ThreeDr. Nathan AmherstIt’s dark by the time I look up. Kayla is still bent over her desk working on the data calculations. Right now, I’m not sure if she’s sexy because of her fucking amazing brain or because of her looks. It’s a toss-up. The probability of one woman being both smart and hot, and ending up as my assistant doesn’t seem very high. I need to keep her around. What had Rachel said I should do? Be nice? What does that entail exactly?
I tap my pen against my notebook for a few seconds, but nothing comes to mind. Nice is a bland term, like white toast, plain noodles, and unsalted butter. I’ve sat through my share of harassment seminars to know what I shouldn’t do. It’s a short list. Don’t touch. Don’t stare too long. Don’t get too close. Those same seminars don’t really tell you what is appropriate, though. Is lunch okay? I can’t remember if that was on the list of don’ts because I don’t eat with co-workers. I don’t go to drinks after work during what they all call happy hour but where they spend two hours with cheap booze complaining about their dumbass supervisor, whomever that may be. In sum, I’m not in a position to be harassing anyone, but now I have Kayla. Or maybe have is the wrong term. She’s here and not entirely mine, although I’ll be damned if I’m sharing her with anyone else. I turn to the internet. It has the answer to everything, right?
Ten minutes later, I decide the internet is trash. I knew this before because if it wasn’t full of garbage, I wouldn’t be doing research. The answers would exist already. I suppose they do exist and await my discovery. Thus, the same conclusion would be true for the things I should do to ensure that Kayla remains as my assistant. To wit: the answer exists but not on the internet. The internet tells me I should recognize her leadership potential and ensure a safe place for her to grow. I should be happy for her success and encourage her to grow beyond me. Fuck that noise. Like I’m going to let anyone else in this godforsaken university have a chance with her.
I’m the only one who should be staring at her exposed neck with the tendrils of hair wisping over the base. Dr. Jonas from biochem has no right to gaze upon her delicate wrist or the way her blouse falls around her shoulders. Even the fact that Rachel has seen her irritates me. Kayla has way too much skin exposed what with her ankles, wrists and neck being uncovered for everyone to see. It’s a good thing it’s winter out and she has to wear long sleeves and pants. I’d have to develop some temporary blinding shield for her to wear if it was summer. I’ll put that on my to-do list. I’ll have to check in with the robotics department to see what kind of prototypes they have.
I stand up. “Let’s eat.” I’ll keep feeding her. She makes the best sounds when she eats something she enjoys.
Her head pops up as if she’s attuned to me. “That sounds great. What are you interested in?” She reaches for her phone. “I know this great Thai place that delivers. I love their bahn mi sandwiches. The baguettes they use are so crispy but if you don’t want a sandwich, they make a great curry.”
“No.”
Her hand stops suspended over the desk. “No?”
“We’ll go there.” That seems to be the best solution. Confined inside the office with me thinking about the ratio of skin to clothing doesn’t feel like a safe place for me or her.
“Okay. That sounds good.” She leans back and stretches her arms in the air. The fabric pulls tight around her tits. This isn’t good. I look up at the ceiling. Don’t stare was definitely one of the don’ts. Definitely. We need to get out of here. I grab my wallet and keys.
“Let’s go.” I start walking for the door.
“I need to get my coat. Do you know where Rachel would’ve put it? She took it from me when I arrived.” There’s a shuffling noise, a muffled curse, and then I hear some papers falling to the ground.
I risk a look over my shoulder, and this time instead of her tits being molded by her clothes, it’s her very fine ass. An image of me standing behind her, grabbing her hips with my hands and thrusting forward until all the piles of papers are strewn across the room pops into my brain. A sweat breaks across my forehead. “There’s a closet behind her desk. It’s probably there. I’ll meet you at the elevator.”
I don’t wait for a response because another minute inside the room and I will have broken the second rule—the one about no touching. Who made these bullshit rules anyway? I stomp all the way to the elevator.