Page 8 of Prey

I do that too, when I'm alone.

He pulls out my chair, touching the leather. Pressing his palm flat against the seat. His hand is shaking. Then he sits down, taking it all. My chair, my desk and my view of the city. He leans back and closes his eyes. Puts his hands on the armrests, exactly where my hands go, and tilts his head back. His throat is pale and vulnerable.

He opens his eyes, stands up and walks to the window. Puts his palm flat against the glass. I've seen him do this before. But never like this. Never from this angle. Never when I could see his face so clearly.

He's not just looking at the view. He's imagining me there, standing in the exact spot.

He turns away. Walks to the bookshelf. Runs his fingers along the spines of my books. Stops at one. Pulls it out. The Picture of Dorian Gray. Of course he picked that one. Grey has a sense of irony I didn't expect when I hired him.

He opens the book. Reads a page. Closes it. But before he puts it back, he holds it to his face inhaling the smell. Then puts the book back. Exactly where it was. Exactly how I left it.

He is always so careful.

He walks to the corner of the office. There's a coat rack there. My jacket is hanging on it, the black one I wore today. The one that still holds my body heat, my scent, and the shape of my shoulders.

Grey stops in front of it. Stares at the jacket. His hand lifts, hovers then drops and lifts again.

Do it, I think.

And he does. His fingers close around the sleeve. He lifts the jacket off the rack and holds it against his chest. And then, God, he brings it to his face. Buries his nose in the fabric. Breathes in. His whole body shudders.

I'm going to hell. And I'm going to enjoy the ride.

He stands there for a full minute. Just breathing. Just holding my jacket like it's something precious. Then he hangs it back up. Adjusts the collar. Steps away.

He walks to the door. Pauses with his hand on the handle.

Go, I think. Go before you do something you can't take back.

But he doesn't go. He turns around. And he starts unbuttoning his shirt.

I stop breathing.

He's not looking at the camera. He doesn't know I'm here. He thinks he's alone in the dark, alone in my office, alone with whatever compulsion is driving him.

He pulls his shirt off. His body is lean. Pale. The kind of body that spends too much time indoors, hunched over desks, watching screens. He drops the shirt on the floor. Then he unbuckles his belt.

This is too far, this is where you stop watching. This is where you call security. This is where you remember that you're his boss and he's your employee and nothing about this is legal.

I don't call security. I don't stop watching.

He pushes his pants down. And then he's standing in the middle of my office in nothing but his underwear, barefoot on the carpet, backlit by the city lights.

He's beautiful. In the way storms are beautiful. In the way something dangerous looks right before it destroys you.

He walks to my desk. Turns around. And sits on the edge of it.

My desk. Where I sign contracts. Where I take calls. Where I've sat a thousand times, never knowing that one day a man would perch there in his underwear and look like he belonged. He leans back on his hands. Arching his spine. His eyes are closed. His mouth is slightly open. His chest is rising and falling too fast.

What are you doing? I think. What are you imagining?

Then his hand moves. Down his stomach. Sliding over the waistband of his underwear.

Oh.

OH.

I should look away. His hand disappears beneath the fabric. His hips shift. A soft sound escapes his throat, quiet, broken, barely audible even through the camera's microphone.