Piece of Work

by Staci Hart

  “I don’t know,” I said against her skin. “But I can’t stay away. I thought I could, but I can’t. You’re—”

  Mine, my mind sang as I angled my head for access to her mouth, for my tongue to search its depths. Mine, I chanted like a prayer as I backed her into an aisle of tall shelves, and she let me guide her with no protest. Mine, was the thought that consumed me as I pulled her skirt up her thighs, over her hips. As I dropped her panties to the floor. As I dragged my fingertips up the length of her thighs, covered in goosebumps. As I cupped the curve and dip where those thighs met and slipped the tip of my finger into the slick heat of her.

  Her lips slowed with a moan as her body melted into the palm of my hand.

  God, how I wanted her. I swallowed the moan, my finger sliding in to meet the roll of her hips, my palm flexing to grind the swollen tip of her. I wanted to see her, I realized, more than anything outside of my cock buried in her.

  I broke away and turned her around in one motion, the force fast enough that she grabbed the bookshelf in front of her with a gasp. My eyes moved down the length of her spine to her small waist to the skirt bunched in the curve, black against her snowy ass, which was thrust in my direction in display. An offering I took with the reverence it deserved.

  My hands caressed the curves, squeezing when the weight of her cheeks filled my palms to expose her even more, to open her up. My eyes drank in the sight—the mounds of flesh in my splayed fingers, the swell of her hips as they rounded down and around to meet in the very center of her, the line where her flesh met, pink and plump and wet, the tight hole above it that begged to be touched. All of her begged to be touched, every fucking inch. By me.

  “Please,” she begged with her mouth as well, her back arching and rocking gently, her voice tight and soft, her lips—the ones near my hands—pulsing as she tightened in a place I couldn’t see, but I could touch.

  One hand stayed on her ass, kneading the curve, guiding her hips, as my free hand traced her slick center, eliciting a hiss at the moment of contact, and I didn’t stop until I was buried to the knuckle.

  “God, you’re gorgeous,” I breathed, my chest tight again, though now with desire, and I slipped my index finger in next, my ring finger hanging in a tight V that brushed her clit.

  She moaned, her fingers white-knuckled on the bookshelf, her head hanging between her shoulders, her hips swinging in a rhythm that I matched.

  “I’ve thought about this every second since I touched you last,” I said, releasing her ass cheek in favor of gathering her hair, swinging it to one side to expose the column of her long neck. The handprint on her ass faded as I clamped my hand in the elegant curve.

  Her hips bucked.

  “Do you know how many times I had to take my own cock in my hands, Rin?” I asked as I stroked her with more pressure, more intent. “Do you know what you did to me?” She pulsed around my fingers, muttering something I couldn’t hear. “All I could think about were your lips,” I said, my eyes on my hand between her legs. “All I could think about was how good you felt,” I admitted as my thumb circled that forbidden, puckered hole. “All I wanted was to fuck you.” I pressed until the very tip of my thumb rested inside of her, and she hissed a swear I knew all too well, the walls around my middle fingers tightening, squeezing, pulling me in. “Is that what you want too?” The question was coupled with a flex of my hand, and the flex of her body answered just before her lips.

  “Yes, please—Court, please—oh God,. Oh God,” she panted. “Oh—”

  She exploded around me in a hot rush, a thumping pulse of her body as she came, the sound of her breath, of the succession of gasps punctuated with affirmations, her hips moving in waves and my hand moving with her, unrelenting, spurring the orgasm on, keeping it going until her thighs trembled and her body slowed.

  I released her neck, my hand moving to my belt, my other hand still stroking her gently as I worked to do exactly what I intended, right here, right now.

  And then the door to the library opened.

  My heart skidded to a stop, starting again with a painful thump as we sprang into motion.

  There was no time for discussion, no time for even a glance—she pulled up her panties and righted her skirt, re-tucking her blouse as I adjusted my throbbing cock, which there was no hiding. And I shielded her with my body, stepping out in front of her as she smoothed her hair and followed.

