In a breathy voice, she says, “Is it working?”
For a full moment, I think I heard her wrong. Then I see the pulse thrum in her throat. I can feel heat gather underneath my fingers.
“Yes, damn you.”
She moves out of my grasp, then pushes my chair away from the desk and thrusts that round ass toward me. When she fails to make contact with my crotch, she sits down, wiggles on my lap.
My teeth are gritted so hard I can almost feel them cracking.
“Am…” I grab her elbow. “You’ve gotta stop.”
“Or what?” she whispers, breathy.
I seize her hips again and press my throbbing cock against that pert ass, where it wants to be. “This isn’t a game,” I growl.
“No?”
I wind an arm around her waist, cupping her pussy with my palm. I feel a jolt of shock as she rubs against my hand.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” I warn.
“Why don’t you tell me, Mr. Frasier.”
“Don’t overestimate my self control, Amelia.”
“I’m not estimating at all. How you handle yourself isn’t my problem.”
“No?” I lean up, biting her earlobe. She cries out and squirms. “I don’t want to fuck this up, Amelia. You’re making it difficult.”
She looks over her shoulder, and I can see her top teeth sink into her lower lip. “Don’t you mean hard?”
I can’t believe the way she’s looking at me. Can’t believe it when she turns around, standing between my knees, and reaches for my cock. I let her. Damn me, I shut my eyes and nearly come into her hand. She rubs around a little—I hear myself groan—and then her hand is gone. I open my eyes and find her in her chair beside me.
Fuck me. What is this shit?
I blink at her a few times, but she doesn’t look at me. She rolls her chair away, settling in front of a monitor seven or eight feet away.
I’m hard as a rock. My head is spinning. I don’t get it.
Yes I do.
She’s fucking with me.
I can only imagine her reasoning for it… Why she’d need to. It makes me feel like shit, so I lean my head back against my chair and cover my face with my hand.
Goddamnit.
Why didn’t I tell Weiss I know her on day one?
A few deep breaths and I’m more in control. Trying to resume what I was doing. Because I can’t touch her. I can’t instigate anything. Not with Amelia. Not this time.
It’s only a few seconds before I feel dizzy.
Like I can’t breathe.
I grit my teeth and tell myself she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know my secret. I need to leave. Go home right now, before I fuck up either one of us.
I stand abruptly. “Think I’m gonna go home early.” I slap my sketchpad, my sweaty palm knocking it to the floor. I don’t stop to pick it up.
I keep my eyes away from Ammy as I make for the door.
And then my palm touches the handle. The coolness grounds me. My mind surges forward, then back…
Did I ask for that?
I didn’t ask for what just happened.
It was all Amelia, playing games.
Fury fills me. That and lust.
I turn back to find Amelia standing in front of her chair. When she doesn’t speak, just blinks, I feel my pulse hammer. “Tell me, Am, what do you want? If you want me to go, you better fucking it.”
She licks her lips, her face twisting: uncertain.
“Go on. Say it. Say ‘Dash, go home.’”
She shakes her head.
“I can’t do this shit, Amelia. I can’t fucking do this.”
I give her time: seconds to say something. When she doesn’t, I twist the door’s lock and close the distance between us. Then I drop down to my knees. My hands are steady on her pants button. Steady as I unzip her dainty, pantsuit zipper.
Underneath, I find the thong—first with my hands…then with my mouth. When my tongue trails over tender flesh, Amelia gasps, and her knees buckle.
“Sit down.”
She does.
I peel her pants down to her thighs and lift the thong up. Then I look into her face.
Stop me. Say something.
She sinks her hand into my hair—and so I drag my tongue through her slick heat. I eat her thoroughly, the way I’ve wanted to for years, since that first time.
I slide a finger into her and give her everything I’ve got. I’m fed with her moans, her little sighs, the tremble in her legs. I feed until I’m full—and she’s come twice.
Then I pull the thong back and stand.
