Why does she care? I find myself wondering again: does she know them somehow? Does she have some stake in the building?
But even if she did know the people, it’s a million dollars. Who passes up a million dollars? Even if that had been her own actual home, it still wouldn’t explain passing up a million dollars to stay living in a shitty building like that. She could buy something beautiful with that money. Several beautiful things.
“What do you really want?” I ask.
“For you to spare 341.”
“No—341 is just some random building to you. But for whatever reason you’re fixated on me seeing it enough to what? Love it? And if I love it enough, will I spare it? What does it mean if I spare it? What does it mean to you? Tell me that much.”
“What would be meaningful to me is if you would put yourself into Maisey’s shoes and think how Maisey feels. How about if you do that?”
“You want me to put myself into Maisey’s shoes? Fine. Maisey doesn’t want the building—not really. Maisey doesn’t care about a decrepit pile of bricks. None of those people do—not really. For every one of them, it’s something else. Love. Security. Happiness. Feeling successful. Being enough. For some, it’s about overcoming some sort of fear. It’s the old man’s desire to be free of that horrible memory that gets him in the pit of his stomach. The black-haired dancer—it’s escaping that dread of the future that haunts her while she’s waiting in a line at the bank or whatever. The thing that comes to her before she can push it away. What people want—it’s never truly an object.”
She looks impressed; she shouldn’t be. What people want makes them vulnerable. It’s my stock in trade.
I say, “What you want, it’s not money and it’s not the building. It’s not your excellence at this job. What do you get when I spare the building, little country mouse?”
She watches my eyes; for a fleeting moment, I think I’ve hit a nerve. “I want for you to have empathy,” she says. “And I want for that empathy to move you to save the building. And the video isn’t ridiculous.”
Without so much as waiting for my reply, she wakes up the screen and hits play.
A million dollars.
Is it possible that she’s just that passionate about achieving this outlandish goal that she has set for me? Is this the dark genius of Corman and his lawyers? Instead of paying somebody to torture me, they simply found the most idealistic, impossible-to-buy executive coach in existence? And she designed this program specifically for me?
Her absurd program will never work, but people believe in absurd things all of the time. All you have to do is look at Facebook to know that’s true.
My heart pounds. Is that what she is? A bloody true believer in the value of empathy? And getting me to feel empathy is actually more important to her than a million dollars?
Wildly I think of everything that I know about her. I know that she doesn’t take a lot for herself—I see it every day. Never more than one croissant from the Kendrick building pastry tray. Never a new outfit. Not even a million dollars, apparently.
I’m accustomed to people shrinking away from me, scurrying away from me, worrying about me, hiding from me, but this?
This bizarre coaching is worth more to her than a million dollars?
I stare at her, utterly baffled. She clearly understands the offer. And she’s turning it down. This woman with her perfect breasts and her bell-like laugh and a thing about hedgehogs and the postal service, and the bizarre idea that reform works through documentary videos.
What is going on? What are the hidden variables in her calculus? What is this woman’s black swan? It’s so rare that a person baffles me. It’s infuriating.
And exciting.
And sexy as hell.
I should be offended. How would she feel if I created a program designed to corrupt her?
The minute I get the thought, I can’t shake the idea of corrupting her. What would she look like seduced, fully corrupted? My imagination runs wild, picturing her lying in my bed, hair tangled around her head, on the edge of coming, greedily enjoying everything she’s ever denied herself.
I lean back and study the demure slope of her nose. The sly curve of her cheekbone. That fucking butterfly bow tie. My country mouse was hot before, but now she’s irresistible.
I’m thinking about her in that dress shop. That witchy look she got on her face when she tried on the dress, when she thought nobody in the world was watching.
I want her in my bed wearing that witchy look. Begging for me with that witchy look on her face. Mine, utterly and completely.
She stops the video. “Are you even paying attention?”
“Very much so,” I say.
“Okay, then, because I’m turning it back on. We have forty-seven minutes left. Fourteen hours and forty-seven minutes.”
I grin. Fourteen hours and forty-seven minutes. Only Elle would say that.
Only Elle.
19
Noelle
I turn on the video, heart racing.
A million dollars. It was a huge gamble to turn that down. If we end up getting kicked out of our building, at least I’d be able to offer people something to help. But that would mean giving up on our home, giving up on Malcolm.
Was it foolish? Sometimes I feel like, spending all this time with Malcolm, it’s making me lose sight of things that once seemed so clear. Even sitting on the same side of a table like this, watching the presentation, it does something to my judgement.
I should have put a table between us. Except it’s easier to watch together this way, and it is kind of exciting to have him right next to me. Sometimes he slides his gaze to me—discreetly—thinking I won’t notice.
I notice, that’s for sure. Nobody ever looks at me the way Malcolm does. As if he’s fascinated with me.
Who in the world has ever been fascinated with me? Nobody.
It’s intoxicating.
I love the way he talks to me, too, so worked up and agitated and passionate, like velvet running over my skin, against the grain.