  Another intern was walking in, his head down and focus on the screen of his phone. He glanced up, then back at his phone before depositing his backpack in a chair across from Rin’s.

  I eyed the little shit suspiciously as Rin stepped out from behind me and to her bag, the air between us heavy and thick with too many things left unsaid.

  “Rin—” I started.

  But she shot me a look, a look that almost stopped me, a look full of hurt and anger and desire. Her hands trembled as she picked up her bag, turning for the door.

  Anger flared in my chest as I watched her walk away from me for the second time that day.

  “Rin.” The word was a demand, a command, an order given as I followed her out into the hallway. “Don’t walk away from me, goddammit.”

  She whirled around on me. “What is your problem?” she shot. “Yesterday, you left me like I meant nothing to you, and today you come in here…why? You can’t make up your mind, but I’m just as bad—I’m the fool who wanted you to kiss me again. You’re giving me whiplash, Court, and I just don’t understand what the hell you want from me.”

  I fumed, the heat of a combustion engine building in my chest. “I think it’s pretty fucking clear what I want from you. What I don’t know is what you want from me. Because it can’t be me—that’s not what anybody wants. So, what’s your price, Rin? Everybody has one, and I’ve been killing myself trying to figure out what yours is. A recommendation? A job? Money? What do you want?”

  Her eyes flashed, her lips drawn back. “What? What I want? I…” She blinked, shaking her head. “For starters, I want a fucking apology. You want to…what? Pay me off? Do you think I’m going to rat you out, trap you, when you’re the one who keeps putting me here? I have done nothing but work my ass off and be honest and try so hard just to even be myself. But you keep doing this to me, not the other way around. What’s my price? Is that what you think of me? That I’m just…that I’m a…” She took a shuddering breath. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you.”

  She turned to go, but I grabbed the hook of her elbow and tugged, the truth of her words lodged in my chest and the apology I owed her on my guilty lips. “Wait—”

  She spun, her hand swinging too fast and suddenly for me to avoid the stinging slap when it landed on my cheek. Her eyes glittered with tears, her face bent in anger. “Don’t you touch me again, you son of a bitch. Ever.”

  And for a third time, she walked away, and there was nothing I could do but watch her go.

  16

  Dragon Fodder

  Rin

  “I think something was off with my egg sandwich this morning,” Bianca said the next morning as she sat back in her chair, her face a little gray.

  I frowned as I looked her over, in part because she never said anything remotely personal to me, and in part because she looked horrible. I mean, horrible for Bianca. Her blonde hair was in a pretty bun at her nape, and her clothes were impeccable, but her face was pale, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, my frown deepening.

  She straightened up, shooting me a look like she’d momentarily forgotten that she hated me. “I’m fine.”

  I sighed and turned back to my computer.

  “We’re leaving in ten to inspect the pieces that came in yesterday, and the rest of the day will be spent in preparations for Florence.”

  I smiled to myself at the thought of being blissfully alone for the rest of the week while they were in Italy, starting first thing in the morning. I’d been instructed to work on my proposal, a
nd the idea of all that time with just me and the library sounded like heaven after the last few days. Any situation that was Court-free was good for me.

  To say I was angry would have been the understatement of the century. I was furious. Livid. Seething. Twice now, he’d made a fool out of me, turned me into a wriggling, begging, mewling mound of flesh. He’d essentially called me a whore. And no amount of hotness or finger dexterity could erase that.

  I had never slapped anyone in my life, and damn, it had felt good. The sting of my skin, the icy prick in the fine bones of my hand at the contact, the jolt up my arm. The look on his face.

  I’d hurt him beyond the strike, and that was maybe the most satisfying part of all.

  Of course, that hadn’t stopped my tears, and it hadn’t soothed my aching heart. It hadn’t given me answers, and it hadn’t helped me sort through the myriad of conflicting emotions he impressed upon me at every turn. The line between love and hate was as thin as people said, and I’d learned the intimate truth of it. Because, incomprehensibly, I wanted him, and I never wanted to see him again. I wanted to kiss him, and I wanted to kill him. I wanted him to apologize, and I never wanted to hear the sound of his voice as long as I lived.