“See you tomorrow, Amelia.”
Thirteen
Amelia
I wake up early the next morning and stand in the doorway of my closet, eyeing my work clothes like a landscape painter surveying a field. I choose a linen pencil skirt in emerald green and a sheer, flower-patterned blouse.
Before slipping into my bra and panties, I slather my whole body with lotion. It doesn’t smell like much of anything—maybe a little bit vanilla—which is just the way I like my lotion. My undergarment set is lacy, but not overly so. I know I look good in it.
I play some Sibelius in honor of Dash as I zip my skirt, pull on a spaghetti-strapped undershirt, and don the blouse. I’m not in the mood for a lot of makeup, so I go with just a touch of mascara and unobtrusive lipstick. Hair: down.
I’m at work twenty minutes early, stalking our studio like a tiger. Finally, Meredith shows up, followed by Bryan and Carrie, and we get to work sketching minor characters. That’s what I’m doing when the door opens and Dash steps in.
Today he’s wearing slate gray chinos, loafers, and the rattiest white undershirt I’ve ever seen. As soon as I get a peek of his skin through a small hole near the collar, lust fogs up my mind.
I want to lift that shirt up and lick my way down to his pants. I hear my conscience like a far-off fog horn. I know what my friends would say.
But yesterday felt good.
It felt good when I was fucking with him, teasing him, and what he did to me felt even better. Does it matter that I hate him, if I also love him? It’s fucked up, of course, but does that mean I shouldn’t do it? I hate the way he wrecked me, but I don’t feel like it’s over. I never have.
His eyes on mine are like a drug.
“Good morning.” I press my thighs together, and my pulse picks up. I feel like we’re acting from a script. Probably because I already know what’s going to happen. As unlike me as this is—irresponsible, insensible, insane—I’m going to keep fucking with Dash. It’s like an itch I have to scratch. I just can’t help myself.
“Good morning, Amelia.”
“Did you have a nice night?”
“I did.”
He touches base with Adam and Ashley, sends Amber to start locating local animals that he can use for modeling, and then starts doing something on his computer. I manage to keep my sanity intact until lunch rolls around, and the office clears out. When I can see for sure that Dash is staying here—he quickly downs a power bar—I walk past him and brush his shoulder.
“Something on your shirt.”
He makes a low sound in his throat. Shortly after that, he disappears, returning a few minutes later, likely from the restroom. As he walks back to his cubicle, I think he looks tired. He won’t look me in the eye.
This time, instead of getting on his computer, he starts sketching. I watch him obsessively, noticing when his hand hasn’t moved in a while.
I roll my chair over to his. “Whatcha drawing?”
“The dog.”
“Hopscotch?”
He nods. I’m jotting down some details about Hopscotch and his interactions with Dove when I notice Dash rubbing his forehead. A few minutes later, he does it again.
I stand up. “Want some water? I’m going to grab myself some.”
“Coffee,” he says. “Please.”
I make it the way he mentioned drinking it before: just a l
ittle bit of milk, plus a nice pinch of real sugar.
“Thank you,” he says when I set the mug in front of him. Again, he doesn’t look at me. I want to do something to make him look, but somehow I reign myself in.
After a few sips of his coffee, Dash seems more somber, not less. I can feel discomfort or maybe irritation coming off him, and I know it’s my fault.
Eventually he says, “I might go early. I was here last night late.”
“You live in my building?”
He nods.
“Can I get a ride? I have a dentist appointment.”
Liar.
Geez, I’ve lost my mind. And yet…
We take the elevator down together, and I follow him into the parking deck. He leads us to a charcoal Land Rover. When we get there, he hesitates before opening the passenger’s side door. He turns his eyes on me.
“What are you playing at, Amelia?”
He looks tired and frustrated. Unhappy.
“Nothing,” I choke.
“Yesterday? What was that?”
I feel a flash of shame, but I immediately squash it. “Me fooling around with someone I’m attracted to.” My stomach somersaults as my voice kicks up a notch. “It’s not unusual.”
