by Holly Hart
“Need a hand?” I ask. I have to. I need to touch him.
Nate grins. It’s cocky, and I want to kiss it off his face. “I thought you’d never ask,” he says. He hands me the bar of soap.
I rub it between my hands, staring directly into Nate’s eyes. He can’t hold my gaze. His eyes keep dropping to my tits.
“I’m up here,” I whisper. But I don’t mind. I like it. I like the way his eyes burn when he sees me, when he devours every inch of my skin.
I touch him for the first time, sloping up his stomach. Nate’s body is hot to the touch – and hard, so hard. I dread to think how many hours he spends in the gym to be like this. I’m glad he does.
“Lower,” Nate growls. I do as I’m told. My hands drop to his hips.
“Lower…”
I do as I’m told.
I feel his cock for the first time. It’s soft, but growing every second. I stroke it experimentally. I’ve never held one before. It’s not what I expected. It’s softer, smoother, but I can barely fit it in my hands already.
“Perfect…” Nate groans, his eyes closed. I hide a smile. This is amazing. I know that he can’t fake this. His reaction is genuine – all the proof I need that he’s truly attracted to me – not just some wicked game he’s playing.
My hands keep massaging his cock until it’s hard as a rock – and long past the point at which the soap suds disappeared. I can’t wait to feel it inside me.
“Fucking hell, Kim,” Nate whispers. “You feel so good.”
I can’t believe I’m having this effect on a guy like Nate. He can’t take my touch. It makes me feel… sexy.
Out of nowhere, Nate pushes me back against the back wall of the shower. The tiles are cold, and the skin on my shoulders breaks out in goose bumps. He drops to his knees.
My skin is on fire.
“Open your legs,” Nate growls. I do as I’m told. They were parting anyway, already, before he asked. I thread my hands through his hair.
Nate licks me from top to bottom, and a moan escapes my lips. I can’t stop the thoughts racing through my mind. This isn’t how I pictured my first time. I thought I’d be in bed, maybe a hotel somewhere. None of that matters. This is perfect.
Every time Nate’s tongue grazes my clit, my stomach becomes a rolling wave of tension and a higher state of arousal.
“No…” I whisper.
But I want more. I need more. I want to explore Nate’s body. I grab him by the hair and pull his head up. He looks at me with questioning eyes, but as he rises, I fall.
The shower floor is hard against my knees, but I barely notice it. I kiss the tip of Nate’s engorged cock, and watch with amazement as it twitches under my touch.
“More,” Nate groans.
I do as I’m told.
I barely take the tip of his cock in my mouth, and this time it’s his hand that’s buried in my hair. I never expected his cock to taste this good, but it’s like it was made for me. Nate groans under my touch, and it spurs me to take more than just the tip in my mouth.
I twirl my tongue around the tip, and his nails scratch my scalp in response. I love how I can control him like this. I push one button, and he reacts. My pussy is throbbing with excitement now, begging to be filled.
Then –
Then Nate’s freaking cell phone goes off. I take my mouth off his cock for just long enough to say: “you better ignore that!”
For a second longer, Nate’s gasps of pleasure are all I can hear. But I feel him pushing me away. His eyes are filled with a deep, apologetic sadness, one that’s twinned with desire. I know what he’s about to say. I just can’t believe he’ll say it!
“I’m sorry, Kiss,” he whispers, “but it’s about work. I’ve got to get it.”
I fall back against the cold glass. I can already feel it. I know, somehow, that it’s all going wrong. I feel my first time slipping away, like it’s done so many times before.
Except then, it was my fault. This time’s different. This time I was ready.
Nate climbs, naked, out of the shower and digs in his pants for his cell phone. He presses it to his ear.
“Shoot,” he growls, “but this had better be good: really good.”
I watch him carefully. The person on the other end of the line says something, and Nate’s eyes flicker to me. For a second I get the sense that they are discussing me, but I shake it off. That’s not possible.
Nate’s eyes close, and his head falls back.
“Dammit,” he says. “I’m coming in. I’ll be there in twenty.”
16
Kim
This isn’t just a bad idea. It’s downright insane.
It’s the kind of plan that ends up with me getting fired – or worse, locked up. I wish Nate hadn’t taken that call. I wish we’d done, well – everything we were about to do. I wish Nate had done anything he’d wanted to do to me… Instead, we took a rain check. I guess that’s a metaphor for my entire sex life…
Still, the plus side is I could come into the office early, like I planned. My skin is tight from the cold, and my lips chapped. It only takes a few seconds for my entire face to warm back up as I enter the Landwolfe office lobby. It’s not the heating on full blast that does it – my bright red burst of nerves takes care of that problem.
The guy at the front desk greets me with a smile.
“Morning, Miss Sawyers,” he says, “what brings you in so early: big meeting?”
