I sit through training for my new assignment in PR at the office for three days before anything sinks in. Every morning I go through the motions, jotting down notes about what I'm supposed to be doing, and every day at lunch I look over the notes. I don't understand a single thing I've written down. It's like I'm failing at treading water. All I can do is get to the end of the day, when I can go home and curl up on the couch and try to forget everything.

I know the strategy isn't going to work forever because the baby will be born eventually.

Eventually I'll spontaneously combust from trying not to think about Matthew.

Not just Matthew's personality, either. It doesn't seem to matter that I'm heartbroken. My body still wants him, in spite of everything. Maybe it's because of the pregnancy, too, but I've never wanted a man more. I've never needed to have an orgasm more. I've tried to get myself off at least six times—in the bath, in bed—but I just can't get there without dwelling on him. And I can’t dwell on him without tearing my heart into a thousand pieces all over again. 

It's a losing battle, I know.

That's what I'm thinking about at lunch on the third day. Everyone else in the office went out for their meals, and I'm sitting at my desk with a salad in a Tupperware container and a protein drink. Between my legs, my core pulses. I'm at the point where I need an outlet. I need something.

I don't really care if I get caught. I'm past caring about that kind of thing. What's the worst that happens? I get fired and have to find another job? I can find another job. At least at another job, I won't be surrounded by Matthew and his company all day, every day.

I'd like to be surrounded by him in a different way. I'd like him to be fucking me right now, bent over my desk, my skirt shoved up around my waist, breathing hard, being loud, like we're the only two people in the world.

Fork in one hand, I slip my other one down between my legs. I'm not wearing pantyhose—it's too warm these days, and now that I'm pregnant, I seem to overheat at the slightest touch of a warm breeze—so there's nothing between me and my skin but my panties. 

Maybe I can just think about...his hands. Not his face. Not his blue eyes. Just the way he holds me so firmly, so in control, and pushes me over the edge. Just the way he strokes me between my legs like he was born to do it. Just the way he makes me come—makes me—and the way I love that. I love it when I don't have to decide. I love it when pleasure is my only job.

God, I miss him.

I've been waiting for him to come back. With every day that passes, I lose a little more of my resolve to confront him. It might be best if I just walked away from all this. But then...how would I avoid him in the apartment building we share? If I walk away, I'm not going to be able to afford that. He could find some way to break the agreement and raise the rent, and then Robin would be out on her ass, too. I can't do that to her.

Stop thinking about that, I tell myself, circling my swollen clit with two fingers. Just think about the way he fills you, stretches you, takes you...

I close my eyes and tip my head back in my swivel chair, spreading my legs to give my hand better access. I don't think about the apartment building anymore. I don't think about anything except the way his hands feel on my body, the way his cock feels inside of me, the way I can let myself glide away on the pleasure instead of fighting. I've been fighting for so long. I can fight again, if I can just...get...

It takes a little while longer, because I have to focus all of my attention on him, breathing the memory of him in, but there comes a moment when it's not heart-wrenching to think of him. I'm just consumed with what it felt like to be touched, to be possessed, to be taken and worshipped by him the way that he did. 

Finally my body responds and lets go, and I come hard in my office chair, my hips jerking back and forth. It lasts for a long time, the pleasure—and when I resurface, I can feel how red my face is.

Holy shit.

I might not have cared a few minutes ago that I'm at work, but now that the crushing need for release is gone—well, not gone, but at least lessened—my head is clear and my heart is pounding. What if someone had walked in? What if my boss had seen me with my hand between my legs, moaning Matthew's name? 

I move quickly to the bathroom, taking several minutes to freshen up, and then return to my desk.

What the hell is this new job anyway?

I pull up my emails and my notes, take a deep breath, and focus. Now that my head is above water, it's a lot easier to make sense of this.

The description is pretty straightforward.

Update and maintain Hunter Housing website with news items and features

Communicate with news outlets about new projects and features

The more I read, the more my heart races. This is as close to a journalism position as I'm ever going to get at Hunter Housing. 

Matthew promoted me. That's essentially what happened. It might not be a pay raise, but the kinds of things I'll be doing are actually going to be making use of the journalism degree I worked so damn hard to earn.

But why? Why? He kicked me out of his life, but...then he promoted me?

I stand up from my desk so fast that I almost knock the chair over. I don't understand it, but I don't need to understand it in order to do something for him.

I at least owe him that much.