Page 133 of Their Arrangement

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I pulled up the message box.

Typed a word.

Deleted it.

Typed another.

Come.

Backspaced.

Deleted again.

I locked the phone.

Threw it across the kitchen.

It hit the wall.

Hard.

My chest rose. Fell. Too fast. Too shallow.

I braced myself on the marble counter and bent my head.

My reflection stared back from the chrome of the fridge.

My skin flushed. My jaw clenched. My body ached with restraint.

I could still smell her on me.

Still taste the memory of her at her desk—breath hitching, thighs clenched, soaked in silence.

And I wasn’t angry at her. I was angry at me. Because I let this happen. Because I watched. Because I wanted. And now? Now I didn’t know how to stop.

I paced. Back and forth. Room to room. The pressure in my pants unbearable. The sound of her laugh echoing in my head like a fucking dare.

I could see the shape of her nipples through the blouse. The lace when it clung too tight to hide anything. And I hated that I knew the exact color. Because it haunted me. It followed me here.

Her email was still open on my laptop.

Professional. Polite. Polished.

A perfect lie.

Because I knew she hadn’t been okay today. She hadn’t been calm. She’d beenwrecked.

And I let her sit through it—dressed like sex, leaking into lace, pretending to be an assistant while every man in the room imagined what it would take to make her beg.

I opened the reply box.

Typed two words.

You forgot.

Pause.

Then added one more line.

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