My hands reach for his shirt buttons. His hands slip under the waistband of my pants. I get two buttons undone. His hands move over my skin, causing a fever everywhere he touches.
The elevator beeps. I jerk away from him. I quickly adjust myself, jumping back into my chair. He redoes his buttons.
I can’t believe I did that in the office. If we’re caught doing anything even slightly sensual, my reputation will be ruined.
The Chinese food delivery man steps out of the elevator. “Hey,” he says to me. He nods to Mark but returns his attention to me. “Sorry, I was driving back home when I realized I still had a bag in the car. It’s just the fortune cookies and some orange chicken, but there’s a voucher to pay ten dollars for your next order.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“I apologize.” He gives both of us a small wave before retreating back into the elevator. I adjust my hair, which feels inappropriately arranged.
“Mark,” I say, not looking at him. “I decided a long time ago that we weren’t going to be together.”
“You’re right,” he says, his tone insufferably calm. To avoid looking at him, I pick out a fortune cookie. There are at least five more inside the bag than there should be, but all that fortune doesn’t seem to be helping me. I crack open the cookie, popping half of it in my mouth.
As I chew, I unfold the fortune.A cookie doesn’t know your future, though your actions have some foresight.
Mark turns the bag toward him, taking out one of the cookies. He cracks it open and eats both sides of it. He reads the fortune, snorts, and lets it fall back onto the table.
“These things just follow the Barnum effect. They’re written to be true for anyone,” he says. He stands up, walking away from the table. He goes to the far window, staring out at the city. I turn his fortune to read it.
You’re too terrified of failure to make a decision.
Both God and the devil know that’s true for me. I walk up to him. Every fleeting thought tells me I should stay away from him, but I look out the window with him. The city glitters with lights, even when it’s this late.
“The idea won’t work,” he says. “It’ll take too long to put out. Tunest’s narrative will be solidified in everyone’s mind.”
“You’re putting too much pressure on yourself.”
“No. I’m not. I should have seen this coming. I knew the weak points in the service. I should have gotten ahead of it and addressed it before anyone else could.”
His vulnerability is so close, I can almost breathe it in. It’s so late. It’s that time of night that nothing feels real. We’re awake at a time we should be asleep, so everything is encapsulated in a dream. I remember his body against mine—the rougher texture taking me by surprise at eighteen and his skin burning in a way that made everything else cold. He’s a memory I need to turn into a recurring dream.
When I put my hand on his shoulder, I don’t know what I’m thinking. The night is making all my thoughts hazy.
But as soon as my hand presses down on his white button-up shirt, he grabs me, yanking me around in front of him like I pulled a trigger on his body.
And his body is certainly a weapon.
His hands are in my hair, gripping onto the strands as his mouth moves over mine with a drunk-like carelessness. We’re eager to be with each other in a way that feels shameless and arrogant—like we both know our bodies are perfect at this moment.
He’s different from our time in Paris. His confidence doesn’t come from ignorance about the world, but from knowing the world so well, he’s tamed it.
He pins me against the cold, glass window. His mouth is hot against mine. I can barely breathe. He turns my mouth into a wound, red and pulsing, but I’d choose this injury over and over.
His hands move over me, a mix of worshipping and sacrilege. They undo my blouse before stripping it off me, the cloth coming between us for two seconds. Those hands—strangely rough for someone who spent their life in luxury—return to my face, grasping my head so tightly that it almost hurts, but his mouth returns like a salve. There’s a faint savory taste in his mouth, but I’m not certain if it’s from the food or a natural aphrodisiac.
His hands are on my hips and my hips are pressed against his hips. Our bodies rub against each other, desperate to get closer. He grips my jaw, a little too tightly, but I don’t mind as he kisses the side of my neck.
I pull away enough to get his shirt off. It gets caught between us for a moment before dropping to the floor. His accelerated breathing coaxes me to touch between his abdomen muscles. When I reach the top of his pants, I stop. His hands move over mine, undoing the button of his pants. His face nudges against my temple before kissing my cheek.
It’s too sweet. It’s too good. I know it can’t last and when he leaves again, I’ll be the fool that made the same mistake twice.
I pull my hands away. I shake my head to hide the fact that my whole body is trembling. “I can’t,” I manage to get out.
“Zandra,” he says hoarsely as I pick up my shirt.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just can’t do this again.”
