by Bec Linder
Elliott was easy to work for. He didn’t have any irritating habits, like clearing his throat constantly or leaving used tissues crumpled on his desk to ooze pathogens. He was quiet. He didn’t try to talk to me when I was in the middle of something. But he wasn’t cold or aloof, either. We made polite chit-chat when I arrived each day and again before I left. And on Thursday, he actually ate lunch with me.
There was no lunch room, of course, so I had gotten into the habit of eating at my desk. On that particular day, Elliott had put on his coat and headed out a couple of hours earlier, for some mysterious errand he hadn’t bothered to explain to me, but just as I took out my lunchbox I heard the elevator doors open.
I watched him as he came in. The collar of his coat was turned up against the cold, and his face was flushed red, like he had been running laps. He looked cozy. I wanted to unbutton his coat and slide my hands inside. He would be warm and muscular—
I derailed that train of thought. “How’s the weather?” I asked.
He smiled at me, more with his eyes than with his mouth. His cheeks lifted and his eyes crinkled at the corners. It was a soft, intimate look, and I felt it straight down to the soles of my feet. “Frigid,” he said.
I was blushing. Just from him smiling at me. Oh, I didn’t stand a chance. I fumbled to remember what we were talking about. “It’s going to snow tomorrow,” I said.
“I heard,” he said. He was carrying a paper bag, and he set it down on his desk and shucked his coat. I looked away, refusing to let myself stare. Lunch. I was eating lunch. I unzipped my lunchbox, and he turned at the sound and watched me take out my leftovers and navel orange. “You’re eating lunch?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to keep the no shit out of my voice. I got the impression that Elliott sometimes stated the obvious just because he wasn’t sure what else to say. It was sort of sweet.
“Do you mind if I,” he said, trailing off and gesturing to my desk.
Did I mind if he what? But I knew what he was asking, and I said, “Of course. Pull up a chair.”
He joined me at my desk, and took a sandwich out of his bag. It was wrapped in wax paper and was leaking mayonnaise at one corner. It looked pretty gross.
My face must have reflected some of what I was thinking, because he said, “What do you have for lunch, then, that’s so much better than my sad deli sandwich?”
“Leftovers,” I said primly. “Chickpea salad with walnuts and balsamic dressing.”
“Sounds healthy,” he said, and smiled again. “But I’ll bet mine tastes better.”
I gaped at him, too surprised that he was teasing me to think of a snappy comeback. “Well,” I said.
Still smiling, he unwrapped his sandwich.
I decided it was time to change the subject, and grasped at the first thing that came to mind. “So what does the name of the company mean?” I asked. “Zawadi Ya Maji.”
I was sure I was mispronouncing it, but he didn’t correct me. “Hmm,” he said. “Gift of water, in Swahili.”
“That’s what they speak in Uganda?”
“Yes,” he said.
I rolled my eyes. Getting information out of this man was like squeezing blood from a stone. “I thought it was more of a lingua franca,” I said, showing off a little. “Don’t they speak it all through East Africa?”
He sighed deeply, like I was causing him indescribable amounts of pain with my questions. “That’s true. There are a number of languages spoken in Uganda. Each ethnic group has its own language, and they can be highly politicized. I picked Swahili because of its relative neutrality, although it’s less neutral in Uganda than it is in other East African countries. I thought of using Luganda, but that could be interpreted as aligning myself with a particular group.”
“I took an African history course in college, and the professor said that’s why the colonial languages are still used in so many countries,” I said. “Because every country has so many ethnic groups, and they all speak different languages, so if the president gives a speech in French, or whatever, it’s less likely to piss people off.”
“That’s exactly right,” he said. “That’s also why many countries have multiple official languages.”
“My international relations lesson for the day,” I said dryly.
To my surprise, he looked chagrined, and said, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to lecture.”
“You’re not lecturing,” I said. “I asked you a question, and you answered it. You happen to know more about this topic than I do. If you asked me a question about graphic design, you wouldn’t be able to get me to shut up before dinnertime.”
He chuckled. “I suppose that’s fair.”
So all in all, it was a pretty good week.
By Friday afternoon, I had enough of the branding work done to show him.
He looked through all of it without speaking, while I hovered nervously at his shoulder. I already cared so much about his good opinion that I probably would have melted into the floor if he didn’t like my work. Finally he turned his chair to face me and said, “Sadie, I can’t believe you did all of this in less than a week.”
“I can make changes,” I said, inordinately pleased. “It’s all still very preliminary, and—”
“It’s great,” he said. “It looks great. We still have three weeks to work on it. It doesn’t need to be perfect yet. It’s very good.”
“Thanks,” I said, gazing down at him. His praise made me feel warm and melting inside. His eyes were a ridiculous pale green color, like sea glass. Nobody’s eyes should look like that. Fine stubble sprouted along his jaw and glinted gold in the sunlight streaming through the window by his desk. He was gorgeous, and there was no way I would survive an entire month of working for him without embarrassing myself in one way or another.
“You’re welcome,” he said, looking straight at me, close enough to touch.
