Virgin Romance by Penny Wylder

2

For the third day in a row I wake up flushed. Damn dreams. Damn Andrew.

It feels like he’s made it his mission to run into me whenever possible at the office—and every time he does, all I do is trip over myself. His winks and smiles and innuendos almost make me question whether or not my uncle is right and he’s just using me. But that moment in the copy room is still there. I can’t pretend that wasn’t real.

I’ve kissed people before. Okay, fine, I’ve kissed one person before. And it was nowhere near as hot as those few moments when it felt like we connected.

Now my brain won’t leave me alone. It’s constantly finding ways to imagine what would have happened had that moment continued, what might have been if we hadn’t been interrupted. I imagine him closing that gap and pressing his lips onto mine, and together we move backward, hands tearing at each other’s clothes, until he’s pressing me up against the wall.

My fingers find my way into my underwear as I imagine his lips tracing down my throat. His lips are soft and his tongue is teasing me. His hands are undoing the buttons of my shirt and he doesn’t miss a beat moving down to my breasts, tracing my nipples through the fabric. I imagine my fingers fisting in his hair, pressing his head closer to me, urging him to touch more of my skin.

My body heats up and I can feel myself getting wet under my fingers as I let my imagination run wild. He’s kissing me again and our bodies are pressed together, and even through our clothes it feels so good. Then his hand is on my skin, sliding down my stomach and under my waistband. His fingers are touching me there and he dips inside me at the same time he plunges his tongue into my mouth. My body arches, and I can see myself gasping, relishing the sensation of being caught up in him.

I move my fingers faster, and I can feel myself getting closer. I open Andrew’s shirt and envision his beautiful chest, his hard abs. His pants are unbuckled and he lifts me off my feet, my legs wrapping around his waist. With one strong, deep plunge, he glides inside me and it feels amazing. I imagine what it’s like to feel that full, to feel pleasure radiating out from every stroke. He locks eyes with me as he thrusts into me again, and again, and I can feel that I’m on the edge—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

I roll over into my pillow and groan as my alarm clock erases what was sure to be an amazing orgasm. Damn. Fantasy sex is all I have and I can’t even get all the way through that. Now I’m sweaty and horny and unsatisfied. I tap my phone to stop the screeching, and resist the urge to throw it against the wall. Not even eight a.m. And the day is off to a great start. At least I don’t have to go to the office for long.

I drag myself out of bed and into the shower, mentally ticking off the things I need to do before I leave. Today I’m moving…well, temporarily. My uncle’s current—and biggest—case is the Sterling murder. Timothy Sterling, a self-made software millionaire is accused of killing his wife. She was found dead in their home. There were no witnesses and he can’t provide a credible alibi. My uncle and the firm are defending Mr. Sterling. He was released on bail, but given the high profile nature of the case, the court commanded that he remain on his estate. That makes it hard to meet with him as his estate is two hours outside of the city.

So, as of today, my uncle is moving into Mr. Sterling’s guest house for the duration of the defense. This is so that Uncle Roger can have immediate access to his client, but also to make sure that Sterling doesn’t do anything stupid. And also as of today, I’m going there too. My uncle needs a go-between for the office and he can’t ask his assistant to stay at the guest house. That leaves me, the niece. Go figure. Nepotism for the win.

I need to pack my clothes and toiletries, and then go to the office and pick up a truly impressive number of file boxes to bring with me to the guest house.

While I’m packing my clothes I turn on the bare track of a song I’ve been working on in my spare time. It has a pretty melody, even though I don’t have words yet. But there’s a little counter melody in my head, just a few chords. I grab a piece of paper and quickly write the progression down. Actually, I have a couple of minutes and would really like to know what that sounds like.

I sit down at my computer’s keyboard and open up my music making software. When I input the chords, it sounds good. But not perfect. I think I should add this here, and an E chord there. It feels so natural to be making music that I don’t even notice the time. When I next look at the clock an hour has passed, and I’m still not finished packing. Shit.

