One Kiss: An Office Romance

by Jess Bentley

  “Well, this is definitely something,” he finally smiles when I’m done. “You’re a good gal, Clarissa. A good worker. Thanks for letting me know.”

  I swallow, unsure what to do next. A good gal? That sort of stings.

  “I guess we had to get Greg out of the way before you could really shine, eh?” he smirks.

  “I guess so,” I sigh, relieved that at least he realizes what I am saying is the truth.

  He leans back, folding his hands together over his belly. “I’m sorry you had to wait so long to get the promotion you deserved. Speaking of which, accounting tells me they have a check for you that you didn’t pick up yet. Why don’t you go by there and see what they’ve got, eh?”

  “Oh!” I blurt out. “Right. Yes. I forgot all about that!”

  He leans back over the paperwork on his desk, effectively dismissing me. But I have to admit, this is the most encouragement or recognition I’ve ever gotten from him. It feels okay. Maybe it’s the most I’ve ever gotten from anyone.

  Anita in accounting is a nice lady, I guess. Not friendly. She looks over her half-moon glasses at me and picks up the envelope from the top bin on her desk as soon as she sees me, as though she was waiting for me. She could have told me it was here, but whatever.

  “Thanks, um, Anita,” I mumble as I pry it open, trying to glance at the number.

  But when I see it, I don’t believe my eyes. I have to get to pull the check all the way out of the envelope and blink several times to believe what I am looking at.

  This is the commission? From Isaac?

  Despite myself, I make a decidedly girlish noise in my chest that makes Anita suck her teeth in disgust. I know I am being uncool but this is amazing! This is a lot of money! This is more money than I think I’ve ever had at once.

  I could pay off my townhouse. I could buy another townhouse! Well, mostly. Townhouses are actually really expensive.

  I could buy car. I could buy a car for Landry. I could take all the kids on a vacation! A cruise!

  Disney World!

  I could probably take out a contract on Ronnie’s life!

  Okay, just kidding about that last part.

  Bubbling over with excitement, I hustle toward Maxwell’s office to share the news with him. I know he already knows, since he is the one that made this happen, but I just have to tell someone—

  My heart stops.

  As I turn around the corner, I see Maxwell and someone, some woman plastered against him. She climbs off of him as I enter the office, and she giggles girlishly, blushing.

  “Oh, excuse me… Maxwell?”

  “Clarissa,” he begins, clearing his throat, “glad you’re here. I’d like you to meet my ex-fiancée, Zella Hews.”

  When he says the word ex, she winces and rolls her eyes. Sensing the advantage, I stride forward with my hand out.

  “Oh, nice to meet you,” I smile tightly. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Zella’s eyebrows go up, and not in a pretty way. She looks like she would have a really squeaky voice.

  “Heard a lot about me? Oh, Maxwell, do you still tell stories about me, hon?”

  “No, Sunny Regales mentioned you in passing,” I correct her innocently.

  “Oh,” she pouts as her head swivels to face me. “I don’t think she likes me.”

  “Oh, of course she does,” I lie.

  Zella stares at me without shame, checking me out from top to bottom. By the way she sniffs at my outfit, I can tell she doesn’t think I am worth her consideration.

  “Well, thank you for stopping by,” Maxwell announces cordially. “I really do need to be getting back to work. Clarissa? You had something for me?”

  Zella pivots, placing her body between me and Maxwell so that he has to pay attention to her.

  “But you didn’t tell me yet!” she pouts. “What am I supposed to do? About the ladybugs?”

  He backs away from her, moving behind his desk where she can’t follow him.

  “I really wouldn’t know anything about that,” he scowls.

  “They’re just everywhere!” she bawls. “They’re all over the roses. Turtle has been eating them, which is, like, too gross.”

  “Ladybugs are great for your garden,” I chirp helpfully. “They eat aphids. They can’t hurt you.”

  Maxwell raises his eyebrows and smiles politely at her. “See? No problem.”

