wasn’t glowing, though, and that made me sad. Her hair was darker, her skin sallow, and her eyes unhappy.
If I made her mine, the way I wanted to, the way she’d never accept, she could spend plenty of time sunning herself, getting her golden glow back. She could have a few easy months, living the life of a pampered pet, while we fuck this attraction out of one another. Her hair would get its gold back in no time, as she could sit around the pool all day. I wonder if she’s fair down there, and if so, does she shave it all off or leave some? I prefer it when they leave a strip. Never been into the totally bare look.
I drag my mind away from such thoughts. Didn’t I decide yesterday to keep this purely on the level so far as romance goes, for now? Business and nothing else. I need her to hack for me. I can get anyone to suck my cock. Once she’s done what I want, once I don’t need her to get into Popov’s information, then I can make my move, if I still want her.
I think I’ll still want her.
In fact, it pisses me off how much I want her. Makes me angry at her, even though it’s hardly her fault.
I don’t know why she has this effect on me. Despite her undeniable physical charms, it’s something else that gets me all hot under the collar. Her weird mix of innocence, nerdiness, and outrageous sensuality is unique. It’s not sexiness, no; it’s an earthy, base sensuality that’s in the way she walks and smiles. It was there when I watched her turn her face up to the sun and enjoy it on her skin when she stood outside the coffee shop one afternoon all those months ago when I first got to know her. Almost two weeks later, I observed her do the exact same thing with the rain. She stood for a full minute, not caring how wet she got as she enjoyed the rain on her skin.
She taught me a new English word that day, petrichor: the scent produced when rain falls onto the earth. Now, when it rains and I catch that scent, I always think of her.
Then there’s that wildness I saw in her from the very start. The very same wildness she tries to hide, to bury. I was so disappointed in her when I learned that she was going to marry a boring jobs worth who shared none of her passions. I might not be the man for her, but Dim Tim certainly isn’t.
She’s a good girl, a nice girl, but one who loves Heathcliff—who let’s face it is a sociopath—and tragic Russian literature. A girl who soaks herself in the rain instead of hiding from it, dances with abandon, and who wants to travel the world, try new foods and see new things. Yet, she stamps that down and tries to wedge herself into a hole she doesn’t fit. Why is she so scared of that side of herself? I’d love to know.
It shows itself, though, in her flashes of temper, and the moments when she does crazy things, like hacking the British government as part of a college project.
When she climbed out of my car only the other day and leaned in to deliver what I imagine she believed was a cutting denouement, I wanted to eat her up. She had the wildness then. Kicking my car door! I’ve shot people for less. Literally, it’s not a figure of speech.
She was fucking resplendent in her anger, with her tits hanging in my face, and her pouty mouth set in a livid line. It took massive amounts of willpower not to cancel my meeting and follow her wherever she was going, push her through her own front door and fuck her brains out on her hallway floor, whether she welcomed me or not.
Coming back into the moment, I notice one of the men at the front of the room looking as if he’s about to burst into tears.
He manages to gather himself, and I make a note to investigate him. My next in line, Margaret, better not have noticed because she’d cut him loose as one of the chaff for daring to have a lip tremble. She’s one cold bitch and a killer when it comes to business. She doesn’t revel in cruelty, but she doesn’t allow emotions to get the better of her; she