I try to calm my breathing. Run my index finger down my sternum.

“Paint me.”

He growls, throws his head back, and strokes his length.

While he works, his head still back and one hand anchored to me, I roam his contours, his sinews. His thighs tense. I trace their definition. His hips and hand work in tandem, pulse and surge and simulate.

I want to, try to, feel all of him. Everywhere and all. Memorize his V. Wrap my hands around his waist, feel a hint of hipbone push into my grasp.

Ragged breaths. Sheen on skin. Everything about him has taken on an edge of feral, harsh focus…save where he holds my breast.

My lips are on his body before I realize I’ve moved and they run along his chest, teeth nip along the lower curve under his ribs, wrap my arms around him, fingers travel up his back, his muscles moving beneath my hands. He rocks and pushes and propels ever closer to completion, knuckles banging against me, silk teasing my throat.

“You are so close…I want it.” My words echo in the tight space between us.

Sounds leave him in notes of strain and relief. It hits against me. Spurts. Trails. Hot.

I’m overwhelmed. Euphoric. And it was not even about me. My head rests against him, rocked with his heaving breaths, and he sags against me, drapes over me, chin at the back of my head, heart beating near my ear.

It is the strangest and best hug of my life. I never want to move.

Close. I have never felt so connected to anyone.

Joined without joining. Intensity.

Intense and real.

But not. Not real.

I need to get away.

In the shower, I scrub away what we did. He was still on his knees when I slid out from under him. When I pulled away.

The sofa bed sheets are cool.

I have no dreams.

3:10 a.m.

*

Stealth

: Is a bitch to bladders.

AS QUIETLY AS POSSIBLE, I tiptoe to the bathroom. Turn the knob. Close the door silently. Not even a click. Realize I was holding my breath.

Every brush of my feet is like thunder. And now, after my successful endeavor to reach the bathroom undetected, just how do I plan on peeing without him hearing me?

Oh, grow up. It’s a basic human function. It’s no big deal. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.

I turn the faucet on full blast. Congratulations, I’m a genius.

Afterward, I open the door and walk full-on into rock hard abs.

“You okay?” His voice is gravelly, confused. “Did you run a bath?”

Congratulations, I’m a goober.

“I’m fine,” I say and duck around his body, trying not to inhale too much of his warm, sleepy scent.

“Didn’t mean to disturb you,” I splutter. I can’t get under my covers fast enough.

He’s quiet, motionless for a moment as I clamber onto the sofa. Then, he sounds almost apologetic. “I…I guess I didn’t realize what a light sleeper I have become.” He turns away. “Good night…again.”

Day of Employment:

382

6:00 a.m.

*

Location

: Hallway outside room.

*

Earbuds

: Pandora radio. White noise.

I’M STILL BREATHING HEAVILY from my unscheduled visit to the fitness center.

The hotel door opens quietly for me. Pointless.

He’s sitting on the end of the sofa.

I can’t see his face.

“I thought you’d left.” He doesn’t look at me.

“I…I’m not leaving,” I say. I don’t know what else to say.

He nods and rises and walks to me. Our hands bump. Then twist. Then hold.

Squeeze, tighter. Then apart. The bedroom door clicks.

In the shower, I consider not shaving. Maybe stubble will help me keep myself in check.

It’s all a bit more than I bargained for. That may be okay. I still feel out of sorts.

Out of control. How did I get so out of control?

I will fake it. Control.

It is a plan.

I am still contemplating the merits of Fake Control Plan 4782 while I dress.

I slide on black stockings and heels. Black panties. My bra doesn’t cooperate.

My arm is bent back and arguing with the hook and eye when I feel him behind me.

His fingers brush my back. He fastens the fabric together. Runs a finger under a strap, untwisting it as he moves up my back to my shoulder.

“Thank you.” My voice is soft.

He says nothing. I feel his lips against my hair.

Never mind. I think I’m no longer a fan of plans.

7:03 a.m.

*

Breakfast

: Most interesting eggs ever.

I AM STARING AT MY PLATE. He’s in a tie.

I don’t even know what to say. Uneasy. Almost…maybe…scared? I don’t know if it is because he is so imposing elsewhere, or that I had him on a pedestal, or that this simply feels…different.

I remind myself I’m acting different than myself in every way.

I pack his things. The weather is turning. I hand him his coat. We leave.

I can feel him watching me. It’s warm. Not unwelcome.

There’s nothing I can think to say that will transition us.

Then he spares me the awkward move from night to day.

“Write up a temporary transfer proposal of Sean Becket to oversee our warehouse build,” he says in the hall.

“Yes, sir.”

“Rebecca needs a progress report.” In the elevator.

“I will send it by end-of-day.”

“Ms. Fralin has set up a dinner meeting with me tonight.” In the car.

Oh. Lovely. “What would you like for me to do while you’re at dinner, Mr. Canon?”

He switches lanes. “Wear whatever outfit goes with those black lace shoes and sit to my left.”

I can’t help but smile. His eyes flicker to mine. The corner of his mouth turns up just slightly, then he refocuses on traffic.

Incoming text: Just checking on you. You okay?—Rebecca

Reply: Fine. How’s the betting?

Incoming Text: Bert will be so disappointed. He had down that Canon would eat you alive by last night.

Note to self: Never bet against Bert.

1:51 p.m.

*

Location

: Break room.

*

Task

: Fetching drinks. Arf.

CLICKS SOUND OUT BEHIND ME.

“Alaric tells me I need to change the reservations because we will have the pleasure of your company at our dinner this evening.”

“Yes, Ms. Fralin,” I say without turning around. “That is what he told me as well.”

I stack cans and cups, pour coffee. Her nails tap the counter.

“Have you made any headway with your little foreign accounts pet project?”

“Not yet.” The relentless patronization grates at me, my words are clipped.

“Perhaps tonight would be a good opportunity.”

“That would have to be cleared with Mr. Canon.”

“Of course, of course. Though…” I stir in sweetener. She sounds like saccharin. “LaCygne is the best man for working side-by-side on that particular project. That’s his area, and he has the most flexible schedule. He might even be available on short notice.”

“Again, whatever Mr. Canon says—”

“You do,” she finishes for me. “I can tell. You’re quite the dutiful one, are not you? He says ‘jump,’ you say ‘how high,’ and if he says ‘bend over’—”

“I need to get back,” I snap and walk past her.

“He’s so focused.” Her voice, shrill, echoes in the room behind me. “Last trip, he made time for fun.”

My steps falter. Fun. I sincerely doubt he did any such thing. A vision of Canon wearing Mickey Mouse ears and holding balloons pops into my head.