“Yes,” I begin. “I have the Burberry—”
“Boots that aren’t designer, or suede or high-heeled.”
“Oh,” I say with a sigh. “Shut up.”
She laughs. “Just think about it, honey. Because repeatedly hooking up with a man you’ve talked about obsessively for two years straight…doesn’t sound like hate to me.”
I guess it doesn’t sound like hate to me either.
On Tuesday, Ben’s case concludes. No one in the office can shut up about it, because it’s the highest award FMG has ever won. Even I’m impressed, though I will never, ever, admit it.
I wake the next morning and put on a red dress before I take it off again. Red is the color of sex and I don’t need him thinking I want a repeat of Saturday night when I don’t.
He might not even be in today, I tell myself, watching the elevator as if it’s my job. There will be loose ends to tie up, a hotel room he’s reserved for a few more days. We probably won’t see him until next week.
And just because he made me come in about ten seconds flat doesn’t make him a keeper. But I think of him looking at my face as he went down on me. Saying, “I’m doing exactly what I’ve wanted for two fucking years”, and my thighs clench in both memory and anticipation.
It’s late that afternoon when I hear a tiny smattering of applause, signaling his arrival, because he’s the only person in this office anyone would clap for. He must have rushed back. I refuse to believe that means something.
I return to reviewing a promissory note, then I call my mother and convince her that the adorable pajamas I’m sending her are from a “cute little shop in Ojai” as opposed to Nordstrom. I clean out my inbox and cut and paste boilerplate to craft a threatening email to the school board on Victoria’s behalf.
But every five minutes I’m thinking of Ben’s weight above me and the sounds he made, and by the time evening falls my productivity has decreased to almost nothing. I want a repeat of Saturday like I want my next breath, even if it means going against every warning voice in my head.
I rise and walk to the break room, my heels clip-clip-clipping against the hardwood floor, a modern-day mating call, my way of luring Ben from his lair.
I slide open a drawer in the kitchen, surveying its contents blindly, willing him to come to me.
A door hinge creaks, followed by male steps, and I can’t seem to regulate my breathing.
I’d know that footfall anywhere, the sounds he makes as he approaches, surprisingly quiet for his size.
I turn, expecting him to say something, to make a joke or address the way I ran out of his room like a coward last weekend. But he says nothing. He doesn’t even smile. He simply moves forward, and he doesn’t stop until our bodies are flush. I gasp—some combination of surprise and pleasure—while his hands grip my hips, pulling me closer.
“The outfits you wear fucking destroy me,” he says. There is something so certain in his voice, so determined… Maybe he—like me—has been pushed too far to wait any longer.
Only the faintest shred of common sense has me yanking him into the closet. He pulls the door shut. “Someone could walk in,” I warn. “This needs to be fast.”
He spins me toward the closed door and places my palms against it. “Fast is my middle name.”
“That’s a terrible middle name,” I reply, but then his palm is on my inner thigh, moving upward, and his fingers slide beneath the elastic of my thong, and I can’t even remember what we were discussing.
“Jesus,” he says quietly, against my ear. “You’re so fucking wet.”
I want to tell him it’s not for him. I want to tell him almost anything that won’t give him the credit, but then two fingers push inside me and my head falls to the door. “Condom,” I demand. I hear the tearing of foil almost instantly. “Naturally you have one.”
“I’m happy to skip it,” he suggests, rolling it on. “Since you’re complaining.”
I laugh. “Yeah, you wi—” The words are cut off as he pushes inside me. I brace against the door, unprepared for the fullness of it, for how complete it makes me feel when we are like this. He does it again, harder, his hands sliding up beneath my shirt, palming my breasts.
“You,” he says, the words timed with his thrusts, “are so fucking mouthy.”
“You love it,” I gasp as he seats himself inside me again. And it’s only after I’ve said the words that I realize how true they are. He does love it. No matter what I do to keep him at arm’s length, he keeps coming back for me.
The sounds we make echo inside the pantry—my gasps and his filthy words against my ear, my body hitting the door with each wet thrust.
“Jesus,” he gasps, “I’m so close, Gemma. Tell me what to do.”
I pull one of his hands between my legs. “That.”
He gives a low groan. “That just made it worse. I’m gonna come so fucking hard, baby.”
I can’t begin to explain why his words have the effect they do. Why I shiver, why my skin breaks out in goose bumps. Maybe it’s the quiet desperation in his voice as he says them. Maybe some stupid part of me likes being called baby. “God, yes,” I whisper. “Just like that.”
“You’re close?” he asks. “Oh. God. God.”
The idea of him losing control like this is what puts me over the edge. “Cover my mouth,” I beg, and he does, sinking his teeth into my shoulder to muffle his groan as we both fall apart.
For a single moment it’s like I’m floating in space, released at last from everything. I have no idea why we haven’t been doing exactly this, all along. I don’t even remember why I hated him or why I’ve been pushing him away.
When my eyes open, my cheek is flat to the door, my fingers and legs spread wide. I can still feel the rise and fall of his chest against my back.
“Jesus,” he whispers.
I want to stay like this. I want him to remain inside me, pressed to my back, still overcome by something that had even a little bit to do with me.
He slides out, still hard. I tuck my shirt in while he does God-knows-what with the condom.
“If you’re leaving that for Debbie to find, make sure you label it so she knows it’s yours.”
“I’ll borrow those Sharpies you ordered,” he says with a quiet smile, one that almost seems…affectionate.
That smile leaves me feeling strangely weak and uncertain. It makes me want to believe he’s not someone like my dad, that he won’t eventually take some naïve woman’s best years and destroy her when he’s ready for fresher fields.
I swallow. “Are we good?”
He arches a brow, and then he presses me to the door. His kiss is soft, slow and very thorough. “Has anyone ever told you your post-coital charm could use some work?”
I laugh. “Why would I bother being charming now? I already got what I came here for.”
He tips my chin up to face him. “So you’re admitting you came to the break room hoping this would happen?”
Dammit.
“I’m admitting I came to the break room hoping to find something to eat and didn’t object to this happening.”