I Like My Coffee Black

No, it wasn't love. If anything at all, it was an addiction: maddening, exhilarating, yet very much an addiction. No doubt, I will survive. I will get through this sickening withdrawal, and the day will come when I walk into the office and don't expect to see Zack sitting at my desk, teasing me for being five minutes late.

I've always been five minutes late to work, every single day of the five years at QOL Advertising. Now, I will have to start coming on time just to get over the memory of him, standing from behind the desk in his always neat but affordable-looking suit, taking my designer blazer off, and handing me a cup of coffee, no cream or sugar.

"I read somewhere that people who like their coffee black are more likely to be psychopaths," he threw in casually on his second day of work, broadcasting a most naive smile, not showing any signs of distress of a typical intern.

It was then that I opened my eyes in shocked surprise and looked at him for the first time. Of course, I've looked at him before, but I didn't really see him. I felt nothing when Zack greeted me on his first day; he was merely another intern passing through the ever-revolving doors of the firm.

Taller than average, pleasant to look at, broad smile on his boyish face - that was all that I noted to myself while shaking his hand. Was his palm warm or cold? Was his handshake firm or sluggish? I simply don't remember because it didn't matter. He was just another dandy boy who'd take my efforts to teach him for granted, who'd waste my precious time and be gone in six weeks. So I hardly thought of him as a handsome young man - or even a human being for that matter - just another bullet point in my job description.

He spent much of his first week listening, asking questions when necessary, demonstrating his desire to learn but not coming off as too eager. Unlike most interns these days, he had his cell on silent at all times, safely tucked into his pants pocket.

That back pocket on his ass... It drew my attention more than once, and I'm ashamed to admit it. How could I even let myself be attracted to him, subordinate, a decade younger than me?

It was he who planted the idea in my head, matter-of-factly, as always, over a friendly lunch. Yes, we became friends. Daring and charming, he skillfully pushed professional limits without crossing any lines, and I'd let myself become too friendly too soon.

"I used to date a woman who was a decade older," he said nonchalantly, unwrapping his Philly Cheesesteak sandwich, "but you wouldn't approve of my choice."

"Why?" I asked, not reading too much into the statement. "Because she was that much older than you?"

"No, because she was my boss," he replied, expertly gauging dynamics between us.

"You both could have lost your jobs over that," I muttered, finding nothing else to say.

"Wouldn't have been a big deal," he remarked with a sly grin. "It was just a summer gig. I was a team leader at the camp, and she was the lead counselor."

Silly me! How could I be so stupid as to swallow that bait? Oh no, he wasn't testing my moral principles. He was expertly appealing to my sense of self-perception: I was an older - read more experienced - woman, with some level of control over him.

Was it then that my gaze drifted to his ring finger? No, no wedding band adorned it - he was too young for such commitments, a free spirit unharried by the rush to settle. But there was a little scar right under the knuckle that caught my attention and set my imagination aflame.

As I watched his hand undo the collar of his mauve shirt, I wondered how he got that scar. Did he mishandle a tool? Was it the result of an accidental glass break? Was there a lot of blood?

Suddenly, I pictured a sexy-looking lead counselor taking his bloody hand into hers, pressing white gauze firmly to the cut, assuring him that it was not too deep and would heal nicely. She was probably wearing shorter than appropriate denim shorts, her cleavage somewhat covered by a low neckline t-shirt but pushed up all the way to the chin, some sickly-sweet antiperspirant mixing up with her sweat and making him dizzy.

Maybe, they were a little buzzed, the sweet intoxication heightening their senses. It is so easy to underestimate the effect of a single beer in the heat of a summer night.

Did he kiss her first? No, he's too good to make that mistake. He probably just stood there, silently, impersonating innocence itself, letting her get ensnared by the enticing proximity of his athletic body. And she was sure to cave in.

It wasn't until she told him to take his shirt off that he intended to do so. And then he did it slowly, grasping the collar of his polo and pulling his head through first, then his arms. She couldn't help but fixate on the fine contours of his chest and abs, not overly buff but finely toned. Of course, she lunged forward too quickly. She didn't have time to think. She didn't want to take the time to think. She didn't care about the million reasons she had not to do it.

