Chapter 3
April
My apartment isn’t exactly as glamorous as one would expect from someone working in the fashion world.
It’s small, creaky, and smells vaguely like garlic and fish; a favorite dish of my neighbor downstairs.
The radiators hiss like angry cats and the bathroom door doesn’t close completely unless you kick it, but it’s mine.
My very own quaint one-bedroom in Inwood.
It’s still in Manhattan, but far enough away from the chaos.
I’m curled up on the battered vintage sofa I found on the sidewalk three months ago.
I couldn’t walk away from it. The too-soft, too-ugly brown upholstery screamed my name from a block away when I’d spotted it.
It doesn’t match the painted pink, secondhand bookshelves on either side of my television, or the multi-colored Christmas lights I have hanging up.
Everything in my little apartment matches perfectly with my mismatched pajama shorts and oversized t-shirt with I’M ALWAYS RIGHT written across it in swooping letters above a right-facing arrow, a ridiculous Christmas gift from Nicky last year.
Me:
Ugh, I swear to GOD I almost told him to shove his cufflinks up his ass today
I send the text and shove a spoonful of peanut butter into my mouth at the same time. Her response comes seconds later, my phone chirping in my hand.
Nicky:
what did the ice king do now??
wait, wait, wait, don’t answer that yet; let me get a glass of wine
give me thirty seconds
I snort and let the spoon linger on my tongue, biting down with my teeth as I type out my reply.
Me:
He told me my press release was “fine”
Which is basically just his version of spitting in my face
Nicky:
oh NO
not “fine”
you might as well quit and start working at Subway
wait are you not into that? It’s kinda hot when a guy spits on you
Me:
I…am not going to answer that question
And I’m definitely not going to be trying to sell myself to a hiring manager obsessed with the art of sandwich synergy
Nicky:
seriously tho are you ok?
I know he’s a dick
I pause, my fingers hovering over the screen.
I’m fine. I think. Maybe. It’s not like today was worse than any other random day.
It’s not like Anthony doesn’t get on my nerves every second I’m at work, anyway.
It just gets exhausting juggling thoughts of wanting him and thoughts of hating him.
Especially after that comment about bending over.
But then I think of my sister and my niece.
Me:
I just wish I could quit sometimes. But I can’t. Not while Angela’s still drowning in bills and Ava’s still doing treatment.
I’m stuck
Nicky:
ur not stuck, ur responsible
I promise you there’s a difference
and for what it’s worth, we can totally just kill him and flee to Mexico
I’ve been watching so much NCIS babe I think I could do it without getting caught
A genuine laugh bubbles up, and I pull up on the neckline of my shirt, covering my nose. Part of me wishes we could at least do the fleeing to Mexico part. I start typing out my response, but halfway through, a new notification pops up on the top of my screen, and I groan into my shirt.
Anthony Voss:
Come in early tomorrow. 7:30. Need to review the Paris release with you before it goes out at 8.
Of course, even his texts are uptight. No emojis, no warmth, no, please. Just tight, precise control.
I toss the phone onto the coffee table like it’s personally insulted me and pad into the kitchen to make a cup of tea before I implode.
It’s late, and I know I should probably just go to bed, but my brain’s a mess of thoughts.
I either want to strangle him or ride him into oblivion, and chamomile is a healthier choice than drinking.
By the time I’ve got the kettle off the stove and the hot water in my cup, I feel just slightly looser. Loose enough to let my thoughts explode to Nicky, at the very least.
Me:
Okay, so we can’t do that, and I’ll tell you exactly why
I think I’ve officially lost my mind
He’s driving me fucking crazy. We know that. But it’s not just in the “it’s fine” way.
It’s the goddamn animalistic, get-on-my-knees-and-confess-to-a-priest way.
It’s the way I almost wrote “get-on-my-knees-and-do-anything-he-says way.”
And like, I get it. He’s insufferable, emotionally constipated, and allergic to giving me any kind of praise. But I think I would actually come on the spot if he said “good girl” to me.
