Dark coffee irises gape desirously and achingly into cobalt eyes. Her attention deviates from my eyes, to my mouth, when I leisurely smooth my tongue over the surface of my drying lips. Watching intently, she mimics my action and darts her tongue across her pink, full lower lip, then retracts it slowly before sinking her teeth into the plump flesh and holds it in a manner both innocent and suggestive.
I let out a deep, feral sigh from low in my throat.
To graze my thumb over those lips, to press my own against them, to taste her…
We both jump, startled by the unexpected knocking at the door. With our moment teeming with unspoken intentions now over, we recover our equilibrium, and allow our hands to fall aversely away from each other.
“Come in,” I call exasperated, running my right hand through my hair, while Samantha’s attention falls on her shoes. She tucks an escaped strand of hair behind her right ear. Her fingertips linger underneath her ear lobe, and she pulls her elbow flush against her body.
“Mr. Wentworth, your 10:00 a.m. has arrived.”
“Thank you, Chloe. Will you show Miss Kennedy the ropes?” I sanction as I make my way around the desk to the executive chair.
“The ropes, sir?” her bewildered expression is etched deeply on her oval face and laced through her tone. Removing her black framed glasses, she tucks a wisp of blond hair behind her ear, revealing a glimmer of her ruby dropper-earring.
“Yes, Chloe, the ropes; Miss Kennedy is now officially our first intern.” Awkwardness consumes me, I feel like an interloper spying through the bushes at some forbidden spectacle, as the two women appraise one another.
Chloe’s eyes scorch with jealousy.
“Yes, of course, sir. Miss Kennedy, if you will follow me,” she murmurs, with a degree of warmth that does not match her expression.
Samantha strides over to the threshold.
“Miss Kennedy––” I call after her, and she abruptly turns on the heel to face me. “It’s nice to have you aboard.” I give away to a salacious grin. My brow slightly arched.
“Thank you for having me aboard, sir.” Both her eyes and grin are a reflection of my own. I vaguely contemplate what aboard means for her.
Boss and employer, I swivel in my seat and face the expanse vista of San Francisco before me, the bay in the distance.
I sigh inwardly.
Something is telling me, this isn’t going to be easy sailing.
THREE
---------------------
SAMANTHA
I think the day went rather well,
my subconscious confirms my silent statement with an overstated nod of her head.
I rest against the corner of the brilliant white elevator, feeling the coolness of the full-length, mirrored surface through my linen blouse, while the blue spotlighting creates a stylish, yet relaxing ambiance. Exhausted, I sigh and hang my head. I feel I’ve have just completed a marathon.
My body makes way for excitement, my inner-child bounces up and down clapping her hands animatedly. I can’t wait to tell Jessie about my day. As exhausted as I am, I feel a smile stealing its way across my features and I suppress the urge to mirror my inner-child. I am no longer a temp, I am an intern. I suppose that creates a small degree of job security.
My subconscious nods slowly at me, whilst holding up a wine glass to toast my success.
Yes, she’s right; this does deserve a celebration.
My thought train is momentarily distracted as I recall every thought that prompted my very impious musings while I gaped, secretly yearning over, Mr. Wentworth. The way, in which he placed himself on the corner of that desk, the way that lock of his hair fell loosely onto his brow. Oh, and those eyes, those hypnotic, deep, dark, pools of sexual energy, carnal yet so kind and devoted.
Remembering the way his hand locked into mine, I unconsciously glance down at my hands. The electric charge that was felt when we stared at each other…wow. Like a sixteen year old girl begging to be kissed by the captain of the high-school football team, I found myself secretly pleading for him to make a move. Minds, I am unable to read, body language on the other hand…
I chuckle and bite down on my lip.
My reverie is cut short by the abrupt halt of the elevator and the doors slowly glide open on my fifteenth floor.
Entering the confines of my apartment, I groan with reprieve as my tense and exhausted body sluggishly makes its way to the couch on the far side of the apartment. I place my purse down on the dining-table as I pass.
Kicking off my heels, I slump into the scarlet, soft leather couch, secretly savoring the sensation of the weight being removed from my tired, aching legs. I might as well have concrete blocks encasing them.
