Page 97 of Office Hours
She watches me, equal parts scientist and predator. “Are you?”
“Yes.” I mean to say more, but she raises a hand.
“I’m not offering. I’m not here to fix anything for you.”
I nod, chastened. “I know. I wouldn’t ask.”
We’re quiet again. I wonder if she can hear my pulse from across the table.
She sighs, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “So what now?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I wish I did.”
She looks at me, all the old Simone brightness back in her face, but darker at the edges. “You could ask me out like a normal person.”
I blink, not sure if she’s joking.
She waits, lips pressed together, then adds: “Just for coffee. Or a movie. Something boring. No contracts, no weird side bets. No power imbalance.”
The smile breaks across my face before I can stop it. “Are you sure? I’m not exactly prime boyfriend material.”
She grins. “Nobody is.”
I laugh, the tension uncoiling in my chest. “Okay. Coffee, then. Or a movie. Or whatever you want.”
She nods and then takes the lead, perching on the edge of the couch. Then, she turns to face me fully. “Come here,” she says, and I obey, shifting onto the cushion next to her.
We don’t touch. Not yet. The electricity is live, buzzing in the inch of space between her thigh and mine.
She turns, tucks one foot under herself, and studies my face. “You’re nervous,” she observes.
“So are you,” I reply.
She laughs, short and real. “Of course I am. It’s been a long fucking year.”
I can’t help it: I reach out, tuck a strand of golden hair behind her ear, linger on the lobe, tracing its shape. She closes her eyes, lashes fluttering, breath hitching just enough to register.
When she opens them again, she’s closer—lips parted, eyes wide and deep. The first kiss is almost nothing, a brush, a test of pressure. The second is more—her mouth opening for me, a welcome, a dare. She tastes like the memory of coffee, like rain, like hunger.
She climbs onto my lap, knees straddling my hips, and her hands fist in my shirt, crushing the careful crease. Her tongue is quick, clever, the way she is on paper. I pull her closer, hands sliding up the curve of her back, fingers spanning the ribs, counting them. She feels different, thinner than before, all tensile strength and healed wounds.
She breaks the kiss to catch her breath. “Are you sure you want this?” she says, so quiet I almost miss it.
I answer with my mouth, tracing her jaw, her neck, the hollow behind her ear. Her hands slide under my shirt, cold fingers searching, mapping. She finds the small scar on my side—appendix, age twelve—and runs her thumb over it, slow and reverent.
She tugs at the buttons on my shirt, impatient. I help, peeling it off, letting it fall to the floor. I want to see her, all of her, but I wait. She’s in control, and I’m grateful for it.
She sits back, peels off her own sweater in one practiced motion. Underneath, a simple white bralette, nothing like the lace and underwire she once wore for me. It’s more honest, somehow, and I love her for it.
My hands find her waist, then the button of her jeans, and I pause, waiting for permission. She nods, and I ease them down, baring her thighs, the new landscape of her body. She kicks themoff, then pulls my head to her chest, cradling me there. I listen to the thump of her heart, steady and strong.
She unhooks the bralette and tosses it aside. I take my time, kissing the slope of a big breast, the soft undercurve, the rise of her sternum. Her nipples are tight, flushed, and I roll one between my lips, gentle. She arches into it, sighing.
“Oh Liam,” she whispers rapturously. “That feels so good.”
She undresses me with her hands, stripping away layers, and soon we’re both naked on the couch, limbs tangled, skin hot and damp where we touch. She’s already wet, slick between her thighs, and I can’t help but taste her, tongue darting up, lapping at the salt and heat. She tangles her fingers in my hair and gasps, low and wild.
“Unnnh,” she moans. “So good.”