  With her lips pressed tightly together, Zella glares at me for another moment before stomping out of the room. I’m surprised she’s giving up so easily, but apparently she ran out of things to say.

  As soon as she’s gone, Maxwell drops his forehead against the heel of his palm and massages his temple for a moment.

  “Ladybugs, huh?” I smirk. “Is that really why she came?”

  “Seems like she always has some reason or other,” he sighs. “But I can’t really blame her. It’s her mother. She sends her on these missions to get me back. Zella doesn’t really have a conniving bone in her body. Her mother is just convinced… Never mind. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  Crossing my arms, I silently thank my lucky stars that I didn’t immediately go off on him the moment I saw her. When I first stepped in the room, it certainly looked… Well, obvious. I guess that was the whole point.

  But instead, now I get to tease him about it. That’s much more valuable.

  Almost as valuable as this check I’ve got between my hot little fingers.

  “So I was thinking…” I begin.

  He looks up at me, distracted, then comes into focus.

  “You look happy,” he smiles slyly. “This is a good look on you. What are we happy about?”

  “Why don’t you come around for dinner?” I shrug. “I’ve got the house to myself, thanks to you. No little sisters.”

  “Oh, right,” he agrees slowly, his voice thickening.

  I see his gaze flicker toward the middle of the office and shift slightly, so I don’t appear too casual with him. After all, this is still a secret. I may have only slept with my boss once, but I still wouldn’t want that to get out. I shift my weight in a controlled way, trying to appear professional from the back, whatever that means.

  “I know a little something about wine,” he murmurs, staring at a manila folder on his desk in case anyone is watching.

  “I know a little something about pork chops? Sound good?”

  He readjusts the pens in his pen holder. “I could bring dessert?”

  You could be dessert, I tell him silently.

  “Let’s say seven o’clock,” I shrug, then walk backward out of his office so I can watch his eyes watch me as I retreat. I like the way he looks at my hips. I like it a lot.

  I like to cook, but I find myself nervous trying to prepare a meal for Maxwell. I grew up in a simple Midwestern family, specializing in mac and cheese for my five younger brothers and sisters. Maxwell obviously grew up with better taste than that.

  What was I thinking inviting him to dinner?

  But really? I just like being around him. Every time we are together, it gets a little easier. I find myself more relaxed, able to laugh and joke without being immediately self-conscious.

  Still, there are a lot of ways to mess up dinner. I figure I have about an hour and half, so I should be able to spend twenty minutes shopping, then get home and do the prep work, cleanup, and get it all situated by seven.

  Isn’t this supposed to be relaxing?

  The line at the grocery store is much longer than I expected. But luckily, this market has a selection of heat-and-eat side dishes. They really save a lot of time, even if they are stupidly expensive. After standing in front of the refrigerated case for a while, I pick out a medley of colorful sliced peppers and a fancy macaroni and cheese with Gruyere and spiral noodles.

  I guess we are having mac and cheese after all.

  After a quick change into something more comfortable at home, I set about getting everything ready for dinner. The pork chops are breaded and sizzling
in the sauté pan when I hear a knock on the door that makes my heart leap in my chest.

  I see him smiling on the front steps as I walk up to the door, and it makes me smile back. Pushing the front gate open, I hold my hand out like a game show hostess. He offers me a cockeyed grin as he steps across the threshold, then slides his palms along my jaw and tips my face up to meet his. This tender kiss fills me with butterflies, their wings beating loudly against the confines of my belly.

  “I have been waiting all day to do that,” he murmurs.

  “So have I,” I confess.

  By the time I get back to the kitchen, the pan is sizzling dangerously.

  “Oh no!” I exclaim, rushing forward to grab a spatula and flipping the chops over.

  By some miracle, they aren’t completely burnt. Instead, they look tantalizingly browned.

  “Delicious,” he observes with a smile. “How did you know pork chops are my favorite?”

  “Just lucky I guess,” I smile back.

  I feel goofy and giddy all through dinner, on the verge of bursting into childlike laughter. I can’t remember the last time I felt like this, if ever. High school? College?