“And today?” he snaps.
“Today’s today,” I hedge. “What do you mean?”
“How do you feel today?” His words are rough.
“I feel just fine.”
He closes his big hands around my elbows. “I don’t. I’ve got a headache. My balls hurt, and I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night. I can leave this job, you know. Have Weiss pull in another colleague.” He squeezes my arms lightly. “Is that what you want, Amelia? Is that what you need?”
“Since when do you care what I need?”
He shuts his eyes and leans his forehead toward mine. We aren’t touching, but I can feel the heat of his skin as he stands there, breathing deeply with his head bowed.
“I’ve always cared.” His gaze meets mine. “That doesn’t mean that I could give it to you.”
“Oh, so that’s it? You couldn’t give it to me?” My voice is sharp and taunting.
“No—I fucking couldn’t. I wanted to, but I couldn’t.”
“Too scared?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No shit I don’t! How about you tell me?”
I take a few steps back. “I’m ready for it now. Just shoot. Why couldn’t you give me what I needed? How hard would it have been to stay around that day?”
His chest is heaving. I can see his shoulders pumping with his fast breaths in the shadows of the parking deck.
“You don’t want to know this shit.”
“Oh yes I do. If anything, you don’t want to tell me!”
I watch his hands curl into fists. He just stands there, shoulders rising and falling, looking at the ground. And then he reaches for the door handle. “You’re right—I don’t.”
I grab him by the wrist.
“You’re going to leave again? You could just talk to me!”
“I’m getting re-assigned. Go back to Burbank.” He tosses my hand off him. “I’m sorry this didn’t work out.”
“No you’re not! You don’t just get to run away, again!” I shove his pec, which feels hard under my hand. “I didn’t do anything to you! Why do you have to run away? I didn’t do anything.” Tears come out of nowhere. Then he’s pulling me against him, wrapping his big, heavy arms around me.
He lays his cheek atop my hair. “Fuck, Am, I’m so sorry.”
A tiny sob slips out. “You should be.”
He squeezes me. “I’m really, really fucking sorry.”
I feel his mouth along my jaw, his lips rubbing up toward my ear, kissing my temple…
“I’m sorry,” he whispers near my ear. His warm breath makes me shiver. “I’m so damn sorry, Ammy baby.”
His voice—saying my name like that… My legs forget they’re standing and I slump against him.
“Come here…” He pulls me against him, and I hear a beep and see his lights flash. He opens the back door, climbs in, and pulls me up too.
Dash sits in the middle, spreads his legs, and pulls me onto his lap, so my ass is between his spread knees. His arms are around me.
He kisses me deep and hard, demanding…
I groan. I’m trembling with adrenaline as his hands frame my face and our mouths meld, soft and hot and slick. His hand is on my chest, it’s gliding up. His hand is cupping my breast.
“Christ, Amelia…” He nips me through my blouse, and I cry out.
Then I’m fumbling at his abs. My hungry hands are working his pants button, tugging down his zipper.
Dash groans as I find him in his pants. He’s long and hard, jutting upward in the cotton prison of his boxer-briefs. So it’s easy to peel the elastic away and reach inside to find his smooth head. I reach both hands inside his boxer-briefs as he kisses my throat, and start to stroke him: up and down, just slow and steady up and down… Until he’s biting underneath my jaw and I can feel the precum slick on his tip.
“Fuck…Amelia.”
“Does it feel good?”
“Fuck yes…”
Our mouths meet, and we kiss so hard and deep I finally have to pull away, gasping for air as Dash thrusts against my palm and his hands delve into my skirt, his fingers reaching.
“Yes,” I gasp.
I feel him work the little wooden button, feel it pop off. Then he’s reaching past my thong. His fingers glide between my lips and find their mark. He rubs; I gasp. Then he’s pressing gently inside, stroking upward, curling slightly…and the pressure—“Ohh!”
