Chapter 4
FOUR
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The clock in Dr. Shaw’s office is the loudest I’ve ever heard. I don’t understand how she can concentrate with it hanging on the wall behind her.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I’m sitting in one of the two chairs across from her desk. The other is occupied by a six-foot-two man I refuse to acknowledge. Earlier, I caught a glimpse of his death grip on the armrest out of the corner of my eye. That was enough.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“It has to be done today.” Dr. Shaw has her hands folded on the desk, looking at us expectantly. None of us says a word.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“We have the room set up for you right now. I think it’s best if we head there as soon as possible. We can’t keep her fever under control much longer.”
He Who Shall Not Be Named clears his throat. “Would it be enough if I just stayed in the room? Or put a hand on her arm while she does it?”
Dr. Shaw shakes her head. “We don’t fully understand all aspects of this virus yet, but it seems the climax has to be administered directly by the partner. Proximity is not enough.”
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I decide to speak up. “How do you know it’s him? Maybe you’re wrong.”
She opens a drawer and pulls out a small stack of papers.
“We did a blood test. See, here.” She points to some medical terminology I don’t understand.
Next to it, the word “positive” is underlined.
“The connection is easy to detect with a blood test, and since he came in with you, he was our first guess. Symptoms typically appear a day or two after physical contact.”
Aha! I raise a finger in the air, feeling triumphant. “Your test is wrong, then. We’ve never been physical, so it’s not—”
“I touched your forehead before your first press briefing,” a low voice says from my left.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“I’m going to show you to the room now.”
The room is very clinical, which I assume is the point. They want the… event to feel more medical than intimate. I get it. Respect it, even. I just don’t know how I’m supposed to relax under fluorescent lighting.
At least there’s a bed. A single hospital bed with a blue mattress peeking out from beneath white sheets. Horrifyingly enough, it has stirrups mounted on the sides.
Next to the bed is a table with a drawer, where Dr. Shaw told us we could find things that might help. “Lubrication and provocative images,” she said. That exact wording.
I quickly decide the drawer will stay closed. I am not going to flip through porn next to my boss. Nope. I am going to try to maintain some scrap of dignity.
The rest of the room is pretty bare. There’s a locker, a row of cabinets where Dr. Shaw said we could find towels, a privacy screen on wheels, and a small stool, which I’m guessing is for Mr. Bennett. It’s right next to the bed.
Dr. Shaw left about a minute ago. Neither of us has moved.
“Should we…?” He gestures toward the bed.
I nod, trying to keep calm even though I feel like I’m about to melt into a puddle on the floor and die. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
He walks over to the bed, then stops when he notices the stirrups.
“We’re not using those,” he says.
Before I can respond, he crouches beside the bed and examines the metal brackets. It takes him a few seconds to figure out the release mechanism, but eventually one stirrup comes loose with a sharp click. He sets it against the wall, then removes the other.
The gesture shouldn’t matter as much as it does. They’re just pieces of metal. Still, some of the tension leaves my shoulders.
Mr. Bennett sits on the stool, and I gently lower myself onto the bed. I’m sick, and my body feels weak. To top it off, I’m carrying around nerves the size of Africa, and I’ve never in my life been so aware of myself as I am in this very moment.
“Mr. Bennett, I—”
“Andrew, please,” he interrupts. “I’m not your employer here. This is strange enough without the power dynamics.”
“Right. Yeah, that’s—that’s true.” I’m stumbling over my words. Fuck, I’m nervous. “Can I call you Andy?”
“No.”
“Okay. Cool.” Coolcoolcoolcool. “I guess we’ll just… start then.”
I lie down on the bed. My heart races, and blood rushes to my already fevered cheeks.
I glance over as he removes his jacket and folds it neatly over the back of the chair.
Then he rolls up the sleeves of his white button-down, revealing muscled forearms. My eyes linger there for a few seconds before drifting down to his hands.
He has manly hands. Large, slightly rough, with long fingers.
Hands that sign contracts and point out mistakes in documents and tap impatiently against conference tables.
Hands I’ve pretended not to think about before.
I quickly look away, afraid I’ll be caught ogling him.
“I washed my hands before we came in here.”
“Great,” I say, giving him the thumbs-up.