I scan the dregs of my mind for the guard’s name. I think it might be Tim, or Tom, or something like that – but I don’t risk getting it wrong. I smile back politely instead.
“Nothing big,” I lie, “just need to finish up a project. I’m still working out my probationary period, you know how it is…” I shrug, and tap my badge against the scanner. “Anyways, I should probably head up.”
For a second, the-guy-who-might-be-called-Tim frowns with disappointment, and then he’s gone. I get the strangest sense that he wanted me to hang around, but I can’t figure why.
I feel like every eye in the place is turned on me. There is no way that can be true. I’ve not done anything yet – nothing at all. I’ve told no one what I’m planning, not even Frankie. But even so, it feels like a lifetime spent coloring inside the lines is setting me up for a fall. My face is not made for lying: just one look at me and you know exactly what’s on my mind.
It’s written on my cheeks.
My heels tap against the marble floor as I walk toward the elevator. Am I walking too fast? Or too slow? I wonder if James Bond ever has these kinds of worries. I doubt it.
New Year’s resolution – be more like James Bond.
The journey up passes in a blur. I hold my breath until I’m standing right outside my little shared office door.
This is it.
If Boris is inside, or any of the rest of my little team, then I can give up. For now, I mean – just until it’s safer –.
Hell no. Stop thinking like that. I chide myself, biting my lip. It’s now or never. Anyway, what’s scarier – Boris catching me doing something naughty, or taking the fall for whatever crime he’s committing?
It’s easy, when you put it like that.
If Boris is doing anything at all, that is. Maybe I’m just losing my mind.
I guess there’s only one way to find out. And it sure as heck doesn’t start with standing like a sack of flour outside the office door.
I tap my badge against the scanner, again, and it blinks green, again. The small office is empty and quiet, the only soundtrack the faint humming of computer fans. I back into the door to close it, and it bleeps once as it locks behind me.
I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m alone – it’s a slice of luck. Though, not an entirely unexpected one: neither Boris nor his pals usually come into the office before 9:30.
I grab the server repair toolkit from a nearby shelf, and rattle around for a screwdriver. I kneel down in front of the door, tugging my skirt down, and open the battery case
at the bottom of the electric lock.
“Here goes nothing,” I murmur, closing one eye and chewing my lip. The truth is I have no idea what I’m doing. I watched a couple of YouTube videos, and, apparently, now I think I’m an expert…
I pull at the only wire connected to a port. Everything else is soldered down, so it’s my only choice, anyway. I hold my breath and tug at it sharply. The lock bleeps one last time, and goes dead. I reach up and test the handle. It’s locked tight.
“James Bond, eat your heart out,” I mutter. A proud grin tickles my lips. I take a second to make sure I’ll be able to easily connect the wire again in a hurry, and put the screwdriver away.
Enough preening, I think, you can be smug when you’re done.
I move into action like I’ve done this a hundred times, instead of dreaming about it once. I sit down at Boris’s computer and plug a USB drive into the side. It whirrs to life, and the program I downloaded off the Internet flashes up on the screen. A few hundred lines of code speed past, flashing green on black on my eyeballs, and Boris’s desktop photo appears on-screen.
“So much for password security,” I whisper to myself, equal parts impressed and worried by how easy that was.
I pull out the USB drive, stow it away and get to work. I’m looking for evidence, any evidence, that there is more to my creepy manager than meets the eye. Or, to put it another way – I guess – that he’s exactly the kind of guy I think he is.
I glance over my shoulder. The hair is bristling at the back of my neck. I should have at least half, maybe even a full hour before Boris gets to work, if the past is any guide. Still, the last thing I want is to get caught meddling on his terminal.
My fingers fly over the keyboard. The sound of tapping fills the room as I pull window after window up onto the screen.
“How the heck did you get a job in a place like this,” I wonder out loud as I delve into Boris’s code – the stuff he told me was none of my business when I joined. “I guess it really is who you know, and not what.”
Boris’s code is…
… Ugly.
It’s the only way I can describe it. Boris uses thirty lines of code when two would do just as nicely. It looks like an abandoned yard, instead of a neatly trimmed flower bed. Line after line of instructions builds upon the last, opening up opportunity after opportunity for the whole thing to crash to a shuddering halt.
It’s the kind of work that would have received a straight F back at MIT. But apparently, I think sourly, it’s enough to get a swanky job at an international bank.
I keep wading through. It takes everything I have not to start fixing all the mistakes I’m seeing. I run my fingers through my hair. “Nothing makes any sense,” I groan, slumping back in the office chair.
Really, it doesn’t. It’s not just that Boris’s program is badly designed – it just plain doesn’t work.
“Follow the money,” I mutter.
