Page 7 of Tell Me What You Want

Why is this man saying these things to me?

Highly aroused, I’m about to come back with a wisecrack, when I suddenly get butterflies in my stomach. I’m too exhilarated by what he’s just said to pretend otherwise, even if his words are pretty vulgar. Finally, his lips stop in front of mine. Without taking his eyes off me, he runs his moist tongue over my upper lip, then my lower lip, and gives me a sweet little bite on the mouth.

I don’t move. I can’t breathe.

His tongue peeks out again, and unwittingly, I open my mouth. I want more. His pupils dilate. Sure of what he’s doing, he darts his tongue inside my mouth; then, with a prowess that astounds me, he begins to kiss me until I lose my senses.

Forgetting everything, I respond to his every demand, and soon I’m the one pressing against his chest in search of more. I let his desire carry me. For several seconds, we kiss passionately in the most absolute of silences while we listen to my supervisor’s blissful moans. My body trembles on contact with his body. His hands squeeze my behind, and I want to scream. Without taking his blue eyes off me, he pulls his tongue from my mouth.

“Do you want to have dinner with me?”

I move my head again, but this time, it’s to say no. I don’t want to have dinner with him. He’s the owner of the company. But he doesn’t seem to like my answer.

“Yes,” he affirms. “Youwillhave dinner with me.”

“No.”

“Do you like contradicting me?”

“No, sir.”

“Then?”

“I don’t go out to dinner with my bosses.”

“You will with me.”

His proximity is irresistible, and his new assault on my lips is complete. If there were sparks before, now there’s pure fire. Ardor ... flames ... After he manages to turn me into jelly in his hands, he again pulls his mouth from mine and threatens a smile.

Speechless, I just look at him. What the devil am I doing? Without moving, he takes out a BlackBerry and proceeds to text. Minutes later, I hear a knock on my supervisor’s door while he signals for me to be quiet. She and Miguel quickly pull themselves together, and I can’t help but be taken aback by their ability to respond. Seconds later, Miguel opens the door.

“I’m sorry, Mrs.Sánchez,” says an unknown voice. “Mr.Zimmerman would like to have coffee with you. He’s waiting for you at the ninth-floor cafeteria.”

Through the slit in the door, and with the German still on top of me, I see Miguel leave, and I watch as my supervisor pulls a makeup bag from one of her desk drawers. She quickly redoes her lips, straightens her hair and clothing, then exits the office. I feel the pressure he has over me ease, and he lets me go.

“Listen, Mr.Zimmerman ...”

But he doesn’t let me finish. He puts a finger on my mouth. I’m tempted to bite it, but I control myself. He opens the archive-room door and glances back at me.

“We’ll stick to our formality in the office.” He walks toward the door with an astonishing sense of confidence. “I’ll be at your place at nine,” he adds. “Look good, Ms.Flores.”

I just stare at the door like a fool.

What is this guy up to? I leave the archive room, and walking toward my desk, I hear my cell phone. A message. When I read it, I’m stunned:I’m the boss, and I know where you live. Don’t even think about not being ready at nine sharp.

4

I arrive home at seven thirty and say hi to my cat, Curro, who moves very slowly as he comes to greet me. I drop my bag on the couch and head toward the kitchen to give Curro his medication. Poor kitty, he’s unmoved.

After I give him some treats, I open the fridge and pour myself a Coke. I’m addicted to Coke ...addicted. In a few minutes, I put on a Guns N’ Roses CD and sing along to “Sweet Child o’ Mine” as I get into the tub.

Wow, what a voice that man has! I sigh when I feel the hot water on my skin. Suddenly, Mr.Zimmerman comes to mind, with his way of talking, and my hands, slippery with soap, slide down my body. I open my legs and touch myself. Oh yes, Zimmerman!

When I remember his mouth, and how he outlined my lips with his tongue, I get all tingly. I recall all of him, and it just gets me going. My hands fly over my body until one stops on my right breast. I touch my right nipple with my thumb, and the nipple stiffens. I close my eyes and imagine it’s Zimmerman who is doing the touching, who’s making my nipple swell. I don’t know him. I don’t know anything about him. But I do know that when he’s near, he gets my motor running. I’m panting when I hear my phone. But I ignore it. I don’t want to interrupt this moment. On the sixth ring, my eyes pop open. I leave my little bubble, grab a towel, and run to answer the call.

“Why’d it take you so long to pick up?”

It’s my sister. Always inopportune and always asking too many questions.

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