Urges: Part Two

by Sky Corgan

  Urges

  Part Two

  SKY CORGAN

  Text copyright 2014 by Sky Corgan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the author.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “What do you know about Trent Stevens?” I've been waiting patiently for hours, trying to figure out how to launch into the conversation. There's no way I can do it without sounding more than a bit interested in him though.

  Laura and I are sitting at the food court in the mall. I've been following her around for the past hour, watching her flit from store to store, trying on half a dozen outfits at each one. Her husband makes good money, which affords her the luxury of buying whatever she wants. Must be nice. All I can do is look and admire. If anything, I've been more of an observer than a shopper, giving advice about what outfits I think suit her the best. She's a petite little thing in all manners of the word. Nothing looks bad on her.

  “You like him.” She smirks as she absentmindedly stabs at her salad. My burger and fries make me look like a lardo by comparison. No wonder she's so small and I'm so not. Had I known she was going to order something light, I wouldn't have gone for my normal staple. Oh well. There's no point in dwelling on it. At least, I'll know better next time.

  “He's an interesting guy.” I avert my eyes, picking up a napkin to wrap around my burger so the juices down get on my fingers.

  “He's very handsome.” She nods.

  “That goes without saying,” I sigh, realizing that she's already about to divert off topic. While I had hoped that she'd want to gossip about the people at work, it seems to be the last thing on her list of conversation topics. “But what do you know about him. Like, who he is.”

  “I know he likes hunting,” she offers.

  Obviously. There seems to be dead animal carcasses in every nook and cranny of his office—hunting and fishing mounts. I'll probably never forget the way that deer head above his desk stared down on me while he was eating me out. It didn't really bother me much at the time, because I was so preoccupied with how he was making me feel, but in hindsight, it was a bit creepy.

  “I'm not a fan of hunting.” I crinkle my nose.

  “Sometimes I think him and Tony Peterson are in competition with each other. Have you seen the bobcat in Tony's office?” Laura smirks in amusement.

  Who hasn't seen the bobcat in Tony Peterson's office? It's the centerpiece of his taxidermy zoo. “Yeah. I have to admit, his office is worse than Trent's.” What is it with these guys and wanting to display dead animals everywhere?

  “They go do this fishing competition in Corpus every year. They take off for a week, and when they come back, we have to listen to their stories for an entire month. Those guys really get into it. It's a group competition, so they pretty much just sit out on the beach and drink and fish and do whatever it is that guys do when they get together like that.”

  “Sounds fun.” I raise my eyebrows, feigning interest. This isn't exactly the type of information I was hoping to get out of her. There's really no other way to find out what I want to know though without diving in with both feet. “So, is he married or does he have a girlfriend or anything?” I can't even look at her when I ask. It's just too embarrassing.

  “Oh, Fennel.” Her shoulders slump, and for a moment, I think she's going to lecture me.

  “What? I'm just curious is all.” I try to play it off, jerking my head back as if I think she's taking the question way too seriously.

  Laura's expression is earnest. “You should really forget about him. Work relationships are bad. Besides, he's the boss—the last person you want to get involved with.”

  “Zelma doesn't seem to care about that.”

  “Zelma will never have him.” She shakes her head. “You won't either, for that matter.” Her eyes fix on me, and I can sense a hint of disapproval behind them. Just when I've submitted to the idea of changing the subject, she speaks again, “He's not married. He's never been married. If he has a girlfriend, I don't know, but I don't think he does. In the two years I've worked for Chilly Creations, I've never seen him with a woman who wasn't a business client. I've never heard him talk about a girlfriend either, and neither has anyone else.” She leans in to whisper to me, “A lot of people think he's gay, but don't tell anyone you heard that from me.”

  “Gay?”

  It kind of makes sense, the way he's able to back off so quickly from sexual situations. But he definitely had a hard-on both times we were together. I felt it pressing against me.

  “Think about it. He has a great eye for fashion. The guy always looks amazing. He's always going to the gym.”

  “That doesn't mean he's gay.” I frown. “What gay guy likes hunting that much?”

  She shrugs, returning her attention to her salad.

  While I appreciate her finally breaking down and sharing with me, I'm not so sure I like what I heard. If Trent isn't gay, that means he also doesn't date. Or if he does date, no one knows about it. It's all too confusing. Why does he have to be so private? Why does he have to be so strange?

  ***

  There are butterflies in my stomach when I walk into work on Monday morning. I internally debate whether or not I should speak to Trent on my way to clock in, since I have to pass his office anyway. When I round the corner though, there are already clients inside, so I simply smile politely at him as I continue to the order entry department. His eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second, and there's nothing but coldness behind them, as if I mean nothing to him. I probably don't, I realize sadly, but then quickly try to brush that thought away and continue with my work.

  As I figured he might, he pretends like nothing happened between us. When I do encounter him in the hall, he treats me just as he always has—like another employee.

