I swivel my chair back away from my desk toward the wall-sized window framing a view of Embarcadero Street and beyond it, San Francisco Bay. A big-sized trolley trundles along the line, loaded with invisible tourists. A million things need my attention, and only one thing has it. I’m hung up on her like some pussy-whipped kid who just got laid for the first time.

I didn’t see Emma again before I flew out this morning, though I considered calling her office at least five times before I left and ten more since then.

What the hell happened in Seattle, I wonder for the umpteenth time.

I should be strategizing a way to close this deal, staying ahead, guessing Emma Vance’s next moves. But instead of business, I think about her body. The way she goes after what she wants, no apologies. Apparently in business and pleasure. She ran circles around me in that meeting, I admit to myself. Every time I think about it, I see red. Specifically, red in the shape of my handprint on her ass. Yeah. She could be the kind of woman who liked that. I remember the little pop I gave her that first night as she leaned over the table.

Normally sex satisfies my desire for a woman, but not Emma. I want her more now, every way imaginable. Sensory memories of her sweep everything else out of my mind. The situation in my pants is critical lately. I keep coming back to the little details: her calves in those shiny leather heels. The way she took all of me—not every woman can—like she was made to fit. Her smell. The challenge in her eyes.

With a curse, I stand, stride to the door, and lock it. My balls are tight and my dick swells thinking about that night. It’s clear I’ll never get any damn work done until I take care of this. Back in my seat, I face the window again and unzip my trousers. The afternoon sun gilds the city spread out beneath me like a beautiful woman. With elastic of my boxer briefs pressing pleasantly against my balls, I pull out my dick and stroke upward.

She’s always pushing back, fighting me for control. When we’re together it turns me on, but right now I want her in her place. Not distracting me. I need phantom Emma to do what she’s freaking told and get the hell out of my business. I picture her here in my office, back pressed against the window in front of me. Naked. Waiting for instructions, maybe.

The Emma of my mind cups her magnificent breasts and rubs her thumbs over her nipples until they harden. My cock jumps in my hand. I skim a palm up over the head as I tell phantom Emma to take me in her mouth. I groan and lean back in the seat, cupping my balls as I pump my fist over the shaft. Her lips would slide over me, her cheeks caving as she sucked me in.

Then I imagine her leaned over the desk like the first night. Her breasts would hang free, tantalizing fruit, and she’d stick her ass out, a gift. I close my eyes and feel my hand across her ass, hard enough to leave a splash of angry red. Hard enough to make her beg. And when she’s begging, I’d take her. I squeeze and stroke my cock, letting the pressure build while remember screwing Emma and imagine it rougher.

I clothe her in black garters and fishnets, tie her hands with velvet ribbon and press her face to the desk. She’s at my mercy. My hand moves faster, my dick gets harder, and when I’m ready to blow, I snatch the silk pocket square from my suit and catch the thick, white liquid as it spurts.

My dick is still jerking in my hand when the intercom buzzes.

“Mr. Stone, your four o’clock conference call is waiting on line three. Are you available to speak with the Congressman?”

Jesus Christ, Emma Vance keeps screwing me over. How does this woman make me forget to take care of my shit? I toss the semen-soaked fabric in the trash and press the button.

“Thanks, Marge. Tell them I’m walking in now. Traffic or whatever. I’ll pick up in half a minute.”

After the painful conference call, which I have to bluff my way through because I’m not prepared, I pour myself a drink. This day is blown.

And whatever it is about Emma, trying to ignore her isn’t working. If nothing else, maybe I can screw her out of my system. Get enough of her to scratch this itch. Once the SocialTech deal goes through, it won’t matter how long this affair lasts, because I’ll rarely run into her. But until it runs its course through my libido, I’ll do what’s needed to get her in my bed. Fucking her into submission doesn’t seem to be an option, so making nice is the next one.

Whiskey in hand, I find myself back at the computer. Not working. Instead, I click through the North American Muay Thai association website for details on the upcoming tournament, trying to picture the sexy brunette kicking the shit out of someone. Dammit, I have to admit I like the way she rolls. I pick up the phone to call my jeweler.

* * *

My team has been in touch with hers for the last two days. Now that I know what to ask for, the data seems bottomless. I’ve also been making some calls and digging further into the inside story of SocialTech as my team sends little requests for information, keeping the lines of communication open. I don’t want them entertaining other offers. They could be.

She could be.

And as I find out more about her, the less I want that to happen.

I’ve always strictly separated business and personal affairs, but if not for my intimate interest in Emma Vance, I’d likely have missed the way the force of her personality powers the company. She wants to sell, but she doesn’t want to hand over the reins, and she might be right. Backing down on this would be a first for me, but she’s a first. Possibly unique.

All this procrastination and distraction feel foreign to me. I do things. I cause things to be done. What I don’t do is sit around waiting.

