Page 2

2

I pull into the Sterling's Pride parking lot a full twenty minutes early, the kind of early that screams anxious newbie trying not to screw up. My stomach flutters like I swallowed a beehive. The lot's already filling up—oversized trucks and custom SUVs built for minotaur frames, gleaming in the morning sun. A few human-sized cars tuck between them like afterthoughts.

I sit there gripping the steering wheel for a second too long, then shove the door open before I can lose my nerve. It's just a job, I tell myself. Professional. Routine. You can do this.

Inside, the receptionist from my interview greets me with a bright smile. Her nameplate reads "Marina Michaels," and her lipstick is the same sunny coral shade as her blouse.

"You must be Hank," she says, already reaching for a phone. "Sterling mentioned you'd be starting today. I'll let him know you're here?—"

Before she can touch the receiver, a heavy tread sounds down the hallway. And then he's there. Sterling Johnson, clipboard in hand, shoulders so broad they practically scrape the doorframe, dressed in a deep blue button-down that makes his dark fur gleam like polished mahogany.

My mouth goes dry. Bone-dry. Emergency-level dehydration dry.

"Mr. Honeyworth," he says, voice a rumbling purr that I feel low in my belly. "Precisely on time. Good."

"Good morning, sir," I manage to croak out, hyper-aware of Marina watching our exchange like it's her morning entertainment.

Sterling's amber eyes flick over me—fast, efficient—and for one crazy second, I swear they linger. Just a flicker. Just long enough to light a fuse under my skin.

"Marina will handle your paperwork and orientation," he says. "I have a supplier meeting in five minutes." He turns, the thick cords of muscle shifting under that shirt, and for a second I just stare like an idiot.

Then he pauses, glancing back.

"Helena expects you in the supply room at nine sharp," he says, voice cutting through my daze like a blade. "Don't be late."

Before I can nod again like a bobblehead, he's gone—striding down the hall, every step radiating that low-banked power that makes my knees want to forget their job.

Marina shoots me a sympathetic smile. "He's not as intimidating once you get used to him," she says, like I didn't just almost trip over my own tongue.

I doubt I'll ever "get used to" Sterling Johnson. Not when my body is busy staging a rebellion every time he so much as breathes.

"Come on," Marina says, cheerful and oblivious, "let's get your paperwork sorted." She leads me to a small side office where a terrifying stack of forms awaits.

As I dig in—scribbling my name more times than should legally be allowed—Marina chatters easily, filling the space with little tidbits about the facility.

"We've been open for five years now," she says, twirling a pen between her fingers. "Sterling built it from scratch after inheriting the land. You should've seen the early designs—he was obsessed with getting the ergonomics right."

I look up from a particularly brutal confidentiality agreement. "He designed the equipment himself?"

"The initial prototypes, yeah," Marina says, dropping her voice like she's sharing a juicy secret. "Then he brought in engineers to refine everything. But Sterling? He tested every version personally. Wouldn't ask anyone to use something he hadn't tried himself."

The image hits so hard it physically rocks me back in my chair.

Sterling. Testing the mounts. That huge, devastating body braced over the equipment, moving against it, working himself toward release with brutal, unstoppable force. My pen freezes mid-signature. I snap out of it a beat later, dragging my gaze back to the page and pretending I'm not seconds away from spontaneously combusting.

"And now we have ninety regular clients, plus another fifty occasional users," Marina says, oblivious. "Some come weekly, some monthly. We're actually at capacity most days. Sterling's thinking about expanding."

I mumble something vaguely appropriate, but honestly? All I can hear is the echo of Sterling's voice describing internal lubrication and temperature regulation. All I can see is the way his hands moved over the mount. All I can feel is the dangerous, magnetic pull—Getting stronger by the second.

Monday had barely started. And I was already so fucking screwed.

* * *

An hour later, my hand feels like it might actually fall off from signing so many confidentiality agreements. I've been issued security credentials, gotten a crash course on front office protocols, and just when I think Marina might hand me another stack of paperwork, she checks her watch and smiles.

"Perfect timing," she chirps. "Let's get you to Helena."

My stomach does a slow, anxious flip.

Marina leads me down a wide hallway that smells faintly of clean linen and industrial disinfectant, the overhead lights a little too bright. She stops in front of a massive supply room bustling with movement. Inside, a woman in her fifties is barking orders at two younger staff members who are sorting piles of folded linens like their lives depend on it.

