Chapter 8: Concrete Confessions
The silence in the Mercedes was a physical presence, thick with the smell of leather, her perfume, and sex. Sid adjusted the rearview mirror, his movements precise. He didn’t look at her.
Anya straightened her skirt, her fingers fumbling with the clasp. The cold from the car’s hood had seeped into her bones, but a deeper, more satisfying heat radiated from her core. She watched him, the clean line of his jaw, the way he checked his reflection not out of vanity, but as a man reassembling his armor.
“The McCormick data,” he said, his voice even, as if they were in a Monday morning stand-up. “You’ll need to pull the Q3 numbers again before the call with Chicago at four.”
She blinked. A laugh, brittle and surprised, escaped her. “Are you serious?”
He turned the ignition. The engine purred to life, a low, powerful sound that vibrated through the seats. He finally glanced at her, his eyes unreadable in the garage’s fluorescent gloom. “Deadly. You transposed two figures on the summary slide. It would have been noticed.”
She leaned back against the headrest, staring at the concrete ceiling streaked with pipes. Her body felt gloriously, achingly used. Her mind was a scramble of sensation and sudden, cold clarity. He was compartmentalizing again, building the wall higher even as the mortar was still wet from what they’d just done.
“You’re incredible,” she said, not quite admiration, not quite accusation.
“Efficient,” he corrected, backing the car out of the spot with smooth precision. He drove toward the exit, the tires whispering on the polished concrete. “What happened here is a contained event. It stays here. In this garage. In this car.”
“You said that about the suite.”
“This is different.”
“Why? Because it’s dirtier?” She turned to face him, her knee brushing against the gear shift. “Because I was bent over your luxury sedan with my ass in the air and you fucked me so hard I saw stars? Because someone from accounting could have walked by? That makes it more real for you?”
His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “Watch your tone.”
“Or what?” The challenge came out softly. She was pushing at the new boundary, probing the bruise. “You’ll fire me? You won’t. I’m too good. And you want this too much.”
He braked hard at the garage exit, the car jerking to a stop before the rising barrier. He turned to her, and the controlled mask slipped. His gaze was hungry, furious, captivated. “What do you want from me, Anya? A confession? A divorce filing? You have a boyfriend. I have a family. This is what it is. It’s this.” He gestured loosely between them, a sharp, violent motion. “This heat. This fuck. Nothing more.”
The barrier lifted. He accelerated into the blinding afternoon sun.
She was quiet for a block, letting his words hang. The ‘nothing more’ felt like a door slamming. But the way he’d said ‘this heat’—like it was a vital, stolen resource—told a different story.
“I want you to look at me in the boardroom later,” she said, her voice calm. “When I’m presenting those corrected Q3 figures. I want you to look at me, with everyone watching, and remember the exact sound I made when you came inside me twenty minutes ago.”
He said nothing. But a muscle ticked in his jaw.
“And I want you to know,” she continued, staring ahead at the traffic, “that no matter what happens tomorrow, or next week, or after this all inevitably explodes… I will never, for the rest of my life, forget what your cock feels like. How full you make me. So you can call it ‘nothing more’ all you want. But it’s the most real thing I’ve ever had.”
Sid pulled the car over abruptly, tires nudging the curb in a genteel neighborhood of boutique shops. He put the car in park. The engine idled. He didn’t speak for a full minute, just watched a woman wheeling a stroller down the sidewalk, a picture of normalcy.
“The business trip,” he said finally, his voice rough. “To Goa. For the Zenith launch.”
“What about it?”
“You’re lead on creative. You have to be there.”
“I know.”
“We’ll be there for three nights. At the resort.” He was still looking straight ahead. “Separate villas. On paper.”
A slow, devastating smile spread across Anya’s face. The victory was dark and sweet. “On paper.”
“It can’t happen again before then.” He finally looked at her, and the raw need in his eyes belied his stern tone. “This was a lapse. A dangerous one. We need to be… professional. Until Goa.”
She reached over, her fingers tracing the tense line of his thigh, up, up, until she cupped him through the fine wool of his trousers. He was still half-hard. She squeezed gently. “Professional,” she repeated, her tone dripping with mock sincerity.
He caught her wrist, but didn’t push her away. His grip was tight. “I mean it, Anya.”
“I know you do.” She leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear. “But your dick doesn’t. It remembers how good my pussy felt, stretched tight around it. It remembers coming so deep inside me I could feel it for hours. It’s not very professional, Sid. It’s a fucking animal.”
He groaned, a sound of pure defeat. His head fell back against the headrest. “Get out of the car.”
“What?”
“Get out. Now. Before I say to hell with it and fuck you again right here.” His eyes were closed, pain etched on his face. “Take a cab. Expense it. Say you felt unwell.”
She understood. This was his control, fracturing. Him sending her away was the only rein he had left to pull. She slowly withdrew her hand, gathered her bag. She opened the door, the city sounds flooding in.
Before she stepped out, she paused. “I’ll see you at four. For the call.” She said it like a promise. Like a threat.
He gave a single, terse nod, eyes still closed.
She slipped out, closed the door with a quiet thunk, and stood on the sunny curb. The Mercedes didn’t move. She walked away, not looking back, feeling the delicious, tender ache between her legs with every step. She knew he was watching in the rearview mirror. She knew the battle he was fighting. And she knew, with absolute certainty, that he had already lost.
Goa couldn’t come soon enough. For both of them.