  “What are you smiling about?” he asks, taking a bite of macaroni and cheese.

  “I have no idea,” I admit. “It’s just… I don’t know.”

  “It’s nice,” he says.

  I break out into a bigger smile, feeling like he knows exactly how I’m feeling.

  “Yes. Nice.”

  After dinner, he helps me with the dishes, or rather he curls his body behind mine while I do the dishes. Slippery in the soapy water, his hands brush against my forearms, sending shivers up to my shoulders. Every touch is a marvel, a cascade of sensations I never knew I had. Feelings I never knew I was missing.

  I stare at the ridge of his thumb as he slowly drags it along the back of my forearm, nearly trembling under this simple pressure. I feel his breath along the seam of my neck and his weight against my shoulders.

  Gently he tests my boundaries, and crosses them one by one. Where last night he was urgent, passionate, and an irresistible storm, today he is thoughtful and gentle, thorough and inquisitive.

  It’s like there is a landscape inside me, a deserted plain that I left there like a moat around my secret center. It would take a long time to get to me. Someone would have to be willing to cross all this barren landscape.

  And here he is, step by step, getting closer and closer. I don’t want him to stop. In fact, I want him to hurry.

  When the last dish is done, I turn in his embrace, happy to see the thick look of lust on his features. His gaze is searing and direct. His full lips are parted.

  “Dinner was delicious,” he murmurs, then tips forward and places a hot, biting kiss at the space between my neck and shoulder, just above my collarbone. My breath shudders in my throat as he kisses me over and over again, biting, teasing, his hands supporting my spine. I feel weightless in his embrace, and I know all I need to do is relax and let him do all the work.

  Suddenly he lifts me up, wedging his hands beneath my bottom and wrapping my legs around his hips as he carries me from the kitchen and up the stairs. Giggling, I smile and hang on tight, breathless with anticipation.

  I barely finished one glass of wine, but I am buzzing like I am drunk as he lays me across the bed and pushes my skirt over my hips. Falling on his knees on the floor in front of me, he spreads my legs and groans with desire.

  The first touch of his tongue against my seam is shocking with his heat. He merely traces the line and I feel myself open up like a flower in time-lapse.

  “Oh, Clarissa,” he groans. “That’s it. Let me have you.”

  No one has ever said those words before. No one has ever said anything like that to me. My core clenches, releasing a volley of sparks that I can see when I close my eyes. At first shy, soon I can no longer resist the urge to give in to the pleasure he is offering me. I roll my hips, countering the pressure of his soft, fluttering tongue with my own reaction. He finds my pearl and sucks it gently, sending me into another wave of clenching pleasure

  I never knew it could be like this. With his lips on my sex, my body shuttles me quickly through ever-mounting stages of bliss. Soon I feel a pang, almost a twinge of pain deep within my pussy. Nature tells me what to do and I let it overtake me, let it explode inside me like a fireworks display.

  Totally giving in, I ride the waves of orgasm through visions of terraced mists, secret places I have never visited before. The world seems crystal clear to me now. And startlingly simple.

  When he rises to join me on the bed, I am shockingly wet. He kisses me deeply, trading back my own taste onto my tongue as his cock circles my entrance. Hooking my thigh over his hip, I drag him closer, needing him inside me to take us the rest of the way on our journey.

  I can feel every ridge of his thick erection as he slides past the barrier, bit by bit. I seem to suck him inside of me, scratching a deep, primal itch with this union.

  His muscles flex and clench under my hands as he thrusts rhythmically against me. I love the roll of his hips, the motion that is so private, so intimate and specific that I feel it is only for me. Here we are as our strangest selves, sharing the sounds, tastes, and motions that no one else sees of us.

  He tenses, tendons standing out between the thick, sculpted muscles as he arches his back, plunging so far into me that it almost makes me cry out in pain. But I’m determined to take every bit of it, to hold nothing back.

  His seed overflows, drenching both of us. It puddles between our bodies as he releases the last of it, falling breathless and panting on top of me like a spent animal.

