He Touches Me

by Cynthia Sax

  “Back to the phones.” Michael swaggers to his office, his ass cheeks clenching and unclenching under a layer of khaki.

  I check my phone. There are no new messages, no more sexy texts from Blaine, and I’m not brave enough to text him, to interrupt his busy schedule. I also shouldn’t be thinking about his rough hands and firm mouth and brilliant green eyes. Feed Your Hungry isn’t paying me to obsess over enigmatic billionaires.

  I dial number after number after number, unable to connect with a single donor. The big breasted blonde in the front row doesn’t dial once, declaring she doesn’t work on Mondays. The desperate-looking brunette seated beside her is called into Boss man’s office and never returns.

  That would have been my fate if Blaine hadn’t bailed me out by making a donation. Goth girl suspects I’m sleeping with the billionaire. If I don’t land a meet and greet on my own merits, these rumors will spread.

  Some of my coworkers pack up early to avoid the huge thunderstorm that is supposedly coming. I need the money and I have the six o’clock interview with Blaine so I continue to dial. I could have left early, as I don’t talk to any donors.

  I dash to the bathroom and smooth my hair one more time before leaving Feed Your Hungry. The skies are a scary black and the winds are high, billowing my blouse and pants, whipping my hair around my face.

  I reach the bus before the rain starts. I pay my fare quickly, anxious to arrive at Blaine Technologies as soon as possible. I sit beside a large woman clad in a shiny red raincoat. She talks on her phone, telling someone named Bubba the meeting for tonight is canceled.

  Will my interview be cancelled? I glance at my phone’s screen. I have no new messages. Drops of water streak over the bus’s windows. There aren’t many of them. I can avoid these drops if I run fast enough.

  A woman struggles with her giant yellow umbrella, and the driver waits for her to close the device before he moves the bus. At the next stop a man gets on, the shoulders of his suit jacket wet.

  I’ll be fine. My hair will be fine. The man had to wait for the bus. I can sprint to Blaine’s office. Lightning flashes and thunder rumbles. My apprehension increases, my grip on the black faux leather tote tightening.

  I finally reach my stop and exit, relieved. I can—

  The clouds open up and cool rain pours down on me, drenching me to my skin. People run, scattering in all directions. A woman passes me, her white shirt completely transparent, her dusky nipples outlined through the lace bra she’s wearing.

  I glance down at the sleeve of my white blouse. Every freckle on my arm is visible, the thin wet fabric clinging to me like a second skin. I clutch my tote to my chest, hiding my breasts from view.

  Blaine gazes at my slight curves with admiration and desire. The rest of the world isn’t as kind. They’ll judge, ridicule, mock.

  I don’t want to be judged, especially by Blaine’s employees, my possible new coworkers. I don’t want to show them everything, to have them see me, be able to hurt me.

  I gaze up at the glass and steel office building looming before me. The rectangular structure is modern and new, a building block turned on its end. Rain splatters against its many windows, water pooling on the concrete around its base. BLAINE TECHNOLOGIES is printed in big block lettering across the top floor.

  I can’t go in there. I can’t risk everyone seeing me. My shoulders slump. I have to cancel my interview, disappointing Blaine and scuttling my chances at the assistant to his assistant job.

  Chapter Four

  I ENTER A tiny park, the square of green deserted. High thick hedges create a private oasis, hiding me from the view of passersby. The scent of rich moist earth and crushed flower blossoms fills my nostrils, calming me.

  I pass wet benches, raindrops bouncing off the wooden slats, and I find cover under an intricately crafted white gazebo. I’m not the only being in the small structure. A brown moth flutters high in the beams, her fragile wings sheltered from the harmful raindrops.

  I decide to call Blaine first. He set up the interview. I should tell him first, before canceling the appointment with Fran.

  I take a deep breath, count to five, exhale, and dial. The phone rings twice. He’ll be disappointed with me, perhaps even angry. My stomach twists into tight little knots.

  “Anna,” Blaine answers, his voice low and quiet. A woman laughs in the background and the knots in my stomach tighten. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay. I . . . ummm . . .” I shift my weight from my right foot to my left, the water in my shoes oozing between my toes. More moisture drips down my spine, soaking the waistband of my pants. “I have to call Fran and cancel,” I blurt. “I can’t make the interview.”

