The One That I Want

Wayward Ink Publishing

Unit 1, No. 8 Union Street

Tighes Hill NSW 2297

Australia

http://www.waywardinkpublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

The One That I Want Copyright ©2015 R.J. Jones

Cover Art by: Kellie Dennis Book Cover by Design

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other enquiries, contact Wayward Ink Publishing at: Unit 1, No. 8 Union Street, Tighes Hill, NSW, 2297, Australia.

http://www.waywardinkpublishing.com

EBook ISBN: 978-1-925222-65-4

October 2015

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Epilogue

Also From Wayward Ink Publishing

LIKE CLOCKWORK, the tall, dark, and unbelievably hot guy stood waiting for the elevator. I saw him nearly every morning at 8:55 a.m. I didn’t know what floor he went to but it was somewhere above my third floor, shoe-box-sized cubicle.

I tried not to look at him, I did, but my eyes had a mind of their own. I drank in the sight of his polished black dress shoes, his muscular thighs, and slim hips covered in a gray pinstripe. Today he wore a crisp, salmon-pink business shirt finished off with silver cufflinks. His matching gray jacket that emphasized his broad shoulders had my mouth drying up like the freaking Sahara.

When I reached his chiseled jaw and lush, perfectly formed lips, my dick twitched and I was pretty sure I was drooling. Our eyes met and tall, dark, and drop-dead-gorgeous grinned and winked at me.

Oh my god!
What the hell was wrong with me? I’d been beaten up for less. I averted my gaze to the floor and willed the elevator to hurry the hell up. Mr. Gorgeous chuckled quietly next to me. What was he doing? Baiting the queer, awkward accountant?

After what seemed like an eternity, the elevator arrived and about a thousand people tried to enter. I could feel the warmth of his body through my shirt as he pressed up behind me in an effort to get into the elevator. My knees almost buckled and he chuckled again, right next to my ear.

Did he just sniff me?

Surely not. The man could have anyone he wanted, why would he be sniffing
me
?

I tried to ignore the hand on the small of my back as he guided me to the rear of the elevator, but the heat from it seemed to be connected to my cock. My heart thundered in my ears. The elevator was too small; I couldn’t get enough air in my lungs, and I was pretty sure I’d pass out from lack of oxygen before I got to my floor. Maybe I should start taking the stairs.

“Forty-two please.”

God, even his voice was perfect. At least I knew where he worked now. Connor and Markham was the only company on the top floor but I couldn’t remember what they did. Lawyers, marketing? Something that suited his designer suit, anyway. I’d never belong to those lofty heights.

“Isn’t this your floor?” A deep grumble in my ear brought me back to the present, and I realized people were waiting for me to exit the elevator. Jesus, why did he always have to be in
my
elevator? I think my cheeks matched the color of the crimson carpet. As I stepped out, I could finally breathe again.

THE NEXT morning he was there again, and his lips quirked in a small smile when he saw me. I looked at all the people milling around the elevator, then headed for the stairs. I couldn’t stop myself from looking over my shoulder. Mr. Gorgeous was staring at me, his brow furrowed and his smile gone. At least I could breathe in the stairwell. I took the stairs for the rest of the week, successfully eluding another encounter with Mr. Way-out-of-my-league.

Friday morning came, and I looked toward the elevator, expecting to see him waiting with the hordes, but he wasn’t there. I didn’t always see him, and I presumed he traveled for work or maybe had breakfast meetings on the days I didn’t see him. Heading for the stairs, I pushed the door open as I tried to fit my
Encore
magazine into my messenger bag.

“Why are you ignoring me?”

My heart felt like it had flown out of my chest. I grabbed the railing to steady myself with one hand; the other clutching at my chest like it was possible to stop my heart from flying away.

“Jesus, holy... Are you trying to kill me? I’m sure it’d be less painful to throw me down the stairs.”

“Sorry, but you’ve been avoiding me all week. Short of stalking you on your way home I thought this was a better, non-psychotic way of getting you to talk to me.”

“And scaring someone to death in an empty stairwell is less psychotic?”

“Would you prefer me to follow you home?”

“There are enough crazies in this city. I’d prefer if you weren’t one of them.” Why was I still talking? I really needed to shut up.

“Can I walk with you?” He nodded toward the stairs.

“I guess. I mean, I can’t stop you from taking the stairs. Do you plan on walking all the way to the forty-second floor?” I thought of his ass taking all those stairs and how tight it would be afterward. Not that he needed to, he filled out his suits perfectly, front and back. Oh, God, I was drooling again. I picked up my tongue and headed up the stairs, Mr. Perfect close behind.

“No, I was hoping to walk you to your office, then catch the elevator from there.”

“You want to walk me to my office?”

“Yes—are you always this difficult?”

“Yes, especially when I’m confused.”

“Why are you confused?”

“Why are you talking to me?” My toe caught the top step and I stumbled. Mr. Too-hot-for-his-own-good grabbed my waist and steadied me, preventing me from making a bigger fool of myself and falling flat on my face. I felt the heat rise in my cheeks.

