Chapter 6
SIX
“He’s not going to ask me that. Be serious, please. This is important.”
Annie sets down her notepad. “You don’t actually know that, though. You haven’t seen his questions. You need to be prepared for anything.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, Mr. Journalist, the carpets do match the drapes.” I throw a Skittle at her. “Are you happy now?”
“Very.”
She starts asking the questions I had written down for her. Every now and then, she throws in a question of her own, some serious, some incredibly inappropriate. I answer them all while pacing the room.
“You look insane. Take a break, come sit.”
I throw myself onto the couch. It’s almost midnight, and I’m exhausted. I glance at Annie, who tries to hide a yawn.
“I can’t believe I forced you to do this with me. You just came off a twelve-hour shift.”
She shakes her head. “I’m fine. I want to help you.”
We sit on the couch for a while, eating snacks and talking. I tell her about the new opportunities I’ve been given lately and how excited I am about them. If I’m lucky, they might actually lead somewhere.
I’m tired of feeling like my time doesn’t belong to me. I want to make my own decisions instead of just carrying out orders.
Most of all, though, I want to make more money.
It’s an ugly thing to admit, but it’s the truth. I already make good money in my current position. I don’t have to scrape the last of my concealer out with an X-Acto knife anymore, or hover by the sale rack doing mental math before I let myself buy something.
I’m comfortable.
But I want more.
I want to earn enough to pay off my mom’s mortgage.
I’ve wanted that since long before the diner closed. She should get to retire and spend her gray-haired days on the porch with a cheesy romance novel and a cup of tea. Not still busting her ass every day, living paycheck to paycheck.
And now she doesn’t even have a paycheck.
So, yeah. I’m going to fucking nail the interview tomorrow.
I have to.
The journalist is a nice man in his early fifties named Brian, and we meet at the Green House around nine in the morning. It’s crisp out, and I’ve come prepared with a thick scarf and two steaming mugs of coffee. Brian thanks me, takes his cup, and we head inside.
The building is still very bare-bones, and our footsteps echo off the naked concrete as we cross the lobby.
He starts asking questions right away, and I do my best to answer them as we tour the building.
After I’ve shown him around and let him take some pictures, we sit down to drink our coffee.
We spend almost half an hour talking about the project.
Brian asks about delays, rising material costs, downgrades, and environmental concerns.
Every time he throws a new question my way, I brace myself for the awkward moment when I have to admit I don’t know the answer.
It never comes.
After a while, Brian lowers his coffee cup and studies me.
“What?”
He laughs. “Most people in your position would’ve given me three rehearsed talking points and then redirected every difficult question to someone higher up the food chain.”
I smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It was one,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “You’re good at this.”
I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. “I just really believe in this project.”
His eyes drift to the unfinished walls, the plastic covering the windows, and the dust on the floor.
“You do?”
Nope.
“Of course. This building will become a landmark in a few years, mark my words.”
Please don’t.
He lets out a low chuckle and shakes his head. “You know, I heard that Atlas Development is looking for a new PR Manager. I’d give them a call if I were you.”
“Really?”
He gives me a long look. “You’re wasted as an assistant. It’s probably why Andrew sent you to do this—he knows you should be doing more than just keeping track of someone’s calendar.”
The words stay with me for the rest of the day. And the next.
I pull up Atlas Development’s website. They’re one of BenCo’s competitors, and just visiting their page feels vaguely treasonous, but I can’t help myself. I click on Careers. A list of openings appears: architects, analysts, marketing specialists.
Then I spot it.
PR Manager.
My pulse picks up as I open the listing. The job sounds fun, engaging, and challenging. It also sounds like the kind of job where I wouldn’t be micromanaged by a nitpicky boss, which is very intriguing.
Mr. Bennett’s door opens, and I quickly close the tab.
He walks up to my desk. “How did the interview go yesterday?”
“It went well, I think,” I say, reaching for the cardigan draped over my chair. It’s a little chilly in here.
“Let’s hope so.” He tilts his head slightly. “How are you feeling?”
I hesitate. “What do you mean?”
He gives me a look.
