3
The first person I spot in the cafeteria the next morning is Mr. Zimmerman. I notice him glancing up at me, but I pay him no attention. I have no interest in greeting him.
When it comes to bosses, I’ve always thought the greater the distance, the better. And this one’s a smart operator. The truth is, the man makes me nervous. I sense he’s watching me, studying me, from behind his newspaper. When I peek—wham!—I’m right. I down my coffee. I have to get back to work.
I end up running into him several times during the day. And when he moves to his father’s old office, which is right across from me and connected to my supervisor’s office by the archive room (a space full of file cabinets), I want to die. He never addresses me, but I feel his gaze. I try to hide behind my computer screen, but it’s impossible. He always finds a way so our eyes meet.
When I leave the office that night, I go directly to the gym. One spinning class and time in the Jacuzzi relieve me of the stress I’ve accumulated during the day, and I’m exhausted when I get home, ready for sleep.
It’s more of the same for the next few days. Mr. Zimmerman, that big handsome boss whom I’ve begun to dream about and whom the entire office looks up to, is everywhere I go.
He’s serious and a little threatening, and he hardly smiles. But I notice he searches me out, and it disconcerts me.
The days pass, and one morning, we finally exchange greetings. He doesn’t close the door to his office today, and now he can target me better with his gaze. My God, this is so stressful.
Not to mention that every time I run into him in the cafeteria, he just stares at me. But when I show up with Miguel or the boys, he takes off immediately.
I’m incredibly tied up today. My cagey supervisor has given me hundreds of pages to deal with. Like always, she doesn’t seem to remember that Miguel, as Mr. Zimmerman’s administrative assistant, should be handling 50 percent of our work.
When it’s time for lunch, the object of my wet dreams pops out of his office and, after staring at me once more, goes into my supervisor’s office without knocking. Two seconds later, the two of them emerge together to head to lunch.
When I’m left alone, I finally relax. I don’t know what my problem is with this man, but his presence raises my temperature, making my blood boil.
After I straighten up my desk a bit, I decide to go out to lunch myself. But the stress of the paperwork waiting for me is such that I have lunch quickly and return right away.
Back at my desk, I shove my bag in a drawer, grab my iPod, and put in my earbuds. If there’s one thing I like in this life, it’s music. My mother taught my father, my sister, and me that music is the only thing that tames the beast and helps troubles disappear. That is one of her many legacies, and it may be why I adore music and spend all day humming and singing along.
Weighed down with file folders, I go into Ms. Sánchez’s office and open the archive room. It also opens into Mr. Zimmerman’s office, but since I know he’s not there, I relax and file as I sing along to my music.
“Miss Flores, your singing is terrible.”
That voice. That accent.
I’m so startled that I drop the folder I am holding. I bend to pick it up, and, damn, I bump my head against him. Against Mr. Zimmerman. My embarrassment must show clearly on my face. I take out my earbuds and stare up at him.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Zimmerman,” I mutter.
“It’s OK.” Taking liberties, he touches my forehead and asks, “Are you OK?”
I nod like a bobblehead. Yet again, he’s asked me if I’m OK. Oh God! I can’t help it when my eyes (and my whole being) give him the once-over: tall, brown hair with blond highlights, thirty-something, sinewy, blue eyes, a deep and sensual voice . . . in other words, one very fine specimen.
“I’m sorry for scaring you,” he says. “I didn’t mean to.”
I shake my bobblehead again. I must be an idiot. I get up off the floor, the folder in my hand. “Has Mrs. Sánchez come back yet?”
“Yes.”
Surprised, because I haven’t heard her come in, I start to leave, when he grabs my arm.
“What were you singing?”
The question is so startling, I almost say, “What do you care?” Fortunately, I control my impulse.
“A song.”
He smiles. My God, what a smile!
“I know . . . I like the lyrics. What’s the name of the song?”
“‘Black and White’ by Malú, sir.”
But it seems my words amuse him. Is he laughing at me?
“Now that you know who I am, you call me ‘sir’?”
“Forgive me, Mr. Zimmerman,” I say in a professional tone. “I didn’t recognize you in the elevator. But now that I know who you are, I think I should address you appropriately.”
He takes a step toward me, and I take two steps back. What’s he doing?
He takes another step. I try to do the same but end up against the wall. There’s no way out. He’s practically on top of me, bending down to my eye level. Mr. Zimmerman, the same sexy guy into whose mouth I stuck a piece of strawberry gum just a few days ago.
“I liked you more when you didn’t know who I was,” he whispers.
“Sir, I . . .”
“Eric. My name is Eric.”
Confused and nervous, I swallow the knot of emotions that are making me tingle all over.
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t think this is right.”
Then, without asking my permission, he takes the pin out of my bun, and my straight dark hair falls around my shoulders. I look at him. He looks at me too, and there is a more-than-significant silence in which we both breathe irregularly.
“Cat got your tongue?” he asks, breaking the silence.
“No, sir,” I respond.
“Then where is the sparkling girl from the elevator?”
As I’m about to respond, I hear my supervisor and Miguel enter her office. Mr. Zimmerman presses his body closer to mine and tells me to be quiet.
