Make Me Fall: Bayshore #2

by Leigh, Ember

  “What’s the prize?”

  “Everything you see here.” I kiss her smiling lips, over and over again, coaxing needy kisses from her. She wraps her arms around my neck, and before I can think twice, I’ve hoisted her, bringing her body crashing against the vinyl wall of the shower. Warm water rushes over my back, and we don’t break the kiss for anything. Our teeth crash, tongues pushing, as I wiggle my hips between her legs.

  Her thighs spread, a silky yield that feels like coming home. I’ve been shacking up with her for almost two full weeks, but somehow it feels like years. Our mouths are hungry, seeking, urgent against each other while I flex my hips and then find that sweet, damp core of her that is always ready and waiting for me.

  She moans through a kiss while I plunge inside her, her silky stretch the only thing I can see and feel and think about. Now, and probably forever. My shoulders prickle as I work myself in and out of her, our kisses stalling and then starting, feverish and then lethargic.

  Kinsley claws at my back, arching herself into me, inviting me even deeper. As though I could possibly be buried any more inside this woman. I hoist her again, her ass like melons in my hands, and she cries out, sharp and loud in the humid air. She goes weak and wilted in my arms, collapsing against me, her lips finally sliding away from mine.

  She finds the hollow of my neck, whispering my name over and over. I thrust into her again and let the glorious rush of pleasure pummel through me and into her, filling her to overflowing. My thighs tense as the orgasm threatens to topple me, but I hold her as tightly as I can, bracing myself against the storm.

  When the clouds clear, her eyes are hooded and she looks as wrung out as a towel. It was one of our shorter sessions, but definitely one of the most intense. I smooth my lips over her cheek, across the bridge of her nose. I’ve had all of her and more, but I can’t keep myself away.

  Kinsley’s eyes flutter, and then I’m staring into the periwinkle galaxy of her gaze. The water rushes down around us while we just watch. Staring, searching for something that words don’t define and nobody else can understand.

  It feels like hours until I finally set her down onto her own two feet. I finish soaping her up, and then she does the same for me. It’s still early when we towel off, but without a word we both ease into bed. My bags remain untouched; her half-unpacked duffel gets shoved to the floor.

  Something has changed between us tonight. And as she settles into my arms to fall asleep, I finally realize what it means for me.

  My life won’t feel right without her.

  That much, I know for certain.

  But I’m not sure I’m ready for her, dream woman or not.

  Chapter 24

  KINSLEY

  The beep, beep, beep of my alarm is the first thing I’m aware of on Monday morning. A stretch overtakes me, followed by a grin that only Connor is responsible for.

  My body is sore—again—but it’s a minor inconvenience for the brand of physical and emotional pleasure I’ve been enjoying. I’ll gladly hobble around if it means Connor keeps making love to me like he did last night in the shower.

  I yawn, rolling onto my side, flinging an arm out in search of Connor.

  But my hand flops against cool sheets, not the welcoming, warm curve of a heaven-formed bicep. There is nobody beside me in bed. I sit up, as alert as if I’d started my morning coffee. I rub my eyes as I adjust to the dim surroundings. It’s six a.m., and the tawny hue of dawn is already creeping around the edges of my blinds.

  I listen to the apartment. For the telltale sounds of footsteps in the kitchen or the rush of a morning pee.

  Connor isn’t here.

  And his bags are gone too.

  I frown and ease out of bed, more disconcerted than I’d like by the absence. He probably said goodbye to me while I was asleep. That’s all. He probably gave me a kiss and left a note on my kitchen counter.

  But when I shuffle into my quiet and still-sorta-gross-smelling kitchen, there’s no note.

  In fact, there’s no sign that Connor was ever here. That he ever existed.

  Panic streaks through me as I entertain the wild notion that the whole thing was a dream. Two weeks spent in some sort of psychosis. Like in Inception, when he’s under for two hours but he’s lived an entire life in his dream space. That’s me. I’ve incepted Connor and all that shower sex, when really I’ve been fast asleep in San Diego, and it’s still two Fridays ago.

