Elena
Four days after the clinic confirms I’m not pregnant, Dominic and I are discussing compatibility in a room full of people who have no idea the word has acquired a second meaning.
Our integration lead points to the screen. “The platform is compatible with the current reporting structure, so we can move forward without replacing either system.”
I keep my eyes on the projected timeline. The last time Dominic and I discussed compatibility, I ended the night naked on my couch with his head between my thighs and his name coming out of my mouth.
A flush of memory makes me shift in my chair.
Across the table, Dominic turns one page in the report. His face remains composed, but his eyes lift to mine.
He knows exactly what I’m thinking. I look back at the presentation. “We still need the stress-test results before we approve the conversion schedule.”
“Agreed,” Dominic says.
He uses the same measured tone he brings to every meeting. I remember the rough command he used when he told me to say his name, a voice that has been in my head since before the clinic.
The meeting continues for another twenty minutes.
I ask questions, challenge two assumptions, and assign the follow-up review without losing my place once.
Dominic treats me exactly as he always does in executive meetings.
He listens when I speak. He disagrees when he has a reason.
He doesn’t stare at my mouth or let his hand brush mine when I pass the revised schedule down the table.
I asked for distance after stopping him, and he has honored the request with maddening consistency.
He held me the morning we received the negative result because I said yes. He let go as soon as I stepped back. Since then, he hasn’t created a late meeting, offered me a ride home, or found any other innocent reason to put us alone together.
The distance has made work easier, but the relief never lasts. I still want to walk around the table and test how long all that restraint holds if I put my hands on him again.
When the meeting ends, everyone gathers laptops and half-empty coffee cups. I stay behind to add a note to the project file. Dominic remains at the head of the table, reading an email on his phone.
We’re alone for less than ten seconds before he says, “You were quiet during the compatibility discussion.”
I keep typing. “I spoke six times.”
“Five.”
“You counted?”
“I notice when you’re avoiding me.”
My fingers pause over the keyboard. “I was looking at the presentation.”
“You looked at me when she said compatible.”
“You were watching me.”
“My eyes were on the report.”
The immediate answer irritates me because he’s right. I looked for him, and he caught me doing it.
I close the project file and slide my laptop into its case. “This is a workplace. We’re allowed to look at each other.”
“That’s all we’re allowed to do?”
The question is quiet and direct, a stone dropped into the careful stillness I’ve maintained. Dominic doesn’t move from his chair, and the open door makes the boundary between work and everything else obvious.
“The second clinic appointment is still on the calendar,” I say, reaching for the safety of logistics.
“I know.”
“Then nothing has changed.”
He studies me for a second. “You asked for space. I’m giving it to you.”
Embarrassment warms my face. “I didn’t say you weren’t.”
“No. You sound angry about it.”
“I’m not angry,” I say, my grip on my laptop case tight enough to leave marks.
“All right.”
His calm agreement is worse than an argument.
I pick up my laptop case. “We have the revised model this afternoon.”
“Send it when you’re ready.”
Dominic looks back at his phone, letting me leave without another question.
I reach the privacy of my office before I admit that I wanted him to stop me.
Late that afternoon, I send Dominic the revised model with four notes explaining the changes.
He calls less than a minute later. “That was fast,” I say, glancing at his name on the screen.
“Your third note says the downside case is distorted by a bad input.”
“It is. The retention assumption from their operating team is too optimistic.”
“How optimistic?”
I open the supporting tab and give him the numbers. He asks two more questions, and I adjust the range while we talk. This is ordinary for us. We have picked apart hundreds of models over the phone, sometimes from opposite sides of the building and sometimes from different time zones.
Tonight, his voice is right against my ear while I watch him across the hall.
Most of the executive floor has cleared out. Maya is finishing the treasury approvals at her desk. Dominic’s office door is closed. Mine is open, giving me a direct view through the glass.
He stands at his desk with one hand in his pocket and the phone at his ear. When he turns toward my office, I drop my eyes to the spreadsheet.
“You did it again,” he says.
“Did what?”
“Looked at me and pretended you didn’t.”
“I was checking whether you had the correct file open.”
“From forty feet away?”
“You’ve made large type a condition of closing deals.”
“Elena.”
He says my name in the same low tone he used on my couch, and my thighs tighten, a clench of pure, frustrating memory.
I lean back, trying to create distance my body refuses to accept. “What?”
“Are you still angry that I gave you what you asked for?”
