find it

You are at a hotel by the airport for a work trip. The client wants the numbers by eight.

“We get it done tonight,” Mark told the team before they went up to bed. Mark is 46. You are 32.

It is past eleven now. Only you and Mark are left in the meeting room. Mark is your boss.

The coffee is cold. You drink it anyway.

His sleeves are rolled up. You look at his hands too long. You have done that all week.

Then you see it. One red cell.

He comes around the table and stands close. He smells like cedar.

“That’s wrong,” he says. “Find it.”

At midnight the lights click to half. The room was only booked till twelve.

“Bring the laptop,” Mark says.

It is not a question. He walks out. You follow him down the hall with the laptop held to your chest. He never looks back.

His key card beeps. The door shuts behind you with a heavy click.

His room smells like him.

One lamp. One chair. He points at it. You sit.

He stands behind you. He does not touch you, but you feel him there, like heat from a stove.

You scroll through the rows.

“Slow down,” he says, right by your ear.

You slow down. It is easy to do what he says. That scares you a little.

You scroll past it. He sees it first.

“Stop. Go back.” His voice is sharp. “No. Not there. Let me show you.”

His hand comes down on yours on the mouse. You have no time to move.

He drags the cursor. He clicks. Then he stops.

His palm is hot. The heat sinks into your hand. Your heart kicks hard. You look at the screen and you can’t read one number.

He does not let go.

He leans in over you from behind. His arms come around you, one on each side. He types on your laptop himself.

You are boxed in. His arm is big and hard against your shoulder. His breath is hot on your neck. You hold very still.

He hits Enter. The cell turns green.

“Done,” he says, low, right in your ear.

He does not step back.

“Send it.”

You send it before you even think.

He turns your chair around. He stays standing. You have to look up.

“You can go,” he says. “Nothing changes Monday. Or you stay, and you do what I say.”

“I’m staying.”

“Say stop and I stop. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stand up.”

You stand, face to face with him. He takes your shoulders and turns you around to face the desk.

“Hands flat. Don’t move them.”

The desk is cool under your palms. He puts one hand on the back of your neck and pushes you down until your chest is on the wood. He keeps his hand there.

With his other hand he pulls your pants down to your knees. Cold air. Behind you, his belt buckle clinks.

He spits in his hand. He kicks your feet apart. Then he pushes in from behind, bare and slow.

It burns. A hot, tight stretch, like you are being opened too far. Your fingers curl on the wood. You breathe out hard through your teeth.

He holds still, deep inside you, and waits. The burn melts into a heavy, full heat. You feel every inch of him. You push back before you can stop yourself.

“Stay still,” he says.

You stay still.

He starts to move. Slow at first, then hard.

You lift one hand off the desk. You want to see what he does.

He grabs your wrist and slams it flat. Then the other one. His chest comes down on your back. You can’t move at all.

“I said flat.”

You push up against him. He does not give an inch. He is too strong, and you like that he is.

“Still good?” he says in your ear.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then take it.”

He goes harder. The desk bangs the wall. Your cheek slides on the wood. You stop fighting. You let him have you.

He groans low against your neck. He goes faster. Harder. His hands crush your wrists. His breath breaks.

Then he shoves in deep and holds there. He cums inside you. You feel it, hot, pulse after pulse.

He stays on your back, heavy, breathing hard. Then he pulls out slowly. You feel empty, and wet, and warm.

He lets go of your wrists last.

“You okay?”

“I’m okay.”

He hands you water. Your legs shake. You pull your pants up.

The laptop is still open. The cell is still green.

He looks at it. “We got it done.” He opens the door. “Go get some sleep.”