  Adrenaline streaks through me as anxiety takes root.

  It can’t possibly be true.

  But oh, how the monkey mind loves to entertain the possibility of it.

  I go through the motions of my morning routine. Cold shower, start the coffee pot, rummage for clothes, try on three things, hate them all, swear while I realize the coffee maker’s been beeping for ten minutes, check my phone. I’m almost late.

  I’ve chosen the same old, same old work outfit. Flared taupe pants, a ruffled brown and white polka-dotted blouse. I’ve swept my tresses back into the same old, same old braid.

  And I head out the door to my same old, same old job.

  But today, I’ve got a volcano rumbling to life in me. I don’t feel the same old Kinsley on the inside. There’s something different afoot. Something potentially explosive, with lava flows and probably magma, if we’re getting technical. Definitely anxiety, since I’m still not sure if Bayshore was a fever dream.

  Before I head inside for the day, I send Connor a message.

  KINSLEY: I miss you already.

  I breeze into E-bid right on time at 7:55 a.m. My stomach turns to prickles and tension as I wait for any hint of Connor. Waiting for that first glance. The first smirk. The first time he’ll lean over my shoulder while I’m seated at my desk and whisper something into the shell of my ear.

  Yes. I can’t wait to be on the receiving end of his private looks and sexy winks. Or even a mouthed ‘sea gull’ from across the lunchroom.

  I’m in before Tamara—typical—and I settle in at my desk to get caught up on work email. I’ll probably be doing this most of the morning, until Tamara comes up with some surprise bitch task to make my life miserable.

  I’m checking my phone every three minutes, peering into the top drawer of my desk to see if Connor has written back. Nothing. But it’s fine, because he’s busy, and he’s probably getting caught up like I am. More than likely he’s in a meeting, just waiting to text me back. He’s probably got the emojis lined up and waiting for him to press Send.

  Tamara’s heels clack across the floor of the HR wing around nine a.m. She’s got folders in her arms, her dark brown hair pulled back into a low, fierce bun. Her lips look bigger today. Maybe she outlined them with extra thick pencil or got those weird injections to “inflate your pout.” That makes me think of puffer fishes, though, which forces me to bite back a laugh.

  Tamara’s emerald green gaze snaps my way. She doesn’t say hi. She doesn’t ask how my vacation was. Voice like a switchblade, she says, “Kinsley, come with me.”

  I push to standing, my stomach shrinking to an acorn. I follow in her irritated trail, which smells like freesia and condescension, and once we get inside her office she barks, “Close the door.”

  I do as she says and sink into the chair facing her desk. She doesn’t look at me as she organizes files and puts order to an otherwise-immaculate desk. I rub my palms back and forth over the knees of my pants, trying to feel friendly toward her.

  “So, what’s this about?” I finally venture, once the silence has become deafening.

  “You have put me really behind,” she says, a frown tugging her inflated pout downward. “So behind that the controller has gotten involved.”

  Great. Here we go. Why I’m the reason everything is wrong.

  “Your performance report was due at the start of your ‘personal days.’” She uses air quotes. “And since you didn’t think to ask whether or not you’d be abandoning outstanding duties or throwing your higher-ups under the bus,” she gestures
around her, “here we are.”

  I blink, not quite sure how to process this. All of my grievances with Tamara can be distilled into this moment. No matter what I do, there is something I’ve done exceptionally wrong that I must atone for.

  “I’m sorry,” I mutter.

  “Yeah. I’m sure you are.” The condescension drips from her words as she turns toward her laptop and clicks through some screens. A disgusted silence settles between us, and as I’m about to try to lighten the mood or otherwise cajole her, I feel the volcano rumble to life again. Lava’s pushing through my veins. I hear Connor’s voice. Let’s work on the eye contact thing.

  So I look Tamara straight in the face. And I stare at her.

  My taking personal days on a whim isn’t the reason she’s behind. This performance report is not the reason for her bad mood. She is the reason for all those things. And I’m half tempted to shout this at her before finding a book I can rip in two and then run off into the sunset like a snarling wolf, seeking another victim.