It’s a good thing that I don’t have to see my uncle until tonight, because he would kill me for being late. I throw the rest of my clothes into my suitcase and grab my make-up and toiletries. It’s not neat, but it will have to do. It’s a guest house, right? If I forgot anything they should have it, and if not then I’ll be coming back to the city soon. It’ll be fine.

It’s hot. I mean, this is Florida, so that’s not really surprising. But I’m still used to Los Angeles weather. When you live with seventy degrees and low humidity year round, Florida’s climate feels like living in a sauna full time. Especially in July. Even wearing short sleeves and a skirt it’s nearly unbearable, and by the time I reach the office I’m once again covered in sweat and I haven’t even started lugging the boxes yet.

There are twenty-one file boxes. Twenty-one. If my uncle weren’t endlessly practical I’d swear he was making me haul these as some sort of punishment or else a test of my ability to do this job. Well…I guess it could be that last one. But it’s probably better not to dwell on it for too long…

I get all the boxes into the car—it takes forever because they’re bulky and heavy, and I can really only carry one at a time. A couple of times I managed two, but I have to unload all of these, and I need to save my hands. The only bright side is that I don’t see Andrew. Even if it’s never going to happen, I’m glad that he doesn’t have to see me sweaty and exhausted from the humidity and manual labor.

The air conditioning in my car has never felt this good, and I’ve used it a lot. I love road trips, and I drove both ways when I moved from coast to coast, so my car has become a mini-sanctuary for me over the years. Today is no exception. I turn on some music—not mine this time—and enjoy the ride.

That is, until I pull up to the Sterling estate. Holy crap. I knew this guy was loaded, but whoa. I’m greeted with tall black iron gates and a curving driveway that leads to one of the biggest houses I’ve ever seen. It looks like a castle, and I think there might actually be a spire off the back, but it’s hard to tell from this angle. Who even needs a guest house when you have something that big? Then again, he probably likes his privacy.

The driveway curves around the main house and down past a swimming pool that is a perfect blue, and gardens that look like they’re a spread in Travel & Leisure. Is that a hedge maze? Seriously, I really hope this guy is innocent, because we need to be friends. I’ll house-sit for him any time.

I pull up to the guest house, a villa situated behind some tall trees that keep it somewhat hidden away. It has its own garden and small pool, and even without being attached to the mansion next door it’s gorgeous. It’s a white creation in the Spanish style, with red tiles on the roof and blue shutters that make it look cheery.

I take it all in with an appreciative sigh and then get out of my car and stretch. I guess I’d better get to unloading. The faster I get it done, the faster I can get a shower and a cold drink. I grab a box and the keys my uncle gave me and let myself inside. It’s blessedly cool. The first floor is breezy and open with the entryway flowing into an open living room, small dining room, and galley kitchen. Natural light is pouring into the space from what seems like a hundred windows. I could learn to like it here, I think.

I put the first box on the floor in the dining room. My uncle wants that space to be the primary office area of the house, so all the boxes will go there for now. We agreed that we’d find a better set-up once we were both settled into the house.

Trudging out to the car again, I decide that I’m going to try to get the boxes into the house in as few trips as possible. Even if that means nearly breaking my back by carrying multiple boxes. I stack three on top of each other. It’s a stretch, but these are the lightest ones, and no one’s here to see me if I drop them.

I have to use my butt to open the door—no hands—and I nearly trip over the threshold. I steady myself and make a mental note to only bring two next time. I’m halfway to the dining room when I hear a sound, like someone else is in the house.

“Hello?” I can’t see over the boxes, but I’m almost there. But as I turn the corner I collide with something and I hear a grunt of pain. I stumble back, keeping my grip on the boxes even as I blurt out an apology. “I am so sorry! I didn’t realize anyone else was here.”

The mystery person grabs the top box off my pile and suddenly the other two boxes go crashing to the floor, because standing in front of me is Andrew Finch. And he’s smiling.