  The woman’s laughter fades. There’s a sharp click and then silence. “Are you lost?” Blaine asks, no judgment edging his question.

  “No.” I tilt my head back, glancing up at his building. Is he looking out of one of those windows? Can he see me? My nipples tighten. “I’m wet.”

  I wait for him to push back on my decision, my reason for canceling the interview sounding foolish even to myself.

  Blaine says nothing.

  “I’m very wet.” I cover the phone with my hand, containing my words. “And my blouse is white. Everyone will see,” I whisper.

  “Ahhh . . .” Papers rustle and I imagine him seated at a desk, his rough fingers moving over white paper. I wiggle, wanting him now, always. “Where are you?”

  “In the small park by your office.” Raindrops pummel the ground, piercing the parched earth. “Do you think Fran will reschedule?”

  “There’s no need to reschedule.” Metal clinks against metal. “I’ll talk to Fran and join you in a few minutes, Anna. Don’t move.” The dial tone buzzes.

  There’s no need to reschedule because I’ve blown my chance to work at Blaine Technologies, to earn much-needed money, to see the business side of Blaine.

  I sigh. I’ll submit my application to the coffee shop tonight and I’ll survive. I always do.

  I place my phone in my tote, prop the bag against the wall of the gazebo, and venture into the rain, allowing it to wash over me, to cleanse my body, my mind.

  I turn my face upward to the sky. Rivulets of cool liquid flow down my neck, between my breasts. The gold key I always wear, Blaine’s key, sticks to my skin.

  I may be broke but I’m alive and free. I spin, holding out my arms, catching the raindrops in my palms, my spirits lifting with each rotation.

  If anyone enters the park, they’ll see me, nearly naked from the waist up. My hair, now a tangled mess, swings around my shoulders, strands plastered to my cheeks.

  I imagine I have an audience, that men are standing in the foliage, their pants pulled down around their ankles, their hard cocks in their hands. They’ll stroke themselves, gazing upon my breasts, lusting after me, as I twirl. Beads of pre-cum will form on their tips. One or two of them will shuffle forward, longing to touch me, but they won’t dare. They know I belong to only one man.

  “Dance for me, nymph,” Blaine rumbles, as though my thoughts summoned him, his voice deeper than the thunder. He stands at the edge of the park, his face in shadows, shielded from the rain by a huge black umbrella. He’s wearing a dark suit, white shirt, yellow tie. A large white fluffy towel is draped over his left arm.

  “Are you watching me?” I laugh, my worries about the interview, about our unusual relationship, about our future eclipsed by my lust.

  “I’m always watching you.”

  Blaine is the man I want to dance for. I turn round and round as lightning zigzags through the black sky. Raindrops tap the trees’ broad leaves, giving me a rhythm to move to. Green and black and white swirl together.

  Blaine is here. He watches me, wants me. I spin, smiling, my feet and heart light, my lips parted. I’m his nymph and he’s my muse, my source of inspiration, the reason for my joy. Drops of water fall upon me, cooling my body and quenching my thirst.

  The rain eases and I turn slower an
d slower until I finally stop, facing Blaine, facing reality. He gazes at me, his normally grim lips lifted into a small smile.

  “Did I blow my chances at landing the job?” I ask, swaying slightly, unsteady on my feet.

  “Not yet.” His green eyes glitter. “Did you want to blow your chances at landing the job?”

  “No.” I stand in a puddle, the ground soft under my shoes. “I couldn’t meet your assistant like this.” I pluck at my blouse, the fabric clinging to my body. “I’m a mess.”

  His gaze lowers to my breasts and his eyes darken. “You’re beautiful, natural and real.” I tremble, the passion in his face stark and raw. “Come.” He holds out the towel. “I’ll dry you off.”

  I dash to the gazebo and grab my tote. The moth flutters dangerously close to the edge, unable to venture out of her temporary cage. She’s trapped until the rain stops.

