I may have gotten off, but I’m still fucking high on her. There is no after-sex dump, no bottoming out of desire that makes you feel human again.
The door opens and I pivot on my heel without thinking. She’s standing in my office, no worse for the wear. The only indication of the last few minutes is a little plumpness to her lips and a ruffle of her hair.
The fact that she looks more beautiful post-coitus is disconcerting. An orgasm is supposed to bring you to your senses. It’s supposed to quell the hunger, make you think logically and feel less needy. So why that isn’t working in my favor now is worrisome. Why am I still considering kissing her, sitting her on the loveseat and asking about Columbia and business school and yoga?
Neither of us speaks. We stand, fidgeting, as we feel out the other. The twinkle of anxiety isn’t hidden in her eyes, the shuffle of her heels against the floor another flag that she’s unsure of where we stand.
I would offer her some comfort if I could find it. Truth is, I don’t fucking know where we stand now either. I’d like to be able to see her Monday morning and not feel like . . . this. There has to be a solution.
“I’ll make reservations at Zuva. My friend Fenton Abbott has been asking me to try his new restaurant anyway,” I say, clearing my throat while I search for my discarded tie. “We can talk there.”
Fresh air would do us both some good, maybe clear out the pheromones still swirling around my office. She doesn’t answer, but when I look at her, she’s smiling. Good sign.
“Let me find my phone . . .” Looking around my office, I see it lying against the wall.
“Graham?” She moves in front of me towards the door. “I already have plans tonight. Remember?”
My hand drops to the side. Surely I misheard her. “Excuse me?”
“I have plans. I told you that when I came in here.”
“You’re still going?” My temple throbs. There’s no way she’s going to some take-out dinner with some prepubescent punk after what just happened.
She shrugs lightly. “Yeah. I told him I’d be there.”
“Your cum is sitting in a pool on my desk,” I say, motioning to the evidence. “And you are going on a date with someone else?”
Her brows pull together in faux confusion. “I’m not sure I understand why you care?”
“Are you serious, Mallory?”
“The question is are you serious, Graham?”
My jaw clenches. I wish I had my tie. I’d fucking tie her ass up on that loveseat and refuse to let her leave. Kidnapping? Maybe. But at least she’d have some sense fucked into her before I let her up.
How can she waltz out of here, to see another man no less, and leave me worked up?
“Did you think fucking me would make me not go with Keenan?”
Her audacity sparks something feral inside me. Stalking across my office, I stand just feet in front of her.
“I’m going to be late,” she says, a tease in her tone.
“You’re really going?” When she nods, I walk towards her until her back is against the wall. My hand slides between her legs and she parts them without objection. She’s wearing panties now, which makes me happy.
Dipping my finger inside her still-soaked body, I slide it roughly through her slit. When I pull it out, it glistens in the light. “Be careful,” I warn. “You still have me dripping out of you.”
Her lips part and I watch her try to contain herself. “I’ll keep that in mind.” She pushes off the wall, her body coming so close to mine it nearly touches, before walking out the door without even looking back.
As the latch shuts, everything hits me all at once. The chaos of my office. The confusion in my head. Her juices on my desk.
Oh my God. I didn’t use a condom.
I didn’t use a fucking condom.
My hand slaps my forehead as I pace a circle. What am I fucking doing? How did I manage to lose that much control? Fuck!
Not only did I just fuck up epically, I just gave her the upper hand. I have to regain this and quick.
I scrub my fingertips down my face, hoping some sense filters back in my brain. This isn’t just out of control. This is borderline psychotic.
I don’t do this. This is Lincoln shit. This is the stuff Barrett used to call and ask for advice on how to repair it because he’d let the damage be done.
Damage be done. It’s sure as shit done here in so many ways.
Picking up the strewn items and placing them semi-close to where they belong, I try to tell the anxiety in my gut to stand down.
I can fix this.
Taking a deep breath, I fall in my chair and don’t look at the imprint of her round ass on the glass that covers the top of my desk in front of me. That won’t help. Instead, I squeeze my eyes closed and imagine this is a situation Lincoln has presented me with. What would I say?
If this were one of my brothers, I’d tell them they’re ridiculous. That they could have sex with any woman they want. Why do they have to pick a woman they work with, a woman with so much access to all the things that are important to them? Why compromise business with pussy? It’s weak. It’s stupid.
I’m fucking stupid.
I’d tell them to break things off slowly, but to get out of the situation as quickly and harmoniously as possible and then not get into it again. I’d probably call them reckless and rash a few times for good measure.
Yet, when I open my eyes and all I see is her, I know it’s not going to be that easy. I need her help.
Chuckling, I roll my eyes. I’m so lying to myself.
When I imagine her smile, I know I’m screwed. And when I remember that she’s with another guy, I know I’m in way over my head and I have to get out of it before I drown. I have to regain control. I need this on my terms.
Wheeling my chair around, I open her email from earlier. My fingers begin clicking the keys.
* * *
To: Mallory Sims, Administrative Assistant
From: Graham Landry, CEO
Re: Employment
Dear Ms. Sims,
Due to recent events, I’m declining your request for termination of employment with Landry Holdings. You are expected to be at your desk by eight o’clock on Monday morning.
Mr. Landry
* * *
“That’s it,” I say, shuffling the papers until the full Gulica Insurance file is on top. This quote is our coup, a rate nearly a third of all other competitors without having to resubmit our financials. It’s huge for Ford, cutting his start-up costs in half.
I stretch my arms overhead. Picking up my glass, the last swallow of an Old-fashioned in the bottom, I carry it through the house and into the kitchen.
The sky is dark as I peer out the window over the sink. My stomach rumbles, protesting the cluster of nerves that’s been wound in it all evening. Half of my attention has been on Landry Security, the other half on Mallory.
The glass hits the bottom of the sink with more of a thud than strictly safe. Both hands grasping the ledge of the farmhouse ceramic, I bow my head.