I can’t stop thinking about him bending me over his desk and telling me I’ve been very naughty. That I need to be fucked into being productive and producing things better than “fine”
Seriously. I’m not even kidding. It’s like some part of my lizard brain took one look at his big, veiny, annoyingly hot-hands and went, “I’m going to fantasize about these for every waking second of the day, now!”
AND HIS VOICE, NICKY! Jesus Christ. The way he says my name sounds like a sin some god invented just for him to tempt me with.
And now he’s texting me to come in early tomorrow?? It’s not a meeting, it’s a cruel form of torture
Did I do something in a past life? Did I rob a convent? Did I murder a flock of nuns???
Because I am trapped in a very specific brand of hell named Anthony fucking Voss, and it has to be punishment for SOMETHING
Anyway
Send help
Or a vibrator, whatever gets here first
I hit send on the last message and set my phone down, feeling the first smidge of relief in weeks from having laid it all out in a way Nicky will absolutely make fun of me for. But it was worth it.
The bliss wears off immediately when the tea scalds my tongue. It shocked my system back into shame and bitter annoyance all over again.
I set the mug aside and head for the bathroom, deciding that I might as well take a body-only shower since I won’t have time in the morning now.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror. My makeup is smudged, my bun unraveling and low, my oversized t-shirt hanging limp around breasts that don’t understand how to be small. I glare at myself.
“Stop thinking about him,” I mutter to myself, then fling the shower curtain open.
But I don’t stop thinking about him.
I do the exact opposite.
The water hisses to life, and steam curls over the top of the curtain when the hot water meets cold air. I make a mental note to turn on the heat, but it takes three tries of having that thought to even get it to cement itself around the wall of him.
I redo my bun high on my head and step in, letting the water beat down on my shoulders and back. The heat sinks into my muscles, loosening the knots I’ve carried all day. It does nothing for the tension coiling low in my stomach. Especially when I imagine the heat is coming from his hands instead.
His face comes into view when I close my eyes. I groan in frustration, nearly tipping my head back into the stream out of habit before remembering I’m not washing it.
The idea of buying a shower cap slips away before I can even grasp it.
His silver hair, his grey eyes that pin me in place, and those hands fill my head instead.
God, those hands.
My hands slide down my stomach, fingers tracing the curve of my mons as I lean my weight against the tile wall. The water streams over my breasts, down between my thighs, following the path I can’t stop imagining his hands taking.
I imagine my shower is big and spacious, and he’s in here with me.
His suit jacket is gone, and his tie hangs limply from his collar.
The fabric of his white button-up shirt clings to his chest muscles.
He’s watching me with that intense, analytical stare of his, like he’s trying to figure out what makes me tick or what makes me break.
“You’re thinking about me again, aren’t you, April?”
His voice is low in my head and rougher than usual, the way it gets when he’s quietly annoyed and trying to maintain control. My fingers dip lower, sliding through the slick folds between my thighs. I’m already soaked just from that. A choked little gasp escapes my lips as I circle my clit.
“Can’t stop,” I whimper breathlessly against the tile. “Can’t stop thinking about you.”
In my fantasy, he steps closer; the water flattening his hair against his forehead and dripping off his chin. He lifts his hand, cupping my jaw, his thumb stroking the line, and I almost convince myself it’s real. It’s such a simple gesture, but from him, it feels like everything.
He exhales, once, loudly.
“Show me,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a register that makes my entire body vibrate. “Show me how you touch yourself when you’re alone and thinking about me.”
My knees go weak, and I slide down the wall and onto the floor.
I no longer care if my hair gets wet. I don’t care about anything right now.
I know my walls are as thin as a sheet of paper.
Martha, my next-door neighbor, has already complained about how loud my microwave beeps.
I shouldn’t moan, but I can’t help myself.
I pull my knees up to spread my legs wider. One hand braces the tile while the other works between my thighs. It’s not enough. Nothing is ever enough when he invades my thoughts.
I need more.
I need him.
Part of me wants to run back to the bedroom, dripping water and God knows probably more, to grab my vibrator from my drawer. But I can’t bear to stop.