"Helena, this is Hank—your new helper," Marina says, then disappears like she's avoiding shrapnel.

Helena Vasquez fixes me with a stare so sharp I feel it slice clean through my nervous smile. Hands planted on her hips. No-nonsense energy radiating off her like a physical force field.

"You ever clean biological material before, boy?" she demands, voice rough as gravel.

"I grew up on a farm," I offer, fighting the urge to stand up straighter. "I'm not squeamish."

Helena snorts—a sound of pure, unfiltered skepticism—and tosses a set of industrial gloves at my chest. I fumble to catch them.

"Farm's one thing. This is different." She ticks rules off on her fingers. "First rule: always wear protection. Second rule: what happens in the collection rooms stays in the collection rooms. Third rule: you do exactly as I say, no questions asked. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She narrows her eyes like she's waiting for me to crack. When I don't, she gives a brisk nod, apparently satisfied.

"Today you learn the cleaning protocol. Tomorrow, inventory management. By Friday..." She shrugs. "If you haven't run screaming, we'll talk about giving you more responsibility."

Helena jerks her chin toward the two younger staff members, barely glancing up from their tasks.

"That's Miguel and Lisa," she says. Miguel nods without looking at me. Lisa offers a brief, polite smile before returning to folding what must be the thousandth towel of the day.

"They've been with me three years," Helena adds, grabbing a clipboard. "You want their respect? Earn it."

No pressure or anything.

The morning flies in a blur of bleach and meticulous instruction. Helena drills me like I'm training for the goddamn Olympics of sanitation. Every inch of the collection rooms has to be scrubbed down to medical-grade standards. Every padded surface. Every screen. Every discreetly hidden mechanism.

"The dummy mounts are expensive," Helena barks, demonstrating how to wipe down the curved, padded surfaces like she's polishing a priceless artifact. "Handle them like they're made of gold."

I nod, focusing hard on the angles of the equipment. Not on the mental slideshow playing in the back of my mind: Sterling's hands on these same surfaces. His body braced, moving, sweating.

Focus. FOCUS.

"The internal mechanisms are self-cleaning to an extent," Helena continues, hitting a button that activates a low hum as the sanitization cycle kicks in. "But we still manually check every part. One mistake? One infection? Sterling's reputation takes a hit—and so do our jobs."

I trail behind her, heart hammering as she disassembles a section of tubing and shows me the pneumatic components—the ones responsible for creating "sensation."

It's... a lot. A lot of very expensive, very sophisticated, very suggestive machinery.

"The sensors monitor pressure, temperature, and volume," Helena explains, utterly unfazed. "They adjust automatically for each client's dimensions."

Dimensions. As in—Sterling's dimensions, when he uses it after closing.

A fresh wave of heat crashes over me, prickling along my skin. I force myself to nod like a normal person, praying Helena doesn't notice the flush burning up my neck.

By lunchtime, I've helped clean two rooms under her sharp, relentless supervision. The work isn't hard exactly—but it's meticulous. Surgical. There's no half-assing it when you're elbow-deep in equipment designed to accommodate bodies twice your size and ten times your strength.

I'm grateful for the thick gloves. Grateful for the clinical language Helena insists on using. Grateful for anything that helps me pretend this isn't the most wildly inappropriate workplace fantasy fuel I've ever encountered in my life.

Helena claps her hands together sharply.

"Thirty minutes for lunch," she announces. "Staff room's down the hall. Use it. Don't touch the client lounge. Got it?"

"Got it," I echo, pulling off my gloves and trying not to look like I just ran a marathon.

She doesn't wait for a response—just marches off toward another checklist.

I wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead and head for the staff room, my mind already spiraling ahead. If this was just day one, I was completely and utterly fucked.

* * *

The staff room is small but cozy, the faint smell of coffee and disinfectant clinging stubbornly to the air. A battered kitchenette squats in one corner, a couple of mismatched tables scattered in the middle of the room.

I'm unwrapping my sandwich, trying not to think about padded mounts or temperature-regulated tubing, when the door swings open hard enough to rattle the frame. I look up—and nearly choke on my own tongue. A massive minotaur fills the doorway, his horns brushing dangerously close to the ceiling tiles. For one heart-stopping second, I think it's Sterling. But no. This one's lighter—tan fur instead of dark brown, broader through the shoulders, and wearing a grin that could light up a whole damn city.

