Love Me Better: No Such Unit Hopeless Romantics 1

by Kit Smart

  Stop!

  Spoilsport.

  Why is it I suddenly feel like you’re a sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen?

  Did you miss the part where I said discrete?

  Please explain to me how this conversation qualifies as discrete? I huff my exasperation at the phone as if it will do any good.

  I’m having it in a private Telegram Chat Room set to implode with my bestie?

  I’m putting my phone away now.

  That earns me a sad face emoji. Really?

  Things to do, people to see. Bosses to locate.

  Sigh. Let’s get back at it then.

  See you on the other end bestie. Turning the phone off, I return it to my clutch and slide off the counter.

  Seri

  Sliding my hands into the pockets of my dress—Whoever decided to start adding pockets to dresses is a bloody god and should be worshipped—I eye the refreshment tables scattered throughout the room from my position at the top of the stairs that lead down into the ballroom. The additional height afforded to me by the stairs allows me to see that things are looking sparse, and so, I turn to head toward the kitchens to give the order for a refill of the tables.

  Despite my best efforts to shove the conversation with Amory aside, I am unable to prevent myself from trying to remember if I’ve ever seen Bishop-MacQuoide with an erection in the time we’ve worked together.

  I really am on the oblivious side I guess. I think when nothing comes to mind. Not that that is a particularly bad thing in this case. I wouldn’t precisely advocate going about gazing at the pelvic region of men on a regular basis. Particularly not at work. It’s definitely not appropriate.

  Neither is discussing your boss in sexual terms over email and Telegram with a colleague. My brain chirps, and I spend a second cringing with embarrassment at my behavior before I remember that Bishop-MacQuoide, er— Owen, had welcomed my attention, at least, with some enthusiasm. Fortunately for you. My pragmatic brain reminds me dryly. Else you would be in a world of trouble at this point wouldn’t you?

  Setting my train of thought aside with some effort, I push the kitchen door open and step inside. Despite, knowing that it’s ridiculous, I automatically scan the room for Bishop-MacQuoide as I approach the head server. Where the hell did you get off to Owen?

  10

  Seri

  I am an alarming distance away from the kitchen, and, therefore, the nearest gathering of people to me, when I hear it; a groan coming from behind one of the doors in the long corridor between the staff bathroom and kitchen.

  I freeze. Did I actually hear that?. All of the rooms running the length of the corridor, are either designated for storage or service purposes. The event coordinator, had been quite clear about that when she’d given me a tour of the premises earlier in the week.

  The rooms off of this corridor I am particularly aware of, because I had toured each and every one of them to determine where to stash the various accoutrements needed for the evening’s events. I am absolutely certain, therefore, that the only rooms slated for use this evening are the four closest to the kitchen. The other rooms, I know, should be locked. I had in fact, watched the gallery’s event coordinator as she locked each door behind us during the tour.

  I am either losing my mind due to the stress of the events of the evening, or someone has broken into one of the rooms—possibly with the intent of lurking until the opportunity to attack an unaccompanied female on her way back from the toilets presents itself, as is the way with serial killers—or the corridor is haunted.

  In any case, I do the logical thing, and stand there frozen, listening, trying to verify what I’d heard. I wonder which is preferable, from a mental health stand point: serial killers hiding in corridors waiting to attack passersby, or the possibility that I am hallucinating ghosts.

  Just as I decide to chalk the whole thing up to hallucinations courtesy of the two glasses of red wine I’d had in the course of the evening, I hear it again. This time, because I am listening for it, I am able to determine that the sound came from a door up the corridor a little, and directly to my left.

  The knowledge that the sound is coming from behind that particular door, does little to alleviate my fear. I mean, since I’d heard the noise twice, I suppose I can conclude that I’m probably not hallucinating? Surely, that’s something to be happy about?

  After another moment of standing there frozen, the ridiculousness of the situation occurs to me. You are a gods-damned special agent. I tell myself. And even though you are not a field agent per se, you still had to go through a hellish regime of training that has left you better equipped to deal with such situations than the average civilian.

  Pep talk done, I shake off the fear holding me in place, and creep toward the source of the sound.

  Upon reaching the door, I see the telltale line of light between the bottom of the door and the floor, the one that indicates that whomever or whatever was occupying the room has the ability to operate light switches. Does that really help you? I wonder. I mean, if horror stories are to believed, there are lots of ghosts and poltergeists able to operate light switches as well. Not a particularly stellar analysis Seri.

  Ignoring the voice in my head that tells me that this is probably the part of the movie where I should stay the hell out of the room and go get help, I get as close to the door as possible. I’m pretty sure I’m not in a horror movie. I tell myself as I press my ear against the door, and wait for the sound to come again. There is no shortage of adrenaline running through my body as I stand there waiting, and this makes me question if field work is for me.

  After a couple moments of this, it occurs to me to wonder, where exactly the fully trained field agent types have gotten off to this evening. Yes, they were of course busy with their whole sexy bachelor charity auction thing. But surely, it isn’t too much to ask that one of them make an appearance now, when I could use their help. I just need someone to do a little checkup, maybe provide a little backup when I eventually have to go into this fucking room, and face off with whatever combination of demon-ghost-ax-wielding vagrant-werewolf-vampire-enemy agent-mutant is hanging out behind this door.

