Things Get Started

Nick smiles and waves the last guest out. He locks the office door as I slide out of my torturous (though admittedly, fierce) pumps and hop up to sit on the low-slung bookshelf, appreciating the return of blood flow to all my toes. I feel him looking at me as he removes his tie, but pretend to be very wrapped up in stretching my ankles like, Oh, hi. I didn't notice you there. It feels like I've only been able to think in adolescent cliches for the last 48 hours, and I'm not sure how I made it through that presentation. I have both avoided and longed to be alone with him. Why won't he say something? But he's just silently, calmly pouring whiskey into two crystal tumblers. I try not to stare and give an imitation of patient nonchalance from my perch on the shelf, but I just want to watch him. And kiss him again. And see where that goes.

He extends a glass to me. I take it slowly, deliberately allowing our hands to touch, soaking in the heat coming from him. The sweet, smoke and spice sliding over my tongue is both balm and accelerant. Its smell blends with Nick's cologne. I feel a little drunk after just one sip.

He puts one hand on my knee, and pauses. A question. A request for permission. My breath catches in my throat. The bass drum that has been beating in my pelvis since we kissed in the stairwell two days ago quickens its pace and force. The hand on my knee squeezes, softly: a patient repetition of the request. I force myself to breathe, and look up. His blue eyes darken; he looks somehow tender and predatory at the same time as he bends to kiss me, urgent tongue in my mouth, sucking briefly on my neck. Then he sinks to his knees and gently pushes mine apart.

He pushes my skirt up. I lift up to allow him to remove my underwear and pull my hips toward him. I'm already throbbing, dripping, and wriggling restlessly before he actually does anything. He brushes his fingertips along my slit. Then his tongue touches me, and rational thought dissolves. I moan something incomprehensible and bury my fingers in his office dark hair, coming hard in what feels like under a minute.

Any trace of shame evaporated, panting like I've just run a mile. I'm reaching for his belt buckle. I'm unzipping his pants. He pushes them down and I'm squeezing my hands over his smooth hardness. He's inside me, both of us groaning softly and moving together. I'm fucking my boss in his office. This is so wrong, but God. Damn. It feels perfect. Like he already knows what I need. Like we were made to fit together.

The door handle jiggles and we freeze. From the outside it must look comical. We both look at the door, then at each other, then back at the door before we spring apart and begin adjusting clothing.

"Mr. Anderson?" A youngish male voice, and a knock on the door. Nick glances at me and I nod my agreement as I slip my shoes back on. Clearing his throat, he walks calmly to the door.

"Tom, I've told you, call me Nick. Sorry 'bout that wait. We were on a conference call and started brainstorming right after we hung up. What can I do for you?"

Tom gestures a hello to me. "Ma'am. The investors said they loved your proposal, Ms. Taylor."

"Please, it's Tricia. Thanks! It was a fun project to work on."

"So, Tom, what can I help you with?" Nick prompts again. His voice is artfully light, but the edges of his drawl are just slightly clipped and a muscle keeps flexing in his jaw. I want to lick it. I don't pay attention to whatever Tom is saying. In my mind I'm replaying the events of just a few minutes before, my ankles wrapped around Nick's hips as he pounded into me. Nick licking my pussy, sucking my clit, making me come, feet from where this inconveniently-timed professional concorde is taking place.

I become aware that the conversation has stopped and both men are looking at me with question faces.

"Sorry? Sorry, guys, long day. What was the question?" Nick's smirk suggests he knows exactly what I was thinking about.

"Trish, it's late, why don't we call it a day? I'll email you Tom's question and we can discuss tomorrow?" He types briefly on his phone, grabs his bag, shakes our hands, and leaves the room, Tom at his heels. What just happened?

The message on my phone just reads "1186 Maple Court" followed by a few emojis that make his intentions clear.

Giving into tension and a spur-of-the-moment tryst with a colleague is one thing. Going to his house late at night with every premeditated intention of hooking up is another. I'm lecturing myself even as I type his address into my GPS and take the elevator down to the parking garage. This could go so badly. But it will be so much fun first.