by Virna DePaul
It was fun last night, and I'll leave it at that. Fun, casual, meaningless. I’ll call him after work, just like I said, but I won't see him for a few days, and by that time I'll have cleared my head of this girlish crush. Burying myself in work this week will cure my stupidity.
As hard as it is, I manage to dive into work and get through court without a hitch. When I return to my office and start packing up for the day, I begin to strategize about my phone call with Lee. First, we’ll deal with getting his investors back in the game. Then when we’ve come up with a solid plan, I’ll confess the truth to him. He’ll be so angry with me but—
“Lee?”
He’s there in the doorway, as if I magically conjured him. As I’m still reeling from his sudden appearance, he saunters in and studies my bookshelves and desk and furniture. I realize he’s never visited me at my office before, not once.
“Lee, what are you doing here?”
“So, this is your kitchen, huh?”
He traces his fingers over the spines of the books on the shelf. I bite my finger at the thought of tracing my tongue over the ridges of his abs.
“More like my prison,” I respond, ducking my teeth-imprinted finger under my desk when he turns to face me.
“White collar prison maybe.” He grins. “If you ever drop the soap in here, I'll help you out.”
“Lee.”
“Fine, fine.” He rolls his eyes. “I'll be the prison bitch.”
I laugh.
He points to me and says, “There it is.”
“I laugh all the time.”
He crosses his arms. “When was the last time you laughed here?”
“I smile all the time then.”
“When was the last time you smiled here?”
I tap my pencil against the edge of the desk. I know what the answer is: never. I don’t smile here. I exist here. I make a shit-ton of money, and I exist. Lee waits, smug in his victory, so I throw my pencil at him.
“Sometimes I make chains with my paper clips,” I say.
Lee plays along. “Thrilling.”
“And the other day, I replaced the black pushpins in the lounge bulletin board with green ones.”
“You rebel.”
“Or, if you put the books on your desk like this.” I peek under the spread book cover with the spine in the air. “It's just like a tent.”
“Who needs the great outdoors when you have dusty paper in a sterile room?”
I’m smiling so hard. This is the most fun I’ve had in my office… ever. It highlights two things for me. How much I love being with Lee. And how unsatisfied I am with work lately. Especially if lately means since the day I graduated from Harvard Law.
My food blog only shines a blinding light on how miserable I am with this job, this career. This life path in general.
When I eat at a restaurant for the blog, I'm excited. Whether it’s at a white linen-covered table or someplace more casual, the world feels like it's full of infinite possibilities. I’m excited as I wait for whatever incredible creation the chef has prepared. I happily write up my review, free to say whatever I want. After a successful blog, I see a hole in the wall nobody cared to try out flourish with lines out the door.
In the courtroom, the world feels black and white and absolutely colorless as I wait for an answer from the judge that is essentially either yes or no. I write up a brief for a case and I'm caged in, blocked off, locked up. A successful case, and I drink expensive whiskey with old men who will never, ever dare be seen in some of the restaurants I blog about.
Sure, I've considered walking out this office door and never returning, so I can devote myself full-time to my blog. How could I not? But it’s kind of ridiculous. I have an extremely well-paying, highly respected, steady and secure job. I hate it, but plenty of people have worse jobs.
It’s also safe. I glance at Lee, who's spinning the globe in the corner. Yes, safe is better.
“Lee,” I say, “not that I don't mind the reminder that I despise my job and live a laughter-less existence, but what are you doing here exactly? I mean, I know I said I would call you after work—”
“I am so very happy that you asked that question, Jenna.”
He sits himself down in the chair opposite from me and spreads out casually.
“Please, take a seat,” I grumble. “It's not like I'm at work or anything.”
“Thanks.” He plows on, oblivious to my sarcasm. “I am here in this lovely office, because you have free muffins in the lounge.”
“One question.”
Lee gestures that I may indeed ask my question.
“Actually, it’s two questions.”
“Okay.”
“One, aren't you a millionaire?”
“Yes.”
“Two, aren't you a chef?”
“Yep.”
“I rest my case.”
“Everyone enjoys a free muffin, Jenna. But I’m also here because I finally wanted to see where you worked and I could do that while we discussed action to take against the blogger.”
“Action?”
“I want to sue,” he declares.
“Sue for what, Lee?”
“Libel.”
“Then I can't help you.”
“What? Why?”
“That's not my specialty for one thing. And for another, libel or slander can only be applied when there is something salaciously inaccurate.” I pause for a moment. How do I put this delicately? “Is the blog really that wrong?”
Lee scratches the back of his neck and stands up. For a second, I think he's about to leave, but he stops. “Fine, we won't sue. But I want to find whoever wrote it.”
Even though I’d already decided to tell him it was me, my heart beats faster. “Why?”
“To confront the idiot.”
Idiot? Idiot? That blog clearly had a well thought out and reasoned argument. I mean, in between the borderline porn.
“I'm sure the person is entirely uneducated,” Lee goes on.
You’re crazy, I went to Harvard Law! I pinch my leg under the desk.
“I bet the blogger is unemployed and sits in his mom's basement eating Cheetos all day long.”
