Chapter 24
24
“There has to be something we’re missing.” Peter bursts through my apartment door with his familiar duffel bag in one hand and several plastic bags of takeout in the other.
He’s as glorious as ever in those sweatpants. How many pairs of them does he own? Does he know how aroused they make me?
“It can’t be any of them,” he insists. “I know those guys. They’re all grateful for the opportunity to get in on the ground level of a company like Chester. They’d never sell out like this.”
“I’m going to write code that will sift through Paramus’s cybersecurity logs for inconsistent patterns.” I take dinner off his hands, so he can shed his coat and snow-covered boots. “Chet said he’d have the first batch of files to me by the end of the week.”
I appreciate Peter’s dedication to this new mission and also his lack of polite greeting. Not only does it prove that he’s focused on the task at hand, but it’s also ridiculous to exchange small talk with someone I’ve had a lot of sex with. And I do mean a lot .
I’m still limping slightly as I pull plates and cutlery out of the cabinets.
He leans on his forearms on the kitchen island as I plate our dinners. That patented frown mars his face. “None of them would risk getting blackballed in the small circles we run in. None of them would be stupid enough to throw away everything they’ve worked for over money. If money was our main objective, none of us would be PhDs.”
I laugh. He’s absolutely right.
“What if money isn’t the main objective? What if it’s something else, like a personal grudge?” I’m still unconvinced that it isn’t one of Chet’s many enemies.
Peter scoffs. “If that’s the culprit’s main motivation, then I’m going to be bumped back up to prime suspect.”
“What? Why?” I stare at him in shock.
He straightens and shakes his head, the frown on his face deepening. “I’m jealous as hell of Chet Goulding.”
“Because he’s young and successful and wealthy and handsome?”
The muscle in Peter’s jaw ticks. He looks positively murderous. “You think he’s successful and handsome?”
“Of course. Those are objectively true facts about the man.” I notice he didn’t question the matters of youth nor wealth.
Peter nods, but the action is the opposite of agreeing with me. “Right. And you have private meetings and lunches with a man who you deem handsome.”
I roll my lips between my teeth to prevent the laughter that bubbles in my chest from spilling out. “Peter. You’re jealous.”
He throws his arms out to the side and shouts, “I said that already!”
A little laugh escapes. I can’t help it. This feeling is warm and effervescent and headier than an entire bottle of champagne. I can’t possibly keep it corked forever. The pressure is too great .
“You believe he is handsomer than you?” I prod.
“Do you?” Peter’s eyebrows climb far above the boundaries of his glasses.
“He is objectively attractive,” I lead, unable to hide my grin of pure mischief. “As far as male human specimens go, he checks all the usual boxes—tall, muscular, well-styled, strong bone structure, thick, luxurious hair, eyes the color of the Caribbean. A woman could easily drown from staring too long into those eyes.”
Peter looks absolutely horrified at my description.
As much fun as baiting him is, I can’t leave him lost in swirling anxiety for too long. I slowly round the island, eroding the physical space between us until I’m close enough to slide my hand up his sculpted chest that’s covered only by a soft, worn, plain white t-shirt.
“He’s also callous, purposefully unfeeling at times, and driven to succeed from dangerous motivations like revenge and an almost self-destructive competitive streak. He always says exactly what he means even if that’s at the expense of someone else’s feelings. Honestly, before he won back his wife, I assumed he was a lost cause to fulfill a productive role in society.”
Peter blinks rapidly several times as he covers my hand on his chest. He wraps my other arm around his waist to pull me closer before tipping his head to murmur, “If you hold such disdain for him, then how did you two become friends?”
I sigh then confess, “We weren’t at first. He used me like a chess piece, too. After I passed his tests, he revealed his true nature. He made it easy to be his friend. He was never a threat to me. Though his brilliance was obvious later, he had zero qualms about shoving all the work onto me as a test of my worthiness. He was—and still is in many ways—selfish.”
