A soft shuffle of feet on the carpet, and I can sense him. He’s here, watching me, invisible, but his aura reaches out, awakening my body like a warm featherlight touch on the pleasure centers of my brain.
Arousal ripples up my thighs, fresh heat shimmering with the memories of last time. I’ve never felt anything like him before, my body used and taken, battered and driven insane . . . and completely, thoroughly pleasured in a way that I didn’t think possible.
It was so much that I don’t even remember coming down, just an explosion of ecstasy that drove me into unconsciousness . . . but now my senses have returned and I know he’s still there, measuring me, hunting me, desiring me.
How can he have strength left? How, when every muscle from my neck to my toes has already been taken past the limit?
How can he still want more?
My nostrils flare, and I can smell him. Rich, masculine . . . feral. A man’s man who could tear me apart without a second’s effort. His breath, soft but shuddering, sipping at the air, savoring the conquest to come.
Another whisper in the darkness, and the fear melts away, replaced by a heightened sense of things.
The moonlight, dim now in the post-midnight morning, when the night’s as deep as it will ever be.
The sweat on my skin and the fresh moisture gathering at the juncture between my thighs.
He steps forward, still cloaked in shadow, a shape from the depths of night, ready for a new kind of embrace.
He reaches for my calf, and at his touch, I start to tremble. I should resist, I should say I can’t take any more. He’s already had his fill. What more can he want?
He inhales, his nose taking in my scent, and the knowledge comes to me, a revelation that I’ve chosen to ignore.
He wants me to be his. Not just his bedmate, not simply a conquest to have and to discard. He wants to possess me fully, to own me, body and soul.
But can I?
Can I give myself to such a man, a being whose very presence inspires fear and dread?
Can I risk the fury that I’ve seen directed at others turned back upon me?
His tongue flicks out, touching that spot he’s discovered behind my right knee that I wasn’t even aware of before him, my left leg falling aside on its own as my hunger betrays me.
My mind is troubled, my heart races . . . but my body knows what it wants.
He chuckles, a rumble that tickles my soft inner thighs as he pauses, his breath warm over my pussy. He scoops his hands under my buttocks, and I feel him adjust himself on the mattress, preparing for his feast.
“Delicious,” he growls, and then his tongue touches me . . . and I’m gone.
Mia
The electronic drumbeats thud through the air so hard that I can actually feel my chest vibrate as I look at my screen, my head bobbing as I let the pattern come to me.
I’ve had a lot of people ask me how I can work the way I do, but this is when the magic happens. I’ve got three computer screens, each of them split into halves with data flowing in each one. I’m finishing up my evaluations, I’ve done the grind, and now I’m bringing it all together.
For that, though, I need tunes, and nothing gets my brain working on the right frequency as well as good techno does.
I can hear the door to my office vibrate in its frame, and I’m glad I’ve got my own little paradise down here in the basement of the Goldstone Building.
Sure, my methods are weird, and I’m sort of isolated considering that I’m in a corner office with two file rooms on either side of me, but that’s because I need this to make the magic happen.
Frankly, I wasn’t too sure if I’d be able to keep this job, considering the number of complaints I got my first six months working here.
Part of it, of course, is my occasional outbursts—to myself, mind you, and more often than not in gutter Russian so no one can understand me.
That, with the random singing along with my tunes, meant I was labeled as ‘distracting’ and ‘difficult to work next to.’
But the powers that be saw the value that I bring with my data analysis.
So, as an experimental last gasp, I was sent down here, where the walls are thick, the neighbors are paper, and nobody minds that my singing voice is terrible.
It works for them, but more importantly, it works for me.
And here I’ve remained for almost six years, working metadata analysis and market trends, making people with money even more money.
Not that the company’s treated me poorly. I’ve gotten a bonus for seven quarters straight, and I’ve always managed my own investments.
For a girl who still has a few years until she hits thirty, I’m doing well on the ol’ nest egg.
But I’m pigeonholed. Other than dropping off files from time to time, I almost never see anyone in my day to day work, which I guess is okay with me. I’ve never been someone who likes the social scene of an office.
On the other hand, I can wear my pink and blue streaks in my hair and not have to see people’s judging glares. And I don’t have to explain what my lyrics mean when I decide to sing along.
“Another one for the Motherland!” I exclaim as I see what I’ve been looking for. This isn’t a hard assignment, merely an optimization analysis for some of Goldstone’s transport subsidiaries. But I prefer to celebrate each victory, no matter how small or large, with glee.
I swipe all the data to my side monitors and bring up a document in the center and start typing. I’ve already included most of the boilerplate that the executives and VPs want to see, the ‘check the box’ sort of things that my father would understand with his background.
After all, he is Russian. He knows about bureaucracy.
Finally, just as the Elf Clock above my door dings noon, I save my file and fire it off to my supervisor.
“In Russia . . . report finishes you.”
Okay, so it’s not my best one-liner, but it’s another quirk of mine. While I’m as American as apple pie, I pay homage to my roots, especially at work, for some reason. It seems to help, so I’m sticking to it.
Heading to the elevator, I go upstairs before punching out for lunch and jumping into my little Chevy to drive to my ‘spot’, a diner called The Gravy Train. An honest to goodness old-fashioned diner, it’s got some of the best food in town, including a fried chicken sandwich that’s to kill for.
As I drive, I look around my hometown, still surprised at how big it seems these days. The main reason, of course, is tied to the dark tower on the north side of town, Blackwell Industries.
Thirty years ago, Mr. Blackwell located his headquarters here in the sleepy town of Roseboro and proclaimed it to be the bridge between Portland and Seattle. A lot of people scoffed, but he was right, and Roseboro’s been the beneficiary of his foresight.
I’ve been lucky, watching a city literally grow with me. Roseboro is big enough now that some people even call this a Tri-Cities area, lumping us in with Portland and Seattle.
I get to The Gravy Train just in time to see the other reason that I come to this place so frequently for lunch wave from the window. Isabella “Izzy” Turner has been my best friend since first grade, and I love her like she’s my own flesh and blood.
As I enter, I see her untie the apron on her uniform and slump down into one of the booths. Her normally rich brown hair looks limp and stringy today, and the bags under her eyes are so big she could be carrying her after work clothes in them.