9. Lucienne
Wednesday, October 18th
Unwell. I am unwell.
I have been unwell since Jude had me gasping for air in my kitchen in the best way possible. A complete state of shock seems like the best description.
No one has ever—ever—touched me like that. He didn’t even kiss me and I was on the edge, begging for more of him. The whole situation had me reeling as I crawled into bed that night. I didn’t even know women could have wet dreams until that night.
The insatiable need that consumed me the second I woke up is still lingering days later as I sit at my desk, Jude a few rows down.
Be patient, beautiful. Patient. We’ll know when it’s right.
He turns his head now and then, splitting his attention between an active meeting and responding to emails. His side profile emphasizes the sharpness of his jaw. A pulse between my legs forces me to cross them and take a deep breath.
The office is nearly full today, with all of us shoved into these cubicles like a pack of sardines. This is not the place to be this turned on.
It’s not my fault. It’s Jude’s fault.
He wouldn’t kiss me. But he could drag his lips along my jaw and twist my t-shirt in his fist at my waist. His stubble tickled the sensitive skin on my neck and sent wave after wave of heat rolling down my spine, my body clenching at every new sensation.
I could feel his hard length straining against his jeans. The heat between us left my panties soaked. I couldn’t catch my breath.
We’ll find the right moment together.
My screen goes black, so I swat at my mouse and it pops back on. I haven’t touched my design concept for hours. I had to use the dreaded system and select some templates as a starting point.
Not only am I sexually frustrated, but I’m also ready to throw a full-blown tantrum in the middle of the office because my work is complete crap. Not the quality of my work, no. I take too much pride in what I do to produce something subpar, but the nature of my work.
These templates are exactly what I thought they’d be. Predesigned page layouts and content blocks, placeholders for branding components, and restrictions when it comes to customization.
I’ve tried to stay positive and make this work for me, but it’s getting harder to pretend like I’m fine with it. When I passed along the design concepts for the client’s consideration earlier in the week, all I did was add their brand colors to the templates to gauge their interest.
When I say that anyone could have done that, I mean it. Anyone. My guinea pigs could have done that. The excitement from the client made it exponentially worse. They were ecstatic with all of the options and made their selection on the spot.
I reference the client brief over and over to make sure I’m considering all of their requirements. I’m doing this because I have to be missing something. It’s too simple. There’s no challenge in this, no creativity, no thought.
“Am I disrupting the creative process?”
I jump. “Holy—Colette, don’t creep up on me!”
She shoves my shoulder playfully. “I said your name like three times. Are we eating lunch?”
It’s already lunchtime? Time is lost on me. Between my sexual fantasies and loathing of my work, I hadn’t realized my day was half done.
And Jude still hasn’t asked me out. We haven’t so much as exchanged a few words today.
“Yeah, of course.” I smile and loop my arm in hers.
Colette and I head to the kitchenette, where we had stowed our lunches. There are two bar-height tables and chairs near the windows. We sit down and Colette smirks at me.
“What are you up to?” I ask skeptically. I narrow my eyes at her as she shimmies her shoulders, her arms behind her back.
“I made something special for you,” she says, revealing a piece of apple pie in a plastic container.
She did say she wanted to make some apple pies when we had gone apple picking, but I know Colette and I know that this is not just an apple pie.
“Yes, it is caramel apple pie. The taste testing may have been the best part.” She places the container on the table and temptingly pushes it toward me with her forefinger. “You’re licking your lips, Lucy.”
Yes, I am licking my lips. Plain apple pie is okay. Colette’s caramel apple pie is incredible, amazing,show stopping, spectacular, never been done before—delicious. I make quick work of unpacking this little slice of heaven and diving in.
“You earthbound angel. You made my day—no—my week, my month. My year. This pie makes my year every year,” I say around a mouthful of sweet, sticky goodness. The crust is flaky and golden, the caramel smooth, and the delicate crunch of apple juicy.
Colette laughs, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Friend hat on. How is everything going on the project?” She pops a potato chip in her mouth.
I stop chewing and glare at her. We had our one-on-one yesterday, so she knows exactly how I feel about this as an employee, but she’s giving me permission to tell her what I actually think now.
The boundaries are very well defined for us. Little does she know I’ve been seeing red for the past few hours about this project.
“Can I just quit? You can tell people you fired me for something stupid,” I suggest.
Colette covers her mouth and laughs, choking down the food she was chewing. “Lucy, it cannot be that bad. The client seems fine. I mean, come on; they’re over the moon! You know they are singing your praises, right?”
I shudder with rage. “Oh, those praises don’t belong to me. They can thank those stupid templates and finish the site themselves at this stage.”
“So melodramatic. Are you giving this a chance? Seriously, Lucy, I know you, and your sarcasm and quick wit are two of my favorite things about you. But honestly, are you?” She’s looking at me with concern, the corners of her mouth pulling her lips in a thin line.
I am giving this a chance. If I wasn’t, I would have walked out and started sending out my portfolio weeks ago. I’m just miserable.
