“No, it isn’t. But assistantGMs? They tend to stick around longer – thirteen years, actually.”
“Of course you ran the numbers,” I say, trying to break the odd sort of tension between us, and it works. She lets out a shaky breath and a laugh.
“Of course I did,” she agrees. “I was hoping to stick it out as an assistant for a little longer, build a reputation as someone valuable to an organization so that, once this ends, there’d be a relatively soft landing, but here I am, so I need to make sure . . .”
“That you succeed.”
“Exactly, so I guess I just needed you to understand that Ihave a lot to lose here and not just a ring this year, but my chance at ever getting one.”
I step closer and all I want is to pull her into my arms and hold her to my chest and tell her it’s going to be okay, even though I’m pretty sure that’s the last thing a woman like Francesca Sullivan wants.
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” I say, and brave another step toward her and reach out, lifting a hand to her face, but hesitating, giving her a moment and then another to pull away before I brush my thumb along the line of her jaw. I’m watching in wonder as it makes her lips part and she pulls in a soft gasp at the contact.
I want to draw that sound from her again. My fingers curl around the back of her neck and there’s no gasp this time, but a long, deep breath, and I’m so close now I feel the rise and fall of her breasts against my chest, the fabric of my t-shirt sliding against my chest in a whisper of what it would be like to feel skin against skin.
“Can I . . .” I begin to ask, just like I did two years ago in that parking lot with my world crashing down around me and her the only thing that seemed to tether me in place, but this time she shakes her head, a hand at my chest, gently, but firmly pushing me away.
“No,” she whispers, and then her shoulders straighten and I let my hand drop. “We can’t.”
She slips away, shaky for a moment on those heels she’s always balancing on before she spins on her toe. The bedroom door is nearly closed behind her when she looks back, holding my eyes with hers, and I think I see regret there just before she closes it. When it clicks into place, I finally release my breath, my chest rattling and hollow.
With a hand as shaky as her legs were a moment ago, I run itthrough my hair and then over my face, muffling a heavy groan the best I can.
I’m hard as a fucking rock and we didn’t even kiss.
I grab the bag of toiletries I managed to cobble together in my mad dash to the airport and lock myself in the bathroom, getting the shower as hot as humanly possible before shucking off my shirt, the rest of my clothes following before I douse myself under the shockingly good water pressure.
There’s no temptation to even attempt to talk myself out of it. I’m too worked up, too desperate.
For her.
Leaning up against the tiles I let the hot water sluice down my back, the steam curling up into the air and it’s easy to imagine that the heat in the air is her body beneath mine, limbs entwined, wrapping around me.
I could lift her up against me, let those long legs cross behind my back, her smooth skin cool to the touch but warming with every second she’s in my arms. She’d call my name.Charlie, she’d murmur in my ear, as my mouth works against the silky skin at her neck, down to the generous rise of her breasts.
Grasping myself tightly, hard and heavy in my hand, I imagine sliding inside of her slowly. I chuckle at the idea that I’d have any kind of restraint at this point, but fuck it, it’s a fantasy and that’s what I’d want to do – take her in long, deliberate strokes, building her pleasure with mine, making her writhe against me, our bodies dancing into the sweetest friction despite the water cascading over us. I’d bring her to the edge and then pull back and then do it again until she rakes her nails down my back, maybe leaving a mark or two along the way, a signal that she’s had enough of my teasing. But I’d draw it out still, waiting until she begs me because I need her to want me as much as I want her.
Outside of this shower that feels impossible, but right here,right now, I can make myself believe it, just for a few more seconds, just a few more strokes before my hips break the rhythm I set and rut forward, harder and faster of their own volition, a desperate pounding that leaves me gasping for breath against the steam and choking out a strangled “Francesca” that I can only hope is drowned out by the steady beat of the water against the tiles.
Relief. Sweet relief. Thank fuck.
I didn’t realize just how worked up I was until this moment, the water washing away any damning evidence of the last few minutes, as I catch my breath. I should have known, though. It’s not that I haven’t had opportunities recently, I have, and I’ve taken advantage of them. Consenting adults, no strings, quick and easy, both of us knowing it wasn’t anything more than that.
But that kind of connection started to feel hollow a long time ago. Come to think of it, it started feeling that way during my last year, as it became clearer and clearer that it was time to call it quits.
Shutting off the water, I wrap a towel around my waist, the hotel nice enough that the towels are soft and large enough to actually serve their purpose. Wiping away the fog that has steamed up the mirrors against the wall, I lean on the bathroom vanity and stare my reflection. Older than I picture in my head, but I recognize the look in my own eyes: it’s how I used to feel before a big game, before going out to do the only thing I ever loved. I haven’t seen that look in a long time, not for years. The last time I saw it was reflected in the windows of her car that night in the parking lot.
I think that’s why I wanted to kiss her then, when it was all over, to see if I could feel thatthingagain, to feel alive, to know it was possible after walking away from the game.
So I did and it was. But now I wonder if that was just her.
Maybe it was. Maybe it still is.
And if that’s true, if she’s the thing that makes me feel this way, then I need to do everything I can to hang on to her.
I’m too old not to sleep on anything other than a bed.
The nearly five-hour flight crushed into the middle seat is followed by a night trying to fold all six feet four of me onto this sorry excuse for a couch.