She closed her eyes the moment he pinned her to the wall and offered her tongue eagerly the moment he forced his mouth onto hers. For a brief second, shame cut through her foggy mind as his nimble fingers touched her down there, but she nipped that useless feeling in the bud, twirling in delight.

He didn't push her down onto the squeaky bed, and there was no table to bend her over. He fucked her right there, from behind, pressing her blood-stained hands to the shabby wall.

"Ski accident," Zack offered unexpectedly and reached for the napkin.

"I'm sorry?" I snapped out of my daydream.

"The scar on my hand? I got it in a ski accident," Zack explained, regarding me with an insightful smile, as if he could unravel the thoughts swirling in my mind.

I saw that smile on his face before, when I touched him for the first time.

He was trying to upload his presentation to the company portal when a pop-up window asked for my credentials. I rose slowly from my chair, expecting him to get up and move out of the way. But he didn't do that! He kept his hands on the keyboard, quite intentionally, it seemed, as if forcing me to make a choice: touch him or redefine the boundaries by asking him to move.

And so I did. I leaned in, my left elbow grazing his arm, my pinky landing on the scar below his knuckle. I felt the subtle warmth spreading across my cheeks, a gentle flush betraying my excitement. It must have been the intensity of cascalone and bergamot in his cologne that made me feel that way.

I imagined him freeing his hand and touching my thigh under the stretch twill skirt. I even rocked my hips a little. I wanted him to raise the stakes! But he didn't. And that's when I noticed that peculiar smile on his lips, as if he was acutely aware of my unspoken desire, which he found quite flattering.

The file finished loading, and I had no choice but to go back to my desk, feeling like an idiot, with unsatisfied yearning between my legs. The craving was so intense that I had to go to the bathroom and stick my hand under my skirt. I wished I were in my bedroom so I could freely indulge in the pleasure. But I wasn't. So I settled for a thirty-five-second rushed release.

That day, I couldn't stop thinking about him even after work. I gobbled up my take-out dinner while proofreading his presentation, took a long shower, and slipped into my bed. I closed my eyes and remembered his earthy smell, softened with the notes of bergamot and cascalone.

I teased myself a little, rubbing my vibrator over my clit in circular motions, then shoved it inside in a sudden and forceful motion, opening my knees wide, yielding to the imaginary pressure of his hips. The muscles inside me clenched, and I felt my back arching. I shoved the vibrator in even further, to the point of discomfort, and imagined Zack whispering into my ear, 'Damn, you are so tight'.

I am pathetic. I can't stop thinking about him even though it's been twelve weeks since he accepted that job offer with our biggest competitor and moved on. A formal handshake and a polite 'thank-you' was all I got in return.

I feel betrayed. And it's not the fact that he jumped ship that makes me feel duped. It is the ease with which he said goodbye, the carefree simplicity with which he turned around and walked away.

Oh god, it's time to move on! What is it about him that I miss so much? It's not his touch because I haven't even known the feeling of his body against mine. Is it his presence in the office? The sound of his resonant voice? Or maybe, it's that elation that I felt catching his coy glance on my ass?

Oh yes, I have done it at least a dozen times. I have assumed that sexy butt-in-the-air pose while pretending to look for something in the file cabinet in front of his desk. And he knew damn well what it was that I was really looking for.

I am pathetic. This morning on my way to work I saw an ABT delivery truck stuck at a traffic light. The guy behind the wheel was young, and hot, and reminded me of Zack. So I couldn't help but stare at him until the traffic light turned green and the truck took off, the note on the side of it laughing in my face, 'Your satisfaction is our goal'.

I am pathetic. I'm stuck in my office at nine-thirty on a Friday night, on a freaking Valentine's day night, simply because I have nothing better to do. No one else, just me and the solitary desk lamp in the twilight of the empty building.

Loneliness... I feel lonely in this room...

I wish Zack were here with me, yearning and longing, getting stiff in his pants in anticipation of a steamy night. Forget the flowers, forget the dinner, and screw the teddy bear, really, just his masculine body heavy with need.

I stand up, trying to ease the stiffness in my shoulders when a very familiar baritone nearly makes me jump out of my skin.

"I didn't have the slightest doubt that I'd find you in the office, even on a beautiful rainy night like this! You know, for the hours that you put in, you are grossly underpaid."

I lean over my table, feeling faint, goosebumps covering my back. That voice alone makes me shiver, and those dark brown eyes are impossible to bear.