  I rush back to Blaine’s side and he wraps the towel around my shoulders, his touch light and his eyes soft. “Stay still,” Blaine instructs. He tilts my chin upward and gently dabs my face with a corner of the towel, drying the excess moisture beaded on my skin. His expression is caring, verging on loving, and a warmth spreads over my chest.

  “There.” He taps the tip of my nose and I blink, bemused by his playfulness. “It’s time to return to the office.”

  We walk toward the back of the building, Blaine shortening his stride to match mine. “Your beautiful towel is soaked,” I murmur, intensely aware of his large body, his seductive heat, his unique scent.

  “I have more towels.” Blaine brushes his fingers over the back of my hand and I tremble, his touch warm and rough. “And it will dry.” He waves a security pass card at a small black box. The light on the box turns from red to green and he opens the unmarked door. We enter a narrow hallway. The walls are unpainted. The floor is bare concrete. The space smells like sawdust. Machinery drones.

  Blaine closes his umbrella, shaking the excess water off. “Come this way.” He leads me through a labyrinth of drywall. The moisture in my shoes squish with every step, the sound embarrassingly loud. Water drips down my calves, leaving a trail behind me.

  Blaine stops at another unmarked door. The golden doorknob is slightly dented. There’s an inch gap between the bottom of the door and the floor.

  “You’ll find more towels inside,” he tells me. “Dry off as much as possible.”

  He shrugs out of his black suit jacket. His closely fitted white shirt stretches across his wide shoulders and narrows at his trim waist. I stare at him. I’ve never seen Blaine without his jacket. Ever.

  “Wear this.” He presses the garment into my hands.

  I sink my fingers into the luxurious fabric, the cloth warmed by his body heat. The scent of sandalwood and musk teases my nostrils. “Won’t you need your jacket?”

  “You need it more.” Blaine curls a strand of my wet hair around one of his index fingers and gently tugs, silently reestablishing his dominance over my body. “No one will see unless you allow them.”

  He knows what I need. He knows me. I hold his gaze, the connection between us tightening, bands of emotion and understanding linking us together.

  “You see me, Blaine.” I bring his jacket to my nose and breathe in, savoring his distinctive cologne, a combination of scents I only associate with him. “All of me.”

  “I’ll always see you.” Blaine drifts his fingertips over my face, his touch gentle, almost reverent. “Did you touch yourself?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “Did you?” After sending his naughty texts, fantasizing about me, did he work his hard cock with his fingers, pumping his shaft faster and faster until he found release, his cum arcing through the air, splattering on the floor?

  “No.” Blaine’s eyes darken. His gaze lowers to my breasts and my nipples tighten even more. He promised to suck them today, to take them into his hot mouth, to flick them with his tongue. “Not now, nymph.” He reads my naughty thoughts. “Fran is waiting for you.”

  “She is.” My voice is husky. In this moment, I don’t care about Fran or this second job or anything other than Blaine. I want his hands to knead my ass, his lips to tug and pull on my breasts. I wish to writhe against the wall, shamelessly moaning with delight, my entire body pulsing to his tempo as he ravishes me.

  “Behave yourself.” Blaine steps backward, interrupting my reverie. Cool air sweeps between us, and I shiver. “Once you’re ready, continue along the hallway, take the next left, and you’ll enter the lobby.” His words are clipped, frighteningly businesslike. “I’ll tell Fran you’ll be late.”

  “Do you have a meeting to attend now?” I worry my bottom lip with my teeth, my nervousness about meeting his assistant, the woman he trusts completely, returning. I don’t want to mess this up.

  “If Fran chooses to hire you, you’ll be her assistant.” Blaine dons the emotionless mask he normally wears with others, his eyes hardening and the angles in his face accentuating. “I won’t interfere with that decision.”

  I gulp. “I understand, Blaine.”

  “Mr. Blaine,” he corrects, his eyes glinting. “I’m watching you, Anna.” Blaine strides away, his shoulders broad, his waist narrow, and his ass delectably tight.

  His suit jacket covered a hot, muscular body. I sigh my appreciation and enter the bathroom. The floor gleams, the small space smelling of bleach. White fluffy toilets are folded on the edge of a cracked pedestal sink.

