Page 48 of Boardroom Mask

He fucks me fast and rough. This time doesn’t come with any of the build-up or the dirty monologues. It’s just a body and a body meeting. It has all the frenetic feel of a guilty quickie, probably because that’s exactly what it is.

It’s over in minutes for both of us. I cum first, biting down on his collar to muffle the sound, and he’s right on my heels, pulling out at the last second and spilling hot across my inner thigh.

I stare at the ceiling and wait for the guilt to arrive. Right on schedule, there it is: a slow, sick churn in my stomach that spreads outward until my whole body feels wrong.

I just did it again. What’s to blame this time? I’m sober and clear-headed, perfectly in charge of myself—and yet I walked in, saw him sitting at my table, and chose this.

I don’t know what that makes me. More to the point, I don’t think Iwantto know.

All I know is that (1) I don’t trust myself to say no to this again, and so, therefore, (2) we need to set some rules to keep this from flying off the rails. Well, more off the rails than it already is.

I look up at him. He’s tucking himself back in, buckling his belt. “We need rules,” I blurt.

He stops and looks at me.

“If this is going to— If you’re going to keep coming here, and I’m going to keep letting you, then there have to be rules. That’s non-negotiable.”

He inclines his head. “I’m listening.”

I hold up one finger. “First off, no names. I don’t want to know yours. The less of a person you are to me, the better.” I lift a second finger. “Two, no faces. The mask stays on, every time. I don’t want to see you and you don’t get to show me.”

“And third?”

“No falling in love,” I say as flatly as I can. “This is just... what it is. Bodies. That’s it. Nobody catches feelings, nobody gets attached, nobody starts thinking this is something it isn’t. The second that changes, it’s over.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he nods once. “Deal.”

He buttons his jacket and moves toward the window. I stay on the counter, bare-assed and sticky, watching him unlatch it and push it open. The night air rolls in, cold enough to raise goosebumps across my naked skin.

He pauses with one hand on the sill. “I’ll be back tomorrow night.”

My cheeks go hot. I’m grateful he’s facing the window and not me. “Sure. Whatever. Fine,” I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere much closer tobreathless and flushed with excitement.

With one more nod, he slips through the window and disappears.

I stay on the counter for another minute after he’s gone. Then I hop down, clean myself up with a paper towel, and gather my clothes off the floor in a messy bundle.

No names. No faces. No falling in love.It’s only three rules. Simple enough, right? People follow rules all the time. There are rules for driving and rules for taxes and rules for how close you can stand to someone on the subway without it being weird. This is no different. Just another set of guidelines for an activity that so happens to involve a masked intruder who makes me feel things I haven’t felt in years.

Everything is fine.

I pull on an old t-shirt and boxers and crawl into bed. The sheets are cold, clean, and smell like detergent, which is a welcome change from cinnamon, sweat, and bad decisions. I pull the comforter up to my chin and roll onto my side.

Problem is, my brain won’t shut off.

The Lazarev story keeps nudging its way back in, the way it always does when I’m trying not to think about something else. Ochoa is a ghost. Doug gave me until end of year. The shell companies are a maze with no exit. And the man who was sent to kill me for digging into this story just left through my window with my taste still on his mouth.

That last part should probably factor into my reporting strategy somehow, but I have no idea how.

I grab my phone off the nightstand. It’s 11:14 P.M., the day before Thanksgiving. I open my text thread with Doug and type:

What if I stop waiting for sources to come to me and go directly to Lazarev Global? Kir Lazarev just took over as CEO eighteen months ago. He’s still fresh enough that I might have a chance. If I can get in front of him, I might be able to shake something loose.

I hit send and set the phone on my chest, but I’ve barely put it down before it buzzes. Doug is responding faster than expected for almost midnight on a Wednesday.

DOUG HOFFMAN

Good instinct. But Pierce, it’s Thanksgiving tomorrow. Go eat some turkey, watch football, do something normal for once. The Lazarevs will still be there on Monday.