Page 6

The office is quiet. I put the phone face down on the desk. I am annoyed, not interested. It rings again before I have taken three steps.

Unknown number. Same as before.

I answer because a second call is no longer a nuisance. It is a problem.

“Preswood.”

The tap. Then the close voice, softer now, pleased.

“You hung up. I liked that. It means you are paying attention. This time, stay on the line.” The voice stays low, filthy, unhurried. “I have been watching you pack that desk like you own the night. You do. You also own a file room on nineteen. That is where the pretty one went to get fucked on Tuesdays. He said another man’s name when he came. He still left his door open for you. Two inches. Even when he had someone else’s mouth on him, he was watching you. He wanted you in the room with them. He wanted you to walk in and see. Did you know that, Mr. Preswood? Did you know he was never only there for the man he was fucking?”

I walk. The corridor on thirty-nine is quiet. I look through glass as I pass. Lo is on a call of her own. Not this one. Her mouth is the wrong shape.

“Say what you want,” I say. “Then say who you are.”

“I want you on your back on that desk you just cleared. Jacket off. Belt open. I want my glove around your cock until you forget you run this place. I want to taste the whiskey on your tongue. Then I want you on your knees in your own office. I want my fingers in your mouth until your eyes water and you still don’t make a sound, because men like you would rather come than admit you are being used.” A tap again. Soft. “Then I want you on nineteen. Same room. Same shelves. I want your expensive pants around your thighs and my mouth on your cock until you grab the back of my hood and stop pretending this is beneath you. I want you to fuck me against those shelves until the files fall. I want it with nothing between us. I want it deep. I want you to hold my hips and come inside me and stay there while I tell you what I did tonight with my hands still wet.”

Those words stay with me. Desk. Knees. Mouth. Nineteen. I keep walking and I keep my face still, but my body is already listening. My pulse kicks. Heat runs down my spine and into my groin like a hand I did not ask for. I feel myself getting hard in my trousers, slow at first, then not slow at all. I do not want this. I tell my body to stop. It does not. I am half hard anyway, and I hate that I cannot shut it off. I do not let it show on my face. My voice stays flat. Kit is locking the kitchenette. He holds up the milk in a little salute. Not on a phone.

“You like the sound of your own voice,” I say. I try to sound steady. I am not. My cock keeps getting harder against my pants no matter how still I keep my face. I do not want this. I keep asking why my body is doing it anyway. I keep walking.

“I like hearing you breathe when I talk about your cock. Do it again.”

I let the voice hear one breath. Slow. Careful. I do not moan. I do not say my name for the voice. My body does not care what I want. I am hard enough now that walking hurts. I want it gone. I cannot make it gone. I still sound like I am late for a meeting.

I take the stairs so I can see the floors below. Thirty-eight. Marcus is at the lift with his folder. His phone is in his pocket. Not in his hand. He nods. I nod back.

The stairwell door shuts behind me. My thumb hovers over the red button again. I do not hang up this time. I want the rest of it. I hate that I want the rest of it.

“Keep talking,” I say. “You called me.”

“I want you in the stairwell. The quiet one. The one that echoes. I want your hand on the wall and me behind you. I want your pants open and my glove on your cock where anyone could walk out and see you. The man who owns the tower, getting stroked like a cheap hookup. I want you wet. I want you dripping on the step. I want my other hand over your mouth so the only sound you make is against my glove. Then I want to spit on you and push inside you right there, slow, inch by inch, until you take all of it. I want you full. I want you shaking. I want you still trying to look like you are in charge while I fuck you on the stairs.”

Dev’s office is dark. He is inside. His screens are on. Both hands are on the keyboard. Not on a phone.

Aria is at the lift. She mouths goodnight. Her phone is at her ear. A woman is laughing on the other end. Not this call.

“You are in my building,” I say.

“I am not in your building. I am in your head.” The voice sounds like it is smiling. “I want you on the meeting table on thirty-eight. Shirt on. Pants off. I want to sit on your cock and make you watch the glass while I ride you. I want you to look and see if anyone is still in the hall. I want you to come when I say. I want you to stay hard after, because I am not done. I want my fingers in your mouth so you taste yourself. Then I want you to take me to nineteen and look at what I left you. I want you hard while you look. That is how filthy you are when nobody is watching.”

Willa’s floor is empty. Her chair is pushed in. The headset is on the desk. Ivy is gone. The copier is dark and the hall smells like warm paper and nothing else. I glance down the last stretch of glass toward the cars. Shane is not there. No one is standing where a driver should stand. The building is quieter than it should be for a Tuesday night, and I still cannot see who is on the other end of this call.

I keep my voice level.

“If this is about money, send a bill. I pay my bills. If this is about sex, say it to my face and stop hiding behind a phone. If this is meant to scare me, you called the wrong man. I do not scare like that.”

“It isn’t a threat. It is a preview.” Tap. The voice sounds closer, like the mouth is almost on the phone. “Don’t scream. Kiss me. Then walk to nineteen. The pretty one is waiting in the room you never check. He thought I was someone he loved. He came in my hand with my blade in his stomach. He said a name that was not yours. Then he tried to say a name that was. Guess which one, Mr. Preswood.”

The line does not die. The voice just stops talking long enough that I hear my own shoes.

Nineteen.

I know nineteen. Old files. A room I never asked Dev to watch. I take the back stairs. I do not run. I will not give this call that.

The file room door is not shut.

I look first.