  A weapon would be nice as well. I kick myself for not having taken advantage of the pockets in my dress, and arming myself.

  The groan comes again. Only this time, there is a distinct familiarity to it. The tenor of the sound is not pained, and there is something about it. I know, that voice—almost. Being a sound and not actual speech, it is, of course, difficult to pin down what is so familiar about it. You don’t, after all, generally have the opportunity to hear the groans of people you know, which makes it difficult to match such a sound to a particular voice.

  The tenor of the groan however, that, is much easier to recognize. Guttural and held deep at the back of the throat, it is a deeply intimate sound, one that has me about to back away from the door in order to give the individual or individuals behind it their privacy, until, a particular depth of sound and combination of tones, stops me in my tracks.

  I stand for another long moment, trying to convince myself that I am an idiot and that it is impossible to identify someone on the basis of a particular tone of voice.

  It could be anybody.

  The sound comes again, and this time it skitters along every nerve ending in my body because I know, without a doubt, that the man behind those doors—the man groaning his pleasure—is Owen.

  Flooded with a combination of guilt that my teasing throughout the evening had apparently gotten him to the point where he was so worked up, he felt the need to sneak off and relieve himself; and pleasure, that I had been able to induce such a reaction in a man so otherwise stiff and controlled; I reach for the door handle.

  As soon as my hand touches the handle, I stop. What if he’s not alone in there? What if he’s with someone else? Jealousy burns an angry line up along my throat, as my imagination hits me with a barrage of images. Most of the images involve the various women who had
bid on him at the auction; doing the things I want to do to him. Unbuttoning his shirt, his belt, freeing his cock from the confines of his trousers, grabbing his rigid length, mouthing him, pushing him down onto his back, mounting him, riding him.

  There are no other sounds, no other voices coming from behind the door. The part of my brain that is not consumed with either jealousy or sex points out. Get a grip Seri.

  Slowly, careful not to make any sound, I push down on the door handle and, hoping for the sake of all that is just in the universe that the door has been well oiled and maintained, begin ever so slowly to push it open.

  Seri

  With the door open, it is easy to locate Owen within the confines of the room because the only light that is turned on is the one that flanks the side table next to the sofa in where he is sitting.

  Fortunately, the sofa is kitty corner to the door, and his back is towards me which allows me to remain unseen as I stand there half in and half out of the room.

  I should say that sitting is a strong and mostly inaccurate, word. From the way his back is pressed against the corner of the sofa with his head resting against the top, I know that he is more sprawled than seated because as tall as he is, his head and a great portion of shoulders should be visible above the low rolled back of the sofa.

  As I stand there, not quite at the point where it has even occurred to me to think about making decisions regarding whether to stay or go, he makes a sound that is half purr, half groan as he arches his back in a way that tilts his head back in my direction.

  As he moves, the light slides and ripples through his hair in a wave of burnished fire that recedes into darkness where the light does not reach.

  Certain that I am about to be caught acting the voyeur, I do the logical thing and freeze.

  You know, because you instantly become invisible to the human eye if you stop moving. Scientifically. Proven. Fact.

  I have a bare second to take in the stunning combination of closed eyes, open mouth and facial features slack and relaxed with pleasure before he releases his back muscles and sinks back down into the sofa with a sigh.

  Christ. I tense my leg muscles as the image of what it would be like to watch him under me flashes through my mind and gives me the wobbles. I can tell from the way that he’s shifting his head that he’d be restless in his pleasure; the kind of man that would not just grab you by the hips as you rode him but whose hands would wander; caressing, touching, teasing, trying to get closer as he shifts and writhes and answers every touch; every sensation.

  The kind of man unafraid to feel what’s in his body.

  The kind of man who can submit to sensation.

  It is this thought that draws me further into the room in direct defiance of the last rational brain cells I possess.

  You should leave.

  This is, without a doubt, a private moment that should not be intruded upon.

  I ignore these thoughts because I desperately want to see just how far that red-gold extends down his body.

  I shut the door and pad forward silently.

  I make no sound, and I silently thank the agency training that had me wearing suede soled heels. Great for silently sneak, sneak, sneaking along, as well as for ballroom dancing.

  To avoid being seen, I halt at the periphery of his vision; just to the left of the back of his head.

  I force myself to keep breathing as I take him in. Sprawled against the corner of the sofa with his legs half on and half off of the sofa; relaxed and splayed; he is the definition of languid masculine pleasure as he traces patterns on his exposed chest with his right hand.

  That answers your question about how far down his body that red hair goes. I think absently as I follow the hypnotic movement of that hand along the dips and ridges and smooth patches of the scars that cover the majority of his chest.

  The burn scars interrupt the natural hairline, and fiery tufts of chest hair exist only in the rare unscarred patches of skin.