  I felt him before I saw him, the devil in a suit so black, it seemed to draw all the light from the room, a fathomless darkness to match his heart.

  And God, he was gorgeous.

  I looked back to my computer screen as my heartbeat picked up. Everything ached—my stifled lungs in the cage of my ribs, my twisting stomach, my traitorous, clenching thighs, the spot where his eyes touched my skin, as if they were calling me, willing me to meet his gaze. But I didn’t. I sat in my chair and pretended to type, unable to think of anything to say, so I typed out the lyrics to Wu-Tang’s “C.R.E.A.M.” instead.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  My mind fired off answers: Fuck you, and, Are you serious?, and, Go to hell.

  They were poised on the tip of my tongue, and I was just about to turn and unload them on him when Bianca answered, “I’m fine. Breakfast just isn’t sitting right.”

  Partially annoyed that he hadn’t addressed me, I kept typing, lamenting about times being tough like leather and the struggles of being a gangsta, my fingers clicking the keys too loudly to be considered casual.

  “I still haven’t been able to get Bartolino’s office to agree to a meeting,” Bianca said. “Did you have any luck?”

  “No. We’re going to have to ambush him.”

  Bianca was silent for a heartbeat. “Have you figured out what you can offer him? His silence sends a pretty strong message.”

  “I’m not giving up,” he said, his voice with an edge of controlled passion and determination.

  The ache in my chest tightened at the sense that he’d said the words to me.

  “I’m not suggesting you will. I’m just saying, we’d better have a damn good plan if you want to leave with the contracts signed.” Bianca stood. “Come on, let’s go check out the Masaccio.”

  I closed my computer and stood, keeping my eyes on Bianca in an effort to avoid Court, who seemed to be trying to set me on fire with his retinas. The worst part was that it was working. He was so intense, so overwhelming, I couldn’t think about anything beyond his presence in the room. The effect was a dichotomy of feeling both powerful and powerless—he couldn’t leave me alone for the same reason I couldn’t resist, and that gave me a hold on him just as tight as the one he had on me. But anger and hurt were powerful on their own merit, and I’d been throwing logs on the fire in my heart since we parted the day before, each one labeled with reasons he was an asshole and a brute and unworthy of another minute of my time.

  When Bianca reached for her blazer hanging on her chair, she faltered, gripping the back of it with one hand and her stomach with the other. “Oh God,” she mumbled drunkenly before her eyes shot wide. She clamped her hand over her mouth and took off running. In heels, mutant that she was.

  Court and I glanced at each other, strictly in surprise, before I started for the door to make sure she was okay. But he didn’t move, didn’t shift politely to get out of my way, forcing me instead to acknowledge him.

  “Excuse me,” I said, my face turned to the door as I tried to move around him, but he caught my wrist gently in the circle of his hand and tugged.

  “Rin,” he said, his voice as soft and insistent as his hand, his face stoic as ever.

  “No.” I hardened, unable to keep my emotions off my face. “I meant it, Court.”

  His throat worked as he swallowed. “You can’t run away from me forever.”

  “I can try.”

  And then he let me go.

  I flew out of the room like a dove from a box, hurrying for the bathroom with my heart fluttering in my rib cage. The echoing sounds of her retching reached me before I even opened the door.

  I waited until she was through, my eyes on the red bottoms of her shoes under the stall as she kneeled over the toilet. “Are you all right, Dr. Nixon?”

  “I told you, I’m fine,” she snapped, her voice rough. “Go away.”

  “Are you sure I can’t get you a glass of water or—”

  “Go. Away.”

  I sighed and stepped out, though I hovered near the door in a moment of indecision. Did I stay and wait for Bianca, who clearly didn’t want me there, or did I go back into the office where Court was waiting?

  I opted for Bianca. At least she wouldn’t try to touch my vagina.