Bad Sadie. No touching. “Three weeks isn’t a lot of time,” I said. “I haven’t even started on the website yet.”
“That’s what we’ll work on next week, then,” he said. “Why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off?”
“It’s only 3:00,” I said.
“I know,” he said. “You’ve worked hard this week. I’ll pay you for the full eight hours, of course.”
“Well, okay,” I said. “Thanks. I’ll see you on Monday.” I hesitated for a moment, actually thinking before I opened my mouth for once, but then I went ahead and said it anyway. To hell with caution. “You should take some time off. The security guard told me you’re usually here all weekend.”
He made a wry expression. “I knew I should have made friends with him. Now he’s informing on me to the enemy.”
“I’m not the enemy,” I protested. “I just think that people need, you know, sleep and relaxation.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” he said. “Thank you, Sadie. I’ll see you on Monday.”
I sighed, but that didn’t exactly leave any room for disagreement, so I turned away to gather my things and pull on my coat. If Elliott wanted to work himself to the bone, it wasn’t my problem.
It was my problem, though. A tired boss was a grumpy boss.
And, okay, I had started to care about him, maybe. Just a little bit. I didn’t want him to run himself ragged for no reason.
I was so stupid. There was no way this was going to end well.
SEVEN
Elliott
I was too hot: sweating, burning.
I was in Africa again, in Uganda, digging a well under the midday sun.
I turned over. I wasn’t in Uganda. I was in my bed in New York, and Sadie was lying beside me, eyes closed, fast asleep.
The covers were pulled up to her chin, white sheets against dark skin. I wasn’t surprised to see her there. Of course she was in my bed: it was where she belonged. She lay on her back, and the thin top sheet clung to the curves of her body. The fabric, slightly sheer, revealed the shape and color of her ni
pples.
My cock took an immediate interest in the proceedings.
I moved closer and set my hand on her hip. Her skin felt warm even through the sheet. I slid my hand toward her waist, dragging the sheet upward, and she turned her head toward me and opened her eyes.
My breath caught. I knew there was a reason I shouldn’t be in bed with her, although I couldn’t quite remember what it was, and I hoped she wouldn’t be angry with me, or—worse—scream and jump out of bed, taking her warmth and her glorious breasts with her.
But she didn’t scream or run away from me. She raised her arms above her head and stretched, languid and sultry, and smiled at me. “Hello there, Mr. Sloane.”
I had told her to use my first name—I was sure I had told her that at some point—but hearing her call me Mr. Sloane in that voice, soft and sleep-rough, turned me on so quickly that it was like hitting a switch. My cock went from “mildly intrigued” to “diamond-hard and throbbing” within about two seconds. Even high-performance sports cars didn’t have that sort of zero-to-sixty acceleration.
“Sadie,” I said. “Or should I call you Ms. Bayliss?”
“I think we’re past the formalities, don’t you?” she asked, and drew the sheet down to her waist.
I didn’t reply. I couldn’t: I was too mesmerized by the sight of her breasts, round and soft and a warm, deep brown color that glowed in the sunlight. I wanted to put my mouth on her nipples and suck on them until she moaned.
There was no reason why I couldn’t. And so I did, licking first and then using my teeth a bit, just enough to add an edge to her pleasure, and she squirmed and gasped and cupped my head in her hands, holding me against her chest like she was worried I would escape from her.
It was, in short, heavenly.
I didn’t stop until her nipples were hard nubs beneath my lips and tongue. Then I lifted my head and gazed down at her. She was breathing in shallow pants. Her mouth was open slightly, and her eyes were glassy.
Victory.
She opened her eyes and squinted at me. “Why did you stop?”
“I’m just getting started,” I promised her.
The sheet still covered her below the waist. I supported myself on one elbow and used my free hand to draw the sheet away from her body.
Merciful Zeus.
She looked incredible, and I couldn’t wait to put my mouth on every inch of her bare skin.
She smiled at me, not at all bashful—I couldn’t imagine Sadie ever being shy—and slid one hand down her body, down between her legs.
“You filthy girl,” I breathed, impressed and incredibly turned on. None of my furtive daydreaming about Sadie had prepared me for this. She gave me a sly look and moved her fingers. Her eyes slid shut, and I stared, struck dumb, as she began stroking herself.
There was nothing more arousing than the sight of a woman touching herself. Every man would agree. No pornography in the universe could compare to the contented sigh that escaped her lips. My cock throbbed between my legs, hard and ready.
But looking wasn’t enough. I wanted to touch. I wanted to be the cause of those noises.
I moved closer, pressing myself against the side of her body. My cock bumped against her hip, and I rocked against her, enjoying the friction. She laughed, and I rolled my hips again and said, “What’s funny?”
“Nothing,” she said. Her breath caught. “I would never laugh at your masculine prowess.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I said, and moved my hand between her legs, my fingers tangling with her own. She bit her lip and spread her thighs a little wider, inviting me in. I dragged my fingers against her slick, soft flesh, and she tossed her head back and moaned. Delicious. I liked a woman who knew what she wanted, and wasn’t embarrassed about enjoying it.
