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“Tough is being a man even when the odds are stacked against you. It’s doing the right thing when the wrong thing is easier. Grow up. Get out of your shit and do better. Now go before I call the cops.”
His eyes lock on mine, a smoldering fire begging to be unleashed pinning me where I stand. It’s a look that either says I’m picturing you in several different positions naked or I hate you so much I want to pitch you out the twenty-sixth floor window and watch you fall. I honestly can’t tell which.
“We are,” she agrees. “I’ve been told we have chemistry, but I’m thinking it’s more like a lab experiment gone wrong. But that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t think you’re as much of an asshole as you’d like to be seen as.”
“More than so. It’s fact.” We turn to face the front and there is Zax, scowling at us like a madman. “Morning, bro. I’m escorting your lovely Aurelia down for a costume change. You missed it. We just had the best meet-cute we’ll tell our grandchildren about one day. I guess it’s true what they say about the early bird.” He winks at Zax. “Wouldn’t you agree?” The doors shut and then we’re shooting down to the twentieth floor.
“And I bet you’re about to tell me—hey! What are you doing? That’s mine.” She flies at me in a rush, but I climb up onto my knees, angling myself away from her so she can’t snatch the book back. “What is this?” I ask, stiff-arming her with my hand pressed into her forehead, holding her back. “I can’t believe you!” she screeches, swatting at me with her kitten claws. “You’re not twelve, Zax. What kind of move is this?”
“Do you know how impossible it is to not want to right all your wrongs?” She laughs, but there is no humor in it. “I am my own hero. Scars are simply souvenirs you collect along the way. They make you tougher and you learn from them. I’ve learned some lessons the hard way and some the soft way. That’s all I could do. But I don’t need my boss or his guilt to swoop in and save my day. Frankly, I prefer you when I find you to be an insufferable ass instead of like this.”
Then his hands are back on me, on my zipper, and he’s zipping me up before he adjusts my hair back in place. “I
No way I can go out tonight with my cold, wet cum in them. A grunt. “Go. I’ll be waiting for you in the hallway.” “Okay.” “And, Aurelia?” “Yes?” “Take off the ones you’re wearing here.” Is he trying to make me orgasm again? “Yes, sir.”
Can love be different with different people? Not less true or real, just different?
