I roll over in bed and shut my alarm off. The first thing I do once the fog has cleared from my brain is sit up and send a text to Christina.

Good morning, Princess Peach. Ready for the big day?

‘Peaches’ has started to lose its grating effect on her, so I’ve switched to Princess Peach, which she can’t stand.

Since our studio sexy time two weeks ago, we’ve given up on denying that there’s something between us, but Christina wants to wait until after the showcase to figure out exactly what that something is. I’m totally fine with her strategy. Ever since we had sex, the weirdest things about her, and about us, have been making me panic. It was easy to admire her from a distance, but now I’ll catch myself wondering what her favourite food is, or memorizing the freckles on her arm, and the familiarity of her, the proximity, makes me break out in a nervous sweat.

Getting close to people is dangerous. The more you let someone latch themselves onto you, the more they rip out when they go.

I may still put up little barriers, like giving her dumb nicknames she hates, but physically neither of us can put this on hold anymore. Most of our showcase planning sessions have ended in furious make-outs that usually lead to most of our clothing getting torn off. While we haven’t actually slept together again, I’m getting pretty familiar with the face she makes when she comes.

Her answer to my text pops up on my phone.

Today is not the day to be calling me names. I’ve already been up for over an hour, and I barely slept. Meet me at school as soon as you can. Bring coffee.

The showcase is happening today, and I’m sure Christina is already a bundle of nerves. I send her another text.

Take it easy. If it doesn’t go well, you can just offer to strip for the Epsilon reps. Oh wait, you’re kind of doing that already.

Her answer is just a single word, but I can hear the menace behind it: PENN.

Kidding, I type back quickly. We’re going to rock this.

Forty minutes later I pull up into the school’s parking lot. Christina is leaning against her Subaru a few spots away, mumbling something to herself as she stares at her phone.

“Talking to yourself already?” I ask, stepping out of my car.

Her head snaps up. “Rehearsing the presentation.”

She walks over and thanks me for the coffee I deposit into her hands, then leans down to inspect the presentation materials on my back seat.

“You got everything?” she asks.

“Yep. I checked your list to be sure.”

“Did you double check it?”

I laugh but she keeps a serious expression.

“Yes, Christina. I double checked, just for you.”

She starts to slide one of the posters out, but I reach out to wrap my hand around her bicep. I’m still surprised, and extremely turned on, every time I realize how strong she is. I can feel the firm muscle under my grip.

“Hey,” I say, “we’re going to be awesome. There’s no one more prepared for this than you are. You’ve got this down, Dominguez. There’s going to be a riot over who gets to hire you.”

She pauses, reaching her other arm over to give my fingers a quick stroke. Then she breaks away and bobs her head.

“Thank you. I needed to hear that.”

We carry our gear into the large meeting hall where the showcase is taking place. It looks like a more sophisticated version of a grade school science fair, with a table, poster stands, and projector screen set up for each group. The event doesn’t start for several hours and only a few other presenters are here already. We sign in at the entrance and then begin setting up at our table.

“You brought your laptop, right?” Christina asks, as she centers a poster on its stand.

“Yes. Like I said, I double checked.”

“Right. Sorry. I’m feeling a little high strung.”

I’ve never seen her this antsy before. It’s kind of adorable.

We finish setting up and I take a look at all our materials. In addition to the posters, we’ve got diagrams to illustrate our advertising strategies and charts to track projected consumer outreach. The digital presentation we’ll be using the projector for showcases our blog and social media accounts, and we’ve also got Christina’s laptop on display to gives the reps a chance to interact directly with the accounts.

“Okay, I think we should both go suit up and then start running through the presentation.”

I nod my agreement and we head to the bathrooms down the hall to change into our business clothes.

I brought a white dress shirt that I roll up to my elbows and a pair of dark blue pants, along with the dress shoes I rarely get to wear. I tug my beanie off and run a hand through my hair before stepping back into the hall to wait for Christina.

She walks out of the bathroom and the nervous girl who’s spent all morning biting her nails and fidgeting over last minute details is gone. In front of me is a woman who looks like she could bend steel with just the power of her mind. Her shoulders are thrown back, her head held high, and every gesture she makes seems to hold a mesmerizing kind of power. In a close-cut black suit, slate grey pinstriped blouse, and dark heels, she’s the definition of a modern businesswoman. Anyone who didn’t look at her and think ‘CEO material’ would have to be blind.

“Wow,” is all I can manage.

“Wow yourself. I didn’t even know the top half of your head existed.” She lifts her eyes to where my beanie usually sits.

“It does,” I answer with a smile, unable to resist throwing in a brash comeback. “It’s just that seeing my whole head at once is kind of overwhelming for people, since it’s so beautiful, so I usually keep part of it covered.”

