Story Snippet 2

a/n: I saw a tweet today that inspired me to write a new snippet. This is a continuation from story snippet 1. btw hi! I took a break from working on my edit of AVSWTD and started writing a fanfic. Needed to shake up my energy.

However, a recent new reader's comments about my novel got my ideas flowing again. No promises yet, but I have some things percolating! Anyway, hope you enjoy this. Here is the tweet, which made me want to expand on this existing snippet:

When the door of the supply room violently clicks shut, I instinctively know it is him and not an errant breeze pushing it closed. This is further confirmed when the scent of him, something I readily struggle not to lean towards any time he passes me in the hall, wafts over to me. I remain unmoving, as if I am in a still life display at the Museum of Natural History. Perhaps an exhibit highlighting the modern workplace and its strange ritual of hoarding post-it notes and toner against imagined scarcity. He clears his throat.

"You're hiding from me."

He might as well have said this with his lips pressed against the back of my neck for what it does to me. I am suddenly beset with the familiar feeling of floating out of my body, one that he causes any time we find ourselves alone together. The frequency of said moments alone has been reaching untenable proportions of late.

"I'm looking for the right toner."

"Bullshit. You've never changed out toner in your life."

I nearly stamp my foot. A little red-bottomed stiletto protest. Instead I steel my resolve to never let him see me sweat and turn around to face him.

"What do you want?"

I ignore the way the small smile that appears on his lips makes my stomach do a flip as he saunters towards me with his stupid hands in his stupid pockets. When he finally reaches me, three steps later but it somehow feels like crossing a chasm, he lets out a sigh before speaking.

"Now, that's a question. Isn't it?"

I blink in response, desperately in need of shaking my head to clear it, but unwilling to do so under his gaze. I know I should probably say something. Can feel that, if left with a vacuum, he will fill it with words I am not ready to hear. Will be unable to resist.

In the end, I fail.

"Somehow, I feel like you're asking me that as a way to deflect from asking yourself the same question."

"Ridiculous," I snap.

"Oh, very defensive," he says, and his smirk could not be more smarmy.

Yet, I suddenly notice that the smarm seems tinged with something else.

I swallow hard with the realization that that something is… adoration.

This is further confirmed when he reaches up to try and tuck an errant lock of hair behind my ear like I'm some bested heroine at the end of a romcom, finally forced to surrender to the charms of her ambiguous pursuer.

No, thank you.

I swat at his hand and move to push past him, but he grabs me. Not my hand, not even my forearm, but my waist. Before I know it, I'm being spun to face him and his hand is pressing hard against the small of my back. We are now in the closest contact I have ever deigned to permit, his firm torso pressing against me in a refusal to allow any further denial.

“Okay, fine,” he says, and his lips are a centimeter away from grazing my cheekbone. “I’ll answer your question.”

Instinctively, I shake my head and say, “No. Don’t.” Still, I don’t make a move to pull away. Somewhere in my brain an alarm is sounding, but no one is home.

He raises an eyebrow, considering my demand.

Finally, he says, “Fair enough.”

Next moment his lips are on mine and the paper-thin remains of my resolve dissolve entirely as I sink into him. The hand he has on my lower back holds firm, while the other slides up the base of my neck, his fingers threading into my hair, gripping my head with possessive force. I move my own hands up his solid back, fingers exploring the planes of his muscles with the delight of finally getting to be where they’ve always dreamed.

Amidst all of this, he turns us around, and my body is pressed against the toner shelf while his hand begins a journey toward the topmost button of my blouse. That same alarm sounds even more loudly, yet I am determined to pretend it does not exist as I feel his thigh moves between my legs. The gentle pressure he applies causes a moan to escape my lips, breaking our kiss momentarily. To my utter indignation, he chuckles at this. I scrunch my face up in anger, but he leans in, face alight with a wide grin, and captures my lips again. Instantly, I am adrift. I am drowning in him.

But then, I'm saved by the sound of the supply room door being wrenched open. The air between us sizzles as a deluge of water meets fire, and a cold air sweeps in both physically and not.

It’s that newer colleague of ours, the one I noticed was getting suspicious after the last supply room incident. His mouth is agape as he takes in the scene, which can not possibly be mistaken for anything less than it is.

With a look of utter mortification, he says, “Nevermind, who needs toner anyway?” and slams the door shut.

Simultaneously we turn to each other. He makes a move to lean back in and continue what we were doing, but I put a hand on his chest; my fingers squeal with glee.

“We can’t.”

“Oh, we can,” he says, nodding convincingly. “Just not here. Come home with me tonight.”

My lips make the decision for me, I take no responsibility for it when I look up at him and whisper, “Okay.”