Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 31579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 158(@200wpm)___ 126(@250wpm)___ 105(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 158(@200wpm)___ 126(@250wpm)___ 105(@300wpm)
I'm hot all over, slowly climbing the hill towards orgasm, my thoughts nothing but Drake, Drake, Drake. Pulling my hand out of my shirt, I grab my phone again, desperate for another look at him before I come. I'm almost there, teetering on the edge—
And then a call comes in, blocking out the screen, the phone shrieking in my hand.
Drake. As if somehow, he knows exactly what I'm doing.
I gasp, my fingers slowing, my arousal draining out of me like a bucket with a hole punched in the bottom. Fuck. I let the phone ring, and then silence falls again. It's quiet. And then it's not.
The phone rings again, and predictably, it's Drake. Feeling like I'm on the edge of tears, bizarrely nervous that he somehow knows I'm masturbating to his pictures, I answer. "Hello?"
"Ellie, my girl, how are you doing this fine evening?"
I close my eyes, suppressing a groan of frustration. "I'm trying to sleep, Mr. Evans."
"It's 9:15." He laughs, a deep, warm sound. "I'd like to think you can manage to stay awake for a few more minutes."
"Why are you calling me?" I ask. I've been working for Drake for the past year, and although he has no concept of leaving me alone after work hours, he rarely calls me at night.
"I need a favor. I know we're supposed to fly out at 3 PM tomorrow, but could you possibly get us an earlier flight? My old mate Chris is going to be at the conference, too, but he and a few other guys are going to climb Breaking the Wheel in Ogden before check-in. It should take three hours, tops, but we definitely need to fly out earlier."
I want to scream. This is classic Drake—almost impossible requests made at the last minute, with the full expectation that I can pull it off. Luckily for him, I'm excellent at what I do, and nine times out of ten, I do manage to make magic happen. This is just a flight change; it should be no different. Even if it is a pain in my ass.
"You want me to switch flights for tomorrow. Mr. Evans, you do realize you're sort of asking a lot?" I ask him, already knowing what his answer is going to be.
"Of course. But you can handle it, can't you? I know you can," he says smoothly. And then, as if the idea just occurred to him, he adds, "You could come out too, you know. The offer still stands."
Without even having to ask, I know the offer he's referencing—the standing offer to teach me to climb. I'm the opposite of an athlete, but I can't deny I've considered taking him up on the favor. I can picture it now, hanging from the cliffside with Drake's strong body behind me, his hands helping me position the gear. His arms encircling me as he guides me up the sheer surface. It's an intoxicating idea, but I'm not about to tell him that.
"Thanks, but no thanks. You're the climber, not me."
"I could teach you," he murmurs. "There's nothing quite like the view from on top."
Ignoring the double meaning of his words, I sigh. "Again, no. But I'll make the flight thing happen. Keep an eye out for your new ticket. And don't be late!"
I hear him laugh and roll my eyes. "That's my girl," he all but purrs, and I'm covered in goosebumps all over again. "Don't worry, I'll be there right when you need me to, Ellie. See you tomorrow."
"See you then." I hang up the phone and sit in front of my computer, trying to shake the thought of Drake Evans off before I start. I'm a professional, damn it. He's my boss, not my boyfriend. My brain, however, isn't hearing it, and the thoughts come unbidden even as I pull up the booking page.
"Damn you, Drake Evans."
Unsurprisingly, at 8:20 AM, I find myself repeating the same words from the previous night. This time, under my breath as I try to cram my carry-on in the overhead bin.
"Damn you, Drake Evans..."
"What was that?" the man himself, seated already, asks.
"Nothing."
"Here, let me help you."
I try to finish the job myself before he can assist, but Drake is on his feet in seconds and using his excess height to easily put my luggage away. Drake takes the window seat, his long legs barely fitting in the small space. I take the center seat and pray that the aisle seat remains empty.
"I don't mean to tell you how to do your job, Ellie, but economy class? Really?" Drake has been annoyed all morning, and I get the feeling that he's sorely regretting his choice to fly out in the morning, not just because of the early hour but because he now has to face the consequences of his actions. Even if he's trying to push the blame on me.