17. Late Night Confessions
17
LATE NIGHT CONFESSIONS
MACKENZIE
The Monday after the Winter Strategy Summit dawns cold and clear in Seattle, the kind of crisp December morning that makes the city look like it belongs on a holiday card. The kind of morning that should feel fresh and full of possibility.
Instead, I'm staring at my blog dashboard at 7 AM, cursor hovering over the "New Post" button, trying to ignore how my lips still tingle every time I remember Alex's kiss.
Three days have passed since that moment in the lodge hallway. Three days of avoiding his calls while fielding increasingly pointed texts from my sisters about why I fled the summit early, claiming a family emergency.
"You're OCD-organizing your icons again," Lucia announces from my office doorway. "Also, Nonna wants to know why you missed Sunday dinner. She's threatening to show up here with 'emergency cannoli.'"
"I'm fine." I close the blog window quickly. "Just... processing the summit outcomes."
"You mean processing making out with your CEO?" She drops into a visitor chair. "Which, by the way, the entire tech industry knows about thanks to Keith live-tweeting the whole weekend. Including, and I quote, 'The revolution witnesses forbidden love in the hallowed halls of corporate oppression! Also, does anyone know how to remove tinsel from climbing gear?'"
"It wasn't..." I start, then stop because technically it was exactly what it looked like. Right up until I panicked about my blog identity and ran away like Cinderella with a journalism degree.
"Wasn't what?" Lucia leans forward. "A mind-blowing kiss with a billionaire who's been secretly mentoring female developers and actually implementing your suggested changes? Because according to Keith's tweet thread?—"
"Don't you have actual work to do?"
"This is my work. Executive assistant, remember? Assisting you with your executive crisis."
"I don't have a crisis."
"Really? Then why is your blog dashboard open with a half-written post about 'the complexities of corporate reform' that has zero criticism of Drake Enterprises?"
Before I can respond, a commotion erupts in the hallway. Through the glass walls, we watch Keith march past with what appears to be the entire DevOps team, all wearing "Viva La Coffee Revolution" t-shirts.
"The biometric scanner is down!" he announces triumphantly. "The people's beans are free!"
"The scanner's down because Facilities is updating the software," Emma calls after them, tablet in hand. "As per the maintenance schedule you helped create!"
"A likely story from the corporate—" Keith stops short, spotting me through the glass. His eyes go wide. "Comrade Gallo! We missed you at the summit's closing ceremonies! Though the revolution understands that matters of the heart?—"
"Keith." I summon every ounce of my Nonna's commanding presence. "What did we say about discussing personal matters in professional settings?"
"That it undermines the structural integrity of corporate hierarchy and perpetuates systems of—" He catches my expression. "Right. Coffee revolution now, romance commentary later."
He scurries off, revolutionary t-shirt army in tow.
"See?" Lucia gestures at the retreating developers. "Even Keith knows you're having a crisis."
"I'm not—" My phone buzzes with a text from Alex:
ALEX: We need to talk about the summit. And why you left. And possibly why Keith keeps calling me 'The Bourgeois Heartbreaker' in sprint planning meetings.
"Not a crisis, huh?" Lucia reads over my shoulder. "Is that why you're hiding in your office at 7 AM?"
"I'm not hiding. I'm... taking the smart, professional path and avoiding complicated situations."
"You mean you're avoiding the fact that you're falling for the man you're supposed to be exposing through your blog?"
Put that way, it sounds ridiculous. And impossible. And exactly what's happening.
I pull up the employee satisfaction metrics instead of answering. The numbers don't lie – all my initiatives are working. Retention is up, engagement is soaring, and the anonymous feedback program (now with 30% fewer revolutionary manifestos) is actually driving positive change.
"The Christmas Gala is in two weeks," I say instead of addressing my sister's knowing look. "We need to finalize the vendor contracts and?—"
"Ms. Gallo?" Emma appears in my doorway. "Mr. Drake would like to see you in his office. About the..." she checks her tablet, "anomalous patterns in recent social media engagement metrics."
Oh no .
"Now?" I definitely don't squeak.
"He seemed... adamant."
Lucia stands. "Well, this should be interesting. Try not to start any revolutions. Or make out with any CEOs in glass offices."
"Not helping."
"Never claimed to be." She heads for the door, then pauses. "But Mac? Maybe consider that some revolutions work better from the inside."
I watch her go, her words echoing in my head. Through the glass walls, I can see Alex in his office, jacket off, sleeves rolled up in a way that makes a heartbeat pound between my legs.
Right. Time to face the music.
And possibly get fired.
Again.
