11. Meghan
ELEVEN
Meghan
W hat did I just do?
I can’t believe I could be so stupid. One minute we were working and then before I knew it, he had my clothes off and his delicious cock was buried deep inside of me.
If this has proven anything, it’s that I definitely need to quit my job. All it took was one accidental touch and I’m spread on a table ready for him to fuck me.
In Miami, when I said it wouldn’t happen again, I didn’t mean to lie. In fact, I hate lying. I honestly thought I could control myself around him. I mean, I’ve done it for the last year, so why can’t I do it now?
Because I’ve had him .
I haphazardly throw on my clothes as I run back to my desk to collect my things as quickly as possible, before hurrying down the corridor toward the main bank of elevators.
I’m not risking hanging around when he could come after me at any moment.
The last thing I want is for him to ask questions I don’t have the answer to.
Jabbing the button furiously, I curse the fact that we’re on the thirtieth floor, all the while throwing glances behind me to make sure he isn’t following me.
Breathing a sigh of relief when the elevator arrives, I step inside and press the button for the lobby before repeatedly pressing the close door button.
The faint sound of another elevator arriving on the floor has my stomach plummet at the fact that we could have been caught.
Trying my best to hide in the corner of the elevator, I hear someone walk past as the doors slide closed, not daring to take a peek.
I’m so angry at myself for giving into my most basic needs.
Using the time the elevator takes to descend to the lobby, I freshen myself up the best I can.
I don't want to be seen as a woman who sleeps with the boss and tries to use it to her advantage. Even if that isn’t what’s happening here, people will come to their own conclusions if they get a glimpse of my disheveled appearance.
Letting out a defeated sigh, I pull my coat around my body and try to cover the fact that my shirt has been ripped to shreds and my legs that were covered when I arrived are now bare.
The elevator dings, signaling I’ve reached the lobby, as I release a heavy breath.
When the doors glide open, I step out, ensuring I keep my head down as I rush toward the exit and out onto the quiet street.
It’s late and in this area of Lower Manhattan, which is predominantly businesses, it’s always quiet after eight.
It’s not ideal, but it means I’ll have to walk a little to grab a cab.
Walking a couple of blocks until I hit a busier area, I spot a cab and hail it to take me home.
It’s worth the cost—getting on the subway looking as disheveled as I do right now probably isn’t the best idea.
Settling into the back of the cab, I pull out my cell, switching it to silent mode as I make a mental plan for when I get home.
A long soak in the tub with candles.
My homemade oat and honey face mask.
Comfy PJ’s.
And a couple of episodes of a show before bed.
I’m going to need to stop for snacks and something to take the edge off of my nerves. That’s a given.
My heart hasn’t stopped racing and butterflies are in full flight mode in my stomach. If I’m being honest with myself, nobody has ever made me feel the way he does. Nobody has ever stolen my breath with a simple touch or made me a quivering mess just from being near them.
All of this is why I shouldn't keep working for him .
I spend the remainder of the cab ride replaying the events of tonight in the conference room over and over in my head.
I’ll admit it’s electric between us when we’re together. I love how he takes control and praises me when I do something that pleases him—I never knew that was a kink of mine. Part of me wishes we could have met in a different way. That he wasn’t my boss.
But he is, and this giving in to whatever the hell is going on between us, it needs to stop.
I’m flustered, turned on and annoyed with myself even more by the time the cab pulls up outside of my building. Paying the driver, I sheepishly climb out and allow the cold December air to cool my heated cheeks.
Taking my time on the icy sidewalk, I head in the direction of the bodega at the end of my block for my much deserved snacks and alcohol.
After the events of tonight and what I’ll have to face tomorrow, I think I should have at least a pint of ice cream and a bottle of wine.
Or maybe I’ll get some whiskey to pour over the ice cream.
Thank God it’s Friday tomorrow.
My phone vibrates in the bottom of my bag as I’m browsing the shelves of the store. Searching through the depths of my bag, I grasp my phone. As I pull it out, Mom flashes across the screen and I press the green button to connect the call.
“Hey Mom, how are you?” I ask, trying to inject some cheer into my voice.
“I’m okay, honey. Still a bit sick, but I wanted to check in with you.”