“Where’s Judith?” my supervisor asks.
“I’m pretty sure she’s in the cafeteria. She must have gone up for a Coke. It’ll be a while before she comes back,” says Miguel as he closes the door to her office.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure,” Miguel insists. “Now come here and show me what you’ve got under your skirt today.”
Oh my God, this can’t be happening.
Mr. Zimmerman should not see what I believe those two are about to do. I try to think of a way to distract him. This man is practically on top of me, and he won’t take his eyes off me.
“Relax, Miss Flores. Let’s let them have their fun,” he whispers.
I’m mortified.
An instant later, the only sounds are coming from mouths and tongues colliding in the next room. Frightened by the awkward silence, I look through the opening of the archive-room door and gasp when I see my supervisor sitting on her desk while Miguel licks her. I start to pant, and Zimmerman smiles from above me. He slides his hand around my waist and brings me closer to him.
“Excited?” he asks me.
I stare at him, but I don’t speak. I have no intention of answering that question. But his inquisitive eyes are on me, and he brings his mouth even closer to mine.
“What excites you more, soccer or this?” he asks.
Oh my God! How could I not be excited with a man like him practically on top of me in a situation like this? To hell with soccer! I’m shameless.
I’m so agitated, but then Zimmerman moves his head. He looks through the crack in the door and drags me over so we can both see. And what I see absolutely floors me. My supervisor is spread-eagle on the desk as Miguel avidly runs his tongue along her inner thigh. I close my eyes. Moments later, the German, who is still holding me very tightly, pushes me against the file cabinet again and whispers in my ear.
“Does watching them scare you?”
“No . . .” He looks pleased. “But I don’t think it’s right that we’re watching them, Mr. Zimmerman. I think . . .”
“It’s not hurting anyone, and anyway, it’s quite provocative.”
“She’s my supervisor.”
He makes an affirming gesture as he touches his mouth to my ear. “I’d give anything so that it was you on that desk,” he whispers. “I would put my mouth on your thighs and then stick my tongue in you and make you mine.”
I’m dumbstruck.
Bewildered.
Amazed.
Why is this man saying these things to me?
Highly aroused, I’m about to come back with a wisecrack, when I suddenly get butterflies in my stomach. I’m too exhilarated by what he’s just said to pretend otherwise, even if his words are pretty vulgar. Finally, his lips stop in front of mine. Without taking his eyes off me, he runs his moist tongue over my upper lip, then my lower lip, and gives me a sweet little bite on the mouth.
I don’t move. I can’t breathe.
His tongue peeks out again, and unwittingly, I open my mouth. I want more. His pupils dilate. Sure of what he’s doing, he darts his tongue inside my mouth; then, with a prowess that astounds me, he begins to kiss me until I lose my senses.
Forgetting everything, I respond to his every demand, and soon I’m the one pressing against his chest in search of more. I let his desire carry me. For several seconds, we kiss passionately in the most absolute of silences while we listen to my supervisor’s blissful moans. My body trembles on contact with his body. His hands squeeze my behind, and I want to scream. Without taking his blue eyes off me, he pulls his tongue from my mouth.
“Do you want to have dinner with me?”
I move my head again, but this time, it’s to say no. I don’t want to have dinner with him. He’s the owner of the company. But he doesn’t seem to like my answer.
“Yes,” he affirms. “You will have dinner with me.”
“No.”
“Do you like contradicting me?”
“No, sir.”
“Then?”
“I don’t go out to dinner with my bosses.”
“You will with me.”
His proximity is irresistible, and his new assault on my lips is complete. If there were sparks before, now there’s pure fire. Ardor . . . flames . . . After he manages to turn me into jelly in his hands, he again pulls his mouth from mine and threatens a smile.
Speechless, I just look at him. What the devil am I doing? Without moving, he takes out a BlackBerry and proceeds to text. Minutes later, I hear a knock on my supervisor’s door while he signals for me to be quiet. She and Miguel quickly pull themselves together, and I can’t help but be taken aback by their ability to respond. Seconds later, Miguel opens the door.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Sánchez,” says an unknown voice. “Mr. Zimmerman would like to have coffee with you. He’s waiting for you at the ninth-floor cafeteria.”
Through the slit in the door, and with the German still on top of me, I see Miguel leave, and I watch as my supervisor pulls a makeup bag from one of her desk drawers. She quickly redoes her lips, straightens her hair and clothing, then exits the office. I feel the pressure he has over me ease, and he lets me go.
“Listen, Mr. Zimmerman . . .”
But he doesn’t let me finish. He puts a finger on my mouth. I’m tempted to bite it, but I control myself. He opens the archive-room door and glances back at me.
“We’ll stick to our formality in the office.” He walks toward the door with an astonishing sense of confidence. “I’ll be at your place at nine,” he adds. “Look good, Ms. Flores.”
I just stare at the door like a fool.
What is this guy up to? I leave the archive room, and walking toward my desk, I hear my cell phone. A message. When I read it, I’m stunned: I’m the boss, and I know where you live. Don’t even think about not being ready at nine sharp.