But first, I need coffee. Assuming Keith's revolution hasn't completely disrupted the supply chain.
The break room is surprisingly peaceful, though someone (definitely Keith) has added a small reproduction of Delacroix's "Liberty Leading the People" above the coffee machine. Liberty is holding a coffee cup instead of a flag.
I'm halfway through making my emergency espresso when Alex's voice behind me makes me jump.
"Avoiding me?"
I turn slowly. Dark-haired and smoldering, he’s leaning in the doorway, looking good damn delectable for someone who might be about to fire me. Again.
"Not avoiding. Just... processing."
"Processing what? The kiss? The fact that you ran away? Or the fact that our anonymous blogger hasn't posted anything critical about Drake Enterprises since that night?"
My heartbeat triples in pace.
"I don't follow?—"
"Yes, you do." He steps into the break room, closing the door. " Just like you followed our inclusion metrics before I hired you. Just like you knew about our retention issues before the takeover. Just like you've known exactly which problems to focus on because you've been documenting them for months."
"Alex—"
"The question is," he moves closer, "why didn't you just tell me?"
"Tell you what?" My back hits the counter. "That I run a blog critical of tech culture? That I've been exposing industry problems while working to fix them? That I?—"
He kisses me.
Not like at the lodge, all pent-up tension and whiskey-flavored possibilities. This is softer, sweeter, but somehow more dangerous.
"That you're making a difference," he murmurs against my lips. "That you're actually changing things instead of just criticizing them. That you're?—"
The break room door bursts open.
"The revolution demands—" Keith stops short. "Oh. Interesting strategic meeting location, comrades. The revolution notes that the break room's glass walls make it surprisingly unsuitable for... private corporate discussions."
"Keith." Alex straightens his tie with deliberate casualness. "Did you need something?"
"Just monitoring potential counter-revolutionary activities." Keith's eyes narrow. "Though the revolution is intrigued by these unscheduled leadership consultations..."
"Out," I manage, my voice remarkably steady considering how my heart's racing.
Keith retreats, but I hear him muttering about "suspicious patterns of management behavior" and "bourgeois meeting protocols."
"We should probably..." I nod at the door.
"Probably." Alex steps back, professional mask sliding into place though his eyes still burn. "My office by end of day? We have some... initiatives to discuss."
The way he says "initiatives" makes my pulse jump. "I have back-to-back meetings until six."
"I'll wait."
I blink. "How did you?—"
"Your first blog post about Drake Enterprises. 'Glass walls don't create transparency, they just give employees new ways to feel exposed.' It was clever. Like all your posts."
"You knew? This whole time?"
"I suspected. Then I started liking the hell out of you, and it didn't matter anymore."
Oh.
Ohhhh.
"Alex—"
“See you later.” He turns and walks off.
As for me, I work hard to make a cup of coffee without my hands shaking. The second I do, I head back towards my back-to-back meetings, pretending I can focus on anything that’s being discussed.
It's 6:45 PM when I finally make it to his office. The Seattle winter night presses against the windows, city lights twinkling through a fresh dusting of snow. Most of the office is empty, though I can hear Keith's revolutionary choir practicing what sounds suspiciously like "Les Misérables" in the distance.
Alex is at his desk, jacket off, shirtsleeves rolled up, looking like every corporate fantasy I've ever denied having. He doesn't look up when I enter, just says quietly, "Close the door."
I do, my heart thundering against my ribs.
"You're late." He still doesn't look up from whatever he's reading.
"Budget meetings ran long. Apparently, Keith's request for revolutionary office supplies needed extensive review. "
Now he does look up, and the intensity in his pine-green eyes makes me glad I closed the door. "Sit."
I don't. Something about his commanding tone makes me want to challenge it. "I prefer to stand."
He rises slowly, coming around his desk. "Always have to do things the hard way, don't you?"
"Says the man who spent an hour arguing about wine decanting."
"That was different."
"Was it?"
He's close now, close enough that I can smell his cologne, see the dark shadow of hair along his jaw. "You ran away."
"I had a family emergency."
"You ran away," he repeats, backing me against his office door. "After I kissed you."
"Technical point – I ran away the next morning. After you kissed me."
"Semantics." His hands land on either side of my head, caging me in. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why run? Why hide? Why spend months criticizing tech culture through a blog instead of just telling me directly?"
"Would you have listened?" I tilt my chin up, defiant despite my racing pulse. "Before the champagne incident? Before I proved I could actually fix things?"
"No," he admits, then kisses me.
This isn't like the lodge kiss, all whiskey-flavored possibility and tentative exploration. This isn't even like the break room kiss, soft and sweet and questioning.
