Page 50 of Cava with My Colleague

I shove my underwear down my legs and begin to stroke myself. Jade’s always had a spark in her eyes—usually when she’s baiting me—but the heat I’m imagining is lust.

Lust while I lean against the door, her hands on my thighs.

Lust while she alternates hot, wet licks and soft kisses down my shaft.

And it’s an inferno of lust when I press down on my cock, grip her hair, and make her take me all the way down.

My whole body clenches as my hand works my length. I’m brutal with it, because I can’t believe I’m having this fantasy, but also because I need it to be done with. This guilty pleasure needs to get out of my system.

My hand is too dry. I slip into the bathroom and grab the hotel’s lotion. It’s too cool at first, I’m too impatient, and goosebumps break out when my slick hand makes contact with my heated flesh.

As it starts to warm up it feels better and better. More like what I have in my head; wet heat and steady strokes.

I use both hands, tightening and twisting, and because it’s just my hand, I can play out any filthy fantasy I want. My hand pushes Jade’s head deep, her nose buries in my hair while her throat works my head. Her fingers tighten around my thighs, and her moan pushes me over the edge.

Cum spurts across my chest, nearly to my nipples, and my hand keeps a steady rhythm, working every last lustful thought out of my brain.

I hope.

I stare at the ceiling, breathing hard, and the guilt crashes over me like a wave.

What am I doing?

Jade is my colleague. She’s leaving Madrid in two months—less than that now. She’s going back to Austin, back to her life there, and I’ll stay here with mine. With Fernando and Diana and Carmencita. With Izan. With my settled, comfortable, predictable life.

I don’t do casual sex. Not when Marisol and I agreed we could see other people. Not even after her death. I had needs, but more in a vague, chasing-release sense.

Not imagining my colleague sucking my cock.

The kiss was . . . I don’t know what it was. A moment of weakness? A mistake? We got caught up in the success of the presentation, in the intimacy of her sharing her story, in the way she looked at me in that hallway.

I reach for the tissues on the nightstand and clean myself off, mechanical, methodical. This isn’t who I am. I’m the professional one. The appropriate one. I don’t fantasize about colleagues. I don’t kiss women in hotel hallways and then jerk off thinking about them an hour later.

I’m fifty-six years old. A grandfather. And she’s⁠—

I don’t even finish the thought. Just close my eyes and try to will myself to sleep, knowing I won’t be able to look her in the eye tomorrow.

Our train is late getting into Barcelona and Jade and I race to the hotel to get set up. Diana is in town, a quick work trip, and I was supposed to meet her for lunch but I have to reschedule to dinner and instead just focus on setting up and getting Jade ready.

She still needs a cold compress on the back of her neck and a few minutes to give herself a pep talk before we start.

When I see her backstage, my stomach knots. She’s adjusting her laptop cable, focused on the screen, and I force myself to approach.

“Jade,” I say, and my voice comes out too formal.

She looks up, and for a second our eyes meet. I see the memory of last night flash across her face—the hair tug, the kiss, the way our bodies pressed together. Her lips part slightly, like she’s going to say something.

I look away first.

“The presentation.” I clear my throat. “It will go well.”

The words come out stiff, awkward. Not at all like how we’ve been talking lately—easy, teasing, real. I sound like I did three months ago when I barely tolerated her presence.

Jade’s eyebrows draw together in confusion. “Okay,” she says slowly. “Thanks?”

I nod once and turn away, pretending to check something on my tablet. Behind me, I hear her exhale—frustrated? Hurt? I don’t turn back to find out.

“Don’t worry,” I say, leaning over just before she takes the stage. “You’re going to do great.”