She flips me off and heads back into the hall.

Almost all of the teams have arrived now. We’re presenting alongside the top groups from our class, as well as a few other digital media related courses. The noise of everyone setting up echoes around the room and we almost have to shout as we go over our presentation.

When it’s finally time for the showcase to start, there’s a speech given by the program heads as the visiting company reps are ushered into the room. I tune out the words about how honoured we are to have them here and scan over the new arrivals. Their ages vary from around sixty to people who look like they can’t be much older than me. I catch the recitation of which firms are here today, and even though my advertising mania is nowhere near as devoted as Christina’s, I still feel a thrill when I hear the names being called. It’s an impressive turnout.

The reps scatter around the room soon after. A man and a woman in their forties wearing almost identical square-framed glasses approach us.

“Diane Galbraith, Summit Strategies,” says the woman, extending a hand for us to shake.

“Peter Depoe, also from Summit,” offers the man. “So, what have you got for us today?”

Christina launches into our introduction, and I can tell they’re hooked after the first few sentences she speaks. There’s conviction behind all of her ideas, an infectious certainty that has me hanging on her every word, even though we’ve practiced so many times I have her parts memorized as well as my own.

I feel her elbow jab into my side when she’s finished the introduction and it’s my turn to speak.

“Right. As Christina mentioned, a focal point of the campaign is the hashtag we’ve created.”

I start clicking between different pages on the projector screen, and we make our way through the rest of the presentation. It goes off smoothly, and while I wouldn’t admit it to her, I’m glad Christina made us practice so many times I could do this in my sleep

After we’ve delivered our conclusion, the Summit reps spend a few minutes taking a look at the sites we have open on the laptop, then turn to each other and share a look I can’t read.

“We’re very impressed,” says the woman, her eyes darting between Christina and I. “The hashtag strategy has been done before, but you’ve put it to good use, and I admire the feminist take on the product.”

“It’s very topical,” adds the man.

“No to mention admirable.” The woman’s mouth twists up into a guarded smile. “Do you two have business cards?”

We all trade contact information and the standard promise to look each other up on LinkedIn. When the two of them walk away, I feel Christina’s hand close around my wrist and squeeze before letting go.

“They liked it,” she whispers, as if she’s scared someone will catch her being anything other than professional. “They actually liked it!”

“Of course they liked it,” I whisper back. “It was kickass.”

“They didn’t even comment on me being the model.” She sounds relieved.

“They were too in awe of your brains to even notice your boobs.”

She looks like she’s about to smack me, but a trio of grey-haired men in suits approach our table and save me from one of her hazardous arm punches.

“Jim Sanders,” one of the men greets, his eyes glued to Christina. “I’m on the board of directors at Palmer & Turquot, and these are some of my associates.”

I feel my eyebrows jump up when he mentions the company name. P&T is a magnate among advertising firms. The fact that they’re even showing up at a small college showcase is shocking, not only because they’re so big, but because they aren’t exactly known for embracing youth and innovation. Personally, I think it’s only the reputation they had in the past that keeps them at the top of the game, and I’d put money of them being run out of business by new, cutting edge firms like Epsilon, but it’s still nerve wracking to be presenting in front of people this well known.

“We did a case study on Palmer and Turquot’s rise to success in one of my courses,” I say, offering my hand. “Your firm blazed the trail for a lot of people. It’s an honor to meet one of its directors, Mr. Sanders.”

He looks at me like he’s only just noticed I’m there, and almost seems annoyed to have to let go of Christina’s hand and shake mine.

“So,” Christina begins, “if you gentlemen could direct your attention to the screen now. I’m going to ask you to think about all the lingerie advertisements you’ve ever seen. I know you’re not exactly the target audience”—she pauses to let out a laugh and the men join in—“but I’m sure you’re at least somewhat familiar with brands like Victoria’s Secret, La Senza, La Vie en Rose. When you think about the companies I’ve just mentioned, do—”

One of the men cuts her off. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Miss Dominguez, but before you continue I think we’re all wondering...is that you?” He points to the poster on Christina’s left, the one of her on the couch in the maroon set of lingerie.

I see a crack form in Christina’s confidence. Her eyes meet with mine for the briefest of seconds, flashing with alarm. Then she clears her throat and smiles.

“Well spotted. We were on a tight deadline for the initial shoot, and when the model cancelled at the last moment we filled in with the only replacement we could find at the time, which happened to be me. We intended to re-do the shoot for this showcase, but the images suited the brand and exemplified the aesthetic we were aiming for, so we stuck with them.”