His hands still on my waist, he spun me around to face him. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, thank you.” I headed for the next flight of stairs and his hands dropped away, leaving a tingling sensation that made its way to my dick.

He picked up the conversation again. “I’m talking to you because I wanted to ask what you’re doing tomorrow night.”

I couldn’t answer him. I tried to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other as I sucked in large gulps of air. I couldn’t get enough, and my head spun from lack of oxygen.

“I have tickets to
Wicked
tomorrow night, and I know you like musicals. At least I think you do, judging by the magazine you always carry.”

I stopped dead in my tracks and spun to face him. He stood two steps below me and I was taller than him for once. I still couldn’t speak, my brain had short-circuited. Was he asking me on a date, or offering the tickets to me because no one else wanted them? Was I his good deed for the week? My heart plummeted.

“Sorry, I’ve got plans.” I turned around and took the stairs two at a time, leaving him staring after me.

WAITING IN line for my drink during intermission, I felt a hand on the small of my back. “I never thought I’d see you here. Are you with someone?” I turned around and came face to face with Mr. I’ll-give-him-tickets-because-he’s-a-sad-loser. Why did I have to run into him in my favorite place in the entire city? Wasn’t the city big enough for the two of us?

Musicals were my escape, my happy ending. After being thrown out of home for being “perverted, unnatural, and against God,” I escaped to the theater. There were always happy endings in musicals and for only a couple of hours, I could believe there was a happy ending waiting for me too.

“I’m Paul.” He stuck his hand out and it was only because I was brought up to be polite that I shook it. He didn’t release his hold.

“Jason.”

“Jason, it’s nice to finally know your name. You didn’t answer my question, Jason.” He said my name like he was rolling it around on his tongue, savoring it.

Paul didn’t let go of my hand until I tugged it hard enough he had to release me, or look like an idiot trying to arm wrestle while standing in a crowded theater.

“No, I’m not here with anyone.” I moved forward in the line a bit. I really needed that drink.

“Do you always come to the theater by yourself?”

“Yes.” I looked around. “Do you?” I tried for smug but I don’t think it worked.

He chuckled. “I have a spare seat next to me that was supposed to be yours. You ran off yesterday morning before I had a chance to ask you to join me.”

“You were going to ask me to join you? Like a date?” I was gobsmacked.

“Exactly like a date. What did you think I was going to ask you?”

I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Would you like to join me? I’m near the front, excellent view.”

I had a cheap seat with restricted viewing, thanks to a huge pillar in my way, but it wasn’t like I hadn’t seen the show before. I spent nearly every Saturday night going to shows on Broadway, and sometimes I was lucky enough to catch two in one night.

“Can I sing?”

“Umm, sing?”

“Yes, I won’t be able to stop myself. If this is something that will embarrass you then it’s okay, I’ll go back to my own seat.” Paul might as well know what he was in for if I sat with him. It wasn’t like he was asking for a relationship, God forbid, so if he couldn’t handle me singing along, I’d be happier back in my cheap seat by myself.

I was at the head of the line so I placed my order while Paul thought about whether or not he still wanted me to sit with him. I ordered a wine, and he ordered a beer. He insisted on paying for both.

“Thank you,” I said, once we’d stepped out of the way of the other theater-goers.

“You’re welcome. Follow me, I’m down this way.”

“Umm, okay.” I wasn’t sure I would be able sing along now, knowing he’d be sitting beside me and would hear my caterwauling.

He was right, though, the seats were amazing. I could see the entire stage and all the detail of the performers’ costumes that I couldn’t see from my original seat in the next neighborhood. I could never have afforded these seats.

The performance was almost over, my wine was long gone, and I was buzzed by how much better the show was when you sat closer to the action. I sang along, maybe not at the top of my lungs, but I still sang, but when I looked at Paul, he was fast asleep. How could he sleep through that? The orchestra was on fire and the singing was fantastic, and he slept through it? Had he had a big day or was he bored with my company? He wouldn’t come to a musical if he thought they were boring so I was hoping he’d had a big day, and it wasn’t me.

But it probably was me. I mean, Paul was the perfect male specimen. Tall and handsome with perfect teeth. He was a corporate high flyer with enough money to spend on premium Broadway tickets and designer suits.

I was the too-skinny, average-height, nondescript-looking accountant who spent his day in a gray office cubicle next to a hundred other cubicles. I didn’t even have my own office. Paul’s office would have a great view of the entire city
and
the park. I bet he even lived in a penthouse. With a butler. Okay, maybe a butler was pushing it.

I stopped singing and tried to enjoy the rest of the show, but my enthusiasm for the great seats had worn off. Now all I wanted to do was go home to Dave.

The final scene played out and everybody stood and clapped their hearts out. Including me. Paul stood and clapped enthusiastically next to me, giving me a wide grin. I tried to grin back but I think it came out more of a grimace.

“C’mon, I’ll buy us a drink at the bar next door,” Paul said, grabbing my hand and leading me out of the theater. His hand was warm in mine and I didn’t want to let go, but knew I should.