Impulses (6 page)

I can’t bare this ache much longer. I am well and truly being pushed to my limits and I…I just can’t handle the raging pressure that my body and hormones are subjecting me to.

Jessie constantly reminds me every waking, passing morning as I sit drowning myself in caffeine, to not ‘get physical’ as she put it, with, Mr. Wentworth. Apparently, job security is more satisfying than the need to eradicate a craving for amazing sex with your boss.

So, I have been a walking time bomb. A mass of erotic, carnal energy, which is in desperate need of stimulating from the one who I undeniably know, can stimulate me.

Swamped by uncertainty with what I am feeling, I sense my body needs closure. Surely it’s logical to have what I need, alleviate these feelings that have entrenched me and carry on with my life, rather than trying to relieve them in any way possible, ways that fail to bring me the sated feeling that I want. You wouldn’t eat a pack of potato chips if you craved for candy, it wouldn’t fill that spot. This is the exact same principle.

Well, Samantha, you know where the door is
my subconscious scolds, looking down on me in condemnation.

Twenty-four years old, and I can’t find the strength to separate my sexual desires from my work.

Cannot, or will not?

Not being one to shy away from my desires, I feel my frustration and dissatisfaction pushing down and overwhelming my body. Internally, I am a coil, and the pressure of what I hanker for tightens my already restricted state as I am compelled to be reticent. It will only take a matter of precious time before my irritation shifts to resentment––resenting having to see him every day, leaning over his desk and permitting his intoxicating scent to caress my senses, and Mr. Wentworth himself for employing me. If he wasn’t my boss, then I wouldn’t be in this mess.
If he wasn’t your boss, then you would never have met him.

“Bye, Sam. See you next week,” Chloe murmurs as she strides toward the double, frosted doors, pulling her hair free of the fur collar of her trench coat, her heels clicking hollowly against the flooring. “Are you sure you will be fine finishing off here?” she asks, but due to my increasing irritability, my tone turns defensive.

“Thanks, Chloe, I can manage,” I bark placing my hands on my hips, leaning my weight onto my right hip.

We see that you are sexually frustrated, Samantha, but for the love of God, reign in the bitch.

She lifts both hands in defeat. “Okay, okay. I was just checking, Samantha.” Shaking her head, she sighs dramatically at my unexpected, irrational outburst, and then departs.

In an effort to push my bitchy, irrational persona back into her box and secure the lid, I rest both my hands on the smooth, cold surface of the reception desk. Closing my eyes, I silently count to ten.

When I feel my body and rampant emotions balancing, and my exasperation dwindling, I flutter my eyelids and gather the remaining documents that Mr. Wentworth informed me that he needed before I left. With the butterflies stretching their wings in my stomach, and threatening to escape through my throat, I make my way down the corridor to his office, and knock timidly on his door.

“Come.” His low, husky voice booms through the door, causing my nipples to strain against my bra as I shudder.
Come, eh? I sure wish you would make me,
and I feel the muscles deep within me clench as I twist the gold doorknob.

“Mr. Wentworth, I have the documents that you required.” I steadily make my way over the thick, lavish, beige carpet to his desk.

His office lamp is positioned at an angle towards the left side and sends out a dreamy glow through the antique, green glass. The window behind him offers a view of flickering lights scattered like an array of tea light candles bobbing quietly on a calm tide.

From the opposite side of the desk, I offer the papers to him. His eyes search mine, crystal blue into hypnotic, full-bodied brown, and I am briefly pinned by his intensity. The familiar throbbing deep down in the confines of my panties threatens anew. Squirming inwardly, I force a swallow.

“Thank you, Miss Kennedy.” His eyes deter from mine as he redirects his focus toward the papers in his hands. “Well…” he sets the parchment onto the surface then presses himself back into his seat. His elbows are on the arms of the chair. His fingers locked and his index fingers steeple. He presses them against the stubble along his chin. “Two weeks you have been with us now, Miss Kennedy. How are you finding it? Settled in well?”

Oh, if only you knew, Mr. Wentworth, if only you knew.

I lower myself into the burgundy seat.

Before I can even filter what comes out of my mouth, it’s, too late. The words pour out of me with the velocity of an unsuspecting landslide and it’s too late to retract them.