She continues on with the presentation, but I can tell the P&T reps are barely paying attention to a word she says. They’re looking back and forth between her and the posters, grinning like sharks. I try to hide my clenched fists behind my back.

When we’ve run through the rest of the presentation, the three men give us a quick round of applause and the one named Jim steps forward.

“I have to say, Miss Dominguez, your visuals for this project are very impressive. Who was the photographer?”

“He’s a local artist, and he’s asked to remain anonymous,” Christina answers.

“Odd. If it were me, I’d certainly want my name associated with this. Do you model often, Miss Dominguez?”

I almost want to throttle the guy. I can tell Christina’s getting uncomfortable, but she keeps a smile plastered on her face.

“No, never. I only stepped in for the sake of the project. My focus is fully on advertising.”

“Maybe you should think about expanding that focus. The camera does seem to love you.”

I can’t take his oily remarks anymore and I step in. “Did you have any questions about the project itself, Mr. Sanders?”

He looks me up and down, like the two minutes it’s been since I was speaking were enough to make him forget who I am.

“I don’t,” he answers, his tone clipped. He reaches out to shake Christina’s hand again. “I’d love to give you my card. I really shouldn’t share details like this, but we’re working on a women’s fashion campaign at P&T right now. I could definitely see someone like you being involved.”

I know exactly how he sees her being involved, and I’m sure it’s not to get her input on campaign strategies. They exchange cards and I’m given a curt nod from all three men before they turn and walk away.

“Assholes,” I mutter, as I straighten out some of the materials on our table. “They barely even looked at the presentation.”

“Really?” Christina asks. “They seemed interested to me. I mean, did you hear that? A director at P&T basically just said he might offer me a job. That’s huge!”

“Seriously, Miss Dominguez? Don’t tell me you didn’t notice the way they were looking at those posters. They practically had dollar signs in their eyes, and it wasn’t because of our catchy hashtag.”

She puts her hands on her hips and gives me her ‘I’m About to Mock You’ look. “You’re just jealous they didn’t ask for your card.”

“Trust me,” I say evenly, “I’m not. I hate seeing your ideas undervalued like that”

Her face softens and she drops her arms. “Hey, lighten up. I’m kidding. I did notice they were a pack of pervs, but it’s still nice to hear positive feedback from a huge firm like P&T.”

I don’t have time to answer because a woman with short black hair and what looks like close to a dozen piercings in her ears approaches our table. She’s wearing a sleeveless blouse that shows off arms almost as toned as Christina’s.

“The whole room is buzzing about this lingerie project, so I thought I’d come over and see it myself. You’ll probably have a lineup starting soon.”

“Maybe we should start charging admission,” I reply. It’s a lame joke, but we all laugh.

“I’m Robyn Tanner,” she says. “I’m here from Epsilon Media.”

I’m standing close enough to Christina that I can tell she goes rigid at hearing those words. I spare her some time by stepping up and shaking Robyn’s hand.

“And this,” I say, once I’ve introduced myself, “is Christina Dominguez, the true mastermind behind what you see here today.”

Christina looks like all her mental energy is focused on reminding herself to breathe. I knew Epsilon was her dream firm, but seeing her freeze up like this when she’s been so on the ball all day makes me realize just how much it must mean to her.

There’s a pause and then Robyn offers her hand to Christina.

“It’s great to meet you both. I’m all ready to be wow-ed.”

At that, Christina seems to come back to life, and we power through the best run of our presentation yet. Robyn stands there tapping her chin through the whole thing, and at the end poses a few tough questions about potential challenges our campaign might face. Christina answers them as smoothly as if she’d had her replies memorized, and after playing around on the laptop for a bit, Robyn looks up at us with a smile.

“If you worked at Epsilon you’d know I don’t easily give praise, but this is good. I’m the one who pushed for us to send a rep here this year, and I’ve seen a lot of talent so far today, but I’ll be honest and say this tops my list so far. Do you mind if I take a few photos?”

“Not at all,” Christina and I answer at almost the exact same time.

Robyn whips out a top of the line cell phone and shakes hands with us one more time before she leaves, giving us both her card and taking copies of ours.

I turn to Christina, expecting some kind of high five or hug, but instead I’m met with two fists colliding with my chest and drilling into me like I’m a punching bag.

“Hey!” I shout. “What did I do to deserve this?”

She keeps jabbing at me as she answers, “Nothing. You were great. I’m just really happy right now and I needed to punch something.”

I grab her wrists and lift them away from me. “You have a messed up way of expressing joy, Dominguez.”

She beams at me and my grip slides from her wrists to her shoulders.

“What would you prefer?” she asks. “Something like this?”

She stretches up to press her lips to mine.