“I was selfish, too,” Peter chokes out. “Am I only easy because I want you in ways that Chet didn’t? Do I make you feel good about yourself instead of like a sidekick to lean on when it’s absolutely unavoidable?”
I huff out a little laugh at his perspective of Chet’s behavior toward me.
“No. No.” I shake my head for emphasis as I curl my fingers into the fabric of his shirt. “Nothing about you is easy. You’re terrifying.”
“Even now?” he questions as his face lowers further toward mine.
“Especially now.”
“Why?”
I glance up at him from beneath my lashes, barely a breath between us. “You have way more power to hurt me than Chet ever has or ever will.”
“He could fire you,” Peter argues with a soft tone of voice. “He holds definite power over your life.”
“I could find a new job.”
“What’s different about me and him?” Peter presses with words as he presses his fingertips into my hips.
“You make glasses look very sexy,” I admit. “I highly doubt Chet could pull that off.”
I can’t tell him that he could break my heart all over again. This time, I would have no one to blame but myself. I can’t confess how weak this man makes me just by existing.
Peter closes his eyes as a deep sigh concaves his chest.
“So close to admitting the truth to me,” he whispers before fixing me with his sparkling hazel gaze. “I understand. It’s not like this can be anything real between us this time anyway. Neither of us want to lose our jobs, so we’re relegated to sex and secrets all over again.”
I step out of his embrace. It’s not that I was unaware of him coaxing me into lurid confessions from the deepest recesses of my heart. I think it’s more that I rather dislike him admitting as much. Ignorance is bliss, as it were. It hurts more than I anticipated for him to label us as friends with benefits. Coworkers with secret benefits.
Which strikes me as odd, considering my insistence of complete honesty between us this time. If I can’t control my own desires and emotions, how could I ever hope to predict his?
It’s already late, so we eat dinner in silence that’s just on the edge of tense. He seems to be lost in thought as we watch yet another nature documentary. Occasionally, he’ll ask a question about who else on the team I’ve investigated thoroughly or what means I used to determine their innocence. The lack of guilt is assumed. No one’s been fired. Yet.
He loads the dirty dishes into the dishwasher while I prep the coffee pot for in the morning. We’ve fallen into an easy, equally shared routine in a matter of weeks. What started as a necessary cohabitation during our illness never really ended. We simply switched apartments since most of Isaac’s things are here.
After some chin scratches that are easily accepted instead of batted away with the claws out, Isaac saunters out of the room, satisfied.
Peter straightens then presses a kiss to my cheek. “I’m going to take a quick shower before bed.”
“Do you go to the gym after work?”
It’s a rhetorical question because it’s impossible. At most, he reaches my apartment an hour after we part ways at the office. I can’t put my finger on why, but this unknown variable about his schedule bothers me. We work long hours. We wake up together. We go to sleep together. Where is he possibly fitting in the sort of workout routine necessary to maintain his sculpted physique?
He says nothing as I study him closely, looking for tell-tale signs of changes. I find nothing of note. He’s as muscular as the day I first laid eyes on him again .
“I haven’t been to the gym in over a month.”
“Really?” I find that hard to believe.
His smile is soft, but he pads down the hallway without another word.
I finish cleaning the kitchen, then sneak into the bathroom to complete my nighttime routine of brushing my teeth, washing my face, and applying moisturizer while he showers.
By the time I’m tucked into bed wearing my pajamas, Peter enters the room completely naked. He doesn’t turn off the lights before flopping onto the mattress on top of the blankets. He folds his arms behind his head and stares at me expectantly.
“Would you like a blowjob?” I guess.
He’s not stupid. Surely, he understands I’m too sore to engage in anything involving reciprocal pleasure. I also now understand that he has a much more voracious sexual appetite than I ever knew. Maybe more than he ever knew.
“No.” He frowns then says, “Wait. Yes. In the interests of total transparency, the answer to that question is always yes. That’s not my intention just now though.”