It’s just that I’m always taking care of others, staying carefully away from the spotlight. When I’m at work, I’m the US Postal Service, delivering mail to the proper boxes, making the time to get to know the people on my route. I’m the trusted uniform, keeping a watch out for when elderly customers stop picking up their mail, for when children seem to be in distress. I know more about most people’s neighborhoods than they do.
Outside of work, I’m shy Noelle, the girl who disappears into the background. The one who never rode an elevator until the year before last.
And then here’s Malcolm—this beautiful, funny, scathingly clever man—focused so intently on me and me alone.
I try to concentrate on the video, a re-enactment of the great bicycle rack debate of 2019, but I can feel him looking at me. If Francine or Willow were here, they’d turn to him and be all, what the fuck? But to me, Malcolm’s bright gaze feels like sunshine after a long, dark winter.
I scowl, forcing my mind back to my mission. When I feel I have my wits back about me, I turn to him, eyes narrowed. “Are you even paying attention?” I demand.
“Of course I am,” he says, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Is that a clip-on tie?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Why?”
“Wondering.”
My gaze falls to his lips, remembering our kiss in the limo. I’ve been kissed before, but never wildly, madly kissed.
He’s doing his sexy ghost-of-a-smile thing now. Does he sense what I’m thinking?
“You are not at all being a model student,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “And I think you absolutely love it,” he says.
I snort. “In your dreams.”
He just grins.
“Are you ready to watch the video anytime soon?” I ask.
He lowers his voice to a deep, rumbly tone that seems to caress my lady parts—that’s how deep and rumbly it is. “I really want to kiss you again,” he sa
ys.
Electric shivers skitter over my skin. “Well, you can’t,” I say.
“Why not?”
“It was a mistake before, and it would be even more of a mistake now.”
“Even more of a mistake,” he says. “Why even more of a mistake?”
“Workplace impropriety in a public place.”
“I’ll grant you that it’s improper, but this is a private room in a public place,” he says.
“A semi-private room where anybody could walk in.”
“It’s not as if kissing is X-rated,” he says, leaning in, lips drawing near the shell of my ear. I close my eyes. The pleasure of feeling him this close is almost too much to bear.
“Kissing me while you view your lesson for today qualifies as multitasking,” I breathe.
On screen, Lizzie makes an impassioned speech about bike racks.
Underneath the tablecloth, light fingertips settle onto my thigh.
My heart pounds like crazy.
“Is it multitasking if I just set my hand here?” he rumbles.
“I think it is,” I breathe.
My mouth goes dry as he settles the entirety of his hand onto my thigh. His large, capable, unpredictable hand. It feels deliciously dangerous.
He squeezes gently and I nearly explode in a multi-layered orgasm—just from that—that’s how wound up I am. “What do you think about the way I’m multitasking now? What do you think? Is this an acceptable form of multitasking?”
“Maybe,” I whisper.
The video plays. It’s not actually the great bicycle rack debate; it’s a reenactment of it. Jada is running out of footage, so there have been some reenactments. In this reenactment, Tabitha has extra sparkles on. Francine put on her big eyelashes. Jeremy from the first floor, who ultimately lost the bike rack argument last summer, is way more jovial.
Malcolm moves his hand another quarter inch up my thigh.
I suck in a tiny breath. “You’re not paying attention,” I say.
“Lest you forget, I’m a CEO,” he rumbles. “I’m a master multitasker. You’re the one not paying attention. But maybe you’ve seen it before. Have you?”
I don’t know how to answer that. It doesn’t feel important. His hand moves nearer to the apex of my thighs. My belly fills with butterflies, excited, eager, fluttery.
“Do you watch these things ahead of time?” he asks.
“That’s proprietary,” I say.
“Whether you watch them ahead of time is proprietary?” he asks, moving his hand up, up, nearer my sex.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Yes.”
His hand reaches my pussy and he cups me through my pants. I gasp as the bright pressure of his touch flows through me, promising wonderful things.
Into my ear, he whispers, “Undo your slacks.”
I exhale through my nose, a breathy snort. “I can’t.”
“Go ahead.”
I cast a glance at the open doorway. Those two faraway diners are still bent over their table under the two-story plate glass window.
“Even if somebody came in,” he says, following the train of my thoughts in his usual uncanny way, “the tablecloth is there, isn’t it? Nobody sees. Nobody would know. This, for instance.” He presses just one finger to my core now, sending ripples of pleasure through me—the feeling is so powerfully good, I nearly choke on my own tongue. “They would never see this.”
“I’m not undoing my slacks for you,” I say.
“Then undo you slacks for yourself,” he breathes. “Take something for once. Take this one little thing for yourself. You work so hard, but you never take anything for yourself, do you? Always behind the scenes.”
I swallow. How did he know to say that? It’s true. I never even take up too much space. But then, that’s what an executive coach is. A person who supports another person to shine and excel.
And now his finger is stroking my clit through my slacks and it’s not enough. I need more.
“What does it matter?” he whispers.
“Because I’m your coach,” I say.
“I’ll still do the work. You know I need those ticks. But you can’t be my coach twenty-four seven. What are you the rest of the time, country mouse?” He kisses the side of my mouth. “What do you want to be the rest of the time?”
