Page 93 of Boardroom Mask

I nod frantically.

“Then cum for me, Jillian. Not for the camera. Not even for yourself. Forme.”

Boom.

I bite down on his hand to bury the scream, teeth sinking into skin, tears springing to my eyes. Kir is all that’s keeping me on my feet as he fucks me through it until he pulls out of me with awet, mournfulpopand finishes on the curve of my ass in thick, hot spurts of cum.

The darkroom is silent except for our breathing. Mine is shaky and thin, his deep and slow. Out in the world beyond, which does in fact still exist, contrary to my beliefs a couple of seconds ago, I can hear the faint burble of the newsroom.

Kir presses his lips to the back of my neck. It’s a kiss, I think, though it’s so soft and gentle that maybe it deserves a new name of its own.

He loosens the belt from my neck and slides it free. I lie facedown on the table; I need a little longer to recollect myself. Eventually, I peel myself off the sticky surface, pull my underwear up, and tug my skirt down. But I can still feel the stickiness he left on my butt.

As if he read my mind, Kir finds my hand in the dark and presses a swath of fabric into my palm. It takes me a moment to realize it’s a folded silk handkerchief. Monogrammed, probably, if I had to guess. Shaking my head and laughing, I wipe myself off as best I can and shove the handkerchief into my pocket.

“I need to go back out there,” I say. “I’ve been gone too long.”

“Then you should go,” he agrees. “Before I lock the door and keep you in here forever.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

Still, as nice as that sounds, I go find the door handle and crack it open half an inch. The corridor is empty, thank God. I slip out without looking back, pulling the door shut behind me. My blouse is untucked on one side, my hair is a catastrophe, and I smell like sex and cinnamon and photo chemicals.

I have never been happier in my entire life.

36

JILLIAN

“And the hardest part / Was letting go, not taking part”

— “The Hardest Part” by Coldplay

I make it back to my desk without anyone stopping me. How that happened, I don’t know. The Big Man Upstairs must finally be taking pity on me. I drop into my chair, tug my blouse straight, and pull up the zoning filing again. But once again, the words swim and dissolve into gibberish. How can I focus on the intricacies of city building codes when my thighs are still trembling and there’s a tender spot on my neck where the belt sat? Or the soft weight of Kir’s handkerchief wadded up in my pocket, damp and incriminating?

I pick up my coffee. It’s cold, but I drink it anyway, because it gives my hands something to do.

Weston rolls his chair around the cubicle partition about forty-five seconds later. “What a day at the office, am I right?” he says with a wolf-whistle. “The eye candy was off the charts.”

I pretend to scoff. “Nothing to write home about.”

But Weston is in a persistent state of mind, apparently. His jaw drops in disbelief. “Are your eyes malfunctioning? You saw him up close, right? He’s a dreamboat in Tom Ford, girl.” He puts his elbows on the edge of my desk and props his chin in his hands. “Please tell me you got his number.”

I snort. “Why would I get his number?”

“Because he looks like he was grown in a lab? Because he smells like a very expensive candle? I was four cubicles away and I caught a whiff and I havenotforgotten.”

“He’s a source, Weston,” I remind him acidly. “I cover his company.”

“Okay, but like, hypothetically,” he insists. “If he wasn’t a source.”

“Hypothetically, still no.”

“Why not?”

“He’s not my type.”

Weston blinks at me. “Jillian. Jill. Jilly. My girl. My love. My darling… The man iseveryone’stype. He’s universally, objectively, scientifically attractive.” He tilts his head. “Since when do you even have a type? Weren’t you just telling me about that Hinge guy a couple weeks ago? I think I specifically recall you saying,‘He wasn’t my type, but he was still hot, so I went back to his place.’”