I lift my brows in silent question.
He continues to stare at me with an even expression.
“What is your intention?” I finally ask after several moments of gazing at each other.
“I’m trying a new tactic,” he says with an undercurrent of warning.
“Care to be more explicit?” I barely resist the urge to reach out and caress his body. I’m not going to leap without knowing the height of the fall.
He tips his head as he studies me. After a while, he pulls his bottom lip into his mouth, biting into the flesh.
I never knew lip biting could be so sexy. A shiver of awareness rolls down my spine, making me rethink the idea that my body’s too spent for more of whatever he has in mind .
The corner of his mouth tips up into a half smile. “You’re brilliant, Elise. That doesn’t mean you’re not human. If you don’t know how to be vulnerable and completely honest with me, then I’ll be the guinea pig. I’ll teach you through example.”
I have no idea how to verbally respond to that, but my heart has plenty to say. It stutters then takes off at a rapid pace in my chest.
“Why did you fall into bed so easily with me?” he asks at length.
I sit up then cross my arms over my chest, immediately on the defensive. “What makes you think I did so easily? I was a twenty-two-year-old virgin. If memory serves, then you had to work very hard to convince me to go to bed with you.”
He squints as though his memories don’t paint quite the same picture. “Hmm. Maybe I’m asking the wrong question. Did you enjoy sex with me?”
I hug myself tighter and glare at him. There’s no reason to state the obvious.
The smirk he can’t hide on his face proves that fact very well.
“Still not the golden ticket. Okay.” He hums again as he considers…something. His expression suddenly brightens. “I’ve got it. Why were you never self-conscious or second-guessing yourself when you were engaging in sex with me?”
I furrow my brow as I take the time to genuinely think about this unexpected question.
“I was,” I murmur. “I know I was. I had zero experience, but you seemed to know everything. I assumed you weren’t as inexperienced as I was.”
“You were a little hesitant the first time,” he concedes. He also continues to recline comfortably in spite of his complete nudity. The erection that’s nearly perpendicular to his thighs is kind of hard to miss. He makes no move to cover himself from my gaze .
I was more than a little hesitant. Not that I necessarily believed all the female horror stories of pain and blood and selfish lovers, but I definitely didn’t expect the first time to result in an orgasm. I absolutely didn’t expect him to offer me one before taking anything for himself. Especially not by performing cunnilingus. He went down on me for nearly an hour, as I recall.
“You’re remembering it, aren’t you?” His soft tone of voice directly contradicts the smug smile on his lips.
I see no harm in admitting that I am with a nod. He was obviously there, too. He shares the same memories.
“Did I do good?” he asks, that devilish smile spreading.
I roll my eyes. “You know you did.”
A full-blown grin erupts on his face.
“You were very generous,” I offer before he can ask another inane question like whether I faked it. “You waited until you were certain that I was pleased before penetrating me and enjoying yourself.”
“It was over pretty quickly after that,” he admits with a chuckle.
It’s true. I distinctly remember that it took him a fraction of the time to groan out his obvious orgasm as it had taken me to get there.
“How long do you think it lasted from start to finish?”
His question seems genuine, so I blurt, “Sixty-seven minutes.”
He barks out a laugh that makes all his muscles jerk. His erection, too. “I didn’t do that good of a job if you were counting down the minutes until it was over.”
“No, it’s just—” I shake my head, laughing at myself. “I remember looking at my nightstand clock and thinking how cool it was that it took us a prime number amount of time to share pleasure. ”
“Okay,” he concedes though he continues to laugh. “I actually love that.”
I grin like he’s just given me a gold star.
“What about the next time?”
I scrunch my nose. “You mean, how long did it take us both to reach orgasm the second time we had sex?”
He nods.
My cheeks heat. The next time was quick. He got me hooked easily. Like a true junkie, I wanted another fix. Also, I was curious if I could reach orgasm through penetration since so many women claimed to be unable. Peter seemed all too eager when I suggested we meet up three evenings later to test my personal abilities.
