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January’s First – Kisses at Midnight
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I’ve been in love with January since the moment I met her.
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It’s the last thing I want to do, but there’s no getting around it. The year comes to a close at midnight, and my boss needs this paperwork, with my signature, before the end of the working day.
If it were any other boss, for any other job, I wouldn’t bother with any of the bullshit — driving through the city at rush hour, when everyone and their dog are gearing up to get wasted as they ring in the New Year. But the man I work for is someone I deeply respect. Someone I’ve looked up to for a long-ass time, and I’d never put him in a bind.
I lock up my place in the desert, jump in my SUV, and head for the highway — knowing it’s the right thing to do. Still, there’s a reason I started working from home. A reason why I moved three hours outside of Los Angeles to the middle of nowhere. Why I avoid the city like the plague.
It’s not why most people think — they assume I was sick of the smog, the traffic, the rise, and grind. That has nothing to do with it.
But I can’t even correct them.
Because there are some things you can talk about, and some things you can’t.
January Jones is the kind of thing you can’t discuss.
She’s the reason why I stay so far away from the office. And the reason I’m still a goddamn virgin.
I’m holding out hope, as crazy as it is. That one day, our stars will align.
It’s always been her— and she has always been off-limits.
My cock twitches just thinking about her smile, her laugh, the way she can take a tense situation and make it light.
Not to mention her curves. So many curves it makes my balls ache. Hell, just the memory of her tits showcased in one of her tight sweaters, has me rolling down the car windows to cool off. With the click of a button, I pull up my list of podcasts and hope like hell it gets my mind off January.
The podcast, Take Charge, is all about being a leader. At Jones PR, I oversee employees and give the green light on which concepts to pitch to our biggest clients. I come into the city once a week for meetings, but besides that, I do my work best when I’m alone.
Also, without any threat of seeing January.
The podcast host is interviewing a woman about her revolutionary spatulas. It seems like a simple enough product, but apparently, they are better than the ones in the marketplace.
Listening to it is supposed to get my mind off January, but suddenly I’m thinking about holding a spatula in one hand and bending her over the counter with another. Fuck. Stuff like this always happens. Constantly. Everything brings me back to the girl I love, and can’t have.
At least I’m in the city now, and as I pull into a street parking spot, I urge my cock to settle down. I get out of the car and see a couple on the sidewalk, loud and drunk, bottles of champagne in hand. It sloshes on my feet. I scowl. Why the hell didn’t I park valet?
“Sorry, bro,” the guy says.
The girl he’s with is practically falling out of her dress, and she stumbles as she walks, falling to her knees. He reaches for her hand a minute too late, and she whines, asking him to help. He does, but it takes him a beat too long.
I want to tell the guy to take better care of his girl. Because if I had a girl – if I had January– I would sure as hell would make sure she never tripped on a goddamn sidewalk. I’d lift her in my arms and carry her home, tuck her in, and make sure to take proper care of her.
It’s not about the fact that girl was half-dressed either. I’m all about women dressing how they want, whenever they want. I only care about my girl not being in a compromising situation.
It’s one of the reasons being around January is so painful. I want to be the person to watch over her — but I can’t.
It damn near kills me.
It’s not that I’d want to wrap January in a burlap sack and hide her away— no. She loves dressing on the edge of what judgmental people consider appropriate. It’s something I love about her — her confidence. It’s cute as fuck, and I don’t mind the view of her in her tiny little skirts, her five-inch heels, her push up bras. But damn, I wish I was the man holding her fucking purse.
In the elevator, I tell myself to get a goddamn grip. I’m here for thirty minutes — tops. Then I will be back home in time to ring in the New Year solo.