Beautiful Bastard
Page 29
Had everyone lost their mind? Sure, she might be some of those things; even I couldn’t deny that she was incredibly intelligent. She was a hard worker; I was often surprised at how well she kept up with things. She was definitely determined, although I would describe it more along the lines of pigheaded or stubborn. And there was no question of her loyalty. She could have sold me out a hundred times since we’d started this sick game.
I stood glaring at him as I tried to formulate my response. “Yeah, well, she’s also a raving bitch.” Nice. Very articulate, Bennett.
Stepping down, I quickly wiped off my machine and made my way across the gym in an effort to escape.
He laughed happily behind me. “See? I knew she was getting to you.”
“Fuck off, Henry.”
I settled in to do some sit-ups when he stood over me, grinning like a cat that swallowed a canary. “Well, my work is done here,” he said, brushing off his hands and looking increasingly pleased with himself. “Guess I’ll be heading home.”
“Good. Go.”
Laughing, he turned to leave. “Oh, but before I forget, Mina wanted me to see if you managed to convince Chloe to make it to dinner.”
I nodded, sitting up to fiddle with my shoelaces. “She said she’d be there.”
“Am I the only one who thinks it’s hilarious that Mom wants to set her up with Joel Cignoli?” There went that feeling in my chest again. Henry and I had grown up with Joel, and he was a pretty decent guy, but something about the thought of the two of them together made me feel like I wanted to punch something. “I mean, Joel is great,” he continued. “But Chloe’s a bit out of his league, don’t you think?” I could feel him staring at me a beat longer. “But hey, good for him if he thinks he stands a chance.”
I lay back, began doing sit-ups a bit faster than was necessary.
“See you later, Benny.”
“Yeah, later,” I mumbled.
Sunday night as I lay in bed I replayed the plan in my head. I was thinking about her too much, and differently. I had to be tough and make it a week without touching her. It was like detoxing. Seven days, I could do that. Seven days of not touching her and this thing would be out of my system. I could finally move on with my life. There were just a couple of precautions I had to take.
First, I couldn’t be goaded into arguing with her. For some reason, the two of us arguing was like some sick form of foreplay. Second: no more fantasizing about her, ever. That meant no more reliving sexual encounters, no more fantasizing about new ones, and no more picturing her naked or with any of my body parts coming in contact with any of hers.
And for the most part, things seemed to go according to plan. I was in a constant state of discomfort and the week seemed to drag on, but aside from a lot of dirty fantasies, I remained in control. I did my best to stay busy outside the office, but during the times we were forced together, I kept a constant distance, and for the most part we treated each other with the same polite aversion we had before.
But I swear she was trying to break me. Each day it seemed that Miss Mills looked sexier than the day before. Every day there was something about what she wore or did that brought my mind back to the gutter. I’d made a deal with myself that there would be no more lunchtime “sessions.” I had to stop this, and imagining her while masturbating—hell, imagining her masturbating—wasn’t going to help.
Monday she wore her hair down. All I could think about as she sat across from me during a meeting was wrapping it around my hands as she went down on me.
Tuesday she had on a formfitting knee-length skirt and those stockings with the seam up the back. She looked like some sort of hot secretary pinup.
Wednesday she wore a suit. That was unexpectedly worse, because I couldn’t get my mind off what it would feel like to slide those pants down her long legs.
Thursday she had on a perfectly ordinary V-neck blouse, but twice when she bent over to pick up my pen I got a good look down her shirt. Only one of those times was on purpose.
By Friday I thought I would explode. I hadn’t jacked off once all week and was walking around with the worst case of blue balls known to man.
As I walked into the office Friday morning, I was praying that maybe she would call in sick. Somehow I knew I wouldn’t be that lucky. I was horny and in a particularly bad mood, and when I opened the office door I almost had a heart attack. She was bent over watering a plant in a charcoal gray sweater dress and knee-high boots. Every curve of her body was on display. Someone up there really hated me.
