Page 65 of The Secretary Volume II

37

Lena

Ellis doesn’t speak again.Just crosses the room, quiet and deliberate, and reaches for me.

His hand slides to the side of my neck, steady, not rough.His thumb rests just under my jaw.It’s not a question.It’s a pause.“I won’t make promises,” he says.

“Good.I don’t want any.”

He kisses me.

It’s practiced, yes.Controlled.He’s not chasing hunger—he’s delivering something he already knows how to sell.But I’m not here for improv.

He undresses me without ceremony.Unzips, unfastens, drags the zipper of my skirt down like he’s trying to erase a line.My shirt hits the floor.Then my bra.He steps back and looks—not with awe, not with worship.With approval.

His shirt comes off.His belt.His pants.The whole thing has the efficiency of a transaction that doesn’t want to be named.

The sex is fine.

Technically, it’s better than fine.He knows what he’s doing—almost too well.His hands are confident, precise.His mouth finds places that should be private, and I let him.

But the thing is—he doesn’t knowme.

He doesn’t know that I tense before I come.That I prefer left side to right.That I hate when someone talks too much during.That pressure matters more than rhythm.

His hands find all the right places—my hips, my thigh, my throat.Everything practiced to perfection.

But it’s not perfection I’m after.

I don’t gasp.I don’t white knuckle the sheets.I don’t make it easy for him to believe he’s figured me out.

Because he hasn’t.

He doesn’t know how my body used to respond when it was loved.Doesn’t know what my ex-husband did with his mouth that made me forget my own name.Ellis doesn’t ask, and I don’t tell.I let him think this is mastery.

Let him keep working for a reaction I won’t give easily.

When I do make a sound, it’s quiet.Half of it is performance.The other half is memory.

He fucks me like he’s trying to prove something.

I don’t stop him.

And when he finally hitsthatspot, and I arch just enough to show I can take it, he exhales like he’s won something.

He hasn’t.

I close my eyes for one second—just one—and let the quiet click of dissociation settle behind my ribs.

Not floating.Not distant.

Just watching from inside myself, like I’m letting this happen to a version of me I can fold up later and store away.

But then I feel it rise—unannounced, stupid—and before I can stop it, the word slips out.

“Kevin—”

He stills.

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