"Fresh meat!" he booms, voice so big it bounces off the walls, making me jump like a startled cat.

I fumble to my feet as he crosses the room in two easy strides, extending a hand big enough to probably snap my wrist if he wanted.

"I'm Marcus," he says, grinning like this is the best part of his day.

I slide my hand into his as carefully as someone disarming a bomb. His grip is firm, solid—but he reins it in, like he's used to human fragility.

"Hank," I manage, hoping my palm isn't visibly sweating.

Marcus chuckles—a deep, rumbling sound that feels like it vibrates right through my ribcage—and grabs a protein shake from the fridge. It looks comically tiny in his hand, like a dollhouse prop.

"Sterling mentioned he hired a human intern," Marcus says, cracking the lid on the shake. "Brave choice."

I take a massive, desperate bite of my sandwich just to give my mouth something to do besides blurt out something humiliating.

"How's your first day treating you?" he asks, leaning casually against the counter. The counter creaks under his weight but somehow holds.

"It's... educational," I say, once I swallow.

Marcus throws his head back and laughs, the sound filling every inch of the small room.

"I bet. Helena's got you under her thumb, huh?"

I nod, chewing like my life depends on it, trying to figure out if there's a polite way to say I've spent the morning elbow-deep in equipment that's seen more action than my entire adult life.

Marcus doesn't seem to notice my panic. He props a hip against the counter, grinning like he's got all the time in the world. "Don't let her scare you," he says. "She's tough, but she's the real deal. Been with Sterling since day one. Would walk through fire for him, if he asked."

There's a weight behind his words I don't understand—but before I can ask, he shifts tactics, studying me over the rim of his shake. "So what brings a human to Sterling's Pride, anyway?" His tone is light, but there's an edge to it. "Most of your kind avoid us unless they absolutely have to."

I clear my throat, grateful for the excuse to slow down.

"I'm interested in innovative agricultural models," I say, trying to sound way more confident than I feel.

Marcus grins, flashing slightly pointed teeth. "Is that what they're calling it these days?"

Before I can come up with a clever reply—or, you know, any reply that doesn't make me sound like a horny idiot—the door swings open again.

And this time? Yeah. It's him.

Sterling Johnson. Clipboard in hand. Impeccable blue shirt stretched tight across his chest. Eyes sharp and assessing. My whole body goes on lockdown, muscles pulling taut like I'm bracing for impact.

Sterling's gaze skims over me in one quick pass, his nod curt but not unkind.

"Mr. Honeyworth," he says, acknowledging me before turning to Marcus. The change in his tone is immediate—harder. More commanding.

"I thought I heard you in here."

Marina pokes her head in from the hallway, catching the tail end of the exchange.

"For context," she says with a grin, "Marcus and Sterling go way back. Roommates at State University. That's why Marcus gets away with being a smartass."

Marcus winks at me, like this is all just one big cosmic joke.

Sterling doesn't smile. He doesn't even pretend to smile.

"We need to discuss your last sample results," he says to Marcus, voice dropping into that rough, no-nonsense register that makes my stomach flip inside out.

Marcus grimaces. "That bad?"

"Office. Now."

Sterling's words crack like a whip, sharp enough to leave a mark.

As they head for the door, Marcus throws a wink at me over Sterling's broad shoulder. I catch it—unintentional, probably, playful maybe—but it sends a flush crawling up my neck anyway.

Because the only person I'm watching walk away is Sterling. The stretch of his pants over thick, muscled thighs. The casual roll of his shoulders as he moves. The absolute command he carries like a second skin.

I drop back into my chair, my half-eaten sandwich forgotten, my heart pounding like I just ran a sprint. And all I can think, as the door clicks shut behind them, is: I am so. Completely. Screwed.

* * *

The afternoon blurs past in a whirl of bleach, latex gloves, and Helena's no-nonsense voice barking instructions like I'm in boot camp for the clinically depraved.

"Accessories," she says briskly, hauling open a locked cabinet like she's unveiling the world's least appropriate treasure chest. Neatly organized trays of implements—smooth, curved, textured—gleam under the fluorescent lights.

I fight to keep my face neutral as she hands me a piece of equipment whose purpose is... alarmingly obvious.

"These get sanitized twice," Helena says, flipping it over with the casual detachment of someone discussing paperweights. "Once through the industrial sterilizer. Then by hand. No exceptions."

