wait until he is out of view to allow myself to stretch. I take a moment to absorb my surroundings since Mr. Professional Flirt Jeremy has kept me distracted until now.
My joints are sore from last night's exertions. I grin like a dumb girl, and then try to shake it off like a professional.
A professional what, Agent Turner? Because right now you are no government-trained assassin, but an infatuated twenty-five-year-old. I scoff at my ever-present subconscious. She always has to ruin the fun.
Am I allowed to be unprofessional for a little bit longer? I will give myself the rest of the day, and then call Derek. I have so much explaining to do, but if Jeremy is teaching me one thing, it's that I should act on my impulses.
I sit up and realize his room is vaster than it seemed last night. Expansive floor-to-ceiling windows look out over the Charles River and downtown Boston. It must be nice being master of your universe, looking down upon all the lowly townsfolk below.
I can hear Jeremy on the phone somewhere and decide to go see what he is doing. Will he want me to leave? Was this a one-time thing? Should I assume it was just a nice night and sneak out?
The idea is gut -wrenching. Just because I read his file and it describes him as the love-them and leave-them type, is it safe to assume he'll treat me the same way and leave me in the dust?
The secret agent in me peeks her head around the corner and whispers, You better make sure you aren't. You have to own this, Agent Turner!
I won't disappoint you, subconscious.
I rise from bed and find my shirt, but cannot find my underwear for the life of me. I walk over to his dresser and find a black pair of Jeremy's boxer briefs. I slip them on, rolling them up into short shorts and only half-buttoning my flannel shirt in order to reveal my stomach. I peer in the mirror before leaving the room, and decide there is nothing I can do to my just-fucked hair.
I tiptoe down the hall, following the sound of his voice to the balcony. His back is to me as he lies on a patio lounger , talking to someone on his cell phone.
I linger at the screen door , listening for a moment, because it's another window into who Jeremy is. The loveable, love-struck man has been left tangled in the sheets down the hall, and now I can hear the tough, hard-ass CEO that I read about. His tone is brusque and demanding, and I feel sympathy for the person on the other end.
"No, I told you he did not call or leave a message . ... He did not say he wanted to meet again. ... No one prepped me, and I went in blind. Whose fault is this? ... No, dammit. I need him to agree in order to proceed with the green energy project. ... No, it is not an option. He doesn't understand what he needs. We are what he needs. ... Who made that decision without my clearance? … Well, of course. Has my ticket been arranged for the gala? ... No! If he is going to be there, I need to be there, plus I’ve already told the Sheridans I’d be a key speaker."
I tiptoe onto the balcony in hopes that my presence won’t annoy him. I walk around to the foot of the lounger, smiling as I take in the sight of him. His eyes widen in delight and surprise, and he rewards me with that boyish smirk again. I nod to signal to him that I do not want to interrupt his call. It's obvious that it's an important one.
He continues with his demanding tone, but his smile is still there as he watches my every move. Yesterday , I would have found his blue, piercing stare unnerving, but now I welcome its steely depths because I can tell that they are appreciatively devouring me. I love it, and it gives me a gust of confidence.
I lean down where his feet are and climb over his legs. His smirk turns into a pantie-dropping grin as I clamber up over his half-naked body.
"Yea h, send me those tickets. ... No, get me a plus one. ... Yes, you heard me: plus one. ... Yes, I will have a date, and schedule the driver. I will be in touch. Let me know if Dyvornychenko
My joints are sore from last night's exertions. I grin like a dumb girl, and then try to shake it off like a professional.
A professional what, Agent Turner? Because right now you are no government-trained assassin, but an infatuated twenty-five-year-old. I scoff at my ever-present subconscious. She always has to ruin the fun.
Am I allowed to be unprofessional for a little bit longer? I will give myself the rest of the day, and then call Derek. I have so much explaining to do, but if Jeremy is teaching me one thing, it's that I should act on my impulses.
I sit up and realize his room is vaster than it seemed last night. Expansive floor-to-ceiling windows look out over the Charles River and downtown Boston. It must be nice being master of your universe, looking down upon all the lowly townsfolk below.
I can hear Jeremy on the phone somewhere and decide to go see what he is doing. Will he want me to leave? Was this a one-time thing? Should I assume it was just a nice night and sneak out?
The idea is gut -wrenching. Just because I read his file and it describes him as the love-them and leave-them type, is it safe to assume he'll treat me the same way and leave me in the dust?
The secret agent in me peeks her head around the corner and whispers, You better make sure you aren't. You have to own this, Agent Turner!
I won't disappoint you, subconscious.
I rise from bed and find my shirt, but cannot find my underwear for the life of me. I walk over to his dresser and find a black pair of Jeremy's boxer briefs. I slip them on, rolling them up into short shorts and only half-buttoning my flannel shirt in order to reveal my stomach. I peer in the mirror before leaving the room, and decide there is nothing I can do to my just-fucked hair.
I tiptoe down the hall, following the sound of his voice to the balcony. His back is to me as he lies on a patio lounger , talking to someone on his cell phone.
I linger at the screen door , listening for a moment, because it's another window into who Jeremy is. The loveable, love-struck man has been left tangled in the sheets down the hall, and now I can hear the tough, hard-ass CEO that I read about. His tone is brusque and demanding, and I feel sympathy for the person on the other end.
"No, I told you he did not call or leave a message . ... He did not say he wanted to meet again. ... No one prepped me, and I went in blind. Whose fault is this? ... No, dammit. I need him to agree in order to proceed with the green energy project. ... No, it is not an option. He doesn't understand what he needs. We are what he needs. ... Who made that decision without my clearance? … Well, of course. Has my ticket been arranged for the gala? ... No! If he is going to be there, I need to be there, plus I’ve already told the Sheridans I’d be a key speaker."
I tiptoe onto the balcony in hopes that my presence won’t annoy him. I walk around to the foot of the lounger, smiling as I take in the sight of him. His eyes widen in delight and surprise, and he rewards me with that boyish smirk again. I nod to signal to him that I do not want to interrupt his call. It's obvious that it's an important one.
He continues with his demanding tone, but his smile is still there as he watches my every move. Yesterday , I would have found his blue, piercing stare unnerving, but now I welcome its steely depths because I can tell that they are appreciatively devouring me. I love it, and it gives me a gust of confidence.
I lean down where his feet are and climb over his legs. His smirk turns into a pantie-dropping grin as I clamber up over his half-naked body.
"Yea h, send me those tickets. ... No, get me a plus one. ... Yes, you heard me: plus one. ... Yes, I will have a date, and schedule the driver. I will be in touch. Let me know if Dyvornychenko
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