The matching coat hangs open, sculpted to her broad shoulders and muscular arms, nipping in at her waist.
Underneath, she wears a bandeau across her full breasts and a black mesh shirt over that, leaving her rippling abs on tasteful display.
Her hair is black, wavy, long. The spotlights pull out a purple sheen. Blunt bangs frame her beautiful, angular face. Her eyes are brilliant, electric violet.
My gaze traces the ripple of her muscles as she strides across the stage with all the languid grace of a predator. Sheowns that stage, owns this room.
I can imagine that somebody has tried to tell her, at some point, that CEOs don’t show off their abs. And I know that the second anyone tried to say something like that, her claws would be at their throat—even unshifted, her nails are long and filed to wicked points, reinforced by a blush pink manicure.
I’m not really understanding her words, but I’mfeelingthem, feeling the room respond to them. Her breath catches—she’s getting misty-eyed. Something in mewhinesto run to her, to comfort her. Not with protective presumption but with subservient devotion.
I need to ground myself, to break this spell. I drag my eyes down from the image of her on the closest TV, focus my eyes on the words.
Morgan Hunter.
I’m an idiot. In all my time following Artemis Pharmaceuticals, I had been focused on their papers and their careers page, nothing more. I’d thought Morgan Hunter was a man. I’m sure countless other people have, too.
And not only is she a woman, she ishot. My cheeks flush with heat. I’m not usually attracted to people like this. I’m bisexual, and I’d say I appreciate both male and female forms in an aesthetic sense, but this is different.
The crowd roars, and their warmth fills the room. I regret wearing a sweater. I want to step into the hall, cool off.
But I can’t take my eyes off her.
Her scent reaches me. Leather and whiskey and cedar. My eyes snap to the stage on primal instinct.
She’s staring right at me with those brilliant violet eyes.
I freeze.
She pauses.
A scattered clap ignites another wave of applause through the room.
Sweat gathers on my skin, soaking through my undershirt. Fuck, this place is so space-aged, don’t they have AC?
My idiot brain finally puts two and two together.
I forgot to take my meds today—new habits are hard to build.
And tomorrow is exactly four weeks from my last heat, making it theworstpossible time to forget my meds.
The realization zips right to my cock.
The primal part of my brain screamingrun, run, runfinally makes its way to my motor cortex and I turn and dash from the room, apologizing profusely as I nearly knock a waiter over.
My blood boils. It’s unbearable. I’m not going to make it home.
But then I see my refuge, my island in this storm: the single-stall gender-neutral bathroom, clearly marked by another orientation sign. I dash inside, locking the door behind me.
Corporate DI&B is good for one thing, I guess.
I rip off my sweater and my undershirt. The bathroom feels like a sauna. I run cold water and splash it across my face.
I don’t dare unbutton my pants. I don’t know what’ll happen if I do. My cock throbs needily, my ass aches.
Fuck, fuck.
It usually takes me hours to get to this point. It’s been minutes.
