn’t capable of understanding my survival mechanisms. But it’s my life, not his, and I get to live it however I see fit. I’d like to see him try to keep two toddlers alive, and run a corporation. Paying for sex is the least of my worries.

“I don’t get it.” Shaking his head, Oliver studies me like he’s reading my mind. “But I accept you.”

Finally. I chuckle. My vice president may be the only person left in my life that I trust, despite our differences. I barely trust myself like this. But tonight, I’ll get that unpredictable side of me under control.

Tonight, I’ll fuck any thoughts of Presley right out of my system.

And I can’t fucking wait.

• • •

In the car on the way home from the gym, I’m still tense. My fingers squeeze the wheel, my knuckles whitening. Even my chest feels tight.

Seriously?

I doubled my usual reps and tripled my usual mileage. Still, I couldn’t shake this feeling. I have too much energy. Too much gas in the tank, as my mother would say. A smile quirks my lips at the memory of Mom watching Teddy and me run laps around the kitchen table, shaking her head in dismay. When we were young, I was always chasing my brother, my hero—

Teddy.

No time for that train of thought. I speed down the road, eyeing the clock. If I make it home in the next five minutes, I may catch the girls before they’re tucked in bed for the night.

I’m only minutes too late, it turns out. When I open the door to my penthouse apartment, I don’t hear the familiar sound of tiny feet pitter-pattering down the hall. Instead, I hear the soft thud of Fran’s steady footfalls on the wood floor.

“Just put them to bed,” she whispers. “They were tuckered out from the park.”

“Thank you for taking them. I wish I could have gone instead.”

Fran says nothing to that, only hums thoughtfully to herself. I can tell she’s biting her tongue, wanting to say something about my work schedule conflicting with my child rearing.

I clench my jaw, accepting that she has a right to judge. I could be better. That much is true. And I’ll always try to be a better version of myself. I may not be perfect now—not at work, or at home—but I won’t let that keep me from striving for it.

I may not be able to be in two places at the same time, but I can absolutely be two different men—the tough and decisive CEO during the day, and the good father at night. I have to be. There’s really no other choice.

After Fran has waddled into the living room to sit with her knitting, I take off my shoes and head into my daughters’ room to find them curled up together in Lacey’s bed. My heart squeezes as I watch them. It’s sweet how they can’t bear to be apart, even when sleeping.

I step closer and gaze down at their little faces. They’re already sound asleep, little eyelashes fluttering with dreams. Good ones, I hope. I lean down and press a kiss onto each of their foreheads.

God, I wish I could just crawl into bed with them and curl up under these cashmere blankets. Let myself rest for even a moment and indulge in the simplicity of childhood bliss.

But I can’t. I have to get dressed. I have to put on my game face and impress this client.

I slowly stand and walk toward the door. After peering at them once more through the crack, I pull the door closed behind me.

Daddy’s got work to do.