Something dark seizes my mind. What do I want to be? What do I want? The video rolls on in the vague distance, and I can’t even with it.
“Undo your pants,” he says.
My pulse races. I want my pants to be undone for me. I really, really want him to undo them.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask it but I hold back. Usually when I ask for things, there’s a whole solid, sensible basis to it that I could explain if need be. I would never request a thing just because like some mad queen, but I really do want him to undo it...just because.
“Elle,” he says.
“Umm, can you do it?” I force myself to say. “I want you to unzip my pants, please,” I say.
I wait, sure he’s going to think I’m a freak, but then he groans this deep, caveman-ish groan. Wicked fingers move around my waistband all the way to the side, unlatching the latch, unzipping the zipper.
“Like this?” he asks.
“Like that,” I breathe.
He urges my hips up, and I comply. Together, we tug my pants loose from my crotch, a nifty cooperative project that gives him extra space to work.
His fingers are sliding around the loosened waistband of my pants, pressing to the bare flesh of my belly beneath, and down on the inside.
“Grab the table edge,” he whispers, and I do it—anything to keep him doing his magical multitasking.
I swallow, thrilled and stunned, when he reaches the elastic of my cotton panties. Maddeningly, he moves his fingers over my cotton-clad mound.
His lips hover at my cheek, right in front of my ear, not quite touching, though now and then, there’s a brush of whiskers that I feel down to my toes.
His breath is warm puffs, hot secret caresses that suggest he, too, is affected. I’m panting softly, in time with him.
I gasp when he hits the damp spot over my clit. “Fuck,” I say, which is totally not a thing I say.
His breath fans over my cheek, now. His fingers steal under the protective panel of my panties, making blunt contact with my madly aroused core. “This,” he says, apropos of nothing.
“That?” I say.
Whiskery lips curl into a smile against my cheek. And then his finger begins to move. Slowly—inexorably—across my clit.
Voices from the video sound out as if from light years away. The bench beneath me seems to tilt as he strokes. I can hear breathy sounds that can only be coming from me. He’s reduced me to something I don’t recognize—a creature who is beyond right and wrong, beyond empathy and evil, existing on the tendril of a dream.
I’m all need, and I need him.
I don’t even care.
I push my pelvis into his hand. He strokes me with confidence, like he knows how I do myself, and he’s bent on doing it better, overachiever that he is.
My breath has gone ragged. I’m being taken over by the devil and I love it so much.
“More?” he asks.
“Yes, more!” I whisper, so close to the edge. “Faster.”
“Hmm,” he says, and it definitely means something different in this context than when he says it during those post-negotiation huddles. I like what it means in this context. I like that he enjoys my telling him what I want. I liked how he seems to think it’s the best thing ever.
And he does it, which I think is the best thing ever.
I’m panting hard. He moves deftly, adding pressure.
My orgasm ignites out of somewhere deep inside me, filling me with pleasure all the way up to my eyeballs.
I’m gripping the table edge, panting, coming, strung out with pleasure.
Malcolm slows his hand, leaving it in place, like he’s soaking up my orgasm through his fingers
. Then, slowly, he withdraws. “You are so beautiful,” he breathes. He smooths my waistband, a gesture toward putting me back together, though it’ll take a lot more to put me back together than that.
“I feel completely undone,” I whisper. It’s a piece of honesty; I feel undone and disorganized and all messed up. I like to present myself as put together, and I never admit when I’m not, but there’s something between us now that feels like secrets in the night.
He presses his face to my cheek, whiskers like sandpaper. “You’re beautiful when you’re undone.” He kisses me there and then pulls away.
“Umm,” I breathe, dazed. I don’t know what to do or say. I turn to him, look him in the eye.
He brushes back my hair. “I suppose you’re going to insist I watch the last bit over,” he says. “I’ll admit to missing a lot of what just happened.”
The video is still playing, I realize dimly. I’m glad he didn’t catch what happened. I’d hate it if he truly had been multitasking.
“I guess I’ll let it go,” I say, looking around. I need to put myself back together, somehow. I feel like I have a wet spot the size of Texas between my legs.
“I should…I need to…excuse me.”
“Of course.” He’s back to his dapper, wicked self. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep watching.”
I point at him. “You’d better.” In truth, I barely care at this point.
I head into the main room, to the far corner where the ladies’ room is. I fix myself up and wash up and then I look in the mirror, expecting to see myself disheveled. And granted, my hair isn’t perfectly smooth anymore, but also, my cheeks are rosy, and my eyes look brighter, and my lips look somehow fuller, and my face seems to be glowing. I have this sense, oddly, that I look like a mermaid.
I gaze at my reflection in wonder. The whole world feels magical.
I take out my hair pin and smooth my hair, refastening it, slowly but surely coming to my senses. What the hell am I doing? I’m here to save our building and instead I’m letting him seduce me!
I go back. The video is still playing. Has he actually been watching it?
I sit.
“Dessert?” he asks.
I give him a stern look. “I think we’ve gone crazy enough tonight, don’t you?”
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