The thumbs-up.
I realize I also need to prepare and start undoing my fly. It’s awkward, to say the least. I think about pulling my pants down a bit, but then decide not to. He’ll find his way.
Mr. Bennett respectfully turns his head away and reaches out his hand.
He’s fumbling a bit, as if he’s afraid of actually touching me.
It’s strange, seeing him like this. He’s always so decisive at work.
So crisp and exact and irritatingly sure of himself.
But now his hand is hovering near my hip, a little uncertain. It’s weirdly endearing.
With slightly shaky hands, I grab his and guide his fingers to the edge of my underwear. I hear him swallow as he carefully slips his fingers beneath the thin cotton.
My boss has his hand inside my panties.
I feel hot all over and, to my utter mortification, realize I am aroused. Not just a little either. My body, traitorous piece of garbage that it is, has apparently decided this is the correct time to become wildly enthusiastic. I look down and see my nipples saying hello through my shirt and bra.
Of fucking course.
His fingers touch the soft hair between my legs, and I hold my breath. As his middle finger slides into my folds, it becomes clear to both of us that I am soaking wet.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “It’s, uh, been a while.”
His fingers pause for the briefest second before continuing. “Don’t apologize.” The words come out rough. “It makes it easier.”
He finds my clit right away, and I let out a small gasp as he presses softly against it. I wasn’t lying. It has been a while since anyone touched me like that.
He’s careful at first, like he’s trying to figure me out. Like he’s paying attention to every breath, every twitch, every humiliating little sound I fail to keep inside.
He applies more pressure, and I have to fight the urge to grab my breast and push against him.
It’s supposed to be clinical. I know that. But it’s so fucking hot. Mr. Bennett is a walking wet dream, and he’s touching me, and he’s my boss, and it feels so forbidden and—
I let out a moan.
I did not mean to do that.
He loses his rhythm for one unmistakable beat, then he resumes the same careful circles as if nothing happened.
He lightly pinches my clit and rolls it between his fingers, then circles it again, using the wetness gathered there to make everything slick and unbearable.
My back arches.
Fuck. He’s good.
He’s really, really good.
He keeps going like that. Pinching, rolling, circling. Each movement feels small and almost restrained, but my body reacts like he’s doing something much more obscene. Heat spreads through me in slow, heavy waves, loosening everything the fever made tight. My thoughts start to blur at the edges.
It feels like I’m floating. I’m not in a sterile white hospital room, being fingered by my boss. I’m somewhere else entirely. Somewhere warm and dark and airless, where there is only the sound of my breathing and the steady movement of his fingers between my legs.
Something starts building inside me.
At first, I think it’s the usual climb. But then it keeps growing. Spreading. Deepening. It doesn’t feel like other times. It feels sharper than that. Bigger.
My fingers curl into the sheets.
I need something more. But I can’t ask for that. I can’t say that—
He slides a finger down to my entrance.
My breathing stops.
“Is this okay?” His voice is strained.
“Yes,” I say, way too quickly.
He pushes inside, and I instantly know this is going to be over quickly.
He curls his finger and finds a spot inside me that makes my entire body jerk, while his thumb keeps steady pressure on my clit.
It builds and builds and builds, until I feel like a rubber band being pulled from both ends.
No, not a rubber band. Something larger than that.
Something wound too tight for too long. Something that has been sitting inside me for years without me knowing it, made of stress and loneliness and resentment.
“I’m close,” I breathe.
He speeds up.
Whatever is inside of me snaps, and I explode. For a few seconds, I am nothing but sensation. My body clenches around him as his fingers keep moving, carefully drawing it out until I’m trembling, oversensitive, and making sounds I’ll probably remember later and want to die.
“Fuck,” he says in a low voice.
Once I’ve come down from the most powerful orgasm of my life, I look at him. He’s breathing heavily, still with his face angled away from me. His jaw is tight, his shoulders rigid, and one hand is braced against his thigh.
Oh no, I think, as I understand with sudden horrible clarity that I may never be normal around this man again.
“Thanks,” I whisper. Because what the fuck else am I supposed to say?
He gently withdraws his fingers and stands. He still won’t look at me. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, then he turns and walks out of the room.