“And the time after that?” he questions without waiting for a response from me.
It’s not difficult to guess that’s he’s implying every time was either frantic and rushed or half-asleep from sheer exhaustion. Last night was so draining because it was a first for us. We never had sex more than once a day and never for that amount of time.
“Your new hypothesis is that we never took our time when enjoying each other.”
He smiles. It’s not sharp, but soft and serene. Like he has another secret that only he knows. “No. That’s not a hypothesis. That’s a fact. We didn’t have a lot of time to spare. We were both hyper focused on getting our degrees and being decent TAs.”
I climb out from under the covers and sit cross-legged on the mattress beside him, truly curious. I confess, “I have no idea where you’re leading with this line of questioning then.”
“I told you I spent a lot of time researching how to pleasure you.”
I nod.
“You admitted I did a great job. ”
“I agreed that you did a ‘good’ job,” I point out. “You actually said it first.”
He smiles that smug smile again.
“Do you need me to stroke your ego because you’re feeling jealous?” I guess. “Do you need me to explicitly tell you how skilled and generous of a lover you are?”
“Nope.” His smile threatens the boundaries of his face.
I rather think he’s enjoying making me guess instead of clearly stating his intent.
“Is this because you suspect I don’t actually have a low EQ?”
He continues to grin. “No. I already know you don’t.”
“Then, what?” I throw my arms out in frustration. Even if he’s right about me, I certainly don’t possess the ability to read his mind.
“Remember what I also said about being obsessive about things that interest me?”
“Yes,” I hedge. “I still have no idea how that relates to anything we’ve discussed.”
“I never gave you the opportunity to please me,” he says with an equally soft voice and gaze. “To explore me. How can I expect you to be vulnerable with me if I’ve never been the same with you?”
I tilt my head to the side as I study him. Of course, it’s impossible to ignore the fantastically fit, male body on display for me. A smile tugs at my lips because he’s not as manscaped as he once was. I reach forward to run my palm up his thigh, the hair tickling my skin.
“This,” I murmur. “This, Peter, is what you have that attracts me to you the most. I was attracted to your mind from the very beginning.”
I don’t want to compare him to Chet. Not in this moment. No one else’s name belongs on my lips, which I lick with anticipation .
Peter visibly shivers.
I leap off the bed, ready to get started. The moment I flip the light switch, Peter commands, “Turn it back on.”
I do. “Why?”
He barely raises his eyebrows. “I want you to see what you do to me.”
I don’t know where to start, so I say, “I don’t know where to start.”
“Wherever you want,” he says, his arms still crossed behind his head like he’s genuinely offering himself up to me. “Whatever you want.”
I continue to stare at his naked form, my hands on my hips like I’m preparing for the most important exam of my life.
Have I studied?
Sure. I’ve collected data, listened to anecdotes, watched my fair share of pornography.
Those were never real-life situations.
As I chew on my lip, I realize Peter was right in his assessment of our past sexual history. He took the lead. I followed. It wasn’t blind trust on my part. I never had time to feel self-conscious or second-guess my decisions because Peter was so quick to learn how to take me to new heights. Every time we were together was a lesson I enjoyed very much. I didn’t realize until now that I didn’t walk away with the same knowledge about him as he had gained about me.
“How did you do this so easily?” I blurt.
“Do what?”
I gesture at him aimlessly. “Dive in with full confidence when you couldn’t possibly know the outcome.”
“Oh.” He blows out a puff of air. “Well, I wanted to touch you. Very much.”
“That’s it? That was all the motivation you needed?”
He nods .
I call his bluff. “You were also invested in the outcome. You admit you researched thoroughly. Surely, you had expectations.”
He barks out a soft laugh. “I absolutely did. If I didn’t perform well, then how could I possibly make you want more of me?”
That doesn’t make me feel any better.
He obviously knows it because he smiles at me as he murmurs, “You have the advantage this time.”