  For as much as I tell myself to forget about it—that what happened is over, and I need to move on from it, I just can't. Every night since Friday, I've pleasured myself to the memory of his mouth and hands on my body. I've squirmed from the thought of being denied the chance to touch him when my wrists were bound. All I wanted was to rake my fingers through his hair, to wrap my arms around his broad shoulders, to caress the silky skin of his cock and feel the firmness of it beneath my palm. Even though he gave me a taste of him, I feel somehow cheated.

  I wait until the end of the day, when most of the important work is done, before I knock on the door-frame to his office, feeling sheepish and mousey. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Fennel. Come in. Close the door behind you.” He doesn't look happy to see me. In fact, almost the second our eyes meet, he redirects his focus to his monitor.

  There's no doubt in my mind that he knows what this is about. He wouldn't have made me shut the door behind myself otherwise. The door to his office is never closed unless he's in an important, private business meeting.

  “Have a seat.” He gestures to one of the chairs on the other side of his desk. I lower myself into it, making sure to keep my legs pressed closed so he doesn't think I'm trying to seduce him again. This is a lot more awkward than I thought it would be. Already, I'm beginning to perspire under the weight of the impending conversation. So much is at risk from the words I have to say. It's not too late to back out. I could still pretend this is about something else. “You're here to talk about what happened between us on Friday,” he says, gazing across the desk at me.

  “Mhm.” I nod. Now I'm the one avoiding his gaze. There's an intense fear racing through me that I'm about to get fired.

  “That can't happen again,” his tone is firm. “It was a fl
eeting moment of weakness on both of our parts. If we can forget about it, then I see no reason why you can't keep working here.”

  That should be a relief. Instead, all I feel is desperation. He just drew a line in the sand, and we're standing on opposite sides. That doesn't bode well with my body's increasing desire for him. “I can't forget it.” I shake my head, knowing I'm signing my own termination slip with my mouth. “I don't want to forget it.”

  “What?” he sounds genuinely shocked, like he hadn't expected me to disagree with him at all.

  My eyes lift to meet his, and I can feel everything inside of me shaking, counting down until the moment that I crumble. There's no doubt in my mind that I'll cry all the way home after he fires me. I need to get this out though. “I don't want to forget about it,” I repeat.

  He shifts his weight in his chair, staring at me like I'm some curiosity to him. It's taking everything in me to fight back my tears. How pathetic I must look to him, some horny girl on the verge of an emotional breakdown. All he needs to do is give me a gentle push to send me over the edge.

  “You don't want to forget about it,” he parrots back as if I was speaking a different language to him.

  “I can't make that anymore clear to you.”

  “What do you want then?” He leans forward, propping his elbows up on his desk and resting his chin on top of his hands. His tone is completely professional, as if we're discussing a business proposition instead of something very personal. It's a bit unnerving.

  “I want you.”

  I haven't made a declaration like that since I was a teenager with a smoking hot body and the attitude to go with it. While my desire for men hasn't dwindled with age, my boldness has with the weight I've put on—quite a bit more than the freshman fifteen. Normally, I would be terrified to say something like that to an attractive man, but I've already opened Pandora's Box. Might as well toss all the contents out onto the table. Now all there is to do is wait for the impending rejection and the firing that will follow. Then I'll go spend my night drowning myself in margaritas and hoping I can pull myself back together by Monday to start the job search all over again.

  “I don't think you know what you want, Fennel.” The way he says it takes me back to the night at the hotel room.

  “I want to have you. I would have given you more on Friday. I would have given you everything.”

  A familiar darkness returns to his gaze. It's the same thing I saw in his eyes last Friday in his office—the same thing I saw in the hotel room when he pounced. Knowing it's there causes a stirring within me. He wants me right now. He's thinking about having me. I know he is. And that only makes my body come to life with expectation.

  I match the heated signals he's sending and throw them right back. We can play the eye fucking game until our bodies catch up. As long as I win, that's all that matters.

  “It didn't frighten you when I tied you up? It didn't bother you to lose control?”

  “It only turned me on more.” That's the truth. While I've been mourning the denial of touching him ever since last Friday, it has left me with a yearning for him the likes of which I've never felt for another man. If this is what he does to seduce women, then he's a master at it. No guy has ever teased me before like he has.

  “What are you doing on Saturday?” His lips quirk into a smirk, and the whole mood in the room seems to shift in the span of that one question.

  CHAPTER TWO

  When he asked me what my plans were, I never expected we'd be sharing dinner together. Yet, here we are. I'm sitting across the table from him at a casual restaurant, and this feels a whole lot like a date. Is it? I wonder, but I'm too afraid to ask—too afraid of sounding stupid or desperate.

  It's hard to keep my eyes off of him. He looks more handsome than ever in a pair of faded jeans, a white button-down shirt and a gray double-breasted cardigan. The man has great fashion sense, both in and out of the office. I can't help but think about what Laura said regarding his sexual preferences.

