13:36Melth Cosmetics Corporation
Leaning against her seat, a honk echoes distantly, reverberating softly in the office as Tracee tips her head backward in a rare moment of relaxation, or rather, attempt. Her shoulders are tense, her back starts hurting from sitting all day here, and a migraine is playing with her, intensifying and calming itself here and there.
She's not tired, per se. She's just not where she should be, and she doesn't appreciate it. She should be with you instead of working here like a mad workaholic who doesn't know how to take it easy. Yet she's not beside you. All of it because of her. She genuinely thought she'd be done with work hours ago, but one thing led to another and before she knew it, she was working on another matter that demanded her attention.
Tracee blows out a frustrated sigh, the only sound filling the otherwise quiet office as she flickers her gaze down without lowering her head to stare at the screen of her computer. Are you upset? Do you think she loves her work more than you? She has no clue because you're not answering her call, nor do you respond to her messages.
Her phone buzzes against her desk, breaking her train of thoughts and drawing her attention.
Reaching out to grab it, she unlocks her device, dimples almost instantly deepening as her lips spread slightly in a relieved smile.
You better make it up to me when you come back home.Actually, if you don't leave in the next minutes, I'm calling it a day.
You know well enough how to get her by the feelings. Not that she really needs you to; she'd listen even if you had said it plainly. You've got her wrapped around your finger, and honestly? Tracee doesn't mind it.
She doesn't type a response. Instead, she decides she has worked enough for today. It's not like anyone will say anything about it; she's the daughter of the CEO, and she doesn't mind using her status if it means being with you. She stands up, gathering her things before heading straight to the door.
She should've done this sooner—leave her work to join you, to cover you with affection in her own way.
Perhaps she should buy your favorite food on her way, or at least ingredients to cook dinner for you. She'll definitely buy you the prettiest flowers and the best chocolates for this Valentine's evening, even if it might be a bit late for that. Technically, the day hasn't ended, but still, she should've offered all of this before leaving work this morning, even if she made sure to pamper you with the elaborate breakfast and gave you all her attention.
The journey to the underground parking lot goes smoothly, and before she knows it, she's walking toward her vehicle while she loosens her dress shirt with two buttons undone, revealing the expanse of her throat and the beginning of her chest without looking like she's trying to show everyone what's underneath.
Tracee's footsteps falter upon noticing someone leaning against her black car, though it doesn't take long for her to hurry her confident steps to join you. An impatient feeling grips her, needing to reach you as fast as she can until her frame stops a tiny few inches from you.
Her hand already finds your cheek, her chest heaving from almost the fast walk she just did, breath brushing your face. She doesn't conceal the smile making her dimples pop out charmingly, that giddy feeling not entirely showing but trying to get through her stoicism.
"What are the flowers for?" she inquires breathlessly, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it anyway. Her lips find your jaw, then your temple and your forehead before finishing with a lingering kiss on your lips, which you return readily. She can't help herself now that you're close to her; she just has this urge to keep you close. "Did you come for me?"
Another dumb question she doesn't care about asking, her hands settling on your hips and gripping hard enough to ground herself.
"You were taking forever," you drawl, placing the bouquet of crimson roses on the roof of the car behind you, followed by the box of chocolate.
Her grip on your hips tightens at your words, thumbs pressing into the bone with possession and warmth bleeding through her touch. Saying she wasn't pleased by your statement would be a lie. You feeling like she was taking forever means you missed her, and that fact is doing wonders to her heart.
With a deep inhale, taking in your scent, her nose brushes against yours as her dark eyes lock onto yours with an intensity she's never been good at toning down when the person she fancies is close, even less good when it happens to be her lover. You.
"I know," she murmurs, hating how long she made you wait when all she could think about was how to spoil you, how to bring that smile to your lips, about your touch, your eyes on her—everything about you was all she could think about. "I'm sorry."
"Mh," you answer, and she can't quite conceal the smile curling at that petulant lilt that seeped into your simple word.
Her forehead presses against yours, and she breathes you in once more—your scent, your presence, everything that grounds her when the world feels too loud and demanding. "You shouldn't have had to come get me."
"But I wanted to," you reply. "It's kind of the only thing I can do when you're in you workaholic mode."
Tracee pulls back just enough to study your face, her hand coming up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking along your cheekbone with a tenderness she never once even thought about hiding from you. Since the day she met you, she's always been honest, whether it was hard to hear or not. Honesty is something she cherishes, even more so because at least that way, her partner can fully trust her.
"You're too good to me, love," she says quietly. She still can't believe she deserves it but she'll take it anyway, greedily.
And you know too well how greedy she can be at times, though if you're still here, that means she's perhaps doing something right. She hopes so.
She reaches behind you to grab the flowers and chocolate, handling them carefully, like she's scared she might damage them, before her dark eyes flicker back to yours. "Come on. Let's go home."
"I came with my car, though," you point out.
"I'll call someone to drop it off at home," she murmurs, already pulling out her phone with her free hand while the other stays firmly on you. Her fingers move quickly across the screen, typing out a message to one of the company drivers. "You're riding with me."
It's not a question, and the way she says it leaves no room for argument—not that you'd argue anyway. She knows she can be rather forward at times, though she always makes sure not to cross any lines until your say so. That's why, after saying it, she leans in to press a brief yet lingering kiss on your lips before finishing sending the message, pocketing her phone, then gesturing toward the passenger side.
"Let's go?" she inquires, only moving the second you nod in agreement.
Walking around the car with you, Tracee opens the door for you, waiting until you settle inside the leather seat before she closes it with a soft click. She places the gifts in the backseat delicately, then circles around to the driver's side, sliding behind the wheel.
The engine purrs to life as she starts the car, one hand on the steering wheel while the other finds your thigh, fingers spreading possessively over the fabric of your clothes and squeezing gently.
"I'll have to be sure to spoil you rotten even more when we get home," Tracee adds as she drives toward the exit, toward home, toward the evening she should've given you from the start.
And you know what? You're all too happy to get home and have her full attention, and she's all too happy to give it to you.
Give it all until all you can think about is her.
Only her.