Twelve

That evening, I didn't go back with Mark to his apartment and went back to mine. I lay cross-legged on my bed with my laptop open in front of me and googled him. Just for the record, this is called exploration, not stalking.

His Wikipedia runner does not give a lot of information. Born and raised in Toronto. Undergrad at U of T, Mama from Ryerson. Like me.

It says that he first published commodity at The Press during his BA. Hm. How the hell did he get that occasion?

I skim through an interview about him when he won the Pulitzer. The composition gushes about how he is one of the youthful in history. It quotes him talking about his tutor, the editor-in-chief of The Press before him, Andy Andy Anderson.

I recalled Cole mentioning his editor this autumn when he was describing the composition that hangs by his door. When I google Matthewson, it shows his death date, two times agone. Succeeded as editor-in-chief of The Press by Cole Anderson. Shit

I scrolled through Cole's long list of accolades and awards and prizes. The further I read the further curious I come.

It's mind-blowing, knowing that I am working at a place with a heritage of so numerous inconceivable intelligencers. So numerous legends have sat at those divisions and walked those halls.

I remembered, suddenly, Cole's haunting blue eyes, the sharpness of his jaw, the brown swells of his hair. I remember the way his hands felt, the way his mouth felt. Also, I corrected myself for it.

Memories of the moment's meeting, his wit, and his charm fill my head. I realize, suddenly, that he did me an inconceivable favor. He could have fired me. He could have come up with a reason. Ended my career, also and there, fluently.

But he didn't. He agreed to let it go. However, he'd face allegations of importunity and misconduct, If anyone plants out. It's fully unethical for him to be my superior without telling it to HR.

This also intrigued me, transferring a strange flutter through my casket. Every nanosecond, he becomes more and more mysterious.

There is a part of me that wanted to impress him. To make him see that I'm kick-burro at this job, that I was good of my position.

So damn worth it.

***************

The coming morning, I got to the office a little before eight. As I stay for the elevator, none other than the object of too numerous of my waking studies comes to stand beside me.

Cole wore an impeccably-pressed white shirt, his watercolor britches acclimatized to perfection. Everything about his appearance is immaculate, except for the slightly messy head of thick brown hair. I felt my heartbeat a little briskly with a mindfulness of his presence.

"Ms. Miller, "he saluted, his aspect fluttering over to me for just a brief moment.

" Morning, Mr. Anderson, "I reply. Neutral and professional. I had to be!

No one who is looking at us right now would ever guess that we have fucked each other.

When the elevator doors slide open, we pack ourselves in with the rest of the crowd.

As people squeezed in and the doors closed, I could feel Cole behind me, the heat of him near enough to make me dizzy. The swell of my burro through my tight-befitting skirt skirmishes against the front of him. Damn, I wanted to be on all fours and let him hit it from behind as he had. There was no room in this elevator. I could smell his breathing, feel the warmth of his exhale against the skin of my neck.

The elevator stopped at the third bottom and someone differently tried to get on. We each pressed backward until the reverse of me was flush against his front. There was a rush of adrenaline through my modes and a flash of heat between my legs because I could feel the spare silhouettes of his body against my angles, indecently near, the rise and fall of his casket with every breath.

My breathing was shallow. I marched into him tight enough to smell the faint scent of his cologne. I watched the figures of each bottom crack by, slow as molasses.

As the people around us scuffled, I could feel his fritters encounter smoothly against the material covering my ham, smoothly against my fritters, the faint wisps of his breath fluttering against my hair. I felt the tip of his nose like a tale at the edge of my observance, sparks traveling down my chine, the splinter of contact between his skin and mine transferring me into a muddle.

Shit. Every inch of my skin is alright from the teasing possibility of his touch.

When we eventually reached the fifteenth bottom, we pushed ourselves out of the elevator and I knew my face was flushed. I partake a loose piece of hair behind my observance and supplicated for strength, smoothing out my disheveled blouse. Someone greets Cole and also greets me, and I watched the reverse of him as he strides towards his office, wishing I could have seen the expression on his face. Discovered whether or not the feeling of my body against him affected him as it affected me.

As I settled myself at my office and clicked my computer on, I could still feel the figure of him kindling every last whim-whams. My eyes fluttered shut and a small, irritated sound left my lips, my legs pressed together beneath my office. My panties were wet.