“How?”
“You already know I want more.” He shakes his head as his smile turns self-deprecating. “I’m hooked. You can’t possibly do anything that will make me change my mind now.”
I suppose that’s true. He wasn’t even angry when I confessed to investigating him in secret.
With that in mind, I approach the bed slowly. I’ve heard about people with foot fetishes, but I’m definitely not one of them. Still, I take my time to study every part on display. Do I really want to spend the rest of my life with someone who has Hobbit feet? What if that’s a hard limit I didn’t know I had because I never took the time to notice?
“Are you ticklish?”
I don’t know why that seems important, but it does. Perhaps because it’s something else I don’t know about him.
He shrugs. “Not particularly.”
“Even when I do this?” I test by stroking just my fingertip up and down the sole of his foot.
He moves the appendage around a little but otherwise has no reaction to the stimulus.
“How are you not ticklish?” I squint at him with narrowed eyes full of suspicion. “Isn’t that like not having an internal monologue?”
I already know he doesn’t suffer from that affliction. Half the time he talks out loud to himself .
Surprisingly, he grins at me. “Is this a deal breaker for you, Dr. Fowler? Do you need me to be even more vulnerable? Do you need me to have a weakness that you can exploit if necessary?”
“Maybe,” I admit. It hadn’t ever really occurred to me until he offered it as a potential reason.
His expression sobers. “Please don’t hurt yourself just to torture me.”
It takes me an embarrassingly long amount of time to realize he’s covertly saying that I’m his only weakness.
“I haven’t,” I assure him, but I realize it’s a lie.
Sure, I didn’t wallow in pain and misery for the past year, but I closed myself off. I ran away from, buried, and threw away the key to the pain he caused rather than dealing with it, learning from it, and healing.
I’m still doing it even now. Holding myself back, making lists in my head about all the ways he can hurt me again.
Using my low EQ as an excuse for not being able to have meaningful relationships with anyone around me.
I gasp as the full awareness washes over me.
Peter frowns. “The puzzle pieces are clicking together, aren’t they?”
I nod as tears spring into my eyes.
“It’s okay,” he soothes as he sits up in bed and reaches his arms out for me. “Knowledge is power. We don’t have to do anything else tonight. Let’s go to sleep.”
“No,” I whisper then say it again stronger, holding my hand up to indicate he should lie down again. “No. Let me do this. Not because it’s expected or because you want it, but because I want to.”
He chews his lower lip then finally nods and relaxes in the same prone position, folding his hands behind his head.
“You won’t laugh at me?” I ask, sharply aware of the pathetic lilt to my voice. I’m so weak in this moment, and I haven’t done anything at all. “You won’t leave if I’m not good enough?”
The corners of his mouth lift ever so slightly. Not a full smile, but not one of his patented frowns either. “No. Never. Not unless you’re laughing with me. Elise…I never wanted to leave. I’ve only ever wanted to stay.”
Have I ever wanted to stay? Really and truly? Or have I always been looking for an easy out? A reason to explain the collapse like my low EQ or their unintentional selfishness. I never placed blame. Perhaps because the blame was all mine, and I couldn’t admit that to anyone. Not even to myself.
I reach forward with a shaky hand before gliding my palm up the length of Peter’s leg. I climb onto the mattress to continue my exploration of uncharted territory.
Sex is easy in hindsight. It requires action rather than words or thought. There’s a clear end goal.
This? This is terrifying and yet strangely alluring.
“You don’t mind?” I double check. “I can really do anything I want?”
“I don’t mind,” he murmurs, his eyes soft on me. “I won’t laugh because I’ll enjoy every touch, every second of your attention on me. You can do nothing wrong because I want everything you have to give me.”
I must not look very convinced because he sticks his tongue in his cheek as he obviously thinks.
