I feel my inner walls parting, anguish that there was nothing to fill the space as the feeling built. Spurred by horniness over self-preservation, I moan aloud, knowing he hears me. Whatever blood was left for my brain rushes south at the thought of what he might think, how it might make his body react.
I come too quickly, without enough build up to properly enjoy it, but it’s enough for now. With a small cry, I arch off the wall, my knees nearly buckling out from under me. It feels hollow, unsatisfying, but it quiets the incessant need for a bit.
Maybe I should have asked him if I could just feed off his sexual magnetism in a work-friends-with-benefits-not-strictly-covered-by-our -health-insurance arrangement. That would have been so much more satisfying, but it would have crossed a line.
I open the door and slip out into the hallway, and immediately regret it.
“Shit. I think I’m dizzy,” I mumble, and try to blow my hair out of my face to look at him. Earth-shattering orgasms aren’t exactly a good thing when you still need to get back to your room.
He holds out a hand, and I awkwardly grab for it with the dry hand to steady myself. I don’t usually need someone to keep me standing like a puppet, but climaxes have some pretty wobbly effects on siren bone structure.
It’s hard not to remember the last time, only so many minutes ago, when he caught me at the bar, and how I’d just leaned into him bodily. I try to hold onto the fact of how very much I was not supposed to do that kind of thing, to avoid doing it again. I don't have the brain power to separate my horny, ungrounded in reality thoughts from, well, reality.
It doesn’t help that I’m already missing the sensations that tasting him gave me.
“I think the others left for some kind of bar crawl,” I ramble, trying to fill the gap of silence, to blot over the memory of this evening. “If, um, you were going to join them.”
“Oh. No, that’s not...not really my style,” he responds, his voice soft against the vastness of the room.
“Well then. If you ever see Soven coming at you with green tea shots,” I almost laugh. “Uh, go the other way.”
His brow wrinkles. “What’s a green tea shot?”
“Uh, matcha, peach schnapps, and something else. Something deadly, honestly.”
He nods, and I hold myself on the wobbly precipice of not over-explaining that the only time I have gotten blackout drunk on one of these retreats is when I tried to keep up with an undead lich. Only one of you has a liver and consequences for it, but then again, only one of you is trying to make a good impression on your boss’s boss’s boss.
For a few moments, I just kind of stare at him, unable to think of what else to say. We don’t exactly have anything in common.
I realize he’s still holding my hand, probably for the better because I’m swaying on my feet. He has such a gentle hold. I guess it’s hard to avoid crushing handshakes when you’re literally stone. I feel like my hand is a bird perching on a skyscraper, which is not a sensation I’m familiar with. My chest is full of pigeons, cooing weird little confused noises.
His skin is somewhere between leathery and stoney, but the warmth of his palms softens his touch as he envelopes my hand and makes a shiver go up my spine. The feel of it makes me glance at his wings again and wonder what those feel like.
The metaphorical pigeons nesting in my chest are making more noises. The want to kiss him again comes back to me, a mental itch I can’t just will away.
I look toward the hallway Kathy and Ted had disappeared down, feeling that pull of jealousy.
Kathy doesn’t have the worst of ideas, though.
It’s only the first day of this business trip, but maybe I missed the part where everyone introduced themselves to each other, and maybe I did it on purpose because nothing rots my soul like having to shake hands with people repeatedly, maintaining eye contact and a grin, while people rattle your arm, and hand you their business card, and begin to recite their resume at the same time, when all you wanted was to put names to faces.
It feels a little awkward to ask his name at this point. I had really hoped that at some point during our lunch or the hotel happy hour someone would have said his name, so I wouldn't have to ask.
“I didn’t mean to offend you by asking earlier—” he starts to say.
“It’s fine,” I say quickly, swallowing.
He shakes his head, his twisted horns scraping the darkness of this hotel lobby. “It’s not. Some things aren’t work appropriate, and if I wouldn’t ask it in an interview, I shouldn’t ask it here. Some things are personal.”
There's a strange, hard edge to his words when he says that. Personal. Though it pricks my curiosity, I can't help but agree, and for that reason I don't push. I'm grateful he understands.
“We haven’t been ‘work appropriate’ since the airport,” I sigh. “But thanks.”
I manage to get out the half of the thought that is just gratitude, and less of the need to keep saying “It’s fine.”
He’s holding my hand just loosely enough that I could pull out of his grasp at any moment, but strong enough to tether my swaying consciousness.
I find myself drifting closer, pulling in towards that anchor, and his tail gives a soft flick behind him, something amused in the motion. It makes me smile.
