WIP: Sometimes a girl just needs a minute, okay?

Sam, however, is an alpha male. He doesn’t give a shit if Laurel needs a quiet, non testosterone laden minute to regroup. You run from an alpha, like any predator worth his salt, he will give chase. In this unedited scene – which picks up where the last one left off – he shows Laurel why he is unequivocally the boss at work, and in the bed. 

…When she woke it was dark. He was there, in bed with her. She could feel his weight, his heat, hear the faint whoosh of his slow breathing.Naughty

Slowly, carefully, Laurel slid out from under his arm, easing her body away until she was over the edge of the bed. He’d left a glass of water on the nightstand. Thoughtful. She drained it, then crept around gathering her clothes.

She put them on in the hall. She had one hand on her suitcase and the other on the door knob when she remembered her groceries. Heart in her throat she ran for the kitchen, barely breathing until she was on the street, walking fast, her bags thumping her legs.

People stared at her on the train, and she realized she’d left out without so much as looking in a mirror. She probably looked like exactly what she was, a woman who’d been rolling around in a man’s bed doing shit best not repeated under the train’s fluorescent lights.

Nervously she smoothed her hair, fumbling in her purse for a hair tie and fashioning a quick ponytail to curtail the worst of the bed head. She turned off her phone while she was at it. He would call. He wouldn’t like that she’d left without saying anything. He’d demand an explanation, but he wasn’t getting one tonight. She needed time to get her head together, to process all this and figure out how the hell she was gonna go back to work, at his company tomorrow and act like he hadn’t fucked her into a new state of crazy.

She shuddered, shaking her head as the memories crept in on her. She opened her mouth to shout no, then bit her lip hard when she remembered where she was. Almost home, almost home, she chanted in her mind, watching the streets whiz by with blurry, unseeing eyes.

She rushed off the train when it stopped, running to her building and shifting from foot to foot as she rode the elevator to her studio. She was sobbing as she put her key in the lock, and once she was safely on the other side of the door, with the bolts firmly shut against the world, she sank to the floor and closed her eyes in relief.

She was safe.

She sat there until her heart beat slowed, until her breathing was normal again and her hands were no longer shaking. Then she put her groceries away and stripped. She upended her bag into the hamper, fished out her toiletries, then added everything she’d worn home. She stood naked, watching the tub fill, then added a generous slug of bubbles, for once damning economy. If now wasn’t a time for a little bit extra to soothe her nerves she didn’t know what was.

She winced a little when she sat in the hot water; her flesh felt tender. Thankfully it faded quickly and she dunked her hair, wanting to be completely clean, to not smell him on her. She had once or twice on the way home, as though he’d soaked into her pores. She sighed. At least the urge to cry had dried up.

She already felt better. She’d spent too long in his company, and his personality was too strong. On top of the sex – she shook her head. It was too much.

God, the water felt good. Slowly, she began to relax. She lounged until her eye lids got heavy, then gave herself a quick wash. She thought seriously about refilling the tub with hot water, but she was too tired. That’s all she needed was to drown after being damn near fucked to death by her heartless boss.

Someone knocked.

She jerked in the water, her heart speeding up. Someone knocked again, impatiently.

“Wrong apartment,” she called out, rinsing quickly. It happened occasionally. She was right by the elevator. Drunk people had confused her with her neighbor across the hall a few times.

“Open this fucking door, Laurel.”…

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