Willing Prey By Allie Oleander - 9

It’s day four—two days since I fucked Claire in the field—and there hasn’t been a waking moment where thoughts of her haven’t filled my mind. I can’t stop thinking about the encounter, about her. I suspected the other women I attempted this with were a poor substitute for the real thing, and I was more than right. With Claire, the reality of hunting her was a thousand times better than my fantasies. In my fantasies, she never had that wild look in her eyes, didn’t make sounds so sweet my cock twitches just remembering them. Her pussy didn’t spasm around me each time I told her what a good little deer she was. There’s no going back to fantasizing now that I’ve had her.

Work is getting in the way, though. I love my job, to the point where it’s caused the demise of every relationship I’ve had as an adult, but this week it feels like an unwelcome distraction. I’ve stayed past midnight the past two nights, which is nothing unusual, but now I resent it. I’m irritated, craving her taste. I only have her for thirty days, and I’m losing time. Today, I’m leaving at five, work be damned.

Two hours to go.

This morning, Claire was in the kitchen when I went to grab breakfast and coffee for the road. Sitting at the table in a hoodie emblazoned with the name of an elementary school and a cartoon velociraptor, her hair up in a messy bun, she looked like she belonged there. She gave me a smile that stopped my heart before nodding at my clothing.

“You don’t look ready for the woods. Those fancy shoes will slow you down.”

That made Gretchen chuckle and warmth slither up the back of my neck. Gretchen and Margot know why she’s here, but it isn’t something we regularly talk about. When Gretchen stepped out, I leaned in close enough to smell Claire’s shampoo, dropping my voice to a whisper. “If you’re the prey, nothing is capable of slowing me down.”

A flush crept up the front of her throat, making the bruise I’d left on her neck glow an angry red. Seeing the mark made some animal inside me roar with pride. Mine , the creature gloated, all mine. That was a new feeling. It left me trying to hide a rapidly growing erection behind my briefcase when Gretchen came back in.

I check my phone. Only fifteen minutes have passed. Fucking hell.

I need coffee.

It’s a good excuse to get up and move. Clear my head. I need to reset my brain so I can focus on work, not Claire and how she’s waiting for me at home.

I’m pleased to find the kitchen empty but less impressed when the coffeepot is too. Refilling something after using the last of it doesn’t seem like it should be a challenging concept, but at least half of my colleagues can’t figure it out. There are a few who legitimately might not be able to operate the high-tech machine, but the rest have no excuse. After giving the pot a quick wash, I start the coffee maker. The firm’s kitchen is modern and spacious, painted in neutral tones with sleek gunmetal appliances. A gray granite island sits in the center, surrounded by chairs. It’s a pleasant surprise that there isn’t someone in here taking a call, working on a laptop, or socializing.

Settling in at the island, I appreciate the near silence—there are only the sounds of the coffee maker and air-conditioning. I focus on the soft noises, using them to settle my brain. Footsteps come from the hall. Before I can wonder who they belong to, Tanner Crowe, a partner and the worst pretend-not-to-see-an-empty-coffeepot offender, steps into the kitchen. I’m glad it’s him. Tanner’s one of the few people at the firm I like enough to interact with outside of work activities, though I wouldn’t call us close friends. I’m about to say something along the lines of You would show up now that I’m making coffee when Keith walks in behind him.

Motherfucker.

My good mood sours. Keith’s been with the firm eight years and is gunning hard for partner. One of his strategies seems to be following Tanner around like a huge duckling trailing its mother. Tanner is easygoing—as far as lawyers go—and tolerates it, but I enjoy giving him a hard time about the fact that he can barely take a piss without Keith’s company. While I’ve never found Keith’s presence particularly enjoyable, since the Christmas party two years ago, I’ve found myself growing more and more annoyed by him.

We exchange the usual pleasantries. Keith and Tanner settle in at the island across from me, also waiting on the coffee maker. I make a mental note that we need to buy a faster one, because, by the sound of its gurgles, I’m going to be here another minute or two. As they continue their conversation, I size up Keith.

Is this Claire’s type?

He’s tall— whatever —with brown hair— fine— and green eyes— interesting . They’re unique. The kind of thing women might appreciate. I’m wondering if Claire likes green eyes better than brown when I realize Keith is speaking to me.

“Any plans for the weekend?” His tone is cordial.

Fucking your ex-wife better than you ever did.

The surge of aggression I feel surprises me as much as the intrusive thought.

“Hiking.” I can’t quite get my tone to friendly, but I don’t sound like I hate him. Good enough. “You?”

Keith leans back in his chair. “Think I’m going to check in on the ex, see how she’s doing.”

Irritation blossoms into anger at his words. Jaw tight, fists clenched, I feel precariously close to losing my temper, even though I logically know there’s no reason for it. What is wrong with me? I’ve never wanted to smash someone’s face into an island before, but the idea is wildly appealing right now.