* * *

“Now this is how I prefer you express your happiness. Fuck.”

The air in my car has already steamed up, condensation collecting on the windows as Christina works her mouth up and down my cock in the back seat. My head thumps against the glass and if this isn’t what heaven feels like, it’s not a place I care to go.

She slides down even deeper, gagging a bit when I hit the back of her throat, and a hiss escapes my lips as I try to keep myself from coming right then and there.

“We should tour every college showcase in the country if they’re going to end like this.”

The parking lot is only half empty and all our supplies are piled on the pavement next to the car, but the second I unlocked the doors, Christina pushed me onto the backseat and got down to business.

Just when I think I can’t take it anymore and open my mouth to warn her, she lifts her head up and I groan as the heat of her disappears.

“Want to go somewhere?” she asks, her eyes dark and glittering with desire.

“Anywhere,” I answer, not bothering to hide the desperation in my voice.

“Like, with a bed?”

“Did you have a particular bed in mind?”

She shifts around, doing up the few buttons of her blouse that I managed to get open.

“Your place?” she asks with a seductive tilt of her head.

I feel myself tense up. I haven’t brought a girl home since Tiff’s...Well, not since Tiff. Period.

I’ve hardly let anyone come over since then. My apartment has become a sanctuary, a place where I can drop the facade I’ve put up to get me through the day. I feel safest there, but I also feel most vulnerable. It’s like a bank vault where I’ve locked up everything I value most, and I don’t know how much will get stolen if I open up the door for someone else.

Christina’s the first person I’ve met who makes me want to take the risk, though. She makes me feel more alive than I have in months, and pushing so many people away has started to wear me down.

“As you wish, Princess Peach.”

She follows me in her car on the short drive to my place, and when we get inside I don’t give her a chance to look around. I take her hand and steer her into the bedroom, then scoop her up and throw her down on the bed.

“Take all your clothes off,” I order, looming over her.

“Well somebody’s getting demanding.”

“My house, my rules,” I answer with a jump of my eyebrows. “You can leave your heels on.”

We’re both still in our business clothes, and Christina keeps her eyes locked on mine as she pulls off her jacket and blouse. She slips her shoes off to wriggle out of her pants, and then puts the heels back on, laying herself out in front of me. She’s wearing the blue set of lingerie from our shoot.

“I said all your clothes.”

I’m compensating for the nervousness coursing through me by being more commanding than usual, and she seems to like it. I can see the thrill of excitement in her face as she sits up to unclasp her bra, nipples hardening as she frees her perfect tits and then peels off the tiny blue pair of panties.

I drop to my knees and push her roughly back on the bed. She lets out a gasp and I don’t waste any more time. I lick at the soft skin of her inner thighs and then run my tongue between her legs, parting her, tasting her, letting myself get lost in the moment and forget that there’s any reason I wouldn’t want to be doing this.

Soon she’s bucking her hips against me and tangling her hands in my hair. I place a hand on her lower stomach, stretching her skin tight to give me better access to her clit. When I flex my tongue into a hard point and lick her even faster, I feel her whole body stiffen and then she’s moaning my name over and over again as she writhes and arches on the bed.

It’s one of the sweetest sounds I’ve ever heard, and I intend to hear it several more times today.

* * *

A few hours later, I’m waving goodbye to Christina as she throws a backward glance my way before disappearing down the hall. I can still taste her on my tongue, the scent of her skin clinging to mine.

I pull the door to my apartment closed and sigh. If there was ever a time to tell her it would have been now, when I had her here with me, somewhere I felt safe enough to explain. She’s handing me the keys to get deeper and deeper inside of who she is, and I’m still locking her out.

I turn to the tiny closet door in my entryway, the one I don’t have enough stuff to fill. This apartment could win an award for the amount of built in storage space it has. Before everything that happened with Tiff, I just kept this closet empty.

My walls used to be filled with photos of her. She said it made me seem like a creepy fanboy, but I didn’t give a shit. I still have some of my other work on display, but all of my best shots were of her. I wanted to show them off. I wanted to show her off.

The day I got the phone call, I smashed every frame that had her picture in it. It took me weeks to clean up all the glass; I still have scars on my feet from getting cut on the pieces I missed. I locked my camera away for months, but I couldn’t get rid of the photos. Now they line the walls of the empty closet. When missing her gets to be too much, I open the door and just stare.

Sometimes I think of this closet like a haven, and other times it’s as suffocating as a coffin, as heavy as an iron safe slung around my neck. It’s a weakness, an illness I’ve been fighting to hide. I hole up on my own and turn away from anyone who tries to see what’s wrong, because what else do you do with a sickness you can’t heal?