I fade out, letting the rest of the crowd turn as one organism. While he bloviates about tradition and community and the ‘unparalleled generosity of Mr. Thomas Moreland,’ I scan the edges of the room, searching for something I can’t even name. The feeling is like being watched, or like the memory of being watched, sticky and unshakable.
A tray passes within reach. I take a single oyster on the half shell, shucked fresh and floating in a lake of mignonette. The server is young—maybe nineteen, face scrubbed, hair pulled into a taut bun under her starched white hat. She doesn’t meet my eyes, just bows her head and moves on.
I pop the oyster and savor it. The taste: brine, iron, ocean. For a moment, it’s enough.
Then I see her—across the ballroom, near the bar, in a knot of other waitstaff. My jaw drops, and I startle for a moment, the oyster forgotten. It’s the blonde. My mystery woman. It’s only aglimpse because she’s got her back to me, but I’d know that ass anywhere. The memory replays, hot and sharp: the feel of her anal walls, the sound of her voice, the way her hole clenched around my cock as she gasped and came for me.
She turns, just for a second, and our eyes lock across the crowd. Electricity flows between us like a live wire. Suddenly, there’s only the two of us in the ballroom, everyone else fading to nothing. Her lips part, startled, and her lashes drop for a moment. Maybe it’s fear, or maybe it’s just as hungry as mine. I can’t tell.
I set my glass down, careful, so no one sees my hand shake. The rest of the world blurs to static; all I can see is her, alive and real and in arm’s reach. The paradox of want: the closer it gets, the harder it is to breathe.
She looks away, tries to hide behind another girl, but it’s too late. I see her. She knows it.
I think about crossing the room, grabbing her by the wrist and hauling her into some side room, but I can’t—not yet. Not with all these eyes. Instead, I linger at the edge, watching, building the tension between us like a wire drawn tight. She glances back, flushes, looks down. Perfect.
When the speeches end, the room swells with chatter, glasses clinking, nervous laughter. A succession of women approaches me: a junior partner at a law firm, a Swedish exchange donor, an elderly art professor who winks at me with something like maternal pride. I do my job, smiling, nodding, being gracious. But every cell of me is tuned to the blonde. What the hell is she doing here?
But then, I catch a glimpse of her once again, and finally notice her uniform. Oh shit, she’s a caterer, dressed in the black and white outfit they ask all caterers to wear. At the moment, she’s circulating with a tray of champagne flutes and cheese puffs. She moves with poise and grace, naturally hypnotic. Once, she comes so close I can smell her—vanilla and sweat and a faint undertone of wildness, the same scent as last week. She doesn’t look up, but when I reach for a glass, I let my fingers graze hers.
The shock is instant: a jolt up both our arms, the way static jumps from skin to skin in the dry winter air. Her hand trembles. I imagine what I could do to her if we were alone.
“Thank you,” I say, as low and soft as I can, so only she can hear.
She freezes, then nods, eyes lifting up to meet mine.
Goddamn, she’s beautiful close up, under the light. It’s like a punch to the solar plexus because she’s even more gorgeous than what was revealed that shadowy night. My mystery woman is barely five foot five in a black-and-white server uniform, and she’s got the same impossible hair—pale gold, not quite corralled by the idiotic little white paper hat perched on her head. Her black skirt is scandalously short, and the apron is crisp and starched, more theatrical than functional. Her legs are bare, smooth, pale as a secret. She’s carrying a tray of champagne flutes, and her hands tremble just enough to send the bubbles shivering.
I feel my cock start to stiffen, absurd and unignorable beneath a thousand-dollar layer of worsted wool.
For an instant, the party drops out of focus, the entire ballroom reduced to just us, predator and prey. Her lips part. She stopsbreathing. The tray almost tilts, but she corrects at the last moment, eyes wide and wet.
“I hope you enjoy the party,” she murmurs. Then, she moves on. I catch a waft of her as she passes—fresh sweat and perfume, yes, but underneath: the sweet, faint tang of sex. Like she’s still wearing the memory of last week between her thighs. My hand twitches, wanting to grab her, but I don’t. Not here.
There’s a woman at my elbow, a vice president of something, prattling on about “strategic partnerships.” I nod, smile, say the right words. But all my blood is pooling below the waist, my entire attention mapped to every inch of the girl’s skin. Her walk is clipped now, mechanical, like she’s on autopilot or about to bolt for the door.
Of course she has to be a student at Century. It’s so obvious I feel like an idiot. But the first time, I’d let myself believe maybe she was in grad school, or a lost TA, or at least not young enough to be a statistical liability. But now, seeing her here in the livery of Century Catering, I know: she’s likely an undergrad because a lot of undergrads do their work-study through the catering service.
She’s young. Too young. That should be a stop sign. But it isn’t. Not for a man like me.
I watch her make a slow orbit of the room, tray refilled, posture tense as a bow. Sometimes she glances back—just a flick, but enough to register. Once, she passes within arm’s reach. I brush her wrist as I take a glass; her pulse is rabbit-fast.
“Thank you,” I murmur, soft enough that only she can hear.
She flushes, looks down, and scurries off.
I adjust my cufflinks to hide my own trembling. My cock is already half-hard, insistent, an ache that won’t recede no matter how I grit my teeth. The women who approach me, who want to play the cat-and-mouse game, now seem painted and shrill, their beauty cartoonish compared to the natural golden glow of the girl in the server uniform.
The men are worse, all slaps on the back and “Good man, Tom!” The Head of Development, sweating through his shirt, congratulates me on “rescuing the college.” The board chair, a balloon of a man, wants me to run for Governor of Minnesota. They talk about legacy and leadership, but I know what they really want: more money. More opportunities. More everything. But it bores me because I have other fish to fry.
Across the floor, the blonde is at the bar, bent over a ledge, pouring refills with hands that still shake. Once, she wipes her cheek with the back of her hand, and I realize she’s probably exhausted. She’s here to work, and yet I’m ogling her like a lech. Hell, Iama lech.
I want to go to her. I want to kiss her neck, whisper into her ear, and then bend her over the table and take her right here, in front of everyone. I want her to moan my name as she pulls her ass cheeks apart, allowing my dick into her secret space. The fantasy makes my vision go sharp at the edges. Instead, I move through the crowd with the discipline of a sniper, tracking her by peripheral vision.
We play our game. She pretends not to see me, I pretend not to see her. She darts away if I get too close. It’s a ballet of avoidance and approach, a ritual as old as the building itself. But every time our eyes meet, the current between us doubles in voltage.
The other women—Candace, the redhead, the president’s assistant—try to intercept. I give them polite smiles, nod, never quite say no. I’m sure they’ll find other men. I’m sure their husbands don’t care, and frankly, neither do I. Because the real quarry is the blonde, and every second I’m not with her is wasted.
I see her almost drop her tray again, right by the entrance to the East Hallway. The guests are thinning out, the music louder now that the speeches are done. She’s breathing shallow, her chest rising in tight, rapid bursts.
