Our eyes met only for a moment, and even then I’m worried it was too long.

People are beginning to talk.

I think, if anything, our carelessness is to blame. She would walk by my desk, hips swaying just an inch too much, shoulders back, chest thrust forward. And of course she’d look, to see if I would stop what I was doing, my eyes fixed on her, head slowly turning until she slunk out of view. Or, how she’s stop by my desk, papers in hand, bending at the waist, chest now swaying over my hands on the keyboard. Eyes and whispers surely followed us when we ran off to fetch lunch, each step in union, our bodies just a little too close.

But for right now, she sat at the head of the round table, papers strewn about in front of her as the proposals are discussed, vetted, and discarded. She commands the room, her aggression coming in short, controlled bursts, demanding focus (and results) from the rest of us. It’s quite a sight, and a welcome change to the marathon meetings and conference calls of late.

It reminds me of why I first found myself drawn to her.

The flirting was intense in the beginning, and I realize now that I was won over not with her outfits, which my eyes traced and highlighted in idle thoughts, or with her stares, peering across the room. It was the fight in her. I let the words and my imagination slip like something liquidy and soft - strange, because it’s not like my thoughts were either gentle or fluid.

I saw some of that now, and I smiled inwardly.

* * * * * *

“That was a good meeting,” I told her, hanging my jacket on the hanger, and placing it in the closet next to her coat. She was checking out her appearance in the mirror by the door.

“Yeah, we got something done for a change.” She turned and faced me. “[six], I want a massage.”

I enjoyed my hands on her as much as she enjoyed my hands gently kneading her flesh.

“And now,” I said, two steps bringing me in front of her, quickly invading her personal space, my body right up against hers, “why would I do that?”

Her hands pressed up against my chest, her eyes looked up at mine. “I’ll do anything you want, [six].”

“Anything?” I asked, my voice tight.

“Yes, anything.”

“And you’re not going to make me work for it?”

She paused only for a second. “No. Please?”

It was on the couch, or the bed, but I’m not sure which now, and while I’d otherwise be very upset at not remembering, I think it’s not important anymore. You see, my hands were on the shoulders and neck of a woman who once made me squirm. She used to wear a sting and I looked forward to fencing with her words, looks, and advances. There was a fight, once.

And while the massage led my hands to her skin, my fingers pressing and squeezing, which then led my mouth to her neck, my body close to hers, her body sinking back into mine, soft gasps and sighs floating in the air, hands now drifting forward, in a dance of advance-advance-retreat, until I grasped her breasts, pinching nipples through thin fabric, searching lower still, moving from the side of her body to the front, slowly falling as if sinking through water, diving deeper until melting at her hips, fingers flat and pressing upward against her pussy, hips moving slowly, my breathing filling her ears, bites on her neck, rubbing and spreading apart her lips, fingertips slick and shiny, fabric pulled aside, cock slowly pushing upwards, her fingernails scratching against the outsides of my thighs the only echo of a tiger who once had more than just paper claws.