“Good morning, Mr. Ryan,” she said sweetly, stopping me as I passed her. Something was up. She never said anything sweetly to me. I eyed her suspiciously.
I stood glaring at him as I tried to formulate my response. “Yeah, well, she’s also a raving bitch.” Nice. Very articulate, Bennett.
Stepping down, I quickly wiped off my machine and made my way across the gym in an effort to escape.
He laughed happily behind me. “See? I knew she was getting to you.”
“Fuck off, Henry.”
I settled in to do some sit-ups when he stood over me, grinning like a cat that swallowed a canary. “Well, my work is done here,” he said, brushing off his hands and looking increasingly pleased with himself. “Guess I’ll be heading home.”
“Good. Go.”
Laughing, he turned to leave. “Oh, but before I forget, Mina wanted me to see if you managed to convince Chloe to make it to dinner.”
I nodded, sitting up to fiddle with my shoelaces. “She said she’d be there.”
“Am I the only one who thinks it’s hilarious that Mom wants to set her up with Joel Cignoli?” There went that feeling in my chest again. Henry and I had grown up with Joel, and he was a pretty decent guy, but something about the thought of the two of them together made me feel like I wanted to punch something. “I mean, Joel is great,” he continued. “But Chloe’s a bit out of his league, don’t you think?” I could feel him staring at me a beat longer. “But hey, good for him if he thinks he stands a chance.”
I lay back, began doing sit-ups a bit faster than was necessary.
“See you later, Benny.”
“Yeah, later,” I mumbled.
Sunday night as I lay in bed I replayed the plan in my head. I was thinking about her too much, and differently. I had to be tough and make it a week without touching her. It was like detoxing. Seven days, I could do that. Seven days of not touching her and this thing would be out of my system. I could finally move on with my life. There were just a couple of precautions I had to take.
First, I couldn’t be goaded into arguing with her. For some reason, the two of us arguing was like some sick form of foreplay. Second: no more fantasizing about her, ever. That meant no more reliving sexual encounters, no more fantasizing about new ones, and no more picturing her naked or with any of my body parts coming in contact with any of hers.
And for the most part, things seemed to go according to plan. I was in a constant state of discomfort and the week seemed to drag on, but aside from a lot of dirty fantasies, I remained in control. I did my best to stay busy outside the office, but during the times we were forced together, I kept a constant distance, and for the most part we treated each other with the same polite aversion we had before.
But I swear she was trying to break me. Each day it seemed that Miss Mills looked sexier than the day before. Every day there was something about what she wore or did that brought my mind back to the gutter. I’d made a deal with myself that there would be no more lunchtime “sessions.” I had to stop this, and imagining her while masturbating—hell, imagining her masturbating—wasn’t going to help.
Monday she wore her hair down. All I could think about as she sat across from me during a meeting was wrapping it around my hands as she went down on me.
Tuesday she had on a formfitting knee-length skirt and those stockings with the seam up the back. She looked like some sort of hot secretary pinup.
Wednesday she wore a suit. That was unexpectedly worse, because I couldn’t get my mind off what it would feel like to slide those pants down her long legs.
Thursday she had on a perfectly ordinary V-neck blouse, but twice when she bent over to pick up my pen I got a good look down her shirt. Only one of those times was on purpose.
By Friday I thought I would explode. I hadn’t jacked off once all week and was walking around with the worst case of blue balls known to man.
As I walked into the office Friday morning, I was praying that maybe she would call in sick. Somehow I knew I wouldn’t be that lucky. I was horny and in a particularly bad mood, and when I opened the office door I almost had a heart attack. She was bent over watering a plant in a charcoal gray sweater dress and knee-high boots. Every curve of her body was on display. Someone up there really hated me.
“Good morning, Mr. Ryan,” she said sweetly, stopping me as I passed her. Something was up. She never said anything sweetly to me. I eyed her suspiciously.
