I hate him because he stopped.
I hate him because I wanted him not to.
Worst of all, I hate him because he knows both things.
He stands a few feet away from me, adjusting his cuff like he didn’t just have his mouth on my neck and his hand between my thighs. Like I’m the only one ruined by what just happened.
But I saw him. I felt him.
He is not unaffected.
That should make me feel better, but it doesn’t.
My body is still shaking. My skin feels too warm, too sensitive under my clothes. The place where his hand touched me stillpulses with a humiliating ache, and I squeeze my thighs together before I realize I’m doing it.
His eyes drop down there.
My face burns.
“You’re disgusting,” I say.
His mouth barely moves. “Possibly.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
I slide off the desk too quickly, and my knees almost give. I catch myself before he can move toward me. I would rather fall on my face than let him steady me right now.
He notices that too.
I straighten my skirt with shaking hands, then smooth my sweater, as if there’s any chance of pretending I still look composed. My hair is falling out of its tie. My lips feel bruised. I can still taste him.
Smoke. Whiskey. Heat.
I hate that too.
“You think you can kiss me and make this simple?” I ask.
“No.”
“Then what was that?”
His gaze holds mine. “Proof.”
“Of what?”
“That you’re not as indifferent to this arrangement as you want to be.”
I laugh, but it sounds wrong. Thin. Unsteady. “You are insane.”
“Yes.”
The answer is so calm that it steals whatever I planned to say next.
He walks to the side table, pours water into a glass, and brings it to me. I don’t take it at first. My pride refuses. Then my throat reminds me I’m thirsty, exhausted, and still not strong enough to survive on stubbornness alone.
I take the glass.