“I am. I’m just—” I start.
“Friend hat,” she snaps.
My anxiety starts to rise, my cheeks getting hot. “I am trying, Colette. It just solidifies my worries about this whole thing to begin with. The challenge and creativity aren’t there anymore. It’s so restrictive, even the web developers have told me their ability to do any HTML or CSS coding is limited. It’s not just me. We’re so stuck in these templates. I don”t think this whole thing was thoroughly tested, at least not with the right people.”
Colette sighs and leans her face into the palm of her hand, her elbow propped on the table. It isn’t often that I see her look defeated. I know she’s been looking for solutions, trying to find ways to mitigate the displeasure toward this new system from not only me, but others as well.
She lowers her voice. “I don’t know what Wilder was thinking. Every other department that needs to touch this system has had issues of some kind, but you didn’t hear it from me. I hope this feedback is taken seriously.”
I shrug, taking another bite of pie. I’ve completely abandoned the lunch I packed for myself. I’m drowning my sorrows in pie. “I’m doing my job,” I say. “In fact, I have a meeting after lunch with Jude for our next checkpoint meeting with the client.”
At the mention of Jude, Colette perks up and takes my hand in hers. “How is all that going?”
“We’re talking and it’s fine. Don’t get weird.” I blush. I am not ready to talk about how fine things are.
“Whatever you say. Even with all of this work nonsense, in the past week you’ve seemed, I don’t know, more even-keeled? There’s this sense of assertiveness you’ve had lately. If things are fine, I can’t wait to see what you’re like when things are good.”
I push her foot with mine under the table and laugh.
“He’s been—he’s been very supportive throughout this whole transition,” I say. “I mean, he kind of has to be considering he’s the project manager, I guess.” I shrug.
“Oh, he doesn’t have to be. He could tell you to suck it up and get your work done. He’s being intentional.”
“No comments about how hot he is?”
“I’d be preaching to the choir, but he’s also supportive. That’s a dangerous combination.”
Jude sits beside me, elbow to elbow, as we review project notes and presentation slides. Our laptops are open, color palettes, mood boards, and printouts strewn about the long conference table.
This checkpoint with the client is a critical one. With a selected design direction, we’re planning out every small detail, page by page. Every step of the way, we need the client to give us the thumbs-up. It’s tedious and time-consuming, but in the end, it ensures the client gets exactly what they want.
I’ve mocked up a few of their web pages thus far, one being their online storefront. Since it’s an e-commerce site, this is the key feature that is needed to give people an ideal experience. I start big and then whittle down to the smaller, less significant pages.
Having Jude so close is both maddening and comforting and I’m still trying to figure out how that can be.
“Primarily, we need to make sure there are filtered drop-down menu options on this page.”
He”s combing through small details and functions that each page should provide. His brows are pulled inward in concentration; his gaze jumps from my screen to his and then flips through his own notes.
“That is a basic function of any e-commerce site. Don’t worry; it’ll be there.”
He sighs but doesn’t respond. My heart sinks at the possibility that maybe he isn’t going to ask me out. I understand we’re both very focused on the task in front of us, but there isn’t even a hint that he’s thinking about our conversation from Monday.
My stress levels are rising.
“Can you tell me why we need to create a whole presentation for this?” I ask.
“Because it’s our process, Lucienne.”
“It is a ridiculous way for us to be spending our time.”
“Not everyone feels that way.” He clenches his jaw, shooting me a stern look.
“This work can practically do itself, Jude. It’s like I’ve told you. It just feels like what I have to offer as a web designer at this point is null considering we’re working with cookie cutter templates. This presentation seems pointless.”
Jude turns, his elbow nearly pushing mine off the table. He leans back in his chair and I can see his chest heaving. There’s a fire burning behind his green eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, almost baring his teeth, but snaps it shut.
“You clearly have something to say,” I snap, feeling my anger starting to boil over. At this system, at this project, at his dedication to making it work when I want to sabotage the whole thing.
He looks around the room, over his shoulder at the doorway, and shuts the door with a gentle click before returning to his seat. That click is followed by a stifling silence, a tension in the air that has transformed into something else altogether.
“Why do think so little of yourself and the work you do?” he asks.
His words are gentle, but his question is unexpected and sharp. I almost wince as he stares at me intently. I don’t like the way his words sting because there’s a complicated sliver of truth to them.
I may take pride in my work and know the value I bring to the table, but with all of these changes, no one else at this company seems to. It’s made me feel useless, like I’m just filler on my team at times.
I hate this feeling he’s just unleashed because until this moment, I hadn’t allowed myself to acknowledge it fully.
“I don’t, but everyone else does,” I correct him.
He turns to me, taking my hands in his. He rubs his thumb across my knuckles. “I’ve seen the way you work, what you can brainstorm and create, no matter the restraints. And even if you think your expertise isn’t valued by others, it absolutely is. Especially by me. The client didn’t have a clue what they wanted until you helped lead them to it. Your design expertise is the only thing driving this project.”
