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ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
By Katherine Quinn
I wish that you knew that it drives me crazy when you sit in your chair like that. Maybe you do, because I've never seen you do it in front of anyone else. I only catch you doing it when you're alone, or more precisely, when you're alone with me. But maybe you do it for me because you seem to become so comfortable with me. Is that because I'm a woman, or because under that sharp suit and glass expression you're attracted to me too? I'm not sure if it's a blessing or a curse.
You're so damn attractive. You sit there; your shoes are discarded, tipped on their sides on the floor. Your legs are tucked up under you. Your skirt slides up your creamy white thigh, and even though you keep pretending to pull it down, almost immediately after you let the hem go, it flies back up, every time slightly higher than the time before. You seem oblivious; but then again, I am pretty sure you're never oblivious.
You're deep in thought, a pen between your teeth while you stare at the brief that as far as I can tell, you've spread in pieces all over your office. As I walk across the floor, I feel like I'm playing hopscotch straddling papers and piles that you've left everywhere. Your desk is covered and I'm not sure how you could ever find anything with all this "organized chaos."
You've pulled a chair next to you for me, so we can sit together and review testimony. You have questions about something or other, and I'm concentrating on not making an ass of myself by staring at your legs. It's such a turn on, to watch you, clueless, your long smooth legs tucked under you. I feel juvenile as I blush that I can almost see the tops of your stockings, which means that if I angle my head just right, I can see.
God. It's getting hot in here. I'm rolling up my sleeves; I'm clearing my throat. I'm trying so hard not to look. I'm trying so hard to think about anything but the fact that I can see more of you than I should be able to. I'm going to focus on this case. I am. Really. Okay, I'm going to start focusing now. Ready? Okay. Now. No, one last look. God. Okay, really. Now.
I can smell your perfume wherever you go, a lingering scent that fills me with warm feelings of lust. Shit. I was supposed to be concentrating. But you're assaulting my nose, and that makes me look at you, and if I look at you, I see blonde hair and blue eyes and long legs that are pulled up on the chair exposing your creamy skin to my lusty glare.
God, I want you. I want to touch you, but I won't. I'll study over your shoulder. I'll avert my eyes because I know that staring into yours will melt my heart and I won't be able to breathe anymore. I'll even pretend I'm paying attention, because I can't believe, I can't bear to hope that there will be more for us than that right now. I pray I'm wrong.
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