I’m pretty sure it’s a line from a movie somewhere, but it seems like good advice to follow right now. I start tracing the money as it comes out of the client accounts. Everything seems to be normal – it goes to the bank’s trading platform, and then –.
“It goes crazy…” I whisper, watching a trade in action.
It’s the only way to describe what’s going on. Boris’s program starts buying shares, until every last penny of the client’s account is used up. A second later, it sells every single share for the same price. Then it moves to the next stock pick on a long list, and on, and on.
Every single time, the money goes through a different broker’s account. That fact seems to stick in my mind.
I hold my head in my hands.
“What the heck are you doing, Boris?” I ask no one. And what have I got to do with it?
“Okay, Kim, think. Why would anyone trade like this? It’s not making any money, it’s just moving –.”
My chin falls to the floor. Okay, it doesn’t really, but it feels that way. The answer hits me like a thunderbolt.
“He’s hiding his tracks…”
It’s the only explanation that makes any sense. It’s the only reason why an account would follow this kind of pattern.
I’ve got to tell someone.
My hands freeze over the keyboard. Suddenly, I realize that I’ve got to keep this to myself, at least until I have more evidence. I have no idea who is in on this – or even what is really going on.
All I truly know right now is that something weird is happening. I need evidence – proper evidence – something that can’t just be swept under the rug. I’m the newest employee. Without evidence that is concrete and airtight and can’t be explained away, I’m the one who Boris will go for to take the fall. I might be the one to lose my job, not him.
I run a search command in Boris’s code. The computer hums, and a second later takes me to a section of code tagged: dormant.
“What?”
This definitely doesn’t make sense. Heck, it might even be illegal. I’m pretty sure that banks are supposed to log every single one of the trades they make.
As every single one of the trades whizzing past on the left-hand side of Boris’s computer screen happens, information should be recorded. Except here, none of that’s happening.
I shiver. Suddenly the room feels ten degrees colder than it was a second before. This isn’t proof that something illegal is going on, but it’s as near as I’ve found so far.
“Okay, Kim, meet Problem,” I say, talking to myself like I used to do while coding back at college, “Problem, meet Kim.” I crack my knuckles theatrically, and start typing faster than I ever have before.
I need to save all this data, but do it some way that Boris can’t see. That shouldn’t be hard, I think, grinning, I doubt he can even read my code.
My eyes flicker to the closed door leading to the server room. Perfect. I write a subroutine to save every last one of the missing logs to one of the nearby servers. From there, I can upload them somewhere safe.
Someone walks past the frosted-glass office door. I freeze, holding my breath, but it’s no one – at least, no one who works in here. Still, if people are starting to get into the office, then I don’t have long.
My foot bounces up and down on the carpet-tiled floor. The computer groans underneath my instructions. It sounds like an old-school Internet modem, or a raccoon got trapped inside the case.
“Come on, come on,” I mutter. Nothing’s happening on screen. “Don’t crash on me, baby, please.”
I glance at the clock at the bottom right of Boris’s screen. I don’t have long, maybe just a few minutes before Boris gets to work. With one last wrenching squeal, the computer starts responding to my commands again.
“Boo-yah!” I grunt, punching the air with satisfaction. The data starts to transfer – but it’s slow as molasses. The progress bar hangs on screen, inching up one percentage point at a time.
The door handle rattles. There is a shadow in front of the frosted glass, darkening it.
Oh, heck.
I need more time, but I don’t have it. I’m going to have to leave all that data on the servers until later. My fingers speed across the keyboard so quickly I’m afraid they might burst into flame, hiding every last shred of evidence that I was ever there.
“Anyone in there?” Boris grunts, wrapping against the door.
I’m paralyzed – I don’t know whether to look at Boris’s computer screen, or the door – or whether to reply. I leave it about as long as I dare, before I do. “What’s wrong?”
83%…
“The damn door’s fucked. If you did this, Kim, I swear –.”
92%…
I sleep Boris’s computer screen. I’m going to have to risk it. I can’t delay any longer.
“Hold on,” I say, cutting him off mid-rant, “I think there’s something wrong with it. Maybe my bag caught it on the way in,” I lie.
“If you broke it, it’s coming off your paycheck,” Boris growls. His voice is thic
k, he sounds ill – or more likely hung over.
I walk to the door, moving at as slow a pace as I can get away with. I can sense Boris’s anger growing by the second on the other side of the door. This is going to be one heck of a long day…
“Move it,” Boris grunts.
I kneel down. “Oh,” I say airily, threading the wire back into its port, “it’s no problem. Looks like just a loose cable. Here we go…”
The lock bleeps. Boris doesn’t wait a second before pushing the door open. I have to hold myself back to avoid getting hit. He starts into the room fast, his beady black eyes darting around with suspicious excitement.