I tip my head back, and fail miserably at suppressing a pleasurable groan, while I wriggle my throbbing toes. What was I thinking wearing ludicrous five-inch stiletto heels?
Never again,
my subconscious mutters on an outward breath, dipping her feet into a state of the art foot spa.
Bitch.
“Well hello there, Miss Sammy. How was work? You look shattered,” Jessie calls through the conjoined living room and dining room as she closes the apartment door.
Making her way to the living room, she drops her set of keys into the red glass key bowl in the center of the white fireplace opposite me, and re-adjusts two grocery bags under her arms. Removing her purse from over her head, she throws it down on the couch.
I challenge my body to raise my head off the cold leather headrest. Feeling like it’s been replaced with a bowling ball, my neck slumps back, relinquishing to the heaviness bared upon it. Fluttering my eyelids, I blink rapidly in a feeble attempt to alleviate the annoying, dancing colored spots from vision, thanks to the eighty-watt overhead light that my ever caring roommate just startled me with.
“Argh, Jessie. Turn it off, it’s, too bright,” I bark, but she ignores my plea.
I hate it when the nights roll in outrageously quickly, and all lights in the apartment have to be turned on before 6:00 p.m.
Argh…why can’t we have a twelve month summer? That would suit me just fine.
My eyes slowly succumb to the alarming brightness that swamps the room, and I offer a relived sigh when they no longer feel as though they are being burned out of their sockets.
“So, how was it?” Jessie asks, full of excitement, although aware that there is a possibility––considering it’s me––that my day didn’t live up to my expectations, and was a complete fail.
She takes long strides into the kitchen with the groceries and starts unpacking.
Grudgingly removing myself from the relaxing spot I lay in, appreciating the coolness of the leather that was facilitating my hot, aroused, sensitive flesh as I fantasized about Mr. Hypnotic, I haul myself up. Struggling with the Jell-O sensation in my legs, I walk over to the breakfast bar.
“Actually, Jess, it was
amazing.
” I echo my roommate’s power of speech as I submit myself to my elation. Exhilaration floods and warms my blood as it pours though me.
Carefully avoiding the burning pressure pains in my feet, I gently slide myself onto one of the artic-white seats of the breakfast barstools, smiling deliriously.
“Mr. Wentworth has offered me an internship.”
“Argh,” Jessie shrieks, bouncing on the spot like a boxer warming up before throwing his first punch. She races around the pillar that corners the bar and throws her arms around me.
“That is
fantastic
news, Sammy,” she pulls away, holding me at arm’s length, her emerald eyes bore into mine. “I am
so
proud of you.” My face-splitting grin is now reflected on her fair colored profile, as she pulls me into another painfully tight, but blissfully happy embrace. “You are no longer a temp now, sweetie. Say good riddance to the awful, degrading, assortments of jobs you’ve trudged through. You have finally found an occupation that I know you will be committed to.”
She leans across the counter and retrieves a bottle of white wine. Grasping the neck of the bottle with white-knuckle force, she raises it in line with her chest and sways it slowly in a deliberate tempting fashion. Her eyes are wide and glimmering, her smile even wider as she waits for my approval.
“Please,” I mutter, rolling my eyes heavenward.
After pouring two generously filled wine glasses, she passes one to me, and we sip in unison. I release an appreciative groan as the refreshing, cool, crisp liquid glides down my throat.
“So what did you do today while I was
in work
?” I chortle, taking another sip.
“Mm––” she sounds, in the process of swallowing. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she teases, feigning innocence and I mimic her famous tell-me-all-now look. Her eyes narrow dubiously, as she glares at the familiar expression, which dons my face instead of hers.
What is this, Freaky Friday?
“Annoying isn’t it,” I counter, hissing with uncontested amusement, my lips curling petulantly.
“I went to the grocery store; I pottered around here for a bit,”––she takes another sip––“and
went-to-the-music-store,”
she mutters quickly.
“Sorry, I-I didn’t quite get that?” I wince and inch closer, turning my head in a straining gesture, all the while grinning at my best friend as she is consumed by her blush.
