His hand was so steady on my hip I actually considered, for one terrifying second, if he was worth the HR paperwork.
12 min read·2,299 words·18 views
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1.
CLAIRE
I’ve written this scene forty times. The lighting is always better in the books, usually some amber glow from a fireplace or a strategically placed candle. In reality, we’re being illuminated by the flickering fluorescent tube in the hotel kitchenette and the blue standby light on the microwave.
Ben’s hands are under my thighs, lifting me onto the granite countertop. It’s cold against my backside, even through my skirt, but Ben is ninety-eight point six degrees of sheer, focused determination. He’s thirty-two. I know this because I looked up his LinkedIn profile two months ago when he got promoted to Senior Associate, mostly so I could find something to dislike about his face.
I didn’t find anything. And now that face is buried in the crook of my neck, his stubble scraping against the skin I usually reserve for expensive Vitamin C serums.
“Claire,” he mutters, and it’s not a question. It’s a rhythmic, desperate sound, like a man who’s been holding his breath since the keynote address at 9:00 AM.
“You’re going to break the coffee maker, Ben,” I say, though I’m currently busy unknotting his tie with the kind of frantic efficiency I usually apply to a deadline.
“Let it break,” he says, his voice vibrating against my collarbone. He ruffs my skirt up, his palms flat and hot against my quads, pushing the fabric out of the way until he hits the lace of my garters. He stops for half a second. He huffs a laugh against my skin. “You wore these to the panel on tax-exempt bonds?”
“I’m a professional,” I tell him, my breath hitching as his fingers slide under the silk of my panties. “I believe in being prepared for every eventuality.”
2.
BEN
Thirty-six hours ago, I was standing by the registration desk, trying to figure out why the Marriott felt the need to scent their lobby like a ‘Zen Waterfall’ when it clearly just smelled like floor wax and desperation.
Then Claire walked in.
She looked like she’d just stepped out of a private jet, even though I knew she’d probably sat in the same Delta comfort-plus seat as the rest of us. She’s forty-five, she’s my direct competitor for the regional VP slot, and she has this way of looking at me that makes me feel like I’ve got spinach in my teeth and a very promising future in middle management.
“Benjamin,” she said, her Georgia drawl a little thicker than it was in the Atlanta office. It’s a humid, honeyed sound that makes you want to sit on a porch and admit to crimes you haven’t committed yet. “I see you survived the flight. I thought for sure you’d have been sucked into a jet engine with that much hair gel.”
“Good to see you too, Claire,” I said, looking at the way her suit jacket nipped in at her waist. I’ve spent two years trying to beat her numbers. I’ve spent eighteen months trying to ignore the way she crosses her legs during budget meetings.
She took her key card and leaned in just enough for me to catch the scent of something that smelled like very expensive jasmine and very cold gin. “Try not to spend all night at the open bar. We have a breakfast meeting at seven. Some of us actually intend to be awake for it.”
3.
CLAIRE
It’s the Tuesday night mixer. The lighting is purple. The shrimp are questionable.
I am on my third gin and tonic, which is my limit for professional functions, and Ben is standing way too close. He’s not wearing his jacket anymore. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms that have no business being that well-defined for someone who spends ten hours a day looking at spreadsheets.
“You’re doing it again,” he says, leaning his hip against the high-top table.
“Doing what?”
“The thing where you look at me like I’m a particularly difficult typo.”
I take a sip of my drink, the lime tart on my tongue. “Maybe you are a typo, Ben. Maybe I’m just waiting for the autocorrect to kick in.”
He laughs, and it’s a real one—low and chesty, not the corporate chuckle he uses with the partners. He steps into my space, his shoes scuffing against mine. The air between us is thick, charged with the kind of static that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
“You’ve been divorced for three years, right?” he asks. It’s a bold move. It’s an ‘I’m about to get fired’ move.
“Three years and four months,” I say, my voice steady. “Why? You looking for tips on how to lose half your assets in a suburban settlement?”
“No,” he says, his eyes dropping to my mouth. “I was just wondering if you were tired of being the smartest person in the room all by yourself.”
4.
BEN
We’re in the elevator. It’s 11:15 PM. The doors close with a soft, expensive hiss.
She’s standing in the corner, her lanyard dangling from her hand like a trophy. She looks tired, but it’s a beautiful kind of tired—her lipstick is slightly faded, a few strands of dark hair have escaped her chignon.
“Floor twelve?” I ask, reaching for the button.
“Twelve,” she confirms.
We rise. The display ticks up. 4. 5. 6.
“I’m going to get that VP spot, Claire,” I say, because I’m a glutton for punishment and I need her to look at me.
She turns. Her eyes are dark, guarded. “You might. You’re younger. You’re cheaper. You’ve got that ‘disruptor’ energy that the board loves because it sounds like they’re doing something innovative while they’re actually just cutting the pension fund.”
“That’s not why I’m going to get it.”
“Oh? Pray tell.”
“I’m going to get it because I want it more than you do,” I say, stepping closer. The elevator is small. She doesn’t move back. “You’re just doing this because you don't know who you are if you aren't winning. I’m doing it because I want to be where you are.”
She scoffs, but her breath is shallow. “Where I am? In a Marriott in Indianapolis? It’s a dream, Ben.”
“No,” I say, my hand finding the wall next to her head. “Near you. I want to be in your orbit. It’s exhausting, Claire. I’ve been trying to outrun you for two years and all I’ve done is memorize the way your perfume smells.”
The elevator dings. Floor twelve.
The doors open. Neither of us moves.
Then she reaches out, grabs my tie, and pulls me out into the hallway.
5.
CLAIRE
Back to the kitchen counter. My heels are on the floor somewhere near the trash can. Ben’s face is between my breasts now, his mouth hot through the silk of my blouse. He’s unbuttoning it with his teeth, a move that is both incredibly impressive and deeply impractical.