  I don’t do the wolf stuff. Instead, I stare more. I don’t make the mood lighter or nicer.

  Because she also made this unsavory stew, and she can sit in it too.

  When she looks over at me, I swear I see surprise flash across her face. Like she wasn’t expecting my serial killer-grade stare.

  “Let’s begin?” She clears her throat and launches into the most boring rendition of corporate speak I could ever hope to suffer through. She outlines each of my duties and the ways in which I’m barely accomplishing them. From what she’s saying, it’s a wonder I even have a job. And to be honest, I can barely listen to the scathing account of my underperformance, partly because I’m wracking my brain to figure out how I’m falling so short of the low bar that’s set for me here.

  It doesn’t make sense. I try my hardest, and it’s the opposite of enough.

  A phone call interrupts us, and Tamara takes it. She murmurs, “Mmhmm,” into the phone over and over again. When she hangs up, she sighs.

  “I need to pause this. Something’s come up.”

  I make sure to search out her gaze. “But I’m on pins and needles waiting to hear about this performance report that has put you so drastically behind.”

  Her gaze narrows. Maybe that was too much lava. “We’ll continue when I’m ready. As for now, there are other things that are far more important than you.”

  She dismisses me, and I drift out to my desk in a disgruntled cloud. I replay her last words to me no fewer than thirty times in my head. Soon, I’m fighting tears and staring at my computer screen without having any idea what I’m doing.

  And it’s only ten a.m.

  Thankfully, my work friend Lena comes into the office. She and I bond over books, and we’re only now reaching that point where we might do things outside of work together. Realistically though, what we’ll probably end up doing is sitting in each other’s apartment and complain about the character arcs in Game of Thrones, like we do during lunchtime.

  “Giiirl.” She’s got a folder in her arms, which is probably destined for me. She flops it onto my desktop, then presses her palms on either side of the folder. “How was that vacay?”

  The sight of her round face and black bob is a relief, especially with all the emotions running rampant inside me. And dammit, Connor still hasn’t texted. I swallow the tears and force myself to smile up at her. “It was amazing.”

  She snorts. “Yeah. I bet it was. Why didn’t you tell me you were dating Connor?”

  Her words stop me. “Uh…what?”

  “That’s what everyone’s been talking about. That you two are an item.” Her excited gaze bounces between me and Tamara’s door further down the aisle. “So? Is it true?”

  “I mean…” I twist around to look at the door in case it’s open and Tamara is secretly filming this. I hate that I don’t know the rules of what we’ve got going on here. Is it supposed to be a secret? Do I need to draft a memo? Who spills the beans first? I feel like I should confer with Connor before I say anything definitive, but I can trust Lena. “Yeah. We are.”

  She picks up the folder and slaps the side of my arm with it. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.” God, it feels good to admit this. I can feel my chest swelling. “It just sorta…happened. I was going to tell you, but it’s still so new.” I swallow a knot in my throat. “How did you find out?”

  “One of the other developers.” Lena deals with all the departments, so she’s usually got her pulse on the juiciest gossip. “I think he said Connor texted him about it or something. I couldn’t believe it, so I thought I’d confirm with the source.”

  She flashes me a cheesy grin, but then the door to Tamara’s office opens and Lena straightens. “We’ll talk later,” she whispers, and scurries off.

  Tamara doesn’t come out, just leaves her door cracked, and so I go back to email and compulsively checking my phone. Tamara pings me a moment later on the internal message client and asks me to make thirty copies of a handful of documents. She usually treats me like an underpaid assistant, but this is a particular kick in the face after my abysmal performance review. Like this is all I’m good for. Making copies. I sigh and get to work on it anyway.

  When lunchtime rolls around, I’m officially on edge. Tamara hasn’t finished my review, and Connor might very well be dead. I call his phone on my way to the lunchroom. It rings seven times and then clicks over to voicemail.

  Anxiety turns my gut into a nut. Something is wrong, but I can’t tell what.