Somebody eating Cheetos in his mom's basement would not judge Lee’s food the way I did. And I have a job. Lee knows I have a job. He's in my office. Wait, no. Lee doesn't know I’m the one who wrote the blog.
I let out a shaky breath. Control.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if this loser was a virgin.”
“Why would you think tha–”
Shit, I almost lost it there, but I can’t listen to this anymore. Well, there’s certainly one surefire way to shut a man up.
“Lee, please close the door,” I say. “And lock it.”
I prop my foot up on my desk and wait until after he’s facing me again and I'm certain his eyes are fixated on me. Then I slide my black pump slowly, oh so slowly, across the wood grain, knocking over file after file in turn.
This isn’t going to help my current predicament. It’s just going to make it a thousand times worse. But I don’t care. Even as Lee was riling me up with his insults about the blogger, I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. I want him. I always have. I always will.
I just need to keep emotion out of this. Just keep it physical.
I stand, walk up to Lee, then shove him down against the cleared desk. I take a step back. His chest heaves, while his eyes follow my hands, which I lower to the hem of my black pencil skirt. He props himself up on his elbows to get a better view, and I make sure to give him one. Leaning over so my blouse gapes open to reveal the lacy top of my bra, I snake my hand up under my skirt. I shimmy out of my thong and toss it aside on the floor.
This is just sex between two people. Nothing more.
No emotion, no feelings. He’s just a man.
Any straight man would grab my waist like he does when a woman hitches up her skirt and straddles his hips, knees on her desk.
Any dude wit
h a dick between his legs would sigh like he does when a woman unbuttons her shirt and lets it hang down on her shoulders as she moves her hands to his belt buckle.
Any man would hiss and curse and buck his hips like he does when a woman unzips his pants, shoves down his boxers, and strokes his cock in an office separated from other people by a dangerously thin, locked door.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
But as Lee looks at me like he’s going to devour me, I know he isn’t just any man.
He’s Lee Bowers.
And if I had an ounce of self protection, I’d stop things right now.
Every bite mark along the side of his hand as he tries not to make noise is a bite mark too much. Lee’s hand stretches up to trace the lace lining my bra and I should stop him. Because I’ll remember that gentle touch, and it will only bring pain later on whenever a stray breeze reminds me of the ghost of his fingers.
I shouldn’t be hearing my name whispered like that from his lips, like a plea, like a prayer. I should tell him to shut up. I’ll hear it every single night I’m in bed long after Lee’s left and found himself his next model or actress. I’ll hear it and think that he’s there and then I’ll have to open my eyes every time to the truth: Lee doesn’t stay.
He never stays.
I should stuff my thong in his mouth and tie his wandering hands to the desk legs and ride him till I come and tell him to leave. To get the fuck out. To get lost. But I stroke his cock and listen again and again to the way he says my name. I let his fingers leave indents above my hip bones that I secretly hope leave a mark for me to trace later. I let my body memorize everything about how he feels beneath me: the muscles along his upper thighs, the contraction of his toned abs, his dick hard in my hands, dripping with precum.
“Lift up your ass,” I command.
His unfocused eyes settle on me and I repeat my words. He raises up his hips with slight confusion on his face and I slip his wallet from his back pocket.
“Are you robbing me?” he asks and dreamily adds, “Not that I care. You could take me for all I’m worth and I’d just lay here.”
I grin, pulling out a condom from behind his library card.
“Oh, I intend to. I know we didn’t use a condom last time, but I forgot to take my pill this morning, so better to be safe…”
“Sure, sure.”
I rip the packaging and only vaguely aim for the trash can in the corner of my office, not caring enough to see if it went in or not. Lee pounds his fists against the desk when I slip on the condom and rise up enough to position myself over his cockhead.
“You…” I whisper as I lower myself down enough so I feel him at my pussy, “You have…” I gasp when I push myself lower still, “…to be…,” my breathing quickens and I hold back a moan, “…quiet.”
My inner thighs quiver and my hands on his chest shake when I’m fully seated. I roll my hips and Lee slaps his hand against the metal side of my desk. It rings loud and abrasive in the office and I lean over him and press my finger to his lips. Both of our eyes lock on the door, waiting for a concerned question or a curious knock. When it remains silent, I’m about to remove my hand when I see the thrill in Lee’s eyes. I hesitate nervously for a moment, but then I twist my hand and carefully cover his mouth.
“Do you like that?” I whisper.
He nods and I lift up so that just his cock head is inside me before pressing my ass back down to his crotch. My heart leaps when I hear him groan, the sound muted against my hand.
“Put your hands above your head,” I order him in a voice that surprises even me.
It’s husky and deep and commanding. It’s the voice I use in the courtroom.
I know he likes it when I feel his hips flex and he immediately puts his hands above his head at the edge of the desk. I grasp both his wrists with my other hand as I ride him slowly. His biceps bulging in the corner of my eye remind me that there would be no stopping him from grabbing my own hands and flipping me over without any effort at all. But the look in his eyes tells me he won’t. He likes it: me in control.
