Anne Marsh - Her Intern / Double Dare You

Neither Max nor Jack seem surprised, although it’s Max who correctly interprets tactical mistake and asks the obvious question. “Did you bang her?”

“Technically? No.”

Jack shakes his head. “I told you being her intern wouldn’t have a happy ending.”

“Yeah, well, Lola definitely didn’t get her happy ending,” I overshare.

“Gonna need a few more words about that.”

Max snags three longneck beers from a passing waiter while I try to find the words to explain. His pool is now filled with foam and the photographers are going nuts. This might have something to do with the behavior of Max’s VIP guests. It’s raining bikini tops on our private beach.

I finally settle on a strictly factual account. “I got her consent. We fooled around. I tied her up—which was also consensual—I came and then I left her.”

“Tied up.” Jack pops the top on his bottle.

“Yes.”

“High and dry.”

I shrug. “I’m certain she took care of business later, but yes.”

“You have any idea how much trouble you’re in?” Jack keeps his voice low, an effort that I appreciate. I don’t need to find today’s episode of stupidity plastered across a gossip website.

“Depends on whether Lola has a sense of humor or not.”

Shit.

I’m in so much trouble.

Jack, of course, presses his point. He’s the responsible one, which is one of many reasons why he’s also the only one of us who has actually managed monogamy, marriage and genuine friendship with not one but two girls. “You think there’s anything funny about tying a girl up and leaving her like that? What if someone else comes in while she’s tied up ? What if that someone takes advantage or takes pictures or just sees that mental image in his or her head every single time they see Lola after this?”

“I used a tie,” I point out. “Not cables or plastic handcuffs.”

Max cuffs my shoulder. “Even I know that this is not about the delivery mechanism for your kinky fantasies.”

Maybe we could have had sex. Maybe we could have had something really great or even something that was just nice. But now I’ve likely made her feel frustrated and stupid—plus, I’ve probably screwed up my chances of busting my software pirate. It’s a clusterfuck of epic proportions.

“Should I text her and apologize?”

Jack smacks my other shoulder hard enough that I almost land in the pool. “You want to put your stupidity in writing?”

No, I want to put it behind me, but that doesn’t seem to be an option.

I point my bottle at Jack. “I don’t have her phone number.” Which is an oversight I can remedy with a laptop.

“No,” Jack says. “You don’t get to do that.”

Max just grins. “What aren’t we doing?”

“No hacking,” Jack tells him. “You’ve reformed.”

There’s an eighties movie about a kid who hacks into the Department of Defense computer system and plays games with the artificial intelligence brain controlling the country’s nuclear arsenal. The kid isn’t thinking about nuclear winter or accidentally wiping out the world; he’s just a curious smart-ass who thinks it would be fun and wants to see if he can pull it off. That kid could have been Max’s mini-me. Or his doppelgänger. Max loves hacking and he’s really, really good at it.

I slide a sidelong glance at Max. “Does she have a Happily Ever After account?”

Max pulls a pained face. “Privacy laws, man. I can’t disclose that kind of stuff.”

“People post dick pics and beaver shots!”

Max just shrugs. “If Lola wants to post her phone number, she can. She can draw it on her tits in black Sharpie and take a picture. I don’t care as long as she’s the one initiating, but you can’t look without her permission.”

“You suck,” I tell him, and he takes a bow.

For the next couple of hours, I put on my happy face and concentrate on having Max’s back even if I don’t want to be here. I turn down multiple phone numbers and fend off several drunk girls who would like to show their personal appreciation for my software. I can’t stop thinking about Lola, however. What she looks like when she’s about to come, the tiny sounds she makes, the way her legs tighten as if she’s holding on to the sensation with everything she has.

Promptly at ten minutes to ten, Max literally pulls the plug on the music. Snatches of overloud conversation fill the sudden silence.

And then he said “nice panties.”

I can’t believe he’s cheating on me.

She has really nice tits and I—

“Party’s over,” Max roars. “Gift bags are by the front door.”

A stampede ensues as the party guests head for said door. Max’s generosity is legendary, plus word has leaked about the sponsors.

Jack looks at me. “Are you hitting the bar? Molly’s traveling for business, so I’m free.”

During the daylight hours, we borrow Jack from his wife and surf until our balls are Smurf-colored. Afterward, we head to T&T for tacos and tequila (the two T s, naturally) when it gets dark. But instead of surfing today, I almost-banged Lola. I’m off-kilter. Tequila and company seems like a bad idea.

“Not tonight,” I tell him.

Max mimes astonishment. Being Max, he’s none too subtle about it. He likes making a point as much as I do. “Are you sick? Unexpectedly married? Self-flagellating after today’s earlier sexual misfire?”

“It’s nothing,” I say. “I’m just tired.”

And the funny thing is, the tired part isn’t actually a lie. I am tired. Not with the flu or even with something that can be fixed with a visit to the doctor, or I would fix it. I have a reputation as a player, a reputation I’ve earned. Practice makes perfect, and I’ve put in my hours in the bedroom. I’ve always loved sex, but lately? Well, lately, it’s all seemed a little too routine, a little too predictable, so tonight I’m taking my toy and going home.

Dev

TWO DAYS AFTER I stripped my boss naked, put my mouth on her pussy and ate her until she not-quite-came, I try out various apologetic combinations of words in my head. Nothing feels right, and that’s all wrong, too. Since when do I have feelings ? And what do I think happened? My usual insomnia was worse than ever, giving me plenty of time to relive each moment and pick my favorite. Contender number one: Lola dropping to her knees and taking me into her mouth. Contender number two? She let me blow up in her mouth and then she swallowed. Contender number three...the whole goddamned handful of minutes, if I’m being honest, because I can’t forget any of them. She’s under my skin and I don’t like it.

Still, I’m officially one up in our game, so Monday morning I saunter in to Calla, playing things nice and easy. You can’t tell I’m evaluating the chances I get fired or sued. A casual glance toward Lola’s office doesn’t turn up my boss, although it reacquaints me with her desk. I promptly get hard remembering what she looked like, spread out before me.

Figure your shit out, Sherlock.

With a ticking clock, I need to prioritize. Plus, there’s always the risk that someone at Calla recognizes me. As far as I can tell, I’ve gotten away with the masquerade only because Lola is too new to the industry and her team members are equally young. Eventually, though, someone is going to connect the dots, read an online piece or just use Max’s stupid Billionaire Bachelors app—and I’ll be busted. Pretending to be the intern was stupid, my “employment” most definitely has an expiration date, and I need to make the most of the time I have. Ergo, I take advantage of the morning coffee run to swing by the IT gal’s desk. She hasn’t placed an order, but I know what she likes, and I slide it in front of her.