She catches my expression—a quick, horrified twitch—and snorts.

"Oh, please. Don't tell me you're shocked," she says, shaking her head. "Everyone's got preferences."

"I'm not shocked," I say quickly. Too quickly. "Just... trying to understand the protocols."

Helena levels me with a look that says bullshit more eloquently than words ever could.

"Minotaurs have specific needs," she says, tapping a device against her palm like a pointer. "Some like a little extra... stimulation. Our job isn't to judge. Our job is to keep everything clean and functional."

She walks me through the proper cleaning techniques, her tone utterly clinical. I try to match it—really, I do—but my mind keeps betraying me.

Keeps slipping sideways.

Keeps wondering whether Sterling ever opens this cabinet. Whether he ever chooses something for himself before locking the door and giving himself over to the raw, animal need his professional facade hides so well. I flush hot under my gloves, grateful Helena's too busy scrubbing a very suggestive shape to notice.

By five o'clock, my brain feels like someone stuck it in a blender.

Helena gives me a grunt of grudging approval as she strips off her gloves. "Not bad for your first day," she says. "Tomorrow, eight sharp."

I mumble something polite, shoulders sagging in exhausted relief, and head toward the tiny locker they've let me borrow. I'm dragging my backpack onto my shoulder when I sense a presence behind me—heavy, solid, radiating heat. I turn—and there he is.

Sterling.

His massive frame fills the doorway, one hand braced casually against the frame, his expression unreadable.

"Mr. Honeyworth," he says, voice low and smooth. "A moment."

My heart goes into freefall. I follow him down the hall like a man walking to his own execution, every step tightening the coil of tension in my gut. In his office, he gestures for me to sit without a word, already flipping through a stack of papers on his desk.

"Helena reports you managed adequately today," he says, not looking up.

I grip the chair, willing my voice not to crack.

"Any concerns?"

"No, sir," I say, hoping my face doesn't betray me. "The protocols are straightforward."

Sterling finally glances up, and it's like being hit with a spotlight. His gaze pins me in place—sharp, assessing, almost unbearably focused.

"And the nature of the work?" he asks. His tone is casual, but there's something... heavier underneath. "Still comfortable?"

"Yes, sir," I manage, feeling the heat creep up my neck despite my best efforts.

For a moment, he just watches me, silent. The air between us feels thick enough to drown in.

Then he nods, once. "Good," he says. "Tomorrow morning, you'll shadow Marina to learn the scheduling system. Afternoon with Helena. Same for the rest of the week."

"Understood."

He returns to his paperwork like the conversation never happened—like my entire body isn't vibrating with adrenaline and something worse.

Dismissed, I stand to leave.

I get to the door before impulse shoves the words out of my mouth.

"Mr. Johnson?"

He doesn't look up.

"Yes?"

"Thank you for the opportunity," I say, heart hammering so loudly I'm sure he can hear it.

This time he lifts his head. Surprise flashes across his face for half a second before smoothing into something cooler, more contained.

"Prove yourself valuable, Mr. Honeyworth," he says. "That's all the thanks I need."

I nod, throat dry, and force myself out the door before I embarrass myself further.

Outside, the parking lot is nearly deserted. The last few staff cars pull away, engines rumbling into the dusk.

But Sterling's massive black SUV is still there, parked in its reserved spot like a sentinel.

I freeze, one hand on my door handle.

I personally use one of the collection rooms at the end of each day.

The words echo in my head, low and dark, stirring up images I should not be thinking about. Is he in there right now? The thought hits like a punch to the gut—raw, vivid, impossible to look away from.

I sit down behind the wheel but don't start the car. Instead, I stare at the front doors of Sterling's Pride like they might open and reveal something I shouldn't see. I imagine him moving through the halls—stripping off that perfect blue shirt, rolling his massive shoulders as he steps into a private room. Locking the door. Approaching the mount. Bracing his hands against it. Working himself, hard and desperate, until he finds the release his body demands.

My skin burns. My cock throbs painfully against my khakis.

A tap on my window nearly sends me straight through the roof. I jerk around to find Helena peering at me through the glass, eyebrows raised. I scramble to roll the window down, my heart still racing.

"Car trouble?" she asks, suspicion written all over her face.

"No!" I croak. "Just... checking messages before driving."