I push back from the keyboard and stride to the credenza, where I open a square, wooden box. A gold chain gleams against white satin, holds a single pendant: tiny kickboxing-style gloves rendered in exquisite golden detail. My jeweler, a real artist, made this up for me on short notice. I’m normally a diamonds and pearls guy. I go for the gifts any woman would want. But Emma’s not any woman.

I’m running a risk with buying a gift at all after the way our last tryst ended. Especially jewelry. She walked out thinking I was using sex to get what I wanted. This gift has to say a lot of things, not least of which is “I want you for more than your company.” That’s a lot of work for a piece of metal.

I settle the smaller box into the larger package on top of the T-shirt that reads “Sport of the future.” It needs a note. I’m sorry won’t do, because I’m not sorry. Not for fucking her. Even if it fouls this deal, I won’t regret it.

Good luck, Emma.

• Nate

I want to say more, but everything else I think of sounds pathetic. I settle for my cell number and seal the note. Marge looks up when I set the box on her immaculate desk in the office adjoining mine.

“Please send this package overnight to Emma Vance at SocialTech.”

Marge’s eyelid twitches. “Does the package need insurance?”

“Yes.”

“It’s an unusual shape for business documents.”

Marge is not only almost twice my age and dangerously competent, she’s been with me for years. I have few secrets from her.

“It’s a personal gift for Ms. Vance.”

She nods and jots a note to herself.

“Is the SocialTech deal still stalled?”

“Yes, for now. The ball’s in our court.” I pick up the Rubik’s cube she keeps on her desk and start turning it absently. “Her counter offer was patently ridiculous, both the price tag and the additional demands. She can’t sell the company and retain control. Something’s bugging me, though. I’ve done some more digging. SocialTech employees, even if they leave, talk about their time there like a mystical experience. ‘Working at SocialTech changed my life.’ That kind of thing.”

She shrugs. “One person’s mentor is another’s nemesis.”

“I don’t know.” I consider the puzzle in my hands. “I didn’t find any disgruntled ex-employees or clients. But Ms. Vance has been busy. She funded her MBA and SocialTech largely from the sale of rights to a team-based productivity software and some kind of tracking app. She’s retained iron control over not only operations and marketing, but development. Not many programmers are also equipped to lead a company, but she clearly is.”

“She sounds like quite the paragon,” Marge observes dryly. “Are you certain she’s the brains and heart? Surely she’s got a competent team.”

I twist the cube a few more times. “I knew going in she was a control freak. The thing is, that normally stifles creativity. Especially in a small company like hers. It’s one reason why I structured the offer the way I did. I wanted to be able to go in, salvage the working parts, and undo any damage caused by her holding the reins too tight. They’ve grown almost too fast, so that has to end, and I want to pick up the pieces before they self-destruct.”

“And yet you’re talking to me about it, so you must be uncertain. Unlike you to misjudge someone that much.”

“Hey, in my defense, I hadn’t met her face to face yet.” I set the completed Rubik’s cube in its spot on Marge’s desk.

She adjusts it a hair.

“Did that make such a big difference?”

“Yeah, I think so. On paper, she’s not any different than any other tech CEO. She was riding a bubble based on the product and good timing, I was sure of it. It fit the profile.”

“But she’s a computer whiz and also a sharp businesswoman?”

I laugh. “Mags, you show your age when you say things like ‘computer whiz.’ But yeah. I can’t give her everything she asked for in the counter offer, but it’s looking like I need to find middle ground. Something that benefits both of us, because frankly, I might want to stay on her good side. The more I read about SocialTech, the more likely it seems that her business and human management are as much a part of its success as the tech. I don’t want to buy the company and be left holding a bag of random parts that don’t work together anymore.”

“And this personal gift is part of that process?” She raises both eyebrows until her forehead gathers in deep furrows.

“Yes. I mean no, of course not. This gift is personal, entirely unrelated.”

Marge’s face stills into ultra-discreet mode. “I see. I’ll make sure this finds her tomorrow, Mr. Stone.”

“Thank you, Mags. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Better figure it out. I retire next year.” She threatens to retire around this time every year, but she never means it.

“Liar.”

“Be careful or I really will retire out of spite, Mr. Stone.”

“I believe it,” I say with a chuckle. “Thank you, Marge. That’s all I’ll need today.”

She gathers her purse and keys. “I’ve got a few errands to run, so I’ll take this by instead of calling for pickup. Good night, Mr. Stone.”

“Night, Marge.”

She passes on sensible shoes to the heavy oak door at the entrance to our suite. I trudge back to my office and find a stack of signature pages Marge has left there at some point like an office ninja. I’d swear they weren’t here when I took Emma’s gift out to Marge. Someone else left them, or Marge is a sorcerer.

I push them aside and pull out Emma’s counter offer. Thumbing through, I start making notes.