My fingers dip down further, catching on my entrance, and I slip two in, a strangled moan slipping past my lips. I can’t breathe, not with the steam and the ghost of him and the need.
I imagine his hands replace mine, one resting against the side of my neck and the other between my thighs. Visualizing him kneeling in front of me sends me into fucking orbit, and my toes curl against the wet tile floor.
“Is this what you wanted?” he asks. “Is this what you spend your time thinking about when you’re supposed to be working?”
“Yes,” I whimper, my thighs clenching as it’s starting to build. My head tips back against the wall. “God, yes.”
“Such a naughty girl,” he murmurs, and a jolt of too much goes through me. “Touching yourself in the shower while thinking about me.”
I thrust my fingers faster, harder, rougher into myself, the base of my thumb working wonders against my clit. And God, I just want it to be him, I just want it to be him, I just want him—
“Look at me,” he commands. His voice is rough and soft all at once, and I imagine doing just that.
I imagine meeting his gaze with half-lidded, pleasure-drunk eyes and a need behind them so intense it makes his breath stutter.
“I want to watch you come. I want to see how that pretty face twists when you fall apart because of me.”
That’s all it takes.
The pressure inside me snaps, waves of ecstasy crashing through me as my orgasm hits.
I cry out loudly as my body trembles with each wave of pleasure that washes over me.
I’m left boneless and breathless on the shower floor.
For a moment, I just sit there, catching my breath with the water cascading over me.
Then reality comes rushing back. He’s not here. I’m alone in the tiny bathroom of my apartment that smells like mildew. Plus, there is a good chance there will be a mortifying complaint from Martha next door.
I just let myself go further than I normally do when it comes to my fantasies of Anthony Voss.
As I step out and wrap myself in a towel, the fog on the mirror has cleared just enough to get a blurry image of myself.
I see it—my flushed cheeks, my lower lip slightly swollen from my teeth biting down on it, the slightly dazed look in my eyes.
For a brief second, I imagine what it would feel like if he knew.
I walk to my bedroom with my head in shambles. My once too hot tea is now too cold.
I reach for my phone, expecting a string of messages from Nicky freaking out over my rambling confessions. Instead, I see another notification from Anthony, time-stamped ten minutes ago. Face ID registers, and the message displays on my screen:
Anthony Voss:
I see you’ve strayed into creative writing territory. Should I be flattered or concerned?
I stare at the notification in utter confusion before terror strikes.
No. No, no, no, no, I couldn’t have!
I flick away my lock screen and scramble to open the text thread, my heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to eject itself from my chest without a parachute.
There it is.
The entire monologue.
Everything.
Everything I wrote in my long stream of horny consciousness.
Sent not to Nicky, but to Anthony fucking Voss.
A noise I’ve never made before, somewhere between a dying cat and a scream muffled by a pillow, escapes from my mouth.
“Oh my God, oh my God, no, no, no—”
My hands are shaking, one clasped over my mouth, the other screwing my screen up so badly from the tremors that I struggle to reread my messages and his response.
I feel like I’ve just dropped a nuclear bomb on myself.
I feel like I’ve just driven a clown car into crates and crates of gunpowder and set myself on fire.
My entire career, my dignity, flashes before my eyes in bursts of embarrassment so strong I think I might black out.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t think.
I can’t text him back. What the hell am I even supposed to say?
He knows.
He knows I think about him. He knows I fantasize about him. Oh no, he knows I want him to bend me over his desk and call me a good girl like we’re in some kind of early office porno.
Oh my god.
My brain flatlined. No thoughts, just static.
I stare at the screen that’s shaking in my hand.
Maybe it’ll glitch, or reverse time, or set itself on fire in solidarity with me.
It does not. It just stays intact, glowing brightly, proudly displaying my thirsty little meltdown in its entirety to the man who signs my checks.
My boss.
My literal, very attractive, and emotionally constipated boss.
By this time tomorrow, I’ll be a cautionary tale passed down through generations of interns.
Did you hear about the old Executive Communications Manager?
Oh my god.
Oh my god.