Tanner gives me a curious look. Do I look like I’m about to lose it? The thought is unpleasant. Maintaining an unbothered expression regardless of my emotional state is a skill I worked hard to develop as a teen. Then, my ability to fake apathy meant the difference between my father’s rage burning out before it reached the fuse or triggering an Armageddon-level explosion. Now, that same emotional control, or at the very least, the appearance of it, serves me well. My default mode is a mask of neutrality, disdain if I feel like switching things up. That it might be slipping worries me.

Unaware that whether he gets a closer look at the granite countertop depends on my self-control—which feels concerningly shaky—Keith keeps going. “Last time I reached out, she was still worked up. She’s something else when she’s in a mood.” His chuckle is indulgent, as if he’s humoring her anger. “You know how women get.”

He looks at me as if I’m going to cosign this statement. “No. I don’t know how they get.”

Tanner laughs like I’m joking. Ignoring him, I lean forward, resting my elbows on the island. “Are you still seeing Naomi?” The paralegal recently left the firm, and I don’t know if it had something to do with the affair or not.

He looks surprised at the question. “Of course.”

“Then why check in on Claire?” The coffee maker completes its job with a cheerful beep, but I don’t move for it.

Keith cocks his head, gauging if I’m serious. Deciding I am, he explains in an almost patronizing tone, “She’s my ex-wife, and I care about her.” He smirks. “And she’s going to be lonely, needy, and still pissed. I wouldn’t turn down a round of hate sex for old times’ sake.”

It takes conscious thought to unclench my jaw. “She divorced you. Why would she sleep with you?”

The confidence on his face may snap the final tether on my temper. “Because we have history. She loved me once, probably still does. Ten minutes of remember the time we and she’ll be naked.”

For safety’s sake, I move to the coffeepot. My fingers are itching to wrap around his neck.

“Won’t work.” I try to sound nonchalant, turning my back to him and focusing on the coffee maker. “She’s not going to get over the affair.”

“She doesn’t have to get over it to sleep with me.” His arrogance could be comical if I weren’t so pissed. “And there’s a chance she might do it for revenge.”

“That’ll teach you a lesson.” Tanner laughs at his own joke. Keith follows suit because of course he does.

“She might do it to one-up Naomi,” Keith insists. “I’ve spent years with that woman; trust me when I say I know how she works. She’s absurdly competitive.” A grimace makes it clear he doesn’t appreciate Claire’s drive.

Claire throwing herself off of the roof pops into my head. The ferocity of her resistance when I caught her in the woods. How I had to adjust my grip on her hair because I thought she might rip it out trying to escape. Her crawling away from my tongue between her legs, even though she was dripping and ready. Incredible. The thought of a woman like Claire with a man like Keith is infuriating.

“I suppose anything could happen.” Tanner’s voice betrays how entertained he is by this exchange. Which one of us is amusing him, I’m not sure. I wonder if his idea of “anything could happen” includes me cracking Keith upside the head with this coffeepot. When he says, “So the sex must be great, then,” I suspect he’s picked up on the shift in my mood.

Gretchen, Margot, and Claire’s roommate-slash–emergency contact are the only people who know about the arrangement, but I think Tanner noticed I paid her a bit too much attention at the Christmas party. He’s also caught me looking at her Facebook profile on my phone a time or two.

Or ten.

Keith smirks, coffee sloshes over the edge of my travel mug, and I contemplate violence.

“Fantastic—only reason things lasted as long with her as they did. She’s a real giver.”

I whirl to face them. Murder. I’m going to commit murder. Here in the kitchen, with Tanner watching. It’s only a matter of choosing my method. Choking him out? Smashing his head into the island? Bludgeoning him with my mug?

“How so?” Tanner’s gaze flicks to me, one eyelid dropping in a wink. I bite back a groan.

“Phenomenal head, abso—”

“All right, this is getting inappropriate for the workplace,” I snap, interrupting Keith.

Fuck.

Keith’s head whips around so fast, I’m surprised—and disappointed—he doesn’t break his neck. He’s looking at me like he can’t figure out if I’m joking or not. Tanner is barely shy of gleeful—fucking bastard. If I don’t get out of here, I’ll give myself away. I can’t keep my face in check, and now I’m acting like an amateur, some hothead who can’t control his temper. The person who says the least has the most power, and I’m about to say way too much . Holding Tanner in a glare, I screw the lid onto my mug. “I need to talk to you about payroll.”

I’m not involved with payroll at all. Tanner takes the hint, though, and follows me from the kitchen. He nods goodbye to Keith. I don’t.