  Pinned beneath him, I feel small, obliterated, and completely safe.

  Chapter 15

  Maxwell

  When I hear a scream upstairs, I remember I’m not supposed to turn on the water in the kitchen while Clarissa is in the shower. Quickly I slap the faucet handle and cringe, hoping that the temperature change wasn’t too scalding.

  But when she stomps down the stairs, I can tell by her footfalls that I took the shine off her morning routine. Quickly I prepare coffee with cream and sugar—how she likes it—and perch it on the corner of the counter so it is the first thing she sees when she walks into the kitchen.

  “That’s not really going to make up for it,” she informs me as she picks up the mug.

  But I know how she is. I’ve figured out that mornings are Clarissa’s worst possible time. Before coffee, she’s practically nonverbal. If I speak to her, there’s a good chance she’ll say things that she will have to retract later on in the day. It’s better just to have coffee first, conversation after.

  Since we have been spending time together, I’ve been getting the lay of the land, and she has been getting to know me too. She understands that I like to open doors for her. If she doesn’t give me a chance, how am I supposed to open the door? She is learning how to pause for just a moment to let me reach in front of her and open her car door.

  She’s also learned that my music tastes haven’t changed very much since I was fourteen or fifteen. I like Rush and Jane’s Addiction. I refuse to make excuses for that.

  Since her place is closer to the office than mine, we have found it easier to stay here most nights. The last time I picked up my dry-cleaning, I left it in her closet. It’s just a convenience, but one that feels good. It feels very good.

  Even now, as I’m watching her scowl into her coffee mug, I can’t help but smile. She is cute when she’s grumpy.

  “So I talked to my parents,” I mention conversationally after she’s had three ounces or so of coffee. “They’ve asked us to dinner. Shouldn’t be a big deal. Are you free tonight?”

  She pauses momentarily, then sets the coffee down and turns it in place on the counter until the handle is on the other side.

  “You want me to meet your parents?” she asks slowly without looking up.

  “Is this a problem?”

  “Can
I think about it?”

  “Of course you could think about it,” I answer, though truthfully that reply is not what I was expecting.

  Why wouldn’t she want to meet my parents? Marshall and Sherry Kent are very nice people. My mother can tell some stories about Sunny from a different vantage point that I think Clarissa might enjoy. And… we’ve been dating for some time, not an especially long time, but meeting my parents now would be fine, I think. It would be fine.

  The way her mouth is twisted, I really want to ask what she’s thinking. Before I can formulate the sentence, she turns and leaves the kitchen to go back upstairs and get dressed, leaving me mute and helpless with the remainder of the coffee to finish.

  “Are we good to go with Cyrus?” she asks when we get in the car to go to work.

  I decide to set aside any thoughts of dinner with my parents and talk about work instead. It seems like every time Clarissa gets uncomfortable, she retreats to some kind of professional attitude.

  “Yes, we’re fine,” I confirm. “That landscape architect Fred recommended is available to start this week. We should be able to get done before the end of the month.”

  “Hmm, that’s good,” she nods with her eyes downcast, making notes on her iPad. “I was scheduled… Hey, wait. What’s this?”

  She taps on the screen, pointing to a cell on her calendar.

  “That’s your Thursday appointment,” I shrug simply.

  “Well, I didn’t schedule this with him. Did you schedule this with him?” she smirks, staring at the word.

  “Marcel is an old friend,” I say, breezy and confident. “I knew you wanted to get his campaign headquartered in the plaza, so…”

  “Thank you!” she breathes happily.

  Excellent. I knew she would appreciate that. I set up the meeting last week and put it on her calendar, but she didn’t happen to notice it until just now.

  “Just helping you shine,” I smile as I pull into the parking garage.

  The valet opens her car door first and Clarissa gets out, sliding her sunglasses onto the bridge of her nose. She looks completely gorgeous today in a black pencil skirt with a high waistline and a tight-fitting white blouse that ruffles under her chin. She looks like a sexy school mistress from the 1800s with expensive heels.