Page 47 of Weather Girl

I forget for a moment that I don’t have use of both my arms when I attempt to pull him closer, breaking away with a sharp inhale.

“Shit,” he says, features pinched with alarm even as he’s breathing hard. “Did I—?”

“No, no, that was my fault.” I readjust, tightening my sling. With a sheepish half smile, I say, “I was just trying to get more of you.”

When he reaches for me again, he spins us around, backing me up against his desk. He gives me the lift I need to slide on top of it, and I wrap my legs around his hips and—yes. He’s warm and soft against me, except for where he isn’t, and that sends a jolt of satisfaction to all the most sensitive parts of my body. This time, he doesn’t say anything when I brush against his round stomach—only tugs me closer.

“I don’t want to mess up anything on your desk,” I say as his mouth trails down my jaw.

“I can tell you with complete honesty that I really, really don’t care if you do.”

Still, I’m reluctant at first as I push things to the side—a stapler, I think, and then a notebook. It’s not until he starts sucking at the spot where my neck meets my shoulder that I throw caution to the wind and start shoving. Papers, pens, a pair of headphones. I can feel the heels of my shoes digging into his back, but if it’s bothering him, he’s sure as hell not saying anything.

I’ve had the occasional office fantasy, but god, the reality is even better. He’s solid heat, lips dipping lower, dropping kisses along my collarbone and down my neck. His hands are at my waist, fingertips skimming along my ribcage, and I can sense he’s uncertain about going higher.

If I can’t do everything I want to with an arm in a sling, the least I can do is help him.

So I drape my hand along his, inching it upward, until his thumb is stroking one breast through the fabric of my sweater.

“This is okay?” he asks, and it’s absurd, how okay it is. He’s not even touching my skin, and my nipples are already aching.

“God. Yes.” My mouth falls open against his, and he swallows my moan, tongue swirling as I move my hand from his to clutch at the back of his neck.

He bunches up my skirt and pulls me to the edge of the desk until we’re lined up in the most torturous way, the rough friction of his jeans driving me wild. My struggle to put on these tights this morning was thoroughly not worth it. I’d have risked being cold all day if it meant I could feel him exactly where I want to right now, hard against my center while he groans into my ear. I roll my hips against his, turning that groan feral and drawing out a gasp of my own. I want to unbuckle him, unzip him, have him lay me bare in his office so he remembers this every morning when he gets to work.

When something falls off his desk with the loudest thump so far, Russell breaks our kiss, panting. I stifle a laugh as he walks around to check what it was, coming back with a baseball player Funko Pop still in its plastic box.

“Cute,” I say.

“King Félix Hernández is not cute. He’s a collector’s edition.” He places it back on his desk, then seems to think better of it and stows it in a drawer.

Still, it seems to shock us back to reality, which is maybe a good thing. I’m not sure how far we might have gone. I have to squeeze my legs together, bite down on the inside of my cheek. I’ve always struggled to let go with new people, and I’ve never had an orgasm with someone on a first encounter. But I’m so keyed up that a few more minutes and I might have fallen apart, and I would have made certain I dragged him down with me.

“This was...” he says as he plays with a wavy strand of my hair. “...not how I imagined the night would turn out.”

“I’ve imagined this two or three times.” Heart still racing, I hop off his desk, doing my best to tidy it up. “Only there’s usually a blizzard, and we’re trapped here for days with nothing but each other’s bodies for warmth.”

“I’m sorry I was jealous.” He cages me in, interrupting my tidying to press a kiss to the shell of my ear. “I just hadn’t figured out how to be brave with you yet.”

“You’ve always seemed brave to me,” I say. “Even before this.”

His whole face shifts, eyes crinkling at the corners in that way I like so much. It’s incredible, watching this confidence change him. “Have I told you,” he says, “that you look absolutely stunning in that sling, Ari Abrams?”

I bite my lip to keep from grinning. “Yeah?”

“Oh yeah.” His hand comes up to my face, his thumb skimming my cheekbone. “Really brings out your eyes.”

17

FORECAST:

A hazy few days of uncomfortable truths

MY THERAPIST’S OFFICE has a view of Lake Union and a couch that contours to my body so perfectly I’m scared to ask her where she got it, because I know it’ll be out of my price range. I’ve been in a handful of therapists’ offices, and none of them have made me quite as calm as Joanna’s.

Today’s a therapy doubleheader. I’m still a little sore from physical therapy after a woman named Ingrid stretched and bent my elbow, wrist, and fingers for thirty minutes, and now this. I’ve been seeing Joanna for almost three years, since I moved back to Seattle and my former therapist retired and recommended her to me. Seeing someone new is daunting—starting from the beginning, unpacking all your baggage for a stranger, knowing they won’t think less of you for your irrationalities but being terrified nonetheless—but it was worth it to find her. I go every few weeks, sometimes less frequently if I feel like I’m managing okay.

“How’s work been?” Joanna asks, taking a sip of tea from her mug with a watercolor Seattle skyline on it. She drinks it every time I’m here, and the soothing lemon scent must have a way of untangling my messy brain as well as her questions. With her long dark hair and straight-across bangs that always make me consider cutting mine, I’ve never been able to guess how old she is. She looks like she could pass for twenty-five, but she carries herself with the wisdom of someone who has helped a lot of people wage war against their demons.

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