For a long moment, my hands forget to stroke his dick. His panting reminds me.
Then it’s just our groans and heavy breaths, hands and heat and teeth and tongues. We come just like that: me halfway on Dash’s lap, our arms tangled like a game of Twister, my hands stroking his thick cock, Dash’s fingers driving me to high-pitched cries.
And then it’s over, and my arms are wrapped around his neck. His face is pressed into my shoulder, and it’s so tragic, because it feels absolutely right. I feel like we’re lovers. I feel like we’re old friends. Maybe we are both. But none of this is real.
Dash drives to our building and I sit beside him silently. He parks in the garage, then walks around and opens my door. Inside, we take the elevator together.
“What floor?” he asks quietly.
“Seven.”
He nods, pushing seven, then eleven. When the door opens, he skims the fabric over my shoulder with his fingertips, as if he’s trying to grab onto me but can’t.
I manage to smile anyway. “See you later, Dash.” I step off and turn before he replies.
In my apartment, I lie on my bed, half-curled like an injured animal, and let my hot tears flow.
Fourteen
Dash
We establish rhythms during work: the way we time our bathroom breaks and lunch and made-up meetings. In empty studios and hall closets, the cot room and even restrooms, we find a dozen ways to make each other come. If there’s only time for one of us to get off, I make sure it’s Ammy—every time.
I don’t know the rules for her, don’t know what’s making this work in her head, so I watch for cues and spend a lot of my days hard and waiting. She summons me into the hall by asking me for gum, then leads me by the dick into a supply closet and blows me while I sit on boxes of sketch paper.
She kicks the wheel of my office chair and says, “Do you want to go get coffee, and I’ll tell you about the one thing,” and leads me to the nearest bathroom, where we dry hump up against a locked door until I ruin my khakis. (She loves that). Mostly, though, we fumble at each other in my car, making it through the workday barely intact, pained and breathless by the time I click the unlock button.
I try my best to give her pleasure.
I find what she likes best: the way she likes my fingers and my tongue. I find she
likes to torture me with blow jobs, teasing with occasional deep-throating till my legs are shaking and I can’t catch my fucking breath. I let her do that, even though it drives me crazy, makes me want to yank her by the hair and shove myself down her throat.
I would give her anything she asked. This is my penance.
And I know—it’s not enough. I know it will never be enough. And so it is my punishment as well: to know all this is temporary. When summer ends, she’ll shut the door on this, write the last chapter of Dash and Amelia; she will end it how she wants, and she’ll feel powerful again. That’s all I want for her. How well I understand why she would crave that.
For my part, I worship her as often and as thoroughly as possible, and even though I know I don’t deserve this, I can’t help but relish it. Amelia is my comfort. Always was, still is, and probably always would be.
It’s just physical until the Monday morning Weiss drops by to hear about our progress. I wake up tasting metal in my coffee and am seeing spots by noon and battling a full-on migraine by three when Am follows me out of the studio, pulls me into a vacant room, pushes my pants down my hips, and wraps her mouth around me. I come, because of course I’m going to come, but when she flips the light back on, I guess I wince. Her eyes go wide, and in a different voice—one that throws me back through years—she says, “Dash, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Your face is white. Like, really white.”
I shrug, my sweaty fingers struggling with my jeans button. “Just tired.”
The light goes off. She flicks it back on, then steps closer to me, eyes narrowed. “You have a migraine. I can so tell.”
I shrug, daring to touch my throbbing forehead. “Be home soon,” I mumble.
“Oh no you won’t. You’ll be home now.” She holds a finger up. “Wait here. I’ll tell the others that we’re going.”
I feel so awful, it’s really not even a choice.
Still, I’m surprised when she returns to where she left me with her purse and my bag. She carries both and takes my hand, and I feel like I’m in a dream—a hellish dream.
I hear more than see her unlock my car’s doors. She leads me to the passenger side and pulls the door open.