  From my time working with Doctors Without Borders I know that burn scars mean burned nerves, and reduced or changed sensation. And I understand as I follow the movements of his hand that what I am witnessing is the pleasure mapping of his chest and abdomen.

  The places where he pushes with his palm are the areas where the nerves have been burned away and now feel only pressure ,whereas the places where he uses a lighter touch—where he lifts his palm and uses his fingertips and his nails—those are the places that have normal or increased sensitivity.

  I take it all in; store it away for future reference; as my eyes follow the splotchy line of fiery red hair down along the midline of his body to the open zip of his pants and his left hand as he gently palms his cock. As I watch, he slides his hand slowly up the length of his shaft where he pauses to thumb the pre-cum beading his head with an exquisite softness that has him sighing and shifting his hips from side to side restlessly.

  I feel my abdomen heat as I imagine him using that thumb on me and have to remind myself to keep breathing as he lifts his palm, and using his fingers strokes and massages his way back down toward the base of his shaft.

  His groan is long and low and in no way helps me remember to keep breathing.

  I take in the way he is both simultaneously settled deeply into the sofa and restlessly shifting and rearranging himself in response to the sensations coursing through his body. Here, I understand is a man in no hurry; a man able to dwell in pleasure without giving in to the compulsion to chase completion.

  Seri

  This realization both cements my determination to take this man as a lover and makes me realize how vulnerable—how human—he is as he lays there exposed; taking his pleasure, and unaware that he is being watched.

  This is deeply private. I think as I watch his unguarded expression.

  Despite the guilt curling through my gut, I keep watching.

  I am not certain if it is the heat thrumming through my body in response to the sight of his hands as they move along his body, or the way his face looks younger; relaxed and unguarded, but my feet are unmoving cement blocks.

  As I study him, I realize that what I had been taking as signs of age in him are actually signs of tension, and I suddenly feel that I want to know this man outside of work; outside of whatever is responsible for that tension. What a time to realize that your boss is a multi-dimensional human type person and not just a stiff who exists to make your life difficult. I wince as I recall the purely mercenary, purely sexual way I’d taunted him earlier in the evening.

  I’d effectively reduced him to a cock to be jumped on and behaved accordingly. That’s not going to work in my favor now that I’ve decided that I want to actually know him. Cocks to be jumped on don’t engage in the kind of lovemaking that was going on here. That requires a degree of intimacy that is difficult to establish after you’ve told someone that their personality is problematic.

  It is this thought, that gets my feet moving, and I turn to go just as he arches his back and groans something that freezes me in my tracks. I spend a couple of seconds frozen there questioning my sanity; deciding that my aroused body has caused me to hallucinate what I wished to hear.

  But then I hear it again. Yes, that was definitely my name. A dart of pleasure bursts through me as I realize that whatever he is fantasizing about, it involves me. Maybe I have some sort of a chance with him after all.

  My feet once again cement themselves to the floor, telling my brain that since we are involved in his fantasy, it is surely not inappropriate to stick around for the culmination of said fantasy. Yeah, but I am not sure that I want to be caught. I respond to myself. Which means that this is invasive.

  The sound of Owen’s breathing deepens and starts to quicken and I toss my argument aside in favor of watching his restless movements deepen into a pleasure teased writhing that has him thrusting against his hand and moving his hand with increasing urgency up and down his torso neck and thighs.

  I understand then, as he pants and groans
, just how much he likes to be touched. Pleasure isn’t just centered in his cock for him, it’s a full body experience.

  So much possibility. I imagine him underneath me as I kiss my way up along the line of his spine as I slide my hands down the sensitive skin of of his flanks until I reach the tender skin of his hip points in front, almost, but not quite able to reach the core of him.

  In the here and now, I watch his chest expand with each deep breath and imagine feeling it beneath my hands and against my chest; imagine the texture of his scars brushing against my breasts and have to suck in a breath as I feel a swelling, tingling sensation begin somewhere in the region of my heart, and spread outwards until it is all I can do to keep my hands off of myself.

  Despite a definite growing urgency in his body he doesn’t succumb to the pressure of his building orgasm by increasing the pressure or changing the movements of his hands; he simply continues to caress and tease and love himself as he rises through an ever mounting pleasure; content to drift through each plateau and let his body ascend to the next without forcing the pace. A slow and formidable lover.

  I find myself so mesmerized by the sight of him that by the time the thought occurs to me that I should leave before he climaxes and opens his eyes; he is already coming—his back arched at an impossible and head thrown back—mouth open in a silent scream; as he goes over the edge.

  The orgasm goes on and on and on as what seems like an impossible amount of cum, erupts from his cock and covers his belly; until finally he relaxes back into the sofa with sigh.

  Now is definitely the time to leave Seri. Eyes still fixed on the man in front of me, I slide a cautious foot backward and shift my weight in preparation for stepping back.

  When I manage to successfully shift and complete the step without being seen I cheer internally. One point for me.

  As I slide the opposite foot backwards for the second step. Only three more until you’re at the door! I notice that Owen has not stopped caressing and kneading his chest and neck and it makes me wonder if he is getting enough physical contact in his life right now.