"Za...Zack? How did you get in here?" I have to control my voice.

How has he come in without me noticing? Is it really him, or have I started hallucinating because of long hours and sleepless nights?

"John's let me in. I was hoping he'd be the one on duty tonight," he says nonchalantly, the playfulness in his gaze matching his tone.

"One day he'll lose his job," I retort, taking a paper off my desk and heading over to the file cabinet. This is a perfect excuse to break eye contact and regain my self-control.

Damn it! I must look like an idiot, the way I turned my back on him!

"Hey, there's nothing wrong with helping an old pal out" - he laughs, rocking in his chair - "you know, you work too much, and you worry too much."

Holding off on replying, I stay bent over, aimlessly shuffling through the papers.

Why did he come here? I wonder if he is staring at my ass...

My hands start trembling as I hear his confident footsteps behind my back.

"I think we both know that you don't need to file your grocery list with the legal documents," he says, smirking, taking the paper out of my hands and placing it on the desk.

Oh yes, it is him, and he caught me red-handed!

I blush, at a loss for words.

He kneels and leisurely picks up the pen that's rolled off the table just a moment ago, his gaze pausing on my knees and meeting my eyes. That smile on his face... And the way the night lights sneak in through the windows and reflect off his lips... And the intensity of cascalone and bergamot in his cologne... It all makes me dizzy.

If it is possible to pass out from an overwhelming intimacy, I must say I am pretty close. My hands are trembling, my knees are weak, and I have nothing close by to lean on. Nothing, but him...

"Are you cold?" he asks, his eyes earnest and searching, analyzing each subtle shift in my posture.

"No... Maybe a little... I'm going to put my coat on. I was about to leave anyway." I let out a long sigh in some sort of stupor.

"Do you have plans for tonight?" He asks, a subtle inflection in his voice suggesting that he is absolutely certain that I don't.

"I actually do," the lie slips out of my mouth with ease that surprises even me.

What?! Damn it! Why did I just say that?

"Well, that's a bummer. I was hoping to take you out for a drink." He takes a step back, and I see disappointment on his face.

"I have half an hour," I say too quickly, fearing that I've blown my chance already.

A chance at what? I wonder at the same time. Do I really think that he's come because he misses me?

"Frankie's across the street?" he asks, gallantly helping me into my coat, his hands pausing on my shoulders for a tad longer than needed.

What is he doing? I let out another long sigh and grab my purse.

"Sure." I keep my tone measured, excited and apprehensive at the same time.

Frankie's is good. Frankie's is familiar territory, and going out of my comfort zone is the last thing I want to do right now. Another plus: it's a bar and deli-type of place, so it won't feel awkward on a night like this. A big minus: there's that busty bartender working on Friday nights who uses every opportunity to stick her hooters into Zack's face.

Honestly, I am not lacking in that department myself, but I don't put it out there the way she does. And I don't throw myself at random guys like twenty-something-year-olds do.

Gosh, I sound like a grumpy old lady!

The truth is, I envy her. Samantha - I think that is her name - exhibits this uninhibitedness that I lack. The ease with which she flirts with guys! It is no more difficult for her than popping a bottle open.

How many times have I caught men's eyes on her curvy body, simple black t-shirt perfectly framing her bust, red lace bra propping her cleavage up? And although I personally think it's a sign of bad taste when a woman's bra juts out for everybody to see, it hasn't failed to draw Zack's attention.

My tension eases a little as we step outside and get swallowed by the foggy drizzle. The car headlights reflecting off the wet, gray asphalt... The smell of spring dampness... It doesn't feel like February at all.

My nostrils flare a little as I inhale cascalone and bergamot mixed in with the tiny water droplets suspended in the air. I don't know if it's the weather, or Zack's smell, or the whole love-is-in-the-air thing, but I close my eyes and imagine him stopping me in the middle of the street and pressing a minty kiss onto my lips. Oh yes, I've noticed him discreetly popping an Altoid into his mouth.

We cross the street and approach the neon blue letters flashing in the bar window. Zack pulls on the heavy wooden door, and the smell of stagnant air, laden with alcohol and sweat, insults my nose.

I hesitantly set my foot inside and wince, either at a sudden change of atmosphere or at the sight of Samantha wearing a pink tiered mesh ruffle skirt and cupid wings.

