And I manage him.
His calendar. His calls. His email. His paperwork. The meetings he hates but knows are necessary.
My stomach is a mess.
It’s not the Monday kind of nerves. It’s not first-day jitters. It’s a tight, sour coil that won’t unwind because I know he’ll walk through that door, and everything in my body will remember what my brain keeps trying to file away as one night.
A hotel suite.
Smooth sheets.
My arms trapped against my sides.
His voice in my ear, against my skin. His breath ghosting over my aching pussy.
I press my thighs together.
I stare at my inbox until the words blur, then force myself to focus.
A club manager sent three messages overnight. A bar is short two bartenders for Friday. Another one needs a new POS terminal. There’s a vendor dispute over a delivery window. A security report attached with three pages of details I should be reading carefully.
I open the security report.
I read the first line.
I don’t absorb it.
My heartbeat thumps in my throat like it’s trying to climb out.
I glance at the clock in the corner of my monitor.
6:47 a.m.
He usually gets here closer to 8:00.
Sometimes earlier if there was a problem the night before.
Sometimes later if he’s been out until dawn.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, then start moving again because stillness is dangerous. If I sit still, my mind turns toward the wrong things.
My foot starts bouncing under the desk.
I plant it flat and force it still.
I swallow hard and reach for my coffee.
The mug is empty.
Of course it is.
I never poured it because I’ve been sitting here waiting like an idiot, pretending I’m fine while my body is braced for the sound of the elevator and his footsteps and the click of his keycard.
I pick up the coffee mug and push back from my desk.
The espresso machine hums when I wake it, bright and cheerful, like it doesn’t know anything about the way my skin still feels too tight and too sensitive under my blouse.
I press the button for a double and watch the dark stream pour, hypnotized by it, grateful for something I can focus on that isn’t the memory of being pinned in place by his body and his voice. The smell hits—bitter, rich—and my stomach rolls anyway.
