It’s the way I almost wrote “get-on-my-knees-and-do-anything-he-says way.”
And like, I get it. He’s insufferable, emotionally constipated, and allergic to giving me any kind of praise. But I think I would actually come on the spot if he said “good girl” to me.
I can’t stop thinking about him bending me over his desk and telling me I’ve been very naughty. That I need to be fucked into being productive and producing things better than “fine”
Seriously. I’m not even kidding. It’s like some part of my lizard brain took one look at his big, veiny, annoyingly hot-hands and went, “I’m going to fantasize about these for every waking second of the day, now!”
AND HIS VOICE, NICKY! Jesus Christ. The way he says my name sounds like a sin some god invented just for him to tempt me with.
And now he’s texting me to come in early tomorrow?? It’s not a meeting, it’s a cruel form of torture
Did I do something in a past life? Did I rob a convent? Did I murder a flock of nuns???
Because I am trapped in a very specific brand of hell named Anthony fucking Voss, and it has to be punishment for SOMETHING
Anyway
Send help
Or a vibrator, whatever gets here first
I hit send on the last message and set my phone down, feeling the first smidge of relief in weeks from having laid it all out in a way Nicky will absolutely make fun of me for. But it was worth it.
The bliss wears off immediately when the tea scalds my tongue. It shocked my system back into shame and bitter annoyance all over again.
I set the mug aside and head for the bathroom, deciding that I might as well take a body-only shower since I won’t have time in the morning now. I catch sight of myself in the mirror. My makeup is smudged, my bun unraveling and low, my oversized t-shirt hanging limp around breasts that don’t understand how to besmall. I glare at myself.
“Stop thinking about him,” I mutter to myself, then fling the shower curtain open.
But I don’t stop thinking about him.
I do the exact opposite.
The water hisses to life, and steam curls over the top of the curtain when the hot water meets cold air. I make a mental note to turn on the heat, but it takes three tries of having that thought to even get it to cement itself around the wall ofhim.
I redo my bun high on my head and step in, letting the water beat down on my shoulders and back. The heat sinks into my muscles, loosening the knots I’ve carried all day. It does nothing for the tension coiling low in my stomach. Especially when I imagine the heat is coming from his hands instead.
His face comes into view when I close my eyes. I groan in frustration, nearly tipping my head back into the stream out of habit before remembering I’m not washing it.
The idea of buying a shower cap slips away before I can even grasp it.
His silver hair, his grey eyes that pin me in place, and thosehandsfill my head instead.
God, those hands.
My hands slide down my stomach, fingers tracing the curve of my mons as I lean my weight against the tile wall. The water streams over my breasts, down between my thighs, following the path I can’t stop imagining his hands taking.
I imagine my shower is big and spacious, and he’s in here with me. His suit jacket is gone, and his tie hangs limply from his collar. The fabric of his white button-up shirt clings to his chest muscles. He’s watching me with that intense, analytical stare of his, like he’s trying to figure out what makes me tick or what makes me break.
“You’re thinking about me again, aren’t you, April?”
His voice is low in my head and rougher than usual, the way it gets when he’s quietly annoyed and trying to maintain control. My fingers dip lower, sliding through the slick folds between my thighs. I’m already soaked just fromthat. A choked little gasp escapes my lips as I circle my clit.
“Can’t stop,” I whimper breathlessly against the tile. “Can’t stop thinking about you.”
In my fantasy, he steps closer; the water flattening his hair against his forehead and dripping off his chin. He lifts his hand, cupping my jaw, his thumb stroking the line, and I almost convince myself it’s real. It’s such a simple gesture, but from him, it feels likeeverything.
He exhales, once,loudly.
