The Wicked Virgin

By: Cassandra Dee

The big man just laughed and strode over.

“Need a hand baby girl?” he asked, bending over to offer me a big, square grip. I got a good look at him then. He was gorgeous, tall with black hair and gleaming blue eyes. Everything about him screamed money from the perfectly cut hair to the thousand dollar suit. Even his shoes were perfect, leather wing-tips that positively glowed in the low light of the bathroom.

But I was too proud to take the hand that was offered. Despite the fact that I was a mess of jiggly curves and sprawling limbs, I managed to scramble into a seated position, pushing my unruly brown hair out of my face, still gasping and red-faced. I shot him a defensive look.

“You’re in the women’s restroom you know,” I said icily.

The man just threw back his head and laughed, showing off a strong jaw and a perfect, Crest-white smile.

“I know,” he rumbled with a grin, “but ask me if it bothers me. Ask if it bothers me at all,” he said softly, looking at me closely.

And I scrambled to my feet then. Damn, why hadn’t I worn something nicer today? My clothes, although clean, were a little threadbare and the damned skirt was super tight. I paused with trembling fingers to button my blue blouse trying to look as dignified as possible despite what had just happened.

“I wasn’t aware that strange men felt comfortable in the women’s restroom,” I continued, doing my best to look haughty. With self-conscious hands, I raked my fingers through my curls, brushing the locks behind my ears with soft strokes. The man stared at me, his eyes eating up every move like he was a lion stalking its prey.

“I’m not strange man,” he said casually, his voice as soft as silk. “See? I have an ID badge, just like you.”

And my heart dropped as he proffered a plastic ID card from his pocket. Oh shit, it was true. I caught a glimpse of his face and the company logo. It wasn’t fair. Even in his ID photo he was jaw-droppingly handsome, the planes of his face chiseled and cut, the blue eyes piercing.

So I took a deep breath.

“Well, can I ask what you’re doing in the basement?” I said pointedly. “I work on this floor, I’ve been here two months now and I’ve never seen you before.”

The man just cocked his head at me.

“How interesting because I was thinking of transferring to this level,” he said casually. “For the right reasons of course,” he added meaningfully.

The right reasons? What did that mean? My face flamed but I wanted to get this conversation over with as soon as possible.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do,” I said busily. “Chained to the desk, the corporate rat race and all that.”

And the big man just quirked an eyebrow at me.

“Is that so? Chained to the desk?” he drawled. “Maybe I better go and see what you’ve been up to. But not before you tell me how often you’re in here playing your … ah, games,” he said with a sly smile.

If I was pink before then I was a fire engine red now. My face felt like it was steaming, my cheeks almost melting from the humiliation, my heart inside dying from shame. But I tried to act casual, blow off his question.

“Oh that was nothing,” I said carelessly, quickly sweeping my hair into a neat ponytail. “I just do that sometimes because … because … because my job is so stressful,” I rushed.

The big man quirked an eyebrow at me again.

“Stressful?” he drawled. “Well maybe I can help with that. What was your name again?”

There was no way in hell I was telling him my name. The less he knew about me the better.

“Um … it’s Candy Kane … uh, Sheffield,” I mumbled, looking down at the floor before snapping my head up and looking him straight in the eye. I was so bad at lying, I’d read all these books on how to control your body language to look believable and yet at the moment of truth all my study had failed me. Oh god, oh god.

And the dark man wasn’t fooled at all, instead laughing out loud, throwing his head back and guffawing, so boisterous that the walls of the restroom echoed with his laughter.

“Little girl, I think you can do better than that,” he growled. “Seriously, tell me your real name. Don’t make me ask for your badge,” he threatened, half-serious, half-joking.

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