My heart skips a beat and tears burn in the back of my eyes. How does he know when I need encouragement the most? How did he just lift me up, reassure me, and make me feel like I can take on the world? I’ll be on the precipice of spiraling into self-doubt and he’s there to yank me back.
“This whole situation makes me feel helpless sometimes,” I whisper.
He stands suddenly, his gaze locked on me. He is so abrupt, he almost knocks his chair over. Then he gently takes my hands, encouraging me to stand, and guides me toward the back wall, out of sight of the door. My mind is a blur and my pulse is pounding in my ears as my back hits the wall with a light thud.
Jude is holding our hands together with a tightened grip. Then his palm flattens against the wall beside my head, his biceps tightening as he bears his weight. He drags his other hand through his hair, letting out a warm breath and shifting his weight between his feet.
I need to touch him.
I place my hands flat against his chest, his muscles flexing beneath them.
His free hand cradles the nape of my neck as he presses our foreheads together for a moment. Then he pulls back to look at me.
He’ll see right through me; I know he will. I don’t want him to right now. All I do is fall apart in front of him. He doesn’t embarrass me; I embarrass myself time and time again. The confidence I mustered in my apartment on Saturday is nowhere to be found.
“I’m scared.”
“What scares you, beautiful?”
“Just not feeling like I’m enough—” I trail off, closing my eyes as he starts to make small circles with his thumb on the back of my neck.
“Lucienne, you’re…” he growls. “You’re more than enough. Please know that.”
He’s holding my chin in his hand, his gaze rapidly darting between my eyes and my mouth. My fingers curl into the fabric of his suit jacket, seeking warmth from the skin underneath. His breathing becomes heavy, his tongue licking his bottom lip.
He’s losing control and so am I, arching my back away from the wall to bring us closer together.
Involuntarily, I whimper, begging him to close the distance between us. We’ve been standing like this long enough for the motion sensor to turn the lights off, casting us in shadows and slivers of light from the hallway.
We’re in an office full of people and anyone could walk in at any moment, the door left unlocked.
His jaw clicks and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. He opens his mouth to speak again and snaps it shut, instead crushing me against the wall.
One arm is holding me pressed to him while the other grasps the hem of my dress in a fist. He’s hard and I feel his length behind his thin suit pants.
Please. This is the right time.
I need him to show me how much he wants me. I need him to put these pieces back together.
I’m pleading with every fiber of my being for him to kiss me. And as if he reads my mind in that exact moment, his lips crash against mine.
Warm, soft, hungry.
A moan escapes me as I wrap my arms around his neck, our lips parting and his tongue finding mine. I hear a groan hum on my lips as he rolls his hips against me, making me see stars.
He tastes incredible.
His hot, panting breath leaves me wanting to lick into his mouth and drink him in. Our teeth collide, desperate to see who can consume the other first.
Huffing, nipping, licking.
His suit pants cling to my dress, bunching it between us and—conveniently—applying pressure to just the right place. We both react sharply, finding each other’s mouths in between heaving breaths as he rolls his hips a second time with greater force.
If he maintained this rhythm, I’m almost certain I could come undone just like this. Up against a wall, my dress askew, and his length grinding against me through his stupid fucking suit pants.
The friction is so deliciously perfect, and we’re clothed head to toe.
“Jude,” I pant.
He laughs breathlessly, releasing my dress and grabbing a fistful of my loose curls, angling my head to give him better access to my neck, where he presses warm kisses to my skin.
My eyelids flutter shut as each kiss sends a shocking sensation through my body. My core is clenching and I pull his hips against me, knocking the wind out of him.
“Lucienne, you’re enough, beautiful. You”re enough,” he whispers.
He nips my earlobe between his teeth before trailing light bites down my neck, along my collarbone.
I whimper again and his body becomes rigid against mine. Our chests heaving together, hands frantically searching for bare skin.
“It sounds insane to fucking say this out loud, but you need to stop making those sweet noises, Lucienne.” He pants into my mouth, kissing me deeply.
“Why?” I moan.
“Because I need to take you out. I need to treat you the way you deserve to be treated. And those little noises are making it really fucking difficult to be a gentleman,” he growls.
He catches my bottom lip between his teeth. I stifle the moan rising in the back of my throat, finding skin under his collar. I feel his muscles rippling beneath my hands and he rolls his hips a third time, his legs beginning to shake.
“When are you taking me out?” I whisper.
I bring my lips to his neck, licking a small circle at the base of his throat.
He chokes, gasping for air.
“Tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up at eight. Dress warm, but comfy. And hey”—he rubs his hands down my forearms and kisses the tip of my nose—“I told you we’d find the right moment together.”
“In broad daylight, in the office after arguing over work? It’s not exactly what I envisioned,” I laugh.
He smirks, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to kiss you so badly.”
“But you need to take it slow with me?”
“Well, I’m doing my best. I waited as long as I could.” He huffs a laugh.