Say it.
Nova:
And I’m gonna do something about it if you don’t.
That gets my full attention.
Me:
Define something.
Nova:
use your imagination.
Oh, I’m using my imagination, and it’s a fucking problem.
Still half in my suit — undershirt, slacks — and there’s no hiding it. I’m straining the zipper, the outline of me pushing hard against the fabric, and one look down tells me exactly how this goes if I let it.
My hand’s already there. Palm flat, pressing down once, slow, and the drag of it punches the breath out of me.
I could get the zipper down. Get a hand around myself. Be done before the elevator hits her floor.
I don’t.
I don’t get myself off to a text when the real thing’s two floors down telling me she’ll start without me.
So I grip the edge of the mattress and sit with it. Hard. Aching. Every nerve I own pointed at that door.
Three minutes. She better run.
Me:
Don’t you fucking dare.
Nova:
then come do something about it yourself.
Me:
Where are you?
Nova:
In 2020
Me:
I’m 2204
Me:
Get your pretty little ass up two floors and through my door now.
Three dots.
Nova:
