“I’m going to slide my hand under here.” I rub a slow circle around my clit and reach for the handheld shower attachment. I flip the control and water pulsates from the head, a small groan falling from my lips as I press it between my legs, the hot water strumming across my clit, my legs tightening in response. I brace a hand against the tile wall, my eyes closing as I remember the look in his eyes when his hands had slid under my skirt, when his fingers had explored the edges of my panties, when his hand had cupped me, his gentle fingers pushing the damp fabric inside of me. All he had had to do was move the piece of fabric aside. One tiny movement. One curve of his digits, and I would have gripped his shoulders and sobbed out his name, promised him anything, and begged him for everything. Replace those fingers with his cock, and I would have sold him my soul.
“Open your legs, Kate. Uncross them.” I need him in an unnatural way. I need him to push apart my thighs and put his mouth on me. I need him to suck on my clit and tease me with his fingers; I need him to gather me against his chest and push his cock inside of me. I want to look down and see his bare cock, to watch it against my skin, the thrust of it, the tight clench of his abs, his hands on my hips, the burn in his eyes when he buries it fully. Just the thought of it makes my legs tremble, my hips thrust, and I grind against the shower head like a dog in heat. I bite my lip. Sometimes, with just a certain look, I can sense his arousal. That look always makes me think of his cock, thickening inside of his pants, growing stiff, the hard ridge of him pushing against the fabric. I tilt my hips forward, giving a sigh of pleasure as my legs nearly buckle, my orgasm close. I imagine him standing up from his desk, that look deepening, his hand pulling on his zipper, pulling out his cock.
“Open your legs before I pull them apart myself.” He had said that to me. My Trey. He had given that order, and I had spread my legs for him. Had he seen my panties? Had he seen the way that they stuck to me, the way that I had trembled? I imagine him stepping forward, his head tilting, eyes searching, his fingers pulling my panties to the side, and all of me, swollen and pink and wet. He would look up, and that look, that look in his eyes—I come from the idea, the orgasm violent, my fingers sliding against the tile, my body tensing, back rounding, and it is long and hard when it blooms, a wave of pleasure that shudders through me, my cries drowned out by the water, my pleasure extended by the spray. When I finally sink back against the wall, I am numb, my emotions spent, my body limp, my head a fog of orgasmic bliss.
It’s just fantasies. Fantasies that will have no life. Fantasies that only belong in private moments between myself and my fingers, my toys, my showerhead. Eventually, I’ll have someone new, someone who will steal my heart and take over my mind and erase all of these ridiculous thoughts.
I reach and turn the handheld off, closing my eyes and stepping under the overhead’s hot spray.
A month later, the woman sits quietly before me, her heels crossed at the ankles, her hands in her lap. She is a few years younger than me, and I can see it in her innocence, her nervous eyes, the tap of her dark nails against her black jeans, the fidget with her smartwatch. I look down at her resume, one fairly impressive, and that aligns well with the graphic designer job. I ask about her current employer, and she begins to speak, pausing when there is a gentle knock on my office door.
“Good morning,” Trey’s voice fills my office, and I glance sharply at him.
“Good morning,” I say mildly, in an attempt to mask my irritation. “I’ll be through in a few minutes.”
He steps inside, and I stifle a groan. “Ms. Cone, this is Trey Marks, our owner. Trey, this is Chelsea Cone.”
“We’ve met before.” He extends a hand and she rises to her feet, her cheeks flaring bright pink. I watch in interest. “It’s nice to see you again. Thank you for coming in.”
“My pleasure.” She keeps standing and I look at Trey.
“I’m almost done here, Trey.”
“Of course.” He smiles at me, and there is something there, a message of some kind, but I miss it. “Could you see me when you wrap up? There’s an issue with the Brazil order, I just need you to look at it.”
The ‘Brazil order’ is our code. Something is wrong, and I cycle through the morning’s events, the outstanding issues, all of the things that might have gone wrong. I nod. “I’ll be there shortly.”
When he leaves, the color in her cheeks fades to normal, her return to her seat almost more of a collapse, and I eye her carefully. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I’m just feeling lightheaded.”
I close the binder holding her resume. She’s the strongest candidate so far, and I choose my words carefully, my mind distracted by Trey and his Brazil order. “Thank you for coming in. We’ll make a decision on this position by the end of the week.”
She rises, and I walk her to reception, then head straight to Trey’s office.
“What’s wrong?” I pull the door closed, thinking of our factory shipment, the pending patent on our new hook closures, the civil lawsuit against our silk manufacturer.
“Don’t hire her.” He sits in his leather office chair, one elbow on the arm, his hand playing with the stubble on his jaw.
It is so unexpected that it takes me a moment to catch up. “Who? Chelsea?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His hand falls from his mouth and grips his desk, pulling his chair forward. “I have a history with her.”