She squints at me like she knows exactly how full of shit I am but lets it slide.

"Get home safe, kid," she says gruffly. "Early start tomorrow."

I watch her walk to her car and pull away, leaving me alone again. Alone with the memory of Sterling's voice. Alone with the heavy, aching need he doesn't even know he's ignited in me.

Get a grip, Hank. You cannot survive here if you let this get to you.

But deep down, some reckless, desperate part of me knows: It's already too late.

* * *

The rest of the week settles into a grueling, strangely hypnotic rhythm.

Mornings with Marina—learning the Byzantine maze that is Sterling's Pride's scheduling system, sitting at her desk while she rapid-fires client info like a caffeinated auctioneer.

Afternoons with Helena—scrubbing, sanitizing, handling inventory until my arms ache and my gloves are soaked with sweat.

By Thursday, I'm trusted with supply management—tracking orders, restocking rooms, making sure every towel, every lubricant dispenser, every— accessory —is exactly where it's supposed to be.

It's exhausting. It's relentless. It's perfect.

Because every time my mind starts wandering—every time it tries to conjure images of Sterling's hands bracing against the mount, Sterling's voice roughening into a growl—I have to shove it down under a mountain of protocols and supply lists.

It almost works. Almost.

Marina is a fountain of information under the guise of "training," her voice breezy as she clicks through the scheduling software. "Mr. Taurus comes every Tuesday at two on the dot," she says, tapping the screen. "Room Five. Extra magazines. Won't start without them."

I nod, pretending I'm only interested academically.

"Dr. Kim's in Thursdays. Does all the sample quality assessments. If she calls you into a lab room, wear a mask. The Rivas brothers—" she rolls her eyes—"come together, separate rooms. Can't stand to lose to each other, even at this."

I absorb it all, fascinated. It's a glimpse into a world I never even knew existed—and Sterling is at the very center of it.

"Sterling's known most of them for years," Marina says. "Some since college. They trust him completely. That's rare."

Before I can stop myself, the words tumble out:

"What was he like in college?"

Marina grins like she's been waiting for me to ask.

"I wouldn't know firsthand," she says. "But Marcus might. Roommates. Sterling's not the type to gossip about himself."

I file that away, along with everything else. Every little shard of him I can collect.

The week drips by like honey. I catch glimpses of Sterling everywhere—moving through the halls, conferring with staff, tapping into the scheduling system. Always professional. Always distant.

But every accidental brush of his voice across my skin, every flick of his gaze over me, leaves me dizzy, burning alive inside my slightly rumpled buttondown and khakis.

I am drowning in it. And somehow, I don't want it to stop.

* * *

Friday afternoon.

I'm knee-deep in towels, restocking Room Three, the soft scent of disinfectant clinging to my gloves, when the door swings open behind me. I spin around, arms full—and nearly collide with a wall of reddish fur and irritation.

A younger minotaur—broad-shouldered, impatient—fills the doorway, already yanking open the buttons of his shirt like he owns the place.

"About time," he grunts. "I've got a meeting in thirty minutes."

I freeze, heart slamming against my ribs.

"Sir, I'm not—" I stammer, careful to keep my eyes locked firmly on his face and not anywhere lower— "I'm just restocking."

He pauses, finally registering the human standing between him and whatever fantasy he had queued up.

"Where's the regular attendant?" he demands, nostrils flaring.

"There must be a scheduling error," I say quickly, still clutching the towels like a shield. "This room isn't ready yet."

He snorts in pure disgust. "Typical. Tell the front desk I'm in Room Four."

He turns, already buttoning his shirt back up, when another presence fills the doorway behind him—Sterling.

The younger minotaur backs up like he just smacked into a wall of granite.

"Mr. Johnson!" he blurts. "I was just?—"

"Room Four is prepared for you," Sterling says smoothly, voice like cool steel. "Marina is adjusting your account to reflect the inconvenience."

Mr. Taurus mutters something vaguely apologetic and beats a hasty retreat.

Sterling's attention swivels back to me.

Sharp. Heavy. Inescapable.

"Mr. Honeyworth. A word."

I set the towels down carefully and follow him into the hallway, my cheeks flaming so hot I'm surprised the fire alarms haven't gone off.

"I'm sorry, sir," I blurt before he can speak. "He just walked in while I was restocking?—"

Sterling lifts a hand, silencing me immediately. "The error was in scheduling," he says simply. "Marina is addressing it."