When he finds what he’s searching for in his mind, he speaks in a soft, slow manner that sounds the way warm maple syrup feels and tastes. “You are my homing beacon in the universe. I didn’t know I was looking for you until I found you, but when I did? You became the center for me. There’s nothing else to find. Not for me anyway. You are the perfect frequency, pitch, and wave that complements all the best and worst parts of me. Everything else—” He shrugs while still lying on his back. “—is just empty space.”
While I don’t fully agree with the idea that space is empty, I appreciate the sentiment.
I have no failure to fear because he’s patently telling me I can do nothing wrong when it comes to him.
Nothing physical or sexual anyway.
I physically shake loose that beckoning rabbit hole of dismal thoughts in favor of sliding my palms along his warm skin. Over his pecs, down the washboard of his defined abdominal muscles, along the V that only men are able to cultivate.
He lied.
He is a bit ticklish. I discover this new information when I drag my hands down his ribs toward his back.
He squirms in place and bites his lip to keep from laughing.
I don’t further test the theory because I have far more pressing knowledge to imbibe.
Our first time together, it seemed he had a map of all possible erogenous zones, which he methodically tested to determine my personal preferences. I’m thirsty to drink up similar knowledge for myself.
It’s more than just my usual curiosity. I have a burning, intrinsic need to know what this man likes.
I start with his neck—little puffs of warm breath, a glide of my lips, a lap of my tongue.
He stretches his head back to allow me total access, moaning when I suck on the utterly silky skin below his ear.
I skim my nose along the scratchy line of his jaw until I hover above his mouth.
He shivers in obvious anticipation.
I’m tempted to ask him what turns him on, but I don’t want more well-meaning, sweet platitudes. I want to do the work. I want to find out for myself .
Without giving in to his whimpering plea to explore his mouth, I travel further south, gliding my lips down the line between his pecs then veering east to flatten my tongue against his hardened nipple. These are sensitive for me. Perhaps for him as well.
He shudders.
Mmm, yes. I think he enjoys this.
Data is worthless unless it’s repeatable. I try the other side.
This time, he tunnels his fingers in my hair to hold me against him.
That’s an unmistakable reaction which indicates enjoyment.
I try several different techniques—circling around the edges where his tan skin darkens, flicking the tip of my tongue over the hardened nub, sucking gently then with more force on the entire area.
There’s no clear winner. He seems to enjoy it all.
Will he enjoy these ministrations everywhere?
Peter was very skilled at cunnilingus, but I never had the chance to reciprocate. There was never enough time or enough energy.
That excuse no longer holds up under the bright light of the bedroom.
I veer further south, awkward in the ways that I attempt to adjust my body on the mattress and against him without kneeing him in the ribs or elbowing him in the waist.
He watches me lazily, scooping my hair into a makeshift ponytail at the back of my head with his hand.
“I thought I had free rein?” I murmur as I catalogue all the relaxed features of his face.
“I’m not trying to stop you. I want to watch.”
“You’re a visual learner?”
He seems to ponder my question. “I guess I am, but in this case, I simply want to see you. Watching you suck me will turn me on.”
I’m a little petulant that he offered up that knowledge. I wanted to learn everything for myself.
Still, the idea that he’s expecting to be turned on rather than embarrassed for my lack of skill propels me into action.
I grip him firmly in my hand then glide my tongue from base to tip, all the while watching him, watch me.
His chest vibrates with a stuttering exhale as his eyelids fall to half-mast.
I’ve viewed many examples of how to perform fellatio, heard countless stories and anecdotes about tongue swirling, concentrating on the sensitive head, using hands for what won’t fit in my mouth. I don’t want to test those theories. Instead, I operate on pure instinct as I lap my tongue against every velvety soft texture.
Peter groans before tightening his hand in my hair.
I continue to stare at his strained expression as I slowly glide my mouth up and down his shaft, providing more suction when he’s as deep as I can take him.
His mouth opens in a soundless cry.
The proof of his pleasure makes me feel powerful and drunk on the knowledge that I’m the one doing this to him. I’m grateful he wanted me to be able to see it.