“I am so grateful to you, Mr. Wentworth for providing me this
amazing
opportunity, to be a part of all of this,”––I wave my arm in the general direction of the room––“But I don’t feel as though I can be what you need me to be.” My voice cracks, my heart thumps rapidly against my ribcage, and my chest feels constricted with the overpowering sense of longing, and a form of regret for opening my damned mouth in the first place.

If I leave, I will never see him again.

Bewilderment is evident in his enthralling eyes. He listens to me closely, gliding his tongue across his lower pale pink lip at a languid pace. Enticed, I’m powerless to do anything other than stare unreserved.
I wish he was running that tongue over me.

“What, exactly, Miss Kennedy, is the problem? Is it Chloe?” His eyes are grave and his voice is doubly serious.

I hang my head, listening to the vibrating throatiness of his voice but not hearing his words.

“Is there tension between the two of you?”

I risk a peek up at him, the steeple of his index fingers leisurely tracing across the seam of his lower lip. He’s angled his chair so his right elbow is practically touching the edge of the desk as it rests on the armrest. Although his voice is considerate and bewildered, his body language screams a thousand words, all of them aimed at my libido.

I part my lips and flagrantly suck in strenuous breaths.

“No, sir, there is no tension. Actually…” my voice is small and hesitant. Should I say this? Could I say this?
Three words, Samantha, Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda,
my subconscious sings while Mr. Wentworth observes me, waiting patiently for me to delve deeper into my mounting self-doubt.

I bite my lip as anxiety piques. I cannot resist those eyes, those penetrating eyes that he’s burning into me, searching and attempting to read my mind.

“Sam?” he pleads.

“It’s you, sir,” I breathe. There, is he happy now?
Are you happy now?

The weight of the last two-sexually-charged weeks is removed from my shoulders, and I visibly relax. I feel strangely liberated.

Liberated, not satisfied.

He cocks his head, his brow knits together. “What are you saying, Samantha?” Studying his profile, I discern his adorable creases at the edges of his eyes and the V in the center of his forehead.

I hang my head again, focusing on an invisible spot on my shoe.

“If I have done anything to offend you, please, believe me when I say I am truly sorry.”

In the periphery of my vision, I notice him pressing his right hand against the center of his chest. His once relaxed and husky voice, now shaking and broken.

Okay, Samantha, you’ve come this far. Let it all out––gut yourself open to this man. Just be prepared for some form of sexual harassment claim, and he’s a lawyer. Kind of ironic wouldn’t you say?

“Can I speak justly with you, Mr. Wentworth?” I peek up at him, wincing as I prepare to give voice to my private musings.

He nods heartily, and his floppy hair bounces. I love his hair.

Swiftly crossing my legs, I wrap my hands around my upper knee, locking my fingers into place around it. Incapable of look him in the eyes I aim my focus towards my sealed fingers.

“Since I set eyes on you…I haven’t wanted anything else.” I hear him gasp, and peek up at him just to make sure he’s still conscious. “I can’t sleep, I can’t eat. I look at you and my body screams for your touch.”

His jaw subtly drops, his smouldering stare makes me tremble like a terrified child in the darkness, but I am far from terrified of this man––of my feelings, definitely.

He slowly rocks against the backrest, making it bounce.

“I have
never
, had to battle with feelings like this. Yet…you…” I trail off, and offer a weighed sigh. “I am battling so, Goddamn hard, Hayden to quite frankly, keep my panties on when I am around you.” I’m calmed instantly as I hear the strength and resolve lacing my words, reminding me once again of the person I am.

Mr. Wentworth traces the seam of his lower lip with his finger, while scrutinizing me with confounding emotions in the dangerous depths of his chocolate and caramel irises.

“Lust, desire and passion are a cocktail that I can cope with, when I cope with it in the way I know how. But if you add frustration and longing into the equation, it becomes so much more…it becomes consuming, dangerous, and a nightmare to quench.

“I see you and all I can concentrate on is slowly ridding you of your clothing. Your mouth on mine, our bodies tangled together, searching for an outlet.” I dash my tongue across my drying lips, and take an overdue gulp of air.