  “You always look so nice,” I comment, because I can't think of anything else to say. Ever since I met him in front of the restaurant, I've felt an awkward tension between us. Neither of us has spoken more than a few sentences since we sat down to eat.

  “You look nice too.” His eyes move over the front of my blouse before he returns to staring at the table. It's obvious he's nervous. We both are.

  “I'm surprised you asked me out like this, to be honest.” I take a deep breath and straighten myself. Every word seems forced, but the silence is about to kill me.

  “It's not a date, if that's what you're thinking.” He glances up at me, and I feel nothing but coldness from him. It's like he's purposely trying to stomp down any hope I have of something happening between us.

  “What is it then? I think we've already moved past the friends part.” I wrap my hand around my glass of water as if it will help stabilize all the unpleasant emotions stirring within me.

  “You said you want me. I thought this would be a good chance to discuss the consequences of having me.”

  “You're always so cryptic.” My lips quirk into a bitter smirk. Does he want me or not? I'm getting tired of constantly having to guess.

  “I don't do relationships. And I don't love the same way that most men do.” He pauses. “Love is the wrong word. I don't fuck like normal people do.”

  When he looks up at me, there's a dangerous gleam in his eyes that sends a shiver straight to my core. Just hearing him say such a dirty word makes me think about it happening. Most guys talk about sex like they're the best at it. I don't get the feeling that's what he means, but I'm intrigued.

  “Are you telling me this to tease me, or because I might actually get to find out?” I lean back, trying not to seem too amused. The last thing I want to do is piss him off.

  He props his elbows up on the table, taking a sip of his soda through a straw before licking the remnants from his bottom lip. My eyes zero in on his mouth, yearning to kiss him.

  “I'm more warning you than telling you. If you pursue me, you're going to get hurt,” he says.

  “Are you threatening to fire me?”

  “No.” His eyes shoot up to meet mine as if me having the very thought concerns him. “No.” He shakes his head. “I don't know how to explain it more than that.”

  I draw my hand up to my temple, attempting to decode what he's trying to tell me, though I'm failing miserably. “Alright. Well, I don't really understand. I don't know where this is going. I think...all I need to know at this point is do you want me or not?”

  “I do want you, but I don't want to break you.” His expression is earnest. It reminds me of that time in his office when he was silently pleading with me not to want him. We messed around then, and nothing bad came of it. Why should this time be any different?

  “I'm a pretty tough cookie, Trent.”

  “Sure you are.” He smiles, but the sentiment is false.

  “Trust me,” I emphasize the words. “I know what I can handle.”

  “Maybe you just think you know.”

  “You really assume a lot.” I huff, slumping down against the back of my chair like a rag doll. If I have to hear about how much he doesn't think I know about myself one more time, I might scream.

  He senses my frustration, which only makes his grin broaden. “I'm just telling you this, because as soon as we get to my place, there's no turning back.”

  ***

  His house is big. Not a mansion, but not very far from one. It's in a neighborhood that's still being developed, so everything looks new, fresh and immaculate. Despite my obvious interest in the house, Trent does not give me the grand tour. He leads me straight through to a room that looks like an office, set up with a desk, two chairs, and a couch. As soon as we're inside, he points to the couch and orders me to sit.

  He stands in front of me with his legs slightly parted and his hands stuffed in his pockets, looking so deliciously desirable. “This is your last chance t
o leave. Once I begin ravishing you, I won't stop until I'm fulfilled. But I don't want you going into this until you know a few of my rules.”

  The idea of being ravished by him is more than appealing. Already, I'm undressing him with my eyes. My body is heating up with the lust that I've been saving back ever since that afternoon in his office. “I'm listening.”

  “First of all, I don't use safety words.”

  “Wait.” My mind instantly flits to BDSM. “Are you a Dom?”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “I'm into a lot of the same kink, but my needs are a bit different. Have you ever participated in the lifestyle before?”

  “No.” The thought has always been appealing to me, but I don't know anyone into the lifestyle, and my interest was never quite strong enough to seek it out.

  “You said it didn't bother you when I tied you up. Would it bother you if I tied you up and fucked you?” The heat has returned to his gaze, and it only makes me want him more. Beneath my skin, I'm squirming for him to finish questioning me so that we can get down to business. I'm up for just about anything at this point, whatever he wants as long as I get to have him.

  To speed things up a bit, I lean forward, trying to entice him with my cleavage. The only benefit of gaining weight was it gave me bigger boobs—the better to seduce him with. Maybe my advances were unintentional before, but we both know what I'm here for now. There's no point in playing coy.

  “Are you going to keep talking, or are you going to show me why I should be so afraid of you?” I ask.

  His expression hardens, and for a moment, I worry that I might have just pissed him off. “I am going to make you scream. And I am going to make you cry. And when you walk out of here, you might never want to see my face again.”