  I’m awaiting Tamara’s next move like a patient awaiting a doctor’s bad-news phone call. This can only end in relief or straight up cancer.

  I grab a Caesar salad and an apple from the little deli in our corporate lunchroom. Just as I’m about to select a seat in the sunny, eggshell-white dining area, I spot Connor through the doorway.

  His back faces the lunchroom, so he doesn’t see me. But he’s here, and he’s alive, and my God why won’t that man text me back?

  My heart rate leaps, and I deposit my things on the nearest table before I hurry toward the doorway. I won’t tackle him, per se, but I might whisper seductively about needing him to fuck me in the shower again since it’s been more than twelve hours and we have a schedule to adhere to, dammit.

  He’s got his hands stuffed into his pockets and is drifting toward a small group of developers. Before I reach the hall, they walk off together. I’m left hanging out the doorway, my finger in the air, his name dangling on my lips.

  Almost.

  I go back to my lunch table and get out my phone.

  KINSLEY: Nice ass today. And every day. Yes, I’m creeping on you.

  I eat my Caesar salad, content for now, using up every second of my lunch break to read my daily selection of online magazine articles. When I get back to my desk, the internal message from Tamara is waiting for me. She’s ready to continue the review.

  It’s now or never. Probably she was able to continue the review earlier, she just wanted to drag it out as a form of torture. She’s like that. And even though that’s speculation, it’s also more than likely true. How many other bosses does this apply to?

  On the short walk to her office, I’m struck with an idea.

  An HR support group.

  It goes off like a lightbulb in my head. Some sort of social media-based platform where HR affiliates could vent, complain, and seek support or advice. Maybe even legal advice, if it came to that. Because honestly, it’s exactly what I need right now. Two weeks away has either opened my eyes or made my bad situation worse. I have nowhere to turn, because Tamara is who I should turn to.

  And God help me, I want to see this idea through.

  I knock on her door. She doesn’t respond immediately. “Come in!”

  I turn the knob and steel myself to enter her Bath & Body Works lair. She clears her throat as I step in, and before I shut the door I realize she’s not alone.

  Connor steps away from Tamara, looking startled. Like he’s be
en caught.

  Tamara is dabbing at the corners of her mouth. She shoos him off, sending him a coy grin. “Later, babe.”

  Connor glances at me so briefly, I’m not even sure he knows it’s me. Because he hasn’t given any acknowledgement. No recognition of the fact that we spent two weeks together holed up in Bayshore, cuddling in the mornings while he pressed kisses to my hairline and called me a sunbeam.

  Not. A. Fucking. Word.

  He breezes past me, and I twist to watch him go, confusion making a death swirl inside me.

  “You can shut the door,” Tamara prompts.

  I’m moving in slow motion, robot style, and Tamara giggles again.

  “Sorry. Got a little sidetracked.” She smooths her hair, and I can’t help but wonder what the actual fuck was happening in here before I walked in. My insides plummet to my feet in a disgusting slop. I’m suddenly so heavy, I can barely lift my head.

  Tamara resumes the professional lashing—with more of a pep in her step this time. What is going on here?

  Tamara’s areas for improvement include my wardrobe, my demeanor, my professional disposition, my work ethic, and my timeliness. I wish she would ask me what areas she needs to improve on. I can feel the lava churning inside me. My gaze meets hers, and she has a weird smile on her face.

  “So,” she says, leaning over the desk like an acquaintance or something, “I never got to ask. How was your vacation?”

  The question stuns me. I can’t even speak. Her eyebrows lift as she awaits my response.

  “Uh…” She’s never asked me about my personal life before. Ever. “It was…well-needed. I mean, much-needed. Well-deserved. It was great.”

  “Seemed quite refreshing.” Her tone suggests she doesn’t mean a word of it. “At least based on the photos I saw.”

  I blink. “Photos?”

  “Yeah. The ones Connor posted. They looked a little suggestive, but he assured me that you two are just friends.” An icy smile pulls at her lips, and her gaze narrows. “Is that right?”