He holds my gaze, and the weight of it presses against my chest, stealing my breath.

"You handled it appropriately," he says. "Many would have panicked."

The praise slams into me harder than any rebuke ever could. "Thank you, sir," I manage, my voice embarrassingly hoarse.

Sterling nods once, but his eyes sharpen, catching something in my expression. Something I probably didn't mean to show.

"In the future," he says, voice lower now, "always lock the door when preparing a room. And wear your lanyard at all times so clients can identify you immediately."

I glance down, realizing too late that my ID badge is missing—left sitting stupidly in the supply closet with the rest of my forgotten professionalism. "Yes, sir," I say. "It won't happen again."

Sterling watches me for a long beat—long enough that my lungs start to ache—then says, almost as an afterthought: "Helena speaks highly of your attention to detail."

My heart nearly stops.

"Continue to impress her," he adds, already turning away, "and your responsibilities will increase accordingly."

And just like that, he's gone. Leaving me standing there, sweating, trembling, stupidly proud.

Not just because I survived my first week. But because Sterling Johnson—the man who could have anyone's loyalty, anyone's respect—had seen something in me. Something worth noticing.

And fuck if that didn't make my whole body light up like a struck match.

* * *

Later that evening, just as I'm gathering my things, Marina already long gone, I hear it.

"Mr. Honeyworth," Sterling's voice rumbles from his office doorway.

I turn so fast I nearly knock over my chair.

He's there—still in his work clothes, but different now. Tie loosened. Top button undone. A thick line of dark fur visible at the hollow of his throat, just a hint of what I know covers the rest of him.

It takes everything I have not to stare.

"Your first-week evaluation," Sterling says, his voice low and even as he slides a form across his desk. He doesn't sit. He stands behind the desk, one hand braced on the surface, the muscles in his forearm shifting with each small movement.

I cross the room, conscious of the way the air seems heavier here—thicker, almost tangible.

I glance down at the paper. Above satisfactory. Across every single category. A tight, foolish thrill curls through my chest.

"No questions, sir," I say, voice a little rougher than I intend. "Thank you."

Sterling's eyes—sharp, molten amber—hold mine for a moment longer than necessary.

"Good," he says. "You'll take on client check-in procedures next week. Marina will handle your training."

He hesitates, a barely perceptible beat, and then adds:

"The incident today with Mr. Taurus—you maintained composure. That's valuable in this business."

I nod, my chest stupidly warm at the praise.

"I try to be professional," I say.

For a second—just a second—something like amusement sparks in his eyes. Dark. Quiet. Dangerous.

"Indeed," Sterling says, his voice dipping lower. "That will be all, Mr. Honeyworth. Enjoy your weekend."

Dismissed. Professional. Perfectly normal. Except when I step into the hallway, heart pounding against my ribs, I glance at the clock.

6:05 p.m.

The facility is empty now. Silent. Just Sterling and me.

And in five minutes—maybe less—he'll be stepping into one of those private rooms. Unbuttoning that immaculate shirt. Loosening the last of his restraint.

Giving in.

The thought grips me so hard I stagger a little, catching myself against the wall like an idiot. I make it to my car somehow, slamming the door shut with shaking hands. I sit there gripping the steering wheel, the keys dangling uselessly from the ignition.

What if I stayed? The question slides through my mind like a knife.

What if I found a reason to linger? What if I caught just a glimpse? The fantasy unfurls itself inside me—wild and vivid. Sterling bent over the padded mount. Those huge hands braced against the frame. His body straining, muscles bunching under slick fur, hips driving forward with brutal, hungry force.

The sounds he might make—Low, rough grunts. Maybe a deep, broken moan when he finally, finally let himself go. My skin prickles. My throat dries out.

I start the car with shaking fingers, forcing myself to drive away before I do something reckless. Before I cross a line I can't uncross. But as I drive home, the images chase me down the road like predators. Sterling working his body to the edge. Sterling panting, sweating, coming against that mount, trembling from the force of it.

I toss and turn half the night, the sheets twisted around my legs, guilt and shame and pure, reckless want warring inside me.

I tell myself this is insanity. That it's dangerous. That it's career suicide. And maybe it is. But by the time the sky starts lightening outside my window, one thing is carved so deeply into me there's no fighting it: Some day, when I get up the nerve, I'm going to find a reason to stay late.