This is possession. Challenge. Promise.
This is everything we've been dancing around since that first gala.
My fingertips curls into his button-down shirt as he deepens the kiss, pressing me harder against the door. His tongue traces my lower lip and I open for him with a gasp that turns into a moan when his thigh slides between mine.
"Still want to run?" he murmurs against my neck.
"Still want to fire me?" I counter, then gasp as he finds that spot behind my ear.
"I think," his hands slide down my sides, "we can find better ways to handle corporate criticism."
"Like making out in your office after hours?"
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. "Like admitting that maybe we're both right. And both wrong. And maybe?—"
I cut him off with another kiss, because somehow he keeps saying exactly the right things in exactly the right way and it's either kiss him or admit that I might be falling in?—
A crash from outside makes us jump apart.
"Sorry!” Keith's voice carries through the door. "Minor revolutionary incident with the holiday decorations! Nothing to worry about! Though the revolution notes some interesting after-hours management meetings happening?—"
"I'm going to fire him," Alex mutters against my throat.
"No, you're not." I thread my fingers through his hair. "He's actually good for morale. In a chaotic sort of way."
"Speaking of chaos..." He pulls back, though his hands stay on my waist. "We should talk about the blog."
"Now?" I arch into him, enjoying how his eyes darken. "With actual words?"
"Mac..."
"Tomorrow," I promise, then kiss him again because I can't not. "Everything tomorrow. Tonight just..."
"Just?"
"Just kiss me again."
He does. And for once, I don't think about blogs or corporate culture or anything except how right this feels.
He lifts me effortlessly, turning and walking before he places me on his desk, his lips never leaving mine. The cool surface of the desk contrasts with the heat of his body as he leans over me, his hands exploring every curve. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, feeling the hard length of him press against me.
His mouth trails down my neck, his breath hot against my skin. He unbuttons my blouse, the brush of his fingers making my spine angle towards him.
He kisses his way down my chest, his tongue circling my nipple through the lace of my bra. I gasp, my hands gripping his hair, tugging him closer. He unhooks my bra, freeing my breasts, his mouth capturing one pebbled nipple, then the other, his teeth grazing my sensitive skin.
His hands slide down my sides, his fingers hooking into the waistband of my skirt. Sliding it slowly down, his mouth follows the path of the fabric, kissing every inch of skin he exposes. I lift my hips, helping him remove the skirt, leaving me in nothing but my underwear.
I inhale the softly swirling air around us. The inhale becomes a startled gasp, as Alex kneels in front of me, his hands spreading my thighs wide.
His smoldering gaze heats a path up to to my face, and it is all I can do not to combust on the very spot.
"You're so beautiful, Mac.”
The words are gravelly and warm against my inner thigh.
Alex kisses his way up my thigh, his tongue tracing a path to the edge of my lacy underwear. He hooks his fingers into the waistband, tugging them down slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. I lift my hips, helping him remove the last barrier between us.
He spreads my thighs wide, his fingers tracing the folds of my sex. The second his fingers make contact, I gasp again. The gasp turns into a guttural groan as he leans in, his tongue replacing his fingers, licking and sucking, driving me wild.
I grip the edge of the desk, my body writhing under his touch. He slides a finger into me, his tongue circling my clit, his other hand gripping my hip, holding me in place. I whimper, my body tightening around his finger, my orgasm building.
He adds another finger, his tongue flicking faster, his grip on my hip tightening, and I cry out. My body jolts, rocking and bucking as my orgasm shoots through me like a current. Alex rides out the waves with me, his fingers and tongue never stopping, drawing out every last shudder.
After a second, he stands, his mouth capturing mine, his tongue sharing the taste of my desire. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him close, feeling the heavy shaft of his thick cock pressed against me.
I moan.
"Alex," I bumble out against his lips, my body aching for more. "I need you."
He pulls back, his pine-green irises deepening to the color of dewy moss. "Not here," he says, his voice rough. "Not like this."
I look up at him, confusion and desire warring within me. "What do you mean?"
He cups my face, his thumb brushing against my cheek. "When I make love to you, Mac, it won't be on a desk in my office with Keith Frampton bitching and moaning outside. To be clear, it’s not the moaning part I’m opposed to. It’s the Keith part.” His eyes pass over me. “I rather enjoy your moans.”
I stare at him, my heart swelling with emotion. "Alex..."
He kisses me gently, his hands helping me off the desk, helping me dress. "Tomorrow," he promises, his voice soft. "Everything tomorrow."
And for once, I don't think about blogs or corporate culture or anything except how right this feels. And how much I'm looking forward to tomorrow.