My feet on his lower back. Hands in his hair. I trace his eyes.
Now I’m fucking writhing. Writhing! I have zero idea of the logistics of what he is doing, and I think I’ve given up trying to figure it out. Just for all the peonies in Pennsylvania let him keep doing it, and I will endeavor to stay focused on that and pay no heed to how I’m beginning to tear apart at the seams.
Because I am. I’m going to lose it and start saying some pretty embarrassing, revealing things.
Like exactly who I have pictured when sealing the deal solo for the past year.
One hint.
I want to stay staid. In control.
When my hips start to surge forward, I force them back, deep into the mattress. I want to pull his hair and grind against his face and hope he has learned to breathe through his ears. I force my hands to the sheets, nails into the mattress.
It is a losing battle.
Then I am lost. I’m shouting and moaning and maybe channeling sounds I haven’t uttered since sophomore year Latin class. Salve o magister…Is est Olympus quod abyssus…
The Latin word for male genitalia eludes me…
…it might be genitalia…
My breath remains gasps. He looks at me, eyes sparkling in the window light.
I want to kiss him.
But I don’t.
That doesn’t seem to be what we do.
My hand touches his face. The reverence he seemed to give me yesterday, I return to him.
I notice he is not still. Rocking. Rutting into the mattress.
I peel my shirt off, lean back on my elbows, and point to my chest. “Here.”
His pants go away, and he moves over me, and I try not to be too damned obvious in my perusal—that is the polite word for it—as I devour him with my eyes.
He sits back on his heels, straddles my chest.
That’s where his eyes are fixed anyway.
My tits.
He studies. His shadowed face looks nearly pained.
I hold his hand and bring it over where his gaze has frozen. “Hold me.” As the words leave me, his hand envelopes, thumb easing across, teasing to a point.
I try to calm my breathing. Run my index finger down my sternum.
“Paint me.”
He growls, throws his head back, and strokes his length.
While he works, his head still back and one hand anchored to me, I roam his contours, his sinews. His thighs tense. I trace their definition. His hips and hand work in tandem, pulse and surge and simulate.
I want to, try to, feel all of him. Everywhere and all. Memorize his V. Wrap my hands around his waist, feel a hint of hipbone push into my grasp.
Ragged breaths. Sheen on skin. Everything about him has taken on an edge of feral, harsh focus…save where he holds my breast.
My lips are on his body before I realize I’ve moved and they run along his chest, teeth nip along the lower curve under his ribs, wrap my arms around him, fingers travel up his back, his muscles moving beneath my hands. He rocks and pushes and propels ever closer to completion, knuckles banging against me, silk teasing my throat.
“You are so close…I want it.” My words echo in the tight space between us.
Sounds leave him in notes of strain and relief. It hits against me. Spurts. Trails. Hot.
I’m overwhelmed. Euphoric. And it was not even about me. My head rests against him, rocked with his heaving breaths, and he sags against me, drapes over me, chin at the back of my head, heart beating near my ear.
It is the strangest and best hug of my life. I never want to move.
Close. I have never felt so connected to anyone.
Joined without joining. Intensity.
Intense and real.
But not. Not real.
I need to get away.
In the shower, I scrub away what we did. He was still on his knees when I slid out from under him. When I pulled away.
The sofa bed sheets are cool.
I have no dreams.
3:10 a.m.
*
Stealth
: Is a bitch to bladders.
AS QUIETLY AS POSSIBLE, I tiptoe to the bathroom. Turn the knob. Close the door silently. Not even a click. Realize I was holding my breath.
Every brush of my feet is like thunder. And now, after my successful endeavor to reach the bathroom undetected, just how do I plan on peeing without him hearing me?
Oh, grow up. It’s a basic human function. It’s no big deal. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.
I turn the faucet on full blast. Congratulations, I’m a genius.
Afterward, I open the door and walk full-on into rock hard abs.
“You okay?” His voice is gravelly, confused. “Did you run a bath?”
Congratulations, I’m a goober.
“I’m fine,” I say and duck around his body, trying not to inhale too much of his warm, sleepy scent.
“Didn’t mean to disturb you,” I splutter. I can’t get under my covers fast enough.
He’s quiet, motionless for a moment as I clamber onto the sofa. Then, he sounds almost apologetic. “I…I guess I didn’t realize what a light sleeper I have become.” He turns away. “Good night…again.”
Day of Employment:
382
6:00 a.m.
*
Location
: Hallway outside room.
*
Earbuds
: Pandora radio. White noise.
I’M STILL BREATHING HEAVILY from my unscheduled visit to the fitness center.
The hotel door opens quietly for me. Pointless.
He’s sitting on the end of the sofa.
I can’t see his face.
“I thought you’d left.” He doesn’t look at me.
“I…I’m not leaving,” I say. I don’t know what else to say.
He nods and rises and walks to me. Our hands bump. Then twist. Then hold.
Squeeze, tighter. Then apart. The bedroom door clicks.
In the shower, I consider not shaving. Maybe stubble will help me keep myself in check.
It’s all a bit more than I bargained for. That may be okay. I still feel out of sorts.
Out of control. How did I get so out of control?
I will fake it. Control.
It is a plan.
I am still contemplating the merits of Fake Control Plan 4782 while I dress.
I slide on black stockings and heels. Black panties. My bra doesn’t cooperate.
My arm is bent back and arguing with the hook and eye when I feel him behind me.
His fingers brush my back. He fastens the fabric together. Runs a finger under a strap, untwisting it as he moves up my back to my shoulder.
“Thank you.” My voice is soft.
He says nothing. I feel his lips against my hair.
Never mind. I think I’m no longer a fan of plans.
7:03 a.m.
*
Breakfast
: Most interesting eggs ever.
I AM STARING AT MY PLATE. He’s in a tie.
I don’t even know what to say. Uneasy. Almost…maybe…scared? I don’t know if it is because he is so imposing elsewhere, or that I had him on a pedestal, or that this simply feels…different.
I remind myself I’m acting different than myself in every way.
I pack his things. The weather is turning. I hand him his coat. We leave.
I can feel him watching me. It’s warm. Not unwelcome.
There’s nothing I can think to say that will transition us.
Then he spares me the awkward move from night to day.
“Write up a temporary transfer proposal of Sean Becket to oversee our warehouse build,” he says in the hall.
“Yes, sir.”
“Rebecca needs a progress report.” In the elevator.
“I will send it by end-of-day.”
“Ms. Fralin has set up a dinner meeting with me tonight.” In the car.
Oh. Lovely. “What would you like for me to do while you’re at dinner, Mr. Canon?”