She'd pulled her hair back, tying it into a loose bun at the nape of her neck. She'd get onto her knees. She'd tease me, her cheek rubbing against my knees and inner thighs. When she took me into her mouth, her lips would be tight, and her mouth would be a sanctuary of warmth. My hands would clasp onto the sides of her head. Her tongue, God, her tongue would be magic, flitting, pressing, and teasing my cock. She'd make small noises, sending vibrations up my cock. Her hand would be sliding in and out of the waistband of her pants, her body rocking back and forth. Her eyes would be locked until mine.
My movements turn frantic as I imagine her orgasm--her eyes squeezing shut, her long moan, her body going tense against the couch. My breath gets caught in my chest as my cock spasms in my hand, my cum spurting out onto my hand.
I take several deep breaths before lying my head against the top of the couch again.
I am completely, utterly fucked.
******
After barely sleeping all night and a double shot of espresso, I walk into the 2Resonance building with a simple plan: work on retaliating against Tunest and destroy my fantasy version of Zandra by becoming accustomed to her.
I can't get involved with her. She hates me and believes that I undervalue her, which somehow only rank as reasons 4 and 5 for why I can’t get involved with her.
How can I ever explain to her that I was half the man she thought I was?
I can’t, so I won’t.
When I reach my office, Zandra is already waiting outside my door. She’s clutching two display boards. She looks up. Our eyes lock. Her dark hair is pulled up into a ponytail, but a few strands manage to sneak out of the hairband. She is more gorgeous than she was at eighteen.
“I came up with some ideas,” she says, raising the display boards.
“Good.” I push open the door, gesturing for her to come into my office.
She walks in. She’s wearing slacks and her ass and thighs are both perfect in them. I only manage to pull my gaze away because she sits down in the chair across from my desk. I sit down at my desk, facing her.
“Why don’t you pitch your ideas?” I suggest. She takes a deep breath, tugging on her ponytail.
“I figured there are two different ways to approach this,” she says. She shows me the first display board. It’s black with chalk-like writing all over it. “The first way is more juvenile, but it will reach people’s insecurities. The idea is that all these phrases—you’re too naive, you don’t understand the danger, you’re going to hurt yourself—that’s what Tunest is trying to tell them. It’s like a parent who treats their adult child like they’re still ten years old. They’re infantilizing them. The stats show that most of our users are between the ages of 18 to 24, though 25 to 34 is a close second. These two groups are going to be more rebellious against a parental figure telling them that they aren’t knowledgeable enough of the world to navigate their own way through it.”
In theory, six years doesn't seem like a long time but seeing Zandra standing in front of me, pitching ideas and citing our company's user data, she's undeniably grown up since she was eighteen. She'd exuded maturity in Paris, but this is a different type of maturity. It's the type of sophistication that comes from consistently needing to move past life's disappointments.
It should impress me, but it almost gets under my skin. Before, her resentment had been leaking out, which wasn't optimal, but at least I knew I evoked emotions out of her. Now, she's calm and composed like she'd gotten over me the moment she saw a crack in my facade. She saw that I didn't have a solution to this Tunest problem and she's starting to see that I'm not the hero I pretended to be when we met.
“Smart. I already like this one,” I say. A hint of a smile flashes on her face, but she quickly suppresses it. “I am worried that it would make our users feel like we’re treating them like children too, especially with the font you have.”
She sets up the second display board. It has several logos on it.
“There’s always the second way. This is the pragmatic message. We show all the apps that track user’s location, including all of the major search engines—"
“No,” I interrupt. My instinct is to protect her feelings, but I know I need to prioritize my company and I need to treat her like any other employee. “All that’s going to do is piss off more companies, who will feel like we’re throwing them under the bus and make some of our users paranoid about all of the apps. It’ll also lead to thinkpieces pointing out that other companies doing it doesn’t mean we should do it too.”
She quickly hides the second display board under the first one. She’s less enthusiastic now. I bite back my need to reassure her that it isn’t personal. This is about the job, not about me trying to be her friend.
I rub my jaw. “Have you seen the ads that Tunest released?”
“No,” she admits. “I guess I should have, but I was so focused on coming up with these ideas, I guess…I didn’t think about that.”
“It’s fine. You did far more than most people would. In one of their ads, it shows us treating our users like dogs with tracker chips in them. I was thinking we could use their metaphor against them. But it’s not tracker chips. We’re just alerting them about nearby dog parks.”
Her eyes widen. "Oh, that's good. Dogs are always successful in ads. We could make it subtle too. The dog owners could be listening to 2Resonance. There would be two people—a man and a woman—who are vastly different. It shows them preparing to go to the dog park. They get two alerts. The first one tells them about the dog park and the second one is the 2Resonance alert that tells them someone nearby has very similar tastes to them."
I nod. "Yes. Then, the two meet at the dog park. The ad ends with a song. It would be in a genre that you wouldn't expect either of them to be listening to. Maybe it's a businessman and a hippy listening to metal music or maybe the woman dresses in gothic fashion and the man is a serious lawyer, but they both listen to Top 40 pop music.”
I walk over to my interactive whiteboard, pushing the on button. It hums to life. The idea crackles in my head. It's not genius or perfect but working with Zandra is electrifying. Bouncing ideas off of each other makes it feel like we've taken chaos and turned it into something useful.
I write down her idea, the words appearing smoothly on the screen. When I turn to Zandra, she's sitting down, but she's on the edge of the seat, her eyes focused on the screen. Her lips are slightly parted. I look away to avoid thinking about my fantasy last night, but every inch of my body desperately wants to be closer to her.
"They would have two different dogs too," Zandra adds. I focus on the idea, breathing slowly to get her out of my head.
