system and that really was it? And can I live with just that fleeting memory of how good he felt, knowing it will never happen again?
It kind of sucks to think I might be nothing more than a temporary slip in reason. Maybe that’s why he didn’t tell me what he wants. But I won’t let myself dwell on that line of thought. No good can come from it.
I toss my trash and head back upstairs.
The next couple of hours go a little faster, thank God. I absorb myself in the work that cropped up while I was eating lunch—responding to emails and setting follow-up appointments for Dane. I don’t know how the man does it all, but he manages to pack his schedule to the brim and still keep on top of his duties here.
But that little spark in my lower belly, it’s still there, quietly humming with anticipation. I’m going to see him in our meeting at three. What will happen? Will he look at me again with that heat in his eyes? Or will he pretend nothing occurred between us?
His scorching words about being unable to ignore what I wrote echo through my head. He’s been thinking of me. That ember roars back to life, and I press suddenly sweaty palms to my stomach.
Stop it, I will myself. I can’t go down this road of hoping and dreaming. It’ll only lead to me getting crushed.
Around 2:30, I glance at my almost empty water bottle and pop up from my chair, clutching it with shaky hands. Maybe if I drink a gallon of water, I can drown out this fire. Yeah, right. But I still make myself plod to the water fountain and fill the bottle. I linger for a moment longer, taking a sip to parch my dry mouth.
God, this day is never going to end. I just want to run home and curl up in the blanket on the couch and replay that kiss again and again. Foolish or no, I feel as if the imprint of his mouth on mine has been seared into my skin.
I take the long way back to my desk, meandering down the hallway, peering out the large windows that line the front of the building. The sky is overcast, with heavy gray clouds lying low on the horizon. I briefly wonder if it’ll snow.
When I reach my desk and sit down in my chair again, my stomach flips over at what I see waiting for me. There’s another folded note on my desk, this time stapled closed along the open side. What is this about? Surely he’s not calling me into his office again? He wouldn’t need to seal a message like that, right?
My fingers shake just a touch as I unfold it.
I want you to go into the far stall in the women’s bathroom before the meeting at 3, lock yourself in, and masturbate. Bring yourself to orgasm with just your fingers, and don’t wash your hands afterward.
When you touch your pussy, think about me and the things I want to do to you and that sexy mouth. Think about how much this will please me and turn me on. And do not let anyone else know what you’re doing.
I t takes a couple of seconds for my heart to start beating again. Shock has my jaw dropped open. I lower the note to my lap, clutching it in suddenly sweaty hands. Dane’s returned to the office, I muse inanely.
He left me a note. He left me a note telling me something very, very wicked. Obviously he hasn’t forgotten about me or that kiss. Obviously he wants more of whatever this is between us, too.
My whole body explodes in a wave of fire at the realization, and I close my eyes and let it all sink in. This is happening, really happening. And I’m equal parts freaked out and turned on beyond measure.
Am I going to do this, for real? Am I going to finger myself in the bathroom? He wouldn’t know either way, would he?
Maybe that’s part of this whole thing, though. That I’d know. I’d know if I cheated, even if he didn’t guess it—though he likely would sense it, since he seems to see everything on my face, in my heart. But I don’t want to cheat at the request. I want to do it.
My feet stumble over each other as I cram the note in my purse, zip it closed, and walk on stiff legs toward
It kind of sucks to think I might be nothing more than a temporary slip in reason. Maybe that’s why he didn’t tell me what he wants. But I won’t let myself dwell on that line of thought. No good can come from it.
I toss my trash and head back upstairs.
The next couple of hours go a little faster, thank God. I absorb myself in the work that cropped up while I was eating lunch—responding to emails and setting follow-up appointments for Dane. I don’t know how the man does it all, but he manages to pack his schedule to the brim and still keep on top of his duties here.
But that little spark in my lower belly, it’s still there, quietly humming with anticipation. I’m going to see him in our meeting at three. What will happen? Will he look at me again with that heat in his eyes? Or will he pretend nothing occurred between us?
His scorching words about being unable to ignore what I wrote echo through my head. He’s been thinking of me. That ember roars back to life, and I press suddenly sweaty palms to my stomach.
Stop it, I will myself. I can’t go down this road of hoping and dreaming. It’ll only lead to me getting crushed.
Around 2:30, I glance at my almost empty water bottle and pop up from my chair, clutching it with shaky hands. Maybe if I drink a gallon of water, I can drown out this fire. Yeah, right. But I still make myself plod to the water fountain and fill the bottle. I linger for a moment longer, taking a sip to parch my dry mouth.
God, this day is never going to end. I just want to run home and curl up in the blanket on the couch and replay that kiss again and again. Foolish or no, I feel as if the imprint of his mouth on mine has been seared into my skin.
I take the long way back to my desk, meandering down the hallway, peering out the large windows that line the front of the building. The sky is overcast, with heavy gray clouds lying low on the horizon. I briefly wonder if it’ll snow.
When I reach my desk and sit down in my chair again, my stomach flips over at what I see waiting for me. There’s another folded note on my desk, this time stapled closed along the open side. What is this about? Surely he’s not calling me into his office again? He wouldn’t need to seal a message like that, right?
My fingers shake just a touch as I unfold it.
I want you to go into the far stall in the women’s bathroom before the meeting at 3, lock yourself in, and masturbate. Bring yourself to orgasm with just your fingers, and don’t wash your hands afterward.
When you touch your pussy, think about me and the things I want to do to you and that sexy mouth. Think about how much this will please me and turn me on. And do not let anyone else know what you’re doing.
I t takes a couple of seconds for my heart to start beating again. Shock has my jaw dropped open. I lower the note to my lap, clutching it in suddenly sweaty hands. Dane’s returned to the office, I muse inanely.
He left me a note. He left me a note telling me something very, very wicked. Obviously he hasn’t forgotten about me or that kiss. Obviously he wants more of whatever this is between us, too.
My whole body explodes in a wave of fire at the realization, and I close my eyes and let it all sink in. This is happening, really happening. And I’m equal parts freaked out and turned on beyond measure.
Am I going to do this, for real? Am I going to finger myself in the bathroom? He wouldn’t know either way, would he?
Maybe that’s part of this whole thing, though. That I’d know. I’d know if I cheated, even if he didn’t guess it—though he likely would sense it, since he seems to see everything on my face, in my heart. But I don’t want to cheat at the request. I want to do it.
My feet stumble over each other as I cram the note in my purse, zip it closed, and walk on stiff legs toward
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