The List Read Online Free Page A

suggest ordering a selection with his monogram or name, then extra plain sheets for longer notes.”
    Her phone vibrated again. Tilda ignored it, because there was clearly some mistake. Daniel Logan would no sooner sext her than voluntarily sit down on a ledge twenty-two stories over the city streets.
    Except, he’d done exactly that. When the client made his selection, she compiled the order on her tablet, emailed him a receipt, and tidied the sample books. Her assistant, Penny, was engrossed with a bride across the store, but no one else needed her attention. She closed the door to her office and scrolled through what she’d missed on the phone.
    Or fuck you. You won’t know which you want more, but you’ll be begging.
    Gobsmacked, she stared at the screen. Without her permission her brain thoughtfully provided images: Daniel’s head, light glinting in his sun-streaked hair, his face buried between her thighs. Her hands, restrained by . . . velvet bands, she decided. Something elegant, silky, unbreakable.
    She shifted in her seat.
    Several weeks had passed since their phone conversation, so he must be texting his current lover. That was the only explanation. Also, they were completely unexpected, shockingly blatant foreplay, not meant for her. If it were, he would have prefaced the initial text with something apologetic
. I know I shouldn’t do this, but . . . I can’t stop thinking about you. . . . Don’t be angry with me. . . .
Not the bare, explicit,
I want to go down on you.
    I can’t stop thinking about it. You’ll be salty and damp and wound up after a long day. You’ll taste like frustration and woman.
    Clearly, she’d underestimated Daniel Logan. Who was he dating now? He’d not asked her for another connection, and she’d not given him any names.
    Touch yourself for me. Now.
    Impossible. All of this was impossible. But she could clamp her thighs together more tightly, flex the muscles, feel the faint, resonant pulses of desire. She should stop this. He was texting the wrong woman, probably someone whose number was next to hers in his phone.
    Are you touching yourself? I’m hard thinking about that. Sitting at my desk, head down in paperwork, thinking about you.
    That was a compelling image in itself, Daniel pretending to work while thinking about sex. An FBI agent would wear a suit, not a uniform; factoring in his blue velvet blazer, she came up with a dark navy suit, a slim cut, with a formfitting Oxford underneath, a subtle tie.
    But he wasn’t thinking about sex with her. Couldn’t be.
    Is your clit hard? Slick? I can’t wait to watch you come.
    Disappointment deflated her lungs. Definitely someone else. He’d never seen her get herself off, something she’d done far too often lately. Heat flickered through her pussy. All work and no play was making Tilda edgy and restless. She’d turned him down because every instinct she had told her he’d want something she couldn’t give him.
    When we’re alone, I’ll do it nice and slow, until you’re moaning. But do it fast, now. Don’t want you getting in trouble at work.
    She couldn’t get in trouble at work. She was the boss, this was her shop, the door closed on the outside world. She could hike her skirt up, wriggle her panties down, and rub off to these texts. Knowing these texts were meant for someone else should have jolted her back to reality. Instead, the vaguely voyeuristic feel added another layer to the erotic tension crackling in the air. This was a peek into a completely different side of Daniel than the man who had asked her to dinner.
    Don’t come.
    God, a firm command. Who exactly was this man?
    Save that for me. When I spread your legs and lick you, I want to taste how desperate you are.
    She began composing the text she’d known all along she’d have to send.
    Daniel, you’re texting Tilda Davies. I’ll delete this—
    Another bubble appeared.
    I can’t work like this. I’m going to take care of