  When she emerged a few minutes later, she was as rumpled and white as a sheet. Her eyes, which were a little bloodshot, narrowed at me.

  “God, you’re annoying,” she muttered as she passed, shuffling toward her office.

  “I think you might be sick,” I offered helpfully.

  “No shit. Did they give you a medical degree at NYU? They’ve really lowered their standards.”

  I glanced at the ground, and she at least had the decency to look over her shoulder with an apologetic expression on her face—for Bianca, at least—which was still condescending.

  She stepped into her office, and Court’s frown deepened.

  “I’m fine, goddammit,” she hissed, turning on her heel to face him, but she wobbled, listing like she might faint.

  Court and I both moved at once, but he made it to her first, catching her just before her knees hit the ground. She lay in his arms, looking up at him like he was a god or a savior or both.

  “You’re sick,” he said gently, his hand brushing away a lock of her golden hair that had come loose. His frown deepened when he pressed his palm to her forehead. “I think you have a fever. We should get you home.”

  The look of reverence was replaced by a petulant one, followed by weak thrashing. “No. No! We’re going to Florence tomorrow. I’m not missing Florence. I’m not missing David!” she whined.

  He soothed her, smoothing her hair and shushing her. “I’ll bring him back for you.”

  Some new logs went on the rage fire in my chest, labeled as follows: Touch Her Again and You Die, Don’t You Look at Him Like That, Bitch, and three more labeled Mine.

  It was jealousy, I realized not distantly at all. In fact, it hit me like a baseball bat to the knee, nearly taking me down. The desire to force myself between them was so strong, my fists clenched, my nails biting into my palms doing little to sober me.

  He stood, bringing her up with him. “Come on. Let me get you into a cab.”

  He was nearly purring at her, and I felt like I was vibrating, like I would molt and turn into a dragon and devour both of them. I wondered absently if Bianca would taste bitter and decided to skip her and go straight for him. I bet he was decadent and salty, like a thick cut steak, hot and firm and juicy. Which, oddly, made me think of his dick, an unwelcome subject that had been on my mind for days.

  This was the moment I realized my brain had actually short-wired, and I hoped it wasn’t the by-product of an aneurysm.

  He turned to me, his eyes dark
. “Stay here.” It was a demand, one he issued with his arm around her waist.

  For support, I told myself.

  Whatever. She probably knows what his steak tastes like, I told myself back.

  Stop thinking about his meat, Rin!

  They disappeared into the hallway, and I stood there in the middle of the room like a half-wit, thinking about steak and penises, considering leaving the room just to spite him, to defy him and his demands and commands and insistence. And a realization doused me like a bucket of ice water.

  I was not the same girl I had been when I walked into this office. Had it only been a few weeks ago? Had all of this happened over the course of a collection of days? If you had told me that I’d be plotting to directly disobey the curator just to piss him off, the curator I’d kissed, who I’d let hike my skirt up in front of Jesus and in the sacred space of a library, all while wearing heels and red lipstick, I would not have laughed. I probably would have gasped, blushed, and run away from you like you’d admitted you were a pedophile.

  And yet here I was.

  And for once, I didn’t feel like an imposter. I felt exactly like me. And me was furious.

  He brought that out in me.

  I was still standing there, having an existential crisis, when he came back into the room with his jaw set.

  “I hope your passport is current.”

  I blinked. And then I realized what he was suggesting. I took a step back. “No.”

  One of his dark brows rose. “No, your passport isn’t current?”

  “No.” I shook my head to clear it. “Yes. My passport is current, but…” My mouth opened, then closed again.

  “I need an assistant. You were able to successfully assist me last week. Bianca can’t fly like that—”

  “Maybe she’ll be better tomorrow. Maybe she’ll—”

  “Rin. She can’t go, but you can. You can go to Italy. Tomorrow.”

  With me, his eyes added.

  That was exactly why I couldn’t go.

  I took a breath to power the shoot-down, but he cut in.