What's up with that?!

A quick glance around, and I realize that there are plenty of lovebirds, drinking, laughing, and having amorous conversations. This is quite different from the quiet and formal atmosphere of a business lunch that I was hoping for.

The realization makes me flinch.

"Let's take those?" Zack gestures to the two distant bar stools in the corner, having noticed my uneasiness.

I nod yes and follow his lead, forfeiting our usual spot at the front.

The moment Zack sits his perfect ass on the red leather top, Samantha slides two coasters in our direction, flashing her ample bosom in his face.

"What can I get for you two?" she asks, almost purring, stealing a quick glance at me and then returning her catlike eyes to him.

"Port for you as usual?" Zack asks me absentmindedly, a big grin adorning his gleeful face.

Seriously, what is it with guys and boobs? A fat bonus wouldn't bring the same amount of joy to their faces!

I nod yes, pursing my lips.

"Port wine for the lady and a Canadian Club for me." Zack locks his eyes with Samantha's.

"Straight up, on the rocks, or with a twist?" She winks at him.

"On the rocks." He gives her a devilish smirk and finally turns over to me. "So, putting in long hours?"

I take my drink and empty half of the glass in one gulp. It takes me a moment to suppress a bout of jealousy.

Why has he come here? Why has he asked me out? Is it simply because he felt obligated after everything I've done for him?

"It's always busy at the beginning of the year," I finally find my voice. "But I'm sure you know that because, judging by your outfit, you are coming straight from work yourself."

"Yeah, I've been busting my ass for the new boss," he admits with a proud smile.

"Is she deserving of all your efforts?" I ask half-jokingly, another jolt of jealousy already pricking my conscience.

" He is a total asshole, but I'm learning a lot." Zack clarifies, rolling the ice cubes in his glass using his index finger. "How's your new intern? Is he as handsome as I am?"

I want to tell Zack that my new intern is great, that in addition to good looks, he is nerdy and responsible, exceeding every expectation I have. In fact, he's more helpful than some who've been at QOL for more than a decade. He's really everything I could ask for, except... he is not Zack.

"He is practically an Abercrombie and Fitch model," I say wistfully, biting on my pinky, alcohol slowly but surely untying my tongue.

"That good looking, huh?" Zack peers curiously into my eyes, seemingly confused by the tone of my voice.

I should really slow down on drinking. I don't trust myself around him when I'm sober, and god only knows what I'll do if I'm not. I can already feel the arousal creeping in slowly, intensifying with each passing second, burning me from the inside. I just want to touch that scar under his knuckle, run my fingers up his hand, trace his firm jawline, and feel that subtle stubble on his face.

"Yeah, that good looking..." I sigh and change the topic. "How's personal life? Are you seeing anyone?"

"Nah, I barely have time to sleep, let alone have a relationship. You?"

"As a matter of fact, there is a guy that I really like," I tease him, tracing the rim of the glass with my index finger.

"Do tell!" He tries to keep the conversation light, but his voice hardens with an emotion I cannot quite define.

Could it be jealousy that I sense? Could he be into me?

"What do you wanna know?" I ask coyly, biting on my lip.

"How about three things you like about this guy?" He offers, the expression on his face softening a bit.

"Ok" - I pause for a moment, recounting everything that I love about Zack - "let's see, he is determined... he's funny... and he has a really nice ass."

Yep, it is official! I am drunk! Drunkity drunk!

"Sounds like you are really into him." Zack puts down his empty glass, turning his full body toward me.

"You have no idea," I whisper, leaning in, putting my hands onto his thighs.

His pupils dilate subtly, but he remains poised, prepared to navigate whatever comes next. There is an anticipation in his gaze, almost an invitation to proceed.

I close my eyes and inhale his aroma, fighting the urge to press my lips onto his. He's breathing heavily, and I get wet at the idea of finally experiencing his touch.

I imagine him leaning in, brushing his hot lips against my cheek, and whispering something silly into my ear. I imagine myself telling him that I have to use the restroom and hinting that I wouldn't mind if he followed me there. I imagine him sneaking in after me, locking the door, and pinning my body to the wallpapered panel. I can almost feel his warm hand sliding under my skirt and tracing the contour of my thigh.