Time dilated. I spent a slow eternity touching her while she tossed her head and rolled her hips against my hand. I listened to her breathing, fast and shallow, and watched her breasts jiggle slightly with each inhale.
“You’re not going to keep me waiting, are you?” she asked, after three centuries had passed.
“Keep you waiting for what?” I asked, not really listening, and bent to kiss the salty hollow of her throat, damp with a fine sheen of sweat.
“I think you know,” she said, suddenly coy, and tugged my head up to draw me into a kiss.
Our mouths met, and I wondered why I hadn’t kissed her already. The folly of youth. She yanked at my hair, a sharp bite of pleasure, and nibbled at my lower lip until I couldn’t stand it and plunged my tongue into her mouth, taking control of the kiss. I didn’t want Sadie to get the idea that she was in charge here.
I drew back and kissed her neck again, her breasts. She moaned my name, and it was music to my goddamn ears. My cock throbbed urgently between my legs.
“Come on,” Sadie said, wrapping one small hand around me and shifting her hips, and then I was inside her, buried in her soft, wet heat.
I moved against her, and that one motion was almost enough to undo me.
“Sadie,” I said, through gritted teeth. “It’s not fair that you feel so fucking good.”
She laughed, bright and happy, and said, “Are you going to come already? I thought you would have more stamina than that.”
“Oh, I’ll show you stamina,” I growled, and thrust into her until she quit laughing and instead let out a moan with each roll of my hips.
It was glorious to lie there on top of her and feel the way our bodies worked together. We fit. And I was going to take my sweet time and enjoy every second of it. First I would make her come, and then I would put her on her stomach and—
“You have to touch the purple eggplant,” Sadie said.
I frowned. What eggplant? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The purple one,” she insisted. “You have to touch it, or the spelunkers are going to get lost in the cavern!”
“I don’t see an eggplant,” I said, and Sadie rolled her eyes at me, pushed me away from her, and disappeared.
I woke up.
I was in my bed in New York, and Sadie wasn’t beside me.
My dreams had always been vivid, ever since I was a child, but they weren’t usually so detailed and realistic. I rubbed my hands over my face, trying to shake off the weird haze of the dream and bring myself back to reality. It had seemed so real. Touching Sadie, kissing her—
It wasn’t real. And a good thing, too. I couldn’t afford the distraction of a real live Sadie in my bed.
I had a company to run. Worlds to conquer.
With a groan, I rolled over and looked at my phone. It was Wednesday. I had an hour to get to the office and shake off the last sticky remnants of the dream, so that I could look Sadie in the eye without blushing.
“Hump Day” had never been more painfully accurate.
EIGHT
Sadie
I had dinner at my parents’ house every Friday night, even on the days my mother had a late shift at the hospital and couldn’t make it. It was a family tradition. They lived in Astoria, which was a real pain in the butt to get to from my place in Carroll Gardens. I had to take the subway into Manhattan and then back across the East River. It was only ten miles, but it usually took me about an hour. That was part of the reason we’d switched from Sunday to Friday dinners: it was easier for me to head to their house directly from work. Elliott letting me out of work early screwed up my timeline a little, but I just ran some errands in Midtown until it was time to take the train to Queens.
My parents lived in the same place they’d lived my entire life, a rowhouse just north of Broadway that my father had gut-renovated back in the ‘80s. The house was his pride and joy, and each summer the small flower garden in front of the house was a little more elaborate than the summer before. It was all dormant now, though, or lying quietly underground to wait for winter to pass. I walked up the sidewalk and climbed the front steps, but before I could raise my hand to knock, the door opened.
“Sad
ie! You’re late,” my brother said.
I rolled my eyes. Devin was two years older than me, and he acted like it was his life’s work to boss me around. “Dinner’s at 6:30, and it’s not even 6:00 right now,” I said. “If you think that’s late, you need to learn how to tell time.”
He smirked. “6:00 means it’s past time to start drinking. I brought wine. Ma isn’t home yet, but she called and said she was getting on the subway. Come on in and let’s get smashed.”
“A man after my own heart,” I said, and went inside.
The house smelled familiar. I was never quite sure what it was—some combination of laundry detergent, floor cleaner, food, and the terrible scented candles my mother loved—but it smelled like home. Devin disappeared into the back of the house, and I took off my coat and hung it in the hall closet, taking my time, enjoying being in a familiar place with familiar furnishings, warm and sound. The house was always untidy and a little cluttered, because neither of my parents was much of a housekeeper, and it was perfect just as it was.
My dad was in the kitchen, cooking up a storm. He was an insurance agent, and his more reasonable work hours meant that he was usually the one who ended up making dinner. He claimed he had learned to like it over the years, and as time went by, Saturday dinners became increasingly elaborate. I went in to say hello, and he accepted a kiss on the cheek, but then said, “I want you and that brother of yours out of my kitchen. The two of you never do anything but get underfoot.”
“I could chop things,” I said, feeling guilty.
“The time for chopping was half an hour ago,” he said. “Now it’s the time for you to leave me be. Get out of here.”
“Sadie, I’m opening the bottle,” Devin called from the dining room, and I was no fool. I went to where the booze was.
