Page 9 of Due South

So I shrug off my coat, drape it over the back of my chair, and reach for my belt. When I’ve moved my clothing around sufficiently, I slide open the drawer and reach for the bottle of lotion, squeezing a small amount into my hand. And then, then—

At the first glide of my hand from base to tip, I shudder. Fucking-A. A couple of minutes may have been a generous estimate of how long this is going to take. And when I let my lizard brain take over and start playing that movie over again—Cris spanking India, pulling her hair, telling her what to do, and then them having sex—it’s pretty obvious I’m not going to last long at all. Especially when I let the caveman part of me totally run amok and start thinking about Lucy.

How her chest had been heaving, making her cleavage in that dress deepen, her cheeks getting an incredible shade of pink, and how she’d squirmed. Maybe, possibly as though she was turned on by the scene in front of us too?

I’m flat out pumping my dick now, consumed by thoughts of her, fantasizing about what might have followed. Not in reality, obviously, but in my dreams. Except that when I get to the part where I kissed her and pulled away, my brain spits out a memory:

“It’s okay. I’m okay. You could…you could do it again. If you wanted to.”

I lose my rhythm. For some reason, I’d blocked that part out until now. She wasn’t upset. She’d told me I could do it again. I’d been so consumed by guilt and horror at myself that I hadn’t heard her, hadn’t processed what she’d said.

Grasping myself and starting up that slick slide again, picking up speed and pressure, I think about what might’ve happened if I hadn’t run away. What that kiss could’ve led to, what else we might’ve done, and—

“Oh my god.”

My whole body goes rigid and not in that about-to-come kind of way it was barreling toward. No, this is more like waking up from a nightmare in which you’ve shown up for school naked and you have to take a test you forgot to study for. I force myself to pry open an eye and when I do… Yeah, Lucy’s standing in my doorway, her face bright red and her eyes so round I think they might eclipse the rest of her face.

“I am so, so—I should go, I didn’t mean to—”

How stupid can you be, Chuck, to jerk off in your office without locking the door?My face feels like it’s melting off in embarrassment, like some sort of Dali-esque interpretation of humiliation. I’d been trying so hard not to appall or violate Lucy any more than I already had and now she’s had to see me masturbating.

Has someone ever managed to commit suicide with office supplies? Because I’m so heinously mortified that that seems like a reasonable alternative to having to face Lucy ever again.

She turns and smacks straight into the doorframe and I think about getting up to help her, but then my pants would probably fall down and I’d be hobbling after her with them around my ankles and, judging by how things are going, would likely faceplant right into her cleavage and tackle her to the ground, and then…then she’d probably call the cops on my stupid, horndog ass. Or India, which would be worse because she’d murder me. No, she’d fire me, andthenshe’d murder me.

“Lucy—”

But what am I going to say.Wait?I don’t want her to wait while I attempt to shove my dick back inside the confines of my pants because even this level of humiliation isn’t making me go soft. And there’s another jolt of arousal when I wonder—how long was she watching? Did she like what she saw? But it’s quickly buried and I let her go.

*

Lucy

I was notwrong about Evans being hung. No, sir. I couldn’t see all that much because he was sitting behind his desk, but the glimpse I did catch…whoo, boy. And the way he was touching himself…it was incredibly hot. And made part of me want to stride into the room, push his chair back from his desk, and drop to my knees. But judging from his reaction, that would not have been welcome.

And my own reaction. I could’ve left without saying a word, pretended it never happened, and just kept that image of Evans getting himself off tucked in the back of my brain, only summoned up late at night in my own bed when I could slide my hand between my legs and touch myself. Instead I couldn’t help it, the words spilled out, and now Evans will never be able to look me in the face again ever. Well, that won’t be awkward at all. We only work together, he only passes by my desk half a dozen times a day when he’s in the office, and I only email or call him about as much when he’s traveling.

Planting my elbows on my desk, I drop my head into my waiting palms and make an utterly pitiable noise. And then I shake myself out of it. I owe Evans an apology. It’s my fault for not knocking louder and for opening the door even though I didn’t hear a reply, and I can only imagine he must be dying of embarrassment. I mean, I am too, but I need to take responsibility because it’s the right thing to do.

Coffee. That would be a good apology, and I was going to show him how to make a cup anyhow. The jangly nerves of mortified adrenaline will probably wear off soon, and he’ll crash when he has more work to do. I can help with that.

I head to the kitchen, my cheeks feeling flushed when I step over the threshold, and start the process where I’d been interrupted. I’m about to press the start button when someone looming in the doorway clears their throat.

“Lucy, I wanted to offer you my most sincere apologies for my behavior. I am completely ashamed and should you want me to leave so that you won’t have to look at your harasser ever again, I’ll type out a letter of resignation and leave it on India’s desk right now. I am so, so—”

I do a quarter-spin to face him. “You think I’m mad at you?”

Evans’s face pinches in a frown. “You should be. I kissed you without your consent and then you saw me…well, I was…I can’t… Please don’t make me say it, Lucy. So I’m sorry. So very, very sorry.”

I get the urge to laugh because his hangdog face is the definition of remorse. “I’m not mad at you. Embarrassed as all get out, yes, but not mad. And I was going to apologize to you for walking in and seeing you—”

Yeah, I can’t say it either.

“Oh.” Now his expression is closer to befuddled, as though I’ve thrown him for a loop. His brow furrows, and his mouth and nose wrinkle up as his gaze darts around the pattern on the kitchen floor before he looks up at me, dazed. “Maybe we could call it even?”

Then I do laugh. “Uh, yeah, sure.”

I’d like to call it more than even. I’d kind of like to call it an invitation. A prelude. A hint of coming attractions. When I’d been sitting out here after he’d run off, it had been all I could do not to slide my hand into my underwear. So Evans gave into temptation where I’d resisted it. If he was as turned on as I was—fine,am—I can’t say I blame him. Which is what makes me say, “Or…”

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