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I do? That’s news. Even if that were true, how would he know that?
I don’t dare ask as that might be as suicidal as reciprocating by telling him his reputation isn’t so stellar.
“Thank you,” I stammer before the silence veers into uncomfortable territory. “I love working here.” And by love, I mean tolerate. But what’s a little white lie between a monster and his prey?
He stares at me, and I feel like I might drown in the lapis depths of his eyes. “The project I’m trusting you with is extremely important.”
I bob my head up and down so vigorously, I nearly give myself whiplash.
“The client—Belka—will get a chance to demonstrate the final product to the editors of Cosmopolitan magazine in two weeks.” He peers at me as though to verify that I know what Cosmo is, so I blush and nod, just in case. “That is a huge opportunity.” His dark eyebrows furrow minutely as he finishes with, “We can’t let Belka down.”
“Yes, sir.” I give him a crisp military salute.
Wait, what? Why did I do that?
There’s no hint of amusement on his face. He must be used to such gestures from back when he participated in Napoleonic wars and what-not.
He steeples his fingers. “I realize you must have the most thorough testing plan in mind.”
Actually, I have the desire to suck on those long, masculine fingers in mind at the moment, but I keep that to myself.
“I hope you will let me enrich your plan with some extra test cases—which may already overlap with yours.” He reaches into his desk and takes out a couple of stapled sheets of paper.
Only now do I realize that he’s basically telling me how to do my job—which would be like me teaching him how to properly drink blood. Control freak much?
As I snatch the papers, our fingers brush for a second, sending another dozen joules of electricity into my lower regions.
Flushing, I glance at what I’m holding.
Hmm. Pink paper. A faint smell of perfume. Pretty cursive with hearts dotting the occasional “i.” A woman must’ve put this together for him, and not Sandra, whose scent is more evocative of boiled cabbage. Besides, Sandra is obsessed with electronic communication, judging by all the constant “Save a Tree” propaganda in her email signature.
The pang of jealously I suddenly experience is as inappropriate as it is insane.
To avoid dwelling on it, I skim the content of the paper—and as I do, I feel the flush spread to my ears and chest, turning them beet red.
There are items like “was orgasm achieved?” and “how many times?”
I have the former in my testing plan already, but not the latter—which, of course, isn’t the source of my discombobulation.
It’s just that reading the word orgasm in his presence feels wrong.
And dirty.
And somehow hot all at the same time.
I better get out of here with what passes for my remaining dignity.
“I will make sure to, um… utilize this”—I fan myself with the papers—“in my testing.”
He reaches under the desk, yanks something out, and places it on the desk between us.
I gape at it.
Strictly speaking, it’s a carry-on suitcase—but only in the same sense as a disco ball is a globe. It’s covered in frilly polka dots and bejeweled with so many differently colored stones, you’d think a rainbow-farting unicorn had ejaculated on it.
As I look closer, I realize most of the designs are not polka dots but tiny multicolored penises and vaginas that someone painstakingly drew by hand.
At least I hope it was by hand.