His expression remains passive.

“I have been powerless when it comes to sating and move on from this––from these emotions, these wants––because you are the only person that can satisfy my hunger. If I left here now and attempted to satisfy that need, to free it from my system,”––I shake my head minutely, more to myself than to him––“It wouldn’t warrant me with the sated, quenched feeling that I desire, that I crave. It would leave me feeling ashamed and dirty,” I whisper my last few words, my voice cracking under the realization of my feeble prior attempts over the span of two-pathetic-weeks.

Fully absorbed, I steadily hold his gaze, observing his expression. “The only person who can nourish my desire, who can fulfil that craving––is
you
.” I peek down as I unlock my fingers and place them onto the arms of the chair. Feeling emotionally exhausted, I haul myself up.

The office is shrouded in silence. Mr. Wentworth peeps down into his lap, his dark hair bounces faintly as he continues to rock in his chair. His lips pursed.

“I don’t expect you to understand, but it’s for that reason, that I have to leave.”

He lifts his head and dashes that gorgeous tongue over his gorgeous shaped lips once more.

Then it’s my turn to hang my head. I vaguely shake my head, focusing on the floor.

Deflated, I mutter, “I cannot suppress these feelings, I have tried, and its killing me––” I gasp and with beaten, clear blue eyes I burn my stare into his, while inadvertently burning his profile to memory. “But I cannot surrender to them either.” The sincerity of my voice is marred by my bleakness. “I’m sorry,” I whisper before turning on my heel.

And I begin to walk out of his office, as I dismiss him from my life.

HAYDEN

I subconsciously pinch my forearm.
It looks as though you have also found a place under her skin, Hayden,
my subconscious peeks at me over his rectangular framed glasses.

Every hair follicle prickles as exhilarating shivers pave their way down my spine. My stomach roils with anticipation and enthusiasm. Adrenaline floods my veins, and my body rapidly heats. I detect my pulse thrumming through my fingertips. Yet strangely––I feel liberated from her revelation.

I cannot let her leave, not without offering her the same courtesy. I will regret it for the rest of my life, I know I will.

I push myself up from my chair and dash out of my office and down the corridor to stop her––to free myself from my own inhibitions while I still have the chance.

Following the corridor around the right corner, I stand at the opening to the reception area. Samantha is stood behind the main desk rummaging through her purse. I take a moment to observe her, absorbing every movement. The way her tongue darts over her lips, the way she repositions herself after every motion, the way her posture sags when she redistributes her weight. The way her dark auburn hair shines in the dim light, with mahogany and fiery tones laced through strand for strand.

I stand with my feet placed shoulder-width apart, my hands resting in my black pants pockets. Rocking back-and-forth on my heels, I focus on my black Italian leather shoes.

“You’re right, Samantha, I don’t understand…” I mumble. My voice is deep and thick with skepticism. I peer up at her shyly, but she refrains from looking back at me, all of her attention fixated on her purse.

I deliberately pace toward her, each step delivering me to most possibly the worst situation I can muster,
or the best
. Prowling like a predatory animal, my hands remain embedded in my pockets as I speak.

“I don’t understand why after eight months’ worth of nightmares and waking up in cold sweats, you walk into my Firm––my office, and suddenly those nightmares are substituted with vivid sex dreams.

“I don’t understand why as soon as I open my eyes in the morning, it feels like I’m about to sit an exam, with butterflies beating around in my stomach, unable to quell the anticipation of coming into work just to see you.” I make contact with the end of the desk.

 Samantha still refuses to focus on anything other than the inside of her black holdall purse.

“I don’t understand why emotions that I have not borne in months have resurfaced and are manifesting in a fashion that I find…disconcerting.” My voice is laden with sincerity.

I step closer to her rigid and guarded body; the familiar, undeniable charge rushes between us as our proximity closes. I regard her with an unfathomable, enlivening expression.

“I don’t understand,” I whisper, “why I constantly crave a moment of privacy with you. To have you in my office and look at you, all the while visualizing what we succumbed to in my dreams.” Placing my index finger under her chin, I coax her head up. Her crystal blue eyes examine mine as I pinion her with the intensity of my stare.