I smile back at Ben with my filthiest smile, like a witch about to unleash a curse. He抯 amused as I pull off my jacket, but I see something in him, a quiet eagerness, and it flares to life when I reach for the top button of my blouse. He watches it opening, as if it抯 a bomb being defused, as if nothing could induce him to look away.
I reach for the next button and notice the ungodly bulge in his pants, straining the zipper. I lick my lips and my smile widens. 揧ou抮e enjoying this a little too much.?
揑抦 about to enjoy it more,?he replies, pushing me flat onto the seat, pinning me there, while his free hand slides inside my skirt. And just before his hand arrives where I want it most匢 wake.
I抦 in bed, panting, my t-shirt flung across the room. I can抰 even pretend to be disgusted. Right now, I抦 simply furious that I woke up before he could get the job done.
How completely like Ben Tate to be disappointing, even in dreams.
I wear a fuchsia skirt to the Monday morning staff meeting because Keeley says I wear too much black. It抯 paired with the same heels Ben suggested a dominatrix would wear. I do not, even once, wonder if my outfit screams sexy librarian.
I stride into the conference room with the devil a delicious flame in my chest, ignoring Ben as I take my seat and chat with Terri about her weekend. I feel his gaze and can抰 stop myself from meeting it.
揌ow was your weekend, Gemma??he asks, his tone sickly-sweet, baiting, but for some reason the sight of my name falling off his lips makes that flame in my chest double in size.
揓ust lovely, Ben. And yours??
There抯 a flicker of delight in his dark eyes. 揈cstatic,?he says. Ecstatic implies sex, some dumb InstaModel slavishly serving his every whim while posting grammatically incorrect captions on social media.
揈cstatic for one of you, anyway,?I reply. I mean for the words to trill lightly, ambivalently, but they emerge sharp instead. That thing in my chest, that childish glee, has suddenly gone sour. It was champagne, freshly poured梟ow it抯 a glass of milk set on a sunny stoop all day.
揇id you have a few popovers this weekend??he asks, and he抯 smiling but there抯 an edge to his voice too.
揕oads. So many popovers.?
揥hat the hell is a popover??asks stupid Craig, entirely missing the point of this conversation.
揧es, Gemma,?Ben says, nostrils flaring, 搕ell us all about the popovers.?
My mouth opens to reply, which is when I realize I抳e only read about popovers, and in my head they were much like turnovers but fancier, more like cream puffs, and I抦 not sure that抯 true. For all I know they抮e another word for pancakes, a food which, inexplicably, has ten thousand synonyms.
I shrug. 揧ou抎 have to try them to understand.?
His responding smile is irritatingly victorious. I would like to grab him by his tie, yank his face down and sink my teeth into his jaw until he begged for mercy. I抎 like to dig my nails into his skin until he?
I clench my fists to stop my imagination in its tracks. I don抰 know what the hell is wrong with me, why I want him in a way I抳e never wanted anyone else.
I just know I need to make it stop.
Early in the evening, the office hallways are abuzz with laughter, empty chairs being slammed to desks, dinner plans shouted from one cubicle to the next.
It is, as always, the loneliest period of the whole day.
I was like them once, though it抯 getting harder to remember. Sometimes it feels like all my joy is treasure buried so deep and far that I have no clue where to start looking for it. At other times, it feels like a myth I抳e just convinced myself was once true.
The office is entirely cleared out when I call my mom. She抯 eating a 搒urprisingly good?Lean Cuisine and watching a Hallmark movie about an advertising exec whose car breaks down in a rural village in upstate New York.
揥ho抯 rescuing her??I ask. 揥idowed farmer or wise bar owner??
揌e抯 a veterinarian,?she says, 揵ut he is widowed.?
We laugh, and then grow quiet. 揑 wish I was there.?
揑 wish you were, too, honey, but don抰 worry about me. I抦 having a cozy night in and have no complaints.?My mother has never complained once because she doesn抰 want me to worry or feel bad for her. She抯 created a fiction in which sitting alone in a shitty apartment watching a Hallmark movie is as good as it gets. 揥hat about you? Are you going out tonight??
揘ot tonight,?I reply. 揑抦 still at work.?
揙h, Gemma. This late? You should be out somewhere.?
My mom wants a different sort of life for me and I want it for myself, but maybe it抯 time we both accept the situation for what it is. 揑 like what I do, Mom. This is more fun for me than going to some bar.?
She抯 quiet for a moment. I sense a gentle lecture coming, which is the hardest kind for me to hear because I can抰 just ignore it. 揑 know you抮e driven,?she finally says. 揃ut is what you抮e doing going to make you happy in the long run??