  Glancing up at the smoky mirror, I groan. My hair is a disaster, my rain-soaked ’do resembling a lightning-struck bird’s nest. I run a towel vigorously over my scalp, removing as much moisture as possible, and then drag a comb through the gnarled tendrils, painstakingly separating the strands.

  After working for fifteen minutes, I give up on removing the frizz. I search through my tote, find an elastic band and pull my hair back into a ponytail.

  With my hair controlled, I focus on my clothes. I rub and rub and rub towels over my chest, the friction warming my skin through the fabric. My blouse remains transparent, the beautiful bra Blaine has given me completely visible, its shell cups too thin to conceal my pink nipples.

  I don Blaine’s massive jacket. The boxy black garment hangs down to my knees, my hands disappearing in the sleeves. I have no choice. I have to wear it. Straightening my shoulders, I pick up my tote, stride through the bathroom door, down the hallway, turn right, pass through another door and enter the lobby.

  The lobby reminds me of a modern church. The floor is marble tile, the ceilings are cathedral high, and the exterior walls are glass. Screens cover almost every inch of interior walls, showing images of smiling people using telephones and tablets. Security guards clad in crisp gray uniforms stand by the revolving doors, their expressions stern. Empty black leather couches are positioned around glass and metal coffee tables.

  A perfectly polished woman sits behind a counter, the bank of screens behind her displaying meeting room bookings. She’s clad in a slim-fitting black skirt suit, her long brown hair twisted into a tight chignon, her makeup immaculate.

  She’s beautiful and Blaine sees her every day. Does he watch her too?

  “May I help you, miss?” The receptionist’s smile reaches her brown eyes.

  She’s nice too. I push away my jealousy and smile back at her. “Yes, I’m Anna Sampson. I have an appointment to meet with Mr. Blaine’s assistant.”

  The receptionist’s gaze drifts over me, the skin around her eyes crinkling. “She’s expecting you, Miss Sampson.” She rises gracefully to her feet and glides to the elevators, her hips swaying, her obscenely high heels clicking on the tile.

  My shoes making a squishing sound as I follow her. Blaine’s jacket threatens to slip off my shoulders. I clutch the garment tighter.

  The receptionist presses the up button. Her long nails are tipped with white crescent moons and she smells like roses.

  One set of elevator doors open. “After you, Miss Sampson.” She gestures for me to enter, reaches in and presses the
top floor. “Mr. Blaine’s assistant will be waiting for you as you exit.” The doors close between us, leaving me alone in the elevator car.

  I glimpse my reflection in the mirrored walls and I cringe. I look like a child playing dress-up, the jacket making me appear smaller and younger than I already am. I roll up the cuffs. This looks even more unprofessional. I smooth the sleeves back down, not wanting to damage Blaine’s jacket.

  I watch the red digital numbers change, becoming more nervous with each passing floor. What am I doing? I’m not sophisticated enough to work at Blaine’s company. I don’t have the clothes or the attitude or the confidence.

  The elevator bell dings, the doors open, and I step onto a floor remarkable for being extremely unremarkable. The color scheme is monochrome. The walls are dove gray, the carpet is a shade darker, and the ceiling is stark white. Video screens take the place of artwork, displaying more smiling images of people using technology.

  A large black lacquer desk is positioned across from the elevators, the chair behind it empty. Matching leather sofas are arranged to the left. Technology magazines are set on the glass coffee table.

  “You must be Miss Sampson.” An older woman stands beside the elevators, her softly rounded body clad in a black suit, her short gray hair tightly curled. “I’m Fran, Mr. Blaine’s assistant.” She holds out her hand. Her face is perfectly composed, as though drenched waifs interview daily for the assistant position.

  “Please call me Anna.” I grasp her fingers. Her skin is warm and creased with wrinkles. She smells sweet, like peaches, and I like her immediately. “Sorry about this.” I tug on Blaine’s jacket, straightening the oversized garment. “I wasn’t prepared for the rain.”

  “No one in L.A. ever is.” Fran smiles. “Please come with me.” She pivots on her heels and hurries through an arched entranceway. I follow her, my shoes sloshing, as we move along a wide quiet hallway. The lights around us are dimmed, the meeting rooms and cubicles empty. A printer hums, spitting out paper.