“I told you I’m not angry.”
“Then what are you?”
I could end the call. We finished the work question, and Maya is fifteen feet from my door. I have no reason to stay on the line while Dominic watches me through the glass.
Across the hall, I see him go perfectly still. “Frustrated,” I admit, the word tasting like a defeat.
He takes his hand from his pocket and braces it on the desk. “With me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“I’m not going to answer for you.”
Of course he isn’t. Dominic has decided I have to say what I want before he gives it to me, and I resent him for being responsible when all I want is an excuse to blame him.
My throat feels tight. “You stopped touching me.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Through the glass, I watch his head lower.
“You told me you needed space.”
“I know what I said.”
“Have you changed your mind?”
Maya rises from her desk and carries a folder toward the printer. I turn away from the glass.
“I don’t know.”
“That isn’t true.”
“That’s my answer.”
“Close your door.”
My clit clenches at the low instruction. I look toward Maya. She’s gathering the pages from the printer with her back to me.
“Dominic.”
“Do you want to end the call?”
My hand tightens around the phone. “No.”
“Then close the door. Lock it, and lower the blinds.”
I know exactly how reckless this is. I stand anyway.
Maya looks up as I reach the door. “Everything okay?”
“Yes. I need a few minutes for a private call.”
“I’ll send the approvals when they’re ready.”
“Thank you.”
I close the door and turn the lock. The click makes me grip the handle for a second. Then I lower the blinds over the glass wall, blocking the executive floor from view.
“Done,” I say, my voice tight.
“If you want me to stop at any point, tell me. I will.”
“I know.”
“Sit down.”
I return to my desk. The upholstered chair has supported me through budget reviews, contract negotiations, and more acquisition crises than I can count. I have never felt indecent sitting in it until now.
“Put the phone on speaker.”
“Absolutely not.”
Dominic gives a quiet laugh. “Worried someone will hear me?”
“I’m worried you’ll enjoy knowing they could.”
“I already do.” His voice lowers. “Keep it against your ear, then. Slide your chair back from the desk.”
I do, my heels dragging softly over the carpet.
“Tell me what you’re wearing under that dress.”
“Underwear.”
“Very helpful.”
“You asked a broad question.”
“What color?”
I glance at the closed blinds. “Black.”
“Bra too?”
“Yes.”
“Stockings?”
“No.”
His breath changes. I picture him alone behind his own closed door with his tie still in place and his shoulders rigid.
“Lift your skirt,” he says.
I slide my free hand beneath the hem and draw it up my thighs. Cool air reaches the strip of skin above my underwear.
“How high?”
“High enough.”
“Show me.”
“You can’t see me.”
“Tell me, then,” he says.
I look down. My dress is gathered at my waist, my knees pressed together beneath the desk. “My skirt is at my waist.”
“Open your legs.”
I let my knees fall apart. The office is silent enough that I hear the faint shift of fabric on his end of the call.
I need to know where we are in this, who holds the control. “Are you touching yourself?” I ask.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m waiting to find out whether you want me to.”
I expected him to be touching himself already. He waited for my answer. A hot pulse beats between my legs.
“I do.”
“Say it clearly.”
“I want you to touch yourself while you tell me what to do.”
“Fuck, Elena. I love hearing you ask for exactly what you want.”
My clit throbs at the answer, and I loosen my grip on the phone. A zipper lowers on his end of the call, and another soft movement follows.
“My hand is around my cock,” he says, his voice a low rasp. “Put yours over your underwear.”
I press my palm between my legs. I’m damp enough that the lace gives under my fingers.
“Two fingers over your clit.”
I find it through the fabric and circle.
“Slower.”
I want more pressure immediately, but I follow the instruction while my hips push into my hand.
“That’s it. Don’t rush because you’ve been pretending you don’t need this.”
“You’re enjoying being right.”
“I’m enjoying hearing you touch yourself because I asked.”
The blunt admission makes me press harder.
“Tell me how you’re touching yourself,” I say.
“Slow. Tight enough that I’m thinking about your hand on me.”
I remember his weight over me, his cock thick and hot in my palm, the rough sound he made when I stroked him. My thighs open wider.
“I want to hear you,” I whisper.
Dominic’s next breath is uneven. “Move your underwear aside.”
I hook one finger beneath the damp lace and pull it to the side.
“Touch your clit again.”
The first direct stroke makes me suck in a breath.
“Good,” he breathes. “Keep going.”