He’s not lying now.
Not with his expression, not with his breath, not with the way he jerks his hips upward to seek more.
I want to give him more. More than I have before.
So, I do. And I enjoy it, too. I had no idea giving pleasure could rival receiving it. A thrum of arousal steadily beats between my thighs, all soreness forgotten as I chase his high as thoroughly as I would chase my own.
Until he tugs me away .
I glare at him. “You said I could do whatever I want.”
He whimpers. “If you keep doing that, I’m going to come down your throat. I can pretty much guarantee you’ll like that about as much as nougat.”
I cross my arms over my chest, my anger building until a stunning realization makes me grin. “How do you know?”
“Because you dislike that slimy and gooey texture,” he says as if I don’t know my own likes and dislikes.
At those particular descriptors that I actually don’t associate with nougat, my grin grows to nuclear proportions. “No, I mean, how do you know what it tastes like? How do you know what the texture would feel like in my mouth?”
He bites his lip again. He’s not trying to hide laughter this time. Obvious panic shines in his eyes.
“You’ve tasted it?” I howl as I fall onto my side with laughter. “Oh, please, please explain this to me. For all your physical fitness, there’s no way you’re flexible enough to give yourself a blowjob.”
“Every guy has tasted his own jizz,” Peter grumbles, similarly crossing his arms over his bare chest.
The second the words leave his mouth, he leaps upright, throwing himself on top of me like he can possibly smother my hilarious laughter.
“No,” he begs, plastering his hands over my mouth. “I know how your brain works, Elise. Don’t even think it. You are not going to survey the guys at work tomorrow.”
“Please,” I squeal beneath his palm. “Please! I have to know if this is a real thing that men do!”
“Why would I lie?” he yelps with sheer, abject horror painted on his face. “You can’t talk about this tomorrow! I run a clean lab! No sex stories or sex surveys or sex jokes!”
Those words in that order snap the hysteria out of me .
Peter removes his hand from my mouth as he frowns at the obvious change in my expression.
“I—” I swallow, fighting against the courage that begs to be freed from my throat. Fighting against years of telling myself that my wants and desires are weird and not shared by most people.
Peter waits patiently, his brow furrowed as though he senses how difficult this is for me.
“I hate the way things are at work,” I finally confess then backpedal, “I understand. I do. I don’t want anyone to think I slept my way to this job, and I don’t want to undermine everything you’ve worked so hard to achieve. I detest the way they’re so focused on getting you laid or setting us up with blind dates. I hate that we can’t be ourselves there. That we have to hide. It makes this—” I swing my finger wildly in the scant space that separates us. “—feel like a dirty secret. Like before.”
“No,” he insists, wrapping his hands around my jaw. “No. We’re not a secret. We’re not dirty. Do you want me to quit? I can step down as director. There’s nothing in the employee handbook that forbids dating among employees of equal power.”
“Peter…” I wrap my hands around his wrists as a ball of emotions lodges in my throat. Have I ever met anyone in my life that would give up so much for me? Anyone else who was willing to go the distance when it was this difficult? “No. I don’t want you to step down. You’re doing an amazing job. You’re not just creating a safe, friendly, positive culture for your current employees. You’re ensuring the same for any person—male or female—who might be hired at Chester. You can’t quit. You wouldn’t be a man I respect if not for the brilliant, kind, sympathetic human that you are.”
His expression crumbles. “Are you just saying that because you feel it’s your civic duty? To fight for all the women who’ve been put in your unthinkable position? ”
“Does it matter?”
His eyes shutter, but he squares his shoulders. “I guess not. This is the reality we live in, so we just have to go along with it.”
I detest that idea. That nothing is our choice. That nothing we do or say matters. I’m going to work twice as hard for what I was hired to do.
Tomorrow.
I’ll do that tomorrow.
Tonight, I’m going to find out if my tastes align with Peter’s.