“Ben,” I gasp, my fingers digging into his shoulders. “The door. Did you… did you lock the door?”
“Latched and bolted,” he grunts. He finally pops the last button, spreading the fabric wide. He doesn't go for my bra immediately. He just looks. His eyes are wide, dark, almost reverent. “God, Claire. You’re so beautiful it’s actually insulting.”
I don’t feel beautiful. I feel forty and slightly sweaty and like I’m about to do something that will make Monday morning’s staff meeting very, very complicated. But then he leans forward and licks a path from the center of my chest up to the hollow of my throat, and I stop caring about Monday.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him flush against me. He’s hard—thick and heavy against my thigh. He groans, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief, and fumbles with his belt.
“Now,” I whisper, my hands moving to his fly. “I don't want a slow build, Ben. I don't want the prologue. I want the climax.”
He laughs, a ragged sound. “Always editing, aren't you?”
He shoves his trousers down just enough, his cock springing free—it’s pale, thick, the head already weeping. He doesn't wait. He hooks his arms under my knees, adjusting my hips, and guides himself to the opening of my panties. He’s shaking. The Junior Associate is actually trembling.
He slides them aside with one finger, finding the wetness I’ve been hiding since the third gin and tonic. He circles my clitoris once, twice, and I arch my back, my head hitting the cupboard door with a dull thud.
“Please,” I breathe.
He enters me in one long, smooth push. He’s large—enough to make me stretch, enough to make me feel every inch of him. I let out a long, shuddering breath, my forehead dropping onto his shoulder. He’s solid. He’s there.
He starts to move, his pace frantic at first, then settling into a deep, punishing rhythm. The counter is rattling. I can hear the little glass trays in the cupboard clinking together like a toast. He’s holding my hips so hard I know there will be thumbprints there in the morning, a map of where he’s been.
“Look at me,” he commands.
I lift my head. His face is flushed, his jaw tight. He looks older now, stripped of the corporate polish.
“I’ve wanted this,” he says, his voice breaking as he thrusts deeper, hitting my cervix. “I’ve wanted this since the day you told me my quarterly report was 'sufficient'.”
“It was… it was more than sufficient,” I moan, my eyes fluttering shut as the tension starts to coil tight in my belly.
He picks up the speed, his breath coming in jagged hitches. He’s hitting a spot inside me that feels like a live wire. I can feel the come building, a heavy, honey-thick heat that starts in my toes and rushes upward. My internal muscles clamp down on him, milking him, and he lets out a choked cry, his pace becoming a blurred, desperate friction.
“Claire, I’m—fuck,” he gasps.
I’m already there. The world narrows down to the point where his skin meets mine. I break first, a long, rolling orgasm that makes my vision go white around the edges. I’m calling his name, or maybe I’m just making noise—it doesn't matter. A second later, he stiffens, his fingers digging into my ass as he thrusts one last time, deep and stayed, pulsing inside me as he comes.
He stays there, buried in me, our chests heaving in sync. The only sound is the hum of the mini-fridge and our own ragged breathing.
6.
BEN
I’m still holding her. My face is buried in her hair, which smells like the lobby’s Zen Waterfall and something much better. My legs are starting to ache from the angle, but I don't want to move. If I move, we’re back to being competitors. If I move, I have to figure out how to look at her tomorrow morning without smiling like an idiot.
“Well,” she says, her voice regaining its dry, Georgian edge. She pats my cheek. “That was certainly more productive than the breakout session on digital transformation.”
I pull back, looking at her. Her hair is a disaster. Her blouse is ruined. She looks magnificent. “I think I deserve a promotion for my efforts.”
She laughs and finally slides off the counter, adjusting her skirt. Her legs are shaky, and I feel a surge of pride that I’m the one who put that tremor there.
“Don't push your luck, Benjamin,” she says, finding her shoes. She looks at the bed—the perfectly made, king-sized Marriott bed that we haven't even touched.
“We could move to the actual furniture,” I suggest, nodding toward it. “I think there’s a whole second act to this story.”
Claire looks at the bed, then at her watch, then at me. She crosses her arms, the ruined blouse flapping open, and she doesn't even bother to close it.
“The breakfast meeting is in five hours,” she says.
“I’ll set an alarm.”
She sighs, a sound that is half-exasperation and half-surrender. She walks over to the bed and peels back the heavy polyester duvet.
“You’re going to be the death of my career,” she says, though she’s already kicking off her other shoe.
“Or the highlight of your trip.”
“Shut up, Ben.” She looks at the stack of white towels by the bathroom door, then back at me. “And get over here. I already paid the resort fee for this room, and I intend to get my money’s worth.”
7.
CLAIRE
7:15 AM.
The conference hall is freezing. It’s always forty degrees colder than the surface of the sun, a corporate tradition I’ve never understood.
I’m sitting in the second row, my coffee black, my notebook open to a fresh page. My neck is covered by a silk scarf I didn't plan on wearing, but the hickey Ben left near my collarbone required some creative costuming.
Ben walks in a minute later. He’s wearing a fresh suit, his hair perfectly in place. He looks like a model for a mid-range business magazine. He looks like a man who didn't spend three hours exploring the anatomy of his boss’s rival.
He scans the room, his eyes finding mine. He doesn't smile. He doesn't wink. He just gives me a very professional, very slight nod.
Then he sits down two rows behind me.
I look down at my notebook. I’ve written 'Synergy' at the top of the page. Underneath it, in small, neat letters, I’ve written: *He’s a better kisser than he is a project manager. Consider for future collaborations.*
I can feel his eyes on the back of my head. I can feel the ghost of his hands on my hips.
It’s going to be a very long keynote address. And honestly? I might even take notes.