Exasperated, she shakes her head, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth before sighing loudly. “I went to the music store.”
I nod for her to continue, knowing full-well that she only went to Blue Record Music Store, to admire one specific thing. My mouth curls further, my brow raises higher, my eyes are practically bulging out of their sockets along with my determination.
“I went to the music store to admire the six foot odd, hunky piece of meat with the spikes,” she replies, her voice small and embarrassed as she glances down at her fingers that are wrapped carefully around the neck of the glass.
“Now, that wasn’t, too hard to admit, was it?”
After draining a large glass of wine, and slowly working my way through my second, I begin to feel the effect of the Dutch courage kicking my inhibitions and reservations to the wind. I decide that I cannot and will not follow Jessie’s way of admiring someone, sit back, admire-from-afar and hope that one day you may find the balls to go and say,
Hi
. Nope, that is not me, that woman has been dead for years.
Now, like a snake in the reeds, if I want something, I strike. There is no headier feeling than knowing and seeing you get under someone’s skin and have the power to say,
yes
or
no
.
Achieve the goal, worry about the consequences later.
I’m unfamiliar with someone having the ability to burrow themselves under my skin––it’s always vice-versa. Yet, Mr. Wentworth has severely gotten under my skin. For the life of me, I can’t stop thinking about him.
I find myself constantly replaying this morning’s meeting in his office. Envisioning what would have happened if I had just pressed my body against his, if our lips were so tantalizingly close to each other, would we have kissed?
Who would have made the first move?
Now, I have to deal with the
‘what ifs’
of the day, this feeling––this growing mass in my mind and my gut––it’s infuriating. I need help. I refuse to let everyday be like this.
I place my wine glass carefully onto the bar, the smile that overrules my features now ebbing. I hang my head in disconcertment, looking for the correct words to describe how I am feeling. How am I feeling? Yes, I’m ashamed.
And so you should be
my subconscious interjects waving her finger at me. I’m lusting after my boss. I know I may have a very different idea of how people perceive their own sexual encounters, but I have rules––may not have the bar set highly, but I have some rules all the same.
My amethyst ring finds itself rotating rapidly around my middle finger of my right hand. Jessie has been like my sister for what seems like forever, she has witnessed me at my good, and at my bad. She knows me inside and out. I’m confident she will have the right answer to my problem. She always does.
Sucking in a few deep breaths, I lift my head many times as I ready myself to spill my guts all over the dining room floor, but hesitation freezes me in my tracks.
Do I really want to know what Jessie thinks?
My body is a trembling mess, adrenaline progresses its way rapidly throughout my system.
It’s just like a Band-Aid, Samantha. Rip. It. Off. Quickly.
Bite the Bullet, Sammy, bite the bullet.
“Jess, I need your help,” I mutter through my reluctance. My voice cracks under the depressing forethought of the consequences this problem could quite possibly precede to. I timorously peek up at her compassionate and altruistic features. Her chestnut hair falling like a veil around her shoulders, her bangs swept to the left side of her brow, her emerald eyes are flared and brimming with concern.
Where would I possibly be without her?
She’s my best friend, my roommate and my therapist all in one. I sigh privately as my predicament hangs over me like a tropical rain cloud, waiting to release its contents.
“It’s about my boss.”
HAYDEN
“I’m off now, Mr. Wentworth.”
Chloe stands at the threshold of my office, her purse nestled under her right arm as she continues to fumble with the waist tie of her black trench coat.
She taps her right index finger against the fingertips of her left hand, counting the duties that she has accomplished before leaving. “I have photocopied and filed the correspondence that’s to be sent out tomorrow, and shut everything off.”
“Thank you, Chloe. And thank you for your help, in regards to showing Miss Kennedy the ropes. I really appreciate it,” I murmur, curling the corner of my mouth into a weak, but sincere smile. “And the company will, too, in the long run.” My eyes tightening, as my heart rate accelerates. My palms begin to feel moist from perspiration as the visualization of Miss Kennedy’s come-and-get-me smile invades my mind.