Everything after is heat and wanting and the kind of focus I didn’t know I was capable of. The sound I made when he kissed the inside of my wrist. The way his mouth took its time and still felt like a free fall. The grip of his fingers at my waist. The rough carpet under my shoulder blades when the jacket on the floor couldn’t contain us anymore.
The shock of him biting me right where the mirror shows it now, the sound I made that definitely wasn’t polite,the way he soothed it with his mouth right afterward, as if he couldn’t help himself.
I press my thumb to the mark again and feel the pull low in my belly like my body hasn’t gotten the memo that we’re done. That we have to be done.
After. That’s where it all changes in my head.
I see it too clearly: the sweet, floating blur after. I could’ve happily fallen into that bliss for a month, a year, my life. My pulse settling under his hand. His mouth soft against mine, a kiss that said something I didn’t have words for yet.
And then—like someone poured a bucket of cold water over both of us—him pulling away.
Not a flinch. Not even sudden. Just a precise step back from a ledge only he could see. The look that crossed his face was there and gone, but it gutted me before he hid it: devastated. Like he’d done something holy and unforgivable at the same time. And then the mask slid into place. That cool, tidy voice. We should get dressed.
I hated him a little in that second. Not because he was wrong, but because the whiplash made me feel stupid for thinking the world had changed with me. Like I’d been speaking the same language he was for one minute, and then suddenly couldn’t understand a word.
I remember watching his hands, the way he buttoned his shirt with the same care he’d used to touch me. The knot of his tie sliding back into place like it had never been crooked.
Meanwhile, I was putting myself back together in pieces, tugging fabric that wouldn’t obey, fingers clumsy on buttons, feeling both new and wrecked.
In the mirror, I tilt my head side to side, practicing expressions. Neutral. Professional. Casual. None of them hides the mark completely. Concealer will do most of it. A scarf will do the rest. I picture opening my office door tomorrow with a light wrap around my throat and the world not knowing what it’s covering. The idea is both delicious and humiliating.
He asked if I was okay after the lights came on. He did. I heard the question buried inside the distance. And then the hall, bright and bright and bright, like it had been waiting to scold us.
Me, smoothing my skirt as if that would erase the last hour from my skin. Roberto standing there like a verdict in a suit.
“Are you going to fire me?” I hear my own voice again and want to pick myself up by the shoulders and shake. I hate that I asked that. I hate that a part of me believed it was on the table.
He shut that down fast. No. You’re not going anywhere. You’re the best damn coordinator I’ve ever worked with.
I put my fingers on my collarbone and make myself feel the words the way he said them. He meant it. That’s the problem and the comfort. He meant both things: that I have a place here, and that this—whatever we just did—doesn’t.
We can’t. Full stop.
I run water andsoak a washcloth. Cool against the bite. The color stands out more as the heat pulls the blood to the surface. I dab it gently, not trying to erase, just testing the tenderness. I have done makeup for worse. I have covered acne, sunburn, a regrettable curling iron encounter. A bite mark from a man I shouldn’t have touched is just a new category of things to hide.
I hear him in my head anyway. “You’re not going anywhere.” He said that after, like it was supposed to appease me, make this all better.
I overanalyze because it’s what I do. He didn’t disappear. He didn’t lie. He didn’t pretend it hadn’t happened. He didn’t threaten me or make me feel small. He pulled away because he’s disciplined to the bone and because this breaks every rule he lives by.
He pulled away because he’s afraid. He thinks distance keeps people safe. He thinks rules keep him safe. He might be right.
And still, the mark on my shoulder is real. The way he said my name is real. The way the ground vanished under me is real. The part of me that wants to be embarrassed is getting outvoted by the part that remembers the sound he made when I dragged my nails down his back. The way he dipped his head between my legs, the way his tongue explored every inch of my pussy, and learned more about it than even I know.
I pat myself dry and stand there a while longer because I don’t want to cover it all up just yet.I want to see all of it—what we did, what it did to me. I turn sideways and then straight on and then step closer until the glass fogs again.
The bruise is blooming under the harsh light even as I’m watching it.
I should hate it. I don’t.
I should feel ashamed. I do.
Tomorrow I will cover it. Tomorrow I will smile at the front desk and finalize the door plan. Tomorrow I will say good morning to Caterina even as I think about her uncle fucking me like a wild animal in the elevator.
Tomorrow I will be a woman who is put together, who can function.
Tonight I’m a woman who was pressed into the elevator floor and shown a whole new world. Who was marked and claimed.
Who was then rejected harshly.