Oh.
“I’m good. For now.” I look away, unable to meet his gaze during this particular conversation. “I’ll let you know when I’m… not good.”
“Will you look at me?”
No.
“Please?”
My head snaps up. For a second, I wonder if someone has replaced Mr. Bennett with an identical-looking imposter. “Did you just say please?”
He crosses his arms over his chest, and he looks—concerned? His eyes study me intently as I gape at him. “Yes, I did. Now—”
“You never say please.”
He scoffs. “Sure I do.” Nope. “You look feverish.”
“I do?” I press the back of my hand to my cheek. It’s warm, which is strange, since I’m freezing.
Ah.
Well, fuck.
“Fever?” he asks.
Mr. Bennett already has his phone out before I finish nodding. “I’ll call Dr. Shaw and have her book the room.”
I stare at him. “Why are you being so normal about this?”
His gaze lifts from his phone. “How would you prefer I react?”
I have no idea how to answer that, because I don’t know. He’s been ignoring me for days, and now he’s suddenly checking in? It’s weird. This whole situation is weird.
I just shrug.
“Would you rather we ignored the signs and waited for you to faint in my office again?”
I shudder at the memory. “No.”
“Me neither.”
He puts the phone to his ear and walks back into his office. A few minutes later, he emerges wearing a coat and carrying his car keys.
“Let’s go.”
Before we walk into the room, Dr. Shaw tells us she’ll be right outside and that we should take all the time we need. I bite the inside of my cheek. Imagine if we spent an hour or two in there, fucking like bunnies, and she had to sit outside, acting all professional, waiting for us to finish.
Ugh, now I’m not going to be able to stop thinking about the fact that she’s right outside. How soundproof is this room? It looks like a normal room.
Oh god.
Did she hear me moan last time?
“Carly?”
I jump at my name and turn to Mr. Bennett. His sleeves are rolled up again, and he’s looking at me expectantly. It takes me a second to realize he’s waiting for me to get on the bed.
“Oh, right.”
I take off my coat and hang it on the hook by the door before making my way to the bed. The sheets rustle beneath me as I sit down, and then I look down and realize we have a problem.
“I’m wearing a skirt.”
“That you are,” Mr. Bennett replies.
It’s a high-waisted skirt with a side zipper. Underneath it, I’m wearing black tights. He won’t be able to sneak his hand down the top like last time. I actually have to undress a little for this.
I sit up and start pulling off my tights. It doesn’t go as smoothly as I’d hoped. They get stuck on my foot, and Mr. Bennett has to help me take them off, which is positively mortifying. Thankfully, I manage my panties without assistance, but by the time I lie back down, my face is burning.
“Ready,” I mumble.
He turns his head away as he starts. It’s ridiculous, really. There are only so many ways to preserve someone’s dignity when they’re half-undressed in a medical exam room.
Still, he’s trying.
I look away too, fixing my gaze on a ceiling tile with a tiny brown stain in one corner. I feel his hand slip beneath my skirt, his fingers brushing the inside of my thighs as they move higher. The touch is light, barely there, and it makes my skin prickle.
I’m already wet when he finds me, but this time, I don’t say anything about it. He locates my clit quickly and starts moving in small circles. It feels good in a warm, tingling kind of way.
I close my eyes and let my knees fall open a little. The movement bunches my skirt around my waist, exposing me. If he looked now, he’d see everything.
It’s a little thrilling, if I’m being honest.
He speeds up.
I gasp.
Did Dr. Shaw hear that?
Nope. Don’t think about that.
I try to focus on the feeling building inside me. He reaches beneath my skirt with his other hand, and while his right keeps moving against my clit, his left index finger starts circling my entrance.
“Yes,” I breathe, giving him permission.
He slips one finger inside me, then two. They curl in a come-hither motion, and I moan.
She definitely heard that.
The feeling building inside me fizzles out as my eyes snap toward the door. All I can think about is the fact that Dr. Shaw is sitting right outside, listening to me get off. Heat crawls up my neck. Suddenly, I’m hyperaware of everything.