“Mom, we literally spoke yesterday, nothing has changed since then,” I chuckle as I pick up my favorite treats— whiskey and salted caramel ice cream—before carrying them to the cash desk to pay.
Nothing, other than being unable to keep my hands off of my boss.
“Are you sure? When my mom-alarm goes off, you know I know something is amiss.”
“I’m sure. I was working late and I’ve just stopped at the store for a snack. I’m going to pay and then head home,” I reassure her.
“Okay, if you’re sure.” She coughs, and as I wait for her to finish, I time it with my watch.
She’s getting worse, not better. My dad assured me she’s doing everything she can to get better, but I feel like they’re both being vague.
“What has the doctor said about your cough?” I ask.
“Oh, don’t you worry about me, pudding. I’ve got to go. Call me on Saturday, okay?” It’s just like her to ignore my concerns but expect me to answer hers.
“Okay. I love you.”
“Love you too, sweetie.” With that, I disconnect the call and pay for my treats.
Walking back to my place, I vow not to tell her come Saturday that I’ve had ice cream for dinner, although I’m sure she has some sort of sixth sense when it comes to what meals I eat.
Inside my apartment, I switch some lamps on as I move about, before putting the ice cream in the freezer and removing two ice cubes. Placing them in a large tumbler, I pour over a generous helping of whiskey. It’s not top-shelf, but it will do.
In the bathroom, I put my glass on the side table next to the tub, turning on the faucet and filling it. Sitting on the edge, I pour in a generous amount of lavender bubble bath, inhaling deeply as the comforting scent fills the room.
It’s been an eventful few weeks and I need to regroup.
Leaving the tub to fill, I stand in front of the mirror and take in my crumpled appearance. Peeling off my blouse, I inspect the damage before throwing it in the trash. It’s beyond repair.
My eyes snag on the red purplish colored bruises he’s left on me, and I run my fingers over the first one, reliving his mouth on me.
Marking me. It’s on the side of my neck, and I’m certain I’ll have to wear a turtleneck to hide it.
The other bruise is on my shoulder, and I run my fingers over the tender skin as I remember him coming deep inside me, the spasms of my own orgasm racking through me as his guttural sounds filled my ears.
Come on, Meghan.
Shaking my head to clear away the images, I turn away from the mirror, unable to look at my body for fear of finding more reminders of him. Once naked, I pull on my fluffy, oversized white robe, before lighting some candles and turning off the overly bright overhead light.
In the soft glow of the candles, I remove my makeup with a reusable face cloth before slathering on my homemade face mask.
As I connect my phone to my bluetooth speaker, I press shuffle on my Soul playlist, and the smooth sound of Solomon Burke’s Don’t Give Up on Me fills the room.
With my robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door, I step into the hot, scented water.
I relax to the sounds of some of my favorite soul legends, replaying mine and Cooper’s encounter in my mind, taking generous sips of whiskey.
It was like we couldn’t have stopped ourselves, even if we’d wanted to.
At the same time, I know it shouldn’t have happened and I refuse to let it happen again.
I have to be strong. Tomorrow I will sit down with him and affirm what we have already agreed.
I know now that if there is even a hint that we’re going to lose control I need to resign.
I end up staying in the bath until my fingers turn wrinkly and the water has long gone cold. I pull the plug, watching for a moment as the water swirls away, before grabbing my towel and patting myself dry.
Moving to the sink, I rinse my mask off and go through my bedtime skincare routine before smoothing my favorite shea butter lotion all over my body. Naked, I walk to my bedroom, before getting dressed in my usual PJs—a strappy camisole and booty shorts.
With my glasses on and my hair brushed out and tied into a messy bun on top of my head, I walk the few steps to the kitchen and serve myself a large bowl of ice cream.
At the last minute, I pour over a generous helping of whiskey.
Unable to resist, I scoop up a spoonful and savor the coolness of the ice cream paired with the warmth of the whiskey, moaning in delight.
Snacks in hand, I stroll to the couch where I settle down to watch the latest episode of Grey’s Anatomy .
I’m about thirty minutes into the episode when there’s a knock on my door.
I frown before pressing pause on the TV and walking to answer it.
I'm not expecting anyone and it’s kind of late, so I assume it’s Alex on the other side.
“Alex, I’m going to bed soon…” I announce as I pull the door open.
Only, it’s not Alex.