Closing the door of my office behind us, I try to figure out how I’m going to approach this conversation. Specifically, how much I’m willing to share with Tanner. He settles into one of the armchairs near my desk, surveying the office. I know what he’s going to say before he does.

“You really need some art in here.” He tilts his head toward the blank, pale gray wall to his right. “It’s drab.”

Black walnut bookcases line one wall, and my desk is the same dark wood. Between the black leather chairs for visitors, one of which Tanner is currently occupying, and my high-back desk chair—also black leather—he isn’t wrong.

“Nail one of your socks to the wall,” I mutter, dropping into my chair.

Tanner snorts, hiking up a leg high enough that I can see it over the desk. His pant leg rides up, revealing a green-and-blue dress sock covered in cartoon dogs.

“Are those pugs?” I ask, curious despite myself.

He’s affronted. “Yorkies.”

I’m tempted to argue the point—they’re definitely pugs—but I let it go. His wife, Marianna, runs a dog rescue and loves dogs even more than she loves buying Tanner bizarre socks; she’ll sort out any identification issues.

Dropping his leg with a theatric groan, he leans back in his chair. Tenting his fingers, he watches me with an intensity that promises trouble.

“So, let’s talk ‘payroll.’ ” Though the lanky blond man looks nothing like my younger brother, Caine, Tanner’s current commitment to winding me up is identical.

“Don’t encourage Keith to bother Claire.” Running a hand through my hair, I try to hide my agitation.

Tanner gives me a pointed look. “Why?”

I know Because it’s the right thing to do won’t be enough for Tanner. Not when I’ve shown this much emotional investment.

“Because I’m seeing her,” I bite out.

It’s technically not a lie. I saw her spread on the forest floor beneath me. I saw her body writhe and squirm when she came. I saw my cum dripping out of her slick, hot cunt. Every time my mind gets off its leash, I see her in my head. It’s why I can’t get a damn thing done today.

I can’t stop seeing her .

His eyes narrow. I continue before he can say something obscene, “She’s done with him. Don’t encourage him.”

At least I think she is?

Tanner’s amusement slips away. “You realize this is sloppy, don’t you? Keith was pivotal in securing the Hellix–Net Nest merger. He’s the only reason they’re with us.” He looks past me and out the picture window behind my desk. “Fucking racquetball leagues. I’m going to start playing again and see who I bump into.”

He’s right. I’m being sloppy. I’m aware of that, but it doesn’t change anything. “Keith never needs to know.”

That earns me an eye roll. “This is going to be the most expensive fuck of your life.”

It already is.

Also worth every penny.

He keeps going. “Is that ass worth three million? Because that’s what it’ll cost us if you piss him off.”

“Don’t be crass.” I sigh, spinning my chair back and forth the slightest bit. “Russ can pull it off; it’s creepy when you do it.”

Tanner ignores my mention of Russ, who makes up the Graves portion of Graves, Underwood & Crowe. “Fine. But I didn’t even know you were dating, let alone Keith’s ex-wife.” Picking up a pen from my desk, he points it at me. “Is this a midlife crisis? A cry for help?”

“No. It’s dating.”

“But you don’t date.” Swirling the pen through the air like he’s writing a message, he waits for me to argue.

“It’s casual” is all I can come up with. He’s right. I don’t date. But, technically, I’m not dating Claire.

“So, if they end up getting back together, you’ll be able to keep working with Keith. Since things are casual.” He’s watching me too closely, looking for the slightest hint that I’m lying. “I’m not trying to wind you up. I think there’s a chance that could happen. He’s been looking rough since the divorce. Things may be rocky with Naomi; he crashed in his office two nights last week.”

I force a smile, as if I think Tanner’s being ridiculous. “That doesn’t mean anything. I sleep here all the time.”

“Yes, you do. Keith doesn’t.” Tanner’s face is kind. “He wouldn’t be the first guy to think the grass is greener only to realize he should have stayed in his own damn yard. I don’t want you to get blindsided.”

“I’m not worried about it.” The lie is bitter, dragging across my teeth. “Like I said, it’s casual.”

He nods. “All right, just be smart. I don’t want the firm paying millions for you to get some pussy.” His face breaks into a grin that means something even more ridiculous is about to come out of his mouth. “I’m happy you’re getting laid, though—maybe it’ll make you nicer.”

I roll my eyes. “Get out of my office. I need to prep for a meeting.”

Standing, he stretches lazily. “I still don’t believe it’s casual. But I take it back: if fucking Keith’s wife makes you less of a prick, maybe a few million is a reasonable investment.” With an irritating smirk, he’s gone before I can correct him.

Ex-wife.

Tapping on my keyboard with a bit more force than necessary as I respond to an email, I remind myself he’s right. What I have with Claire isn’t casual. It’s business.

Sweaty, dirty, primal business.

I press send and close my laptop. I’m taking an early day.