My breathing. The rustling of the sheets. The fact that my boss’s hand is under my skirt.
Christ.
Mr. Bennett notices the change and stops what he’s doing immediately. “Everything okay?”
“Yes, everything’s fine,” I reassure him. “My mind’s wandering. That’s all.”
There’s a pause.
“Do you need me to help you with that?”
“Uh,” I say, intelligently. “Sure?”
His fingers flex once against my thigh, then go still again.
“Can I look at you?”
I turn my head just enough to glance at him. “At me?”
“Your face,” he clarifies. “Not—” He stops himself, then exhales through his nose. “I’m not asking to look anywhere else.”
I hesitate. Is this going to make everything weird later? Or, well, weirder.
“You can say no,” he says, and I realize I’ve been silent for too long.
Screw it. “It’s okay. Go ahead.”
He faces me again, keeping his attention fixed safely above my shoulders. It’s obvious he’s being careful not to look anywhere else. It’s honestly kind of sweet. Honorable, even.
“Relax and keep your eyes on me.” His voice is low and gravelly, sending a shiver down my spine. This whole ordeal suddenly feels very, very intimate.
A hand starts traveling up my thigh again. He reaches my entrance and immediately sinks a finger into me. I spread my legs to give him better access.
“You’re doing great,” he says.
Oh, fuck. He’s going to talk me through it.
His eyes still hold mine captive as he adds another finger. My mouth falls open as my breath hitches. I can feel my nipples harden, and I instinctively reach for my breast with my right hand while the other clutches the sheets.
“Do what you need to do, Carly.”
I squeeze my breast, then fondle my nipple through my clothes. I can barely feel it, but it’s something.
Mr. Bennett’s eyes stay on mine, but he must catch the movement in his peripheral vision, because his voice drops and he asks, “Do you want help with that too?”
I nod, maybe a little too quickly.
With his free hand, he unbuttons my blouse, still not looking away from my face, and slips his hand beneath my bra. He finds my nipple and begins to tease it, his other hand still moving between my thighs.
The tightening inside me comes fast after that. Every breath I take slips out as a small, helpless sound.
“You’re close,” he says, his pupils blown wide. “I can feel it.”
I arch my back, biting down on my lower lip as the feeling gathers and gathers, until there’s nowhere else for it to go.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Almost there.”
Then it hits.
My entire body tenses, then shudders, and a sound of pure bliss escapes my lips. He keeps moving, slow and steady, letting me ride it out.
We’re still looking at each other.
“You did great,” he says quietly.
For a few seconds, neither of us moves. Then he slips his fingers out and reaches for a tissue, cleaning them off slowly, his eyes still on mine.
It is, unfortunately, one of the hottest things I have ever seen in my entire life.
Once he’s done, he finally breaks eye contact and stands. I can see that he’s just as affected by this as I am. There’s a moment—brief, stupid, dangerous—where I feel the urge to reach for him. To touch him. To help him the way he helped me.
Instead, I sit up and reach for my underwear.
Once I’m dressed, we leave the room. Dr. Shaw is sitting right outside, doing some administrative work on her laptop.
“Finished?” she asks.
I nod.
Duh.
Neither of us says anything on the way to his car. I get in on the passenger side and sink into the expensive leather, more relaxed than I’ve been in years. It feels like I’ve just had every muscle in my entire body massaged.
I look over at Mr. Bennett. The same cannot be said for him. He’s gripping the steering wheel so tightly I can see his knuckles blanching.
I wonder if he’s replaying what happened.
I immediately regret thinking that, because now I’m replaying it. The way he looked at me. How he said my name. His touch.
Heat stirs low in my stomach.
Goddammit. When did I become such a fucking horndog?
I need to nip this in the bud right away. I can’t go around fantasizing about my boss.
I look out the window, watching rain streak down the glass. Fifteen minutes later, Mr. Bennett stops outside my building.
“See you on Monday,” I say, but it comes out sounding more like a question.
He doesn’t look at me. “Yeah.”
I get out of the car and walk up the steps to my apartment building. He waits until I’m inside before driving off. I listen to the car pull away as the door closes behind me.