Power Play

‘I would certainly advise that you not continue lying.’

He spreads his hands out, as though they’re going to find the correct answers for him.

‘Just let me explain –’

‘Stop talking.’

‘Please, I –’

‘Just stop talking. Stop talking.’

He’s breathing very hard, I notice – but he does what I’ve told him to. He even compresses his mouth into that oddly mean line, as though he needs a little extra barrier to hold his frantic words in. And when I just keep right on eyeing him, he actually wipes his clearly sweaty hands on the front of his trousers.

I’ll confess: the gesture tweaks something inside me that I don’t want it to tweak.

‘Now. Answer honestly. Did you masturbate in your cubicle, Benjamin?’

He doesn’t hesitate this time, despite the perspiring and the wide-eyed terror.

‘It’s … a possibility.’

‘Just a possibility?’

‘Well, yeah. OK. I kind of did it.’

He laughs nervously, and that same thing inside me twangs. It makes me wonder if this would be easier if he weren’t so adorable … or would it be harder? If he was sure of himself, confident – a real Aidan Harcroft – would I be able to do this?

And more to the point: does he know that I keep asking myself that question?

‘And what might it be?’

Ohhh, this time he hesitates. I see his tongue touch the roof of his mouth, and those hands toy with the bottom of his cardigan. Of course I notice then that the thing isn’t buttoned there – in truth, I’m not sure if it really fits him, because it seems to splay out over his hips like a half-forgotten striptease – but that’s all right.

What fun would it be if he improved all at once, in a single shot?

‘Come on,’ he laughs. ‘You know what it is. You just said it to me half a second ago.’

God, he makes it so easy. I don’t have to try for the irritated look that comes to my face.

‘Remind me,’ I say, while his eyes search my room for inspiration. He looks cornered, I think, and for a second the idea makes me hesitate. It makes me want to back out, quickly – give him an exit sign, if he so sorely wants one.

But then he says: ‘What exactly do you want me to do?’ And he puts far too much emphasis on all the wrong things. His want is hoarse and husky, his question mark like a hook curling around my waist. I’m tugged into this before I’m sure I want to be, and that’s prior to his gaze jerking its way back to my face.

His eyelids are heavy, now, I notice. His mouth looks … tender. Though really I’m only using the word ‘tender’ there because my mind wants me to say like the spread split of a woman’s sex instead.

‘Say the words,’ I tell him, softly, so softly. And though he tells me: ‘I can’t,’ I can hear something else below the refusal. Something that’s not quite as unsure as he claims he is. For example, I’m not certain an unsure person would go from toying with the edge of their cardigan to kind of … sliding his hand underneath it. You know … just to maybe rub over his own belly through his shirt, with the softly stroking tips of his fingers. … ‘If you can do it in your cubicle, you can say it,’ I say, but now my voice is hoarse. And I’ve crossed my legs beneath my desk, though not because I want to. Because I have to. It’s the same thing as his pressed-together lips.

I need something to keep the feelings in.

‘I was masturbating,’ he replies, and then unfortunately said feelings just gush their way out. Not even the leg-crossing can stop them. In fact, I think the leg-crossing makes it worse. A low pulse has started up right at the heart of my sex, and it gets stronger the longer I let this go on.

‘I see. And why exactly were you doing a filthy thing like that in such plain view?’

Filthy thing, I think, and that pulse becomes a throb. I can feel the exact shape of my clit, without so much as a finger on myself.

‘I don’t know.’

‘I think you do know.’

He swallows thickly. Tosses that thick hank of glossy hair out of his eyes even though it’s too buoyant to ever actually get close, then has to stroke through it nervously when it won’t stay exactly where he wants it to. The gesture is incredibly boyish and should be incredibly annoying, I know.

But somehow it’s something else instead. It’s not childish or silly. It’s just him, it’s the way he is. He can’t help being this open and ready and kind of like he wants his face fucking.

‘I guess …’ he starts, and I can hardly believe I actually hold my breath, waiting. But by God, I do. Which of course makes it a hideous disappointment when he just finishes with: ‘I guess I just did it because I wanted to.’

In fact, it’s so much of a disappointment that I actually almost do turn back to my work for real. I finger some of the contracts waiting for approval on my desk. I think about calling Anderson in here, to go over some of his slightly skewed projections.

There’s a full day ahead of me, and I don’t have to be like this.

Until he rolls hiseyes at himself.

After which, I don’t know how I need to be. I mean, I actually see him do it. I know that’s what it is. All of his expressions are so big he could star in a silent movie about himself: Benjamin Tate Can’t Control His Cock.

But somehow, the way he looks doesn’t quite compute in the manner it should. Instead, it just makes me realise something: I’ve never met a man as handsome as him who behaves the way he does. Who wears all of his expressions on his sleeve and puts a hand up his own cardigan and doesn’t seem aware that he’s utterly, utterly lovely.

Because he is. I don’t see how I could reasonably deny or push that fact away now. He hides it well beneath the goofiness and the too-big grins, but the lust haze he’s descended into makes it almost unbearably clear. His lower lip almost sulks all on its own. His eyes are like an early-morning mist over something heated and heavy.

God. God. What’s happening to me?

‘I mean … it’s more than wanting to.’ He pauses, considering. ‘It’s more like … I need to. Man, I always need to soooo badly.’

I know what’s happening to me. He says all the things I most want to hear in a tone like melting butter, and then I turn into a sexual psychopath. Observe:

‘So you masturbate often?’

I mean, why am I asking him this? Why? And why is it that the shakier I get, the more confident he becomes? When he answers his voice seems almost … dry. Just hinting at a bank of sardonicism under the clean-cut exterior.

‘Not in public places, no.’

‘But generally speaking.’

He straightens.

‘Yes,’ he tells me, and I can’t help it then. I have to hear the rest.

‘How often would you say you need to do it?’

‘I don’t know.’