I pick up my pace and soon I’m having to bite my lip to cut off my own moans. My thighs burn, but I fuck him faster, sweat starting to run down my back. I clamp my fingers over Lee’s mouth tighter when his groans grow louder.
Lowering my lips to his ear, I whisper between gasps, “They’re just outside, Lee. What if they were to hear us and walk in?”
My nails dig into the soft, tender skin of his wrists and my hips stutter when he shifts his head and bites my finger. God, I’m close.
“They’ll walk in here and see us,” I whisper before licking his ear. “They’ll see me on top of you like this.”
I wince at how his teeth on my finger stings, but it turns me on more than anything when he curses around my finger and I pound my ass down harder, driving his cock deeper inside of me. His heart pounds under my tits. I think he’s close, too.
“They’ll see my hand over your mouth and my hand holding down your arms,” I continue.
His arms squirm in my grip.
“Stop moving,” I hiss.
“Goddamn,” he groans around my finger.
“Do you want them to see this?” I ask. “Do you want them to see you under my control?”
He nods and I come, biting down on his arm to muffle my scream when he says just two words.
“I’m yours.”
I collapse on top of him as my world spins and my hand falls from his mouth. He slips his hands from my now loose grip and grabs onto my waist, just above my hip bones. All it takes is lifting me up and down a few times with those strong hands of his and he buries his head against my neck as he comes. We lay there, him catching his breath and me running over and over in my mind those two simple words. I’m yours. I’m yours. I’m yours.
Silently, I sit up and ease myself off of him and climb down from my desk. I slip my thong back on and fix my skirt and quickly button my shirt. After tucking back a few strands of hair that had slipped loose, I move around the desk and bend down to start rearranging everything in my office. I’m aware of Lee removing the condom and tucking himself back into his pants.
“What are you doing?” he asks softly, swinging his legs around so that he’s sitting on the edge of the desk.
He’s watching me, but I continue to straighten the pile of legal documents as if he weren’t.
“I’m getting back to work,” I answer, still not looking up at him.
For a few moments there, I’d let myself believe he’d actually meant those two little words. And that’s exactly what I’d been afraid of: I’m falling for him and I can’t control it.
I return my clock and container of paperclips to the desk, but he stops me with a hand on my wrist.
“Hey,” he says.
I straighten my clock with my other hand, but he grabs that wrist, too.
“Hey,” he repeats. “Hey, look at me.”
I make a show of rolling my eyes and sighing dramatically, before I let my eyes fall into place with his.
“You’re kind of stealing my thing,” he says, smiling.
“And what’s that?”
“The ole fuck and run.”
I can’t stop the laugh that escapes from my lips.
“It is a work day, you know,” I explain. “And we are still in my office at my job.”
Lee dismisses me with a wave of his hand. He pats the spot next to where he sits.
“I have to work, Lee,” I insist.
He pats the desk again.
“Lee.”
“Jenna, your cheeks are still flushed and I’m pretty sure those are your nipples saying hello through your shirt. Just sit for a second.”
He twirls me in a circle as if we are on the dance floor and I stumble right onto the desk where he wanted me the whole time. We sit and look at the view from my window and I’m extremely conscious of the fact that he’s still holding my left hand.
I’m yours. I’m yours. I
’m yours.
I tell myself to stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about the warmth of his skin. Stop thinking about the way he glances over at me when he thinks I’m not looking. Stop thinking about the sweet little circles he traces with his thumb.
“Anything you want to tell me, Jenna?”
I look over at him in surprise. “Like what?”
He laughs, that easy, carefree laugh I so envy.
“Anything. Anything you’d like to tell me. I’m listening.”
“That’s a first.”
He turns his face to me and I’m surprised at the sincerity on his face when he answers, “I always listen to you, Jenna. Always.”
I squint my eyes in suspicion.
“I’m serious.” He squeezes my hand. “Everyone else talks and talks and talks and, yeah, I sometimes don’t listen. But, Jenna, when you speak… well, when you speak I listen. Simple as that.”
I’m yours. I’m yours. I’m yours.
Stop it, Jenna. Stop it. For a moment I’m tempted to tell him, to fess up about my blog, about what I wrote about him, about why I wrote what I wrote about him. A part of me wants to tell him how I feel about him, how I’ve always felt about him.
“I do have something to confess,” I finally say.
He waits.
“Your cock is larger than I thought it would be.”
Lee grins, but I can tell it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s a bit of disappointment there. And I don’t know why.
“You already told me that this morning, but I’m happy you’re impressed.” Suddenly he’s standing up and his hand is falling away from mine and I’m immediately missing its warmth.
“Well,” he says, “I’ll let you get back to work then.”
He smiles and sounds cheerful, but I can tell something has changed.
“You need money for a taxi to get home, babe?” I ask, stacking papers to keep myself occupied.
“Funny. I’ll just do my walk of shame to the subway, thank you very much.”
“Atta girl.” I wink and whistle when he turns around and I can see his ass.
“Don’t objectify me, Jenna Harrison.”
“Don’t have an ass like that.”
He laughs and waves before closing the door.
And it takes everything I have not to go after him.
