Chapter 12: Sweet Loving
The fluorescent lights of the accounting department hummed like angry bees overhead, bleaching the color from everything. Ron pushed through the glass doors, the familiar scent of stale coffee, cheap carpet cleaner, and ozone from a thousand whirring processors hitting him. His sensible brown loafers squeaked faintly on the linoleum. He clutched his briefcase like a shield, pointedly avoiding glancing towards the cluster of cubicles where the design team resided. His neck, beneath the stiff collar of his beige shirt, felt hypersensitive. He’d spent half the night scrubbing it in the shower, half the morning checking it in the mirror. The faint, damning mark was still there, like a brand. A secret pulsing beneath his tie.
His cubicle was an island of muted order in the sea of beige partitions. Except today, it wasn't empty.
Puck leaned casually against the fabric wall of his workspace, arms crossed. She was dressed for the office – a sharply tailored black blazer over a charcoal silk camisole, dark trousers. Professional.Almost. The high neckline of the camisole almost hid it. But not quite. Above the collar, peeking out like a dark confession against her pale skin, were the unmistakable, parallel impressions of rope. Purplish-red, faintly raised. A stark contrast to the sharp lines of her outfit. She held a steaming paper cup in one hand.
Ron stopped dead. His breath hitched. The hum of the office seemed to fade into a high-pitched whine in his ears. He could see the subtle indents, the pattern… the proof of something he couldn’t even name. His face flooded with heat. He wanted to turn and walk straight back out the door.
"Morning, Ron," Puck said, her voice smooth as dark chocolate. No trace of Friday night’s raw intensity, just a calm, knowing amusement flickering in her eyes. She pushed off the wall and took a single step towards him, closing the distance. "Thought you might need a jumpstart." She extended the cup. "Black. Like you."
He stared at the cup. His usual order. She knew. Of course she knew. His hand trembled slightly as he reached out, fingers brushing hers as he took it. The coffee was scalding hot. He didn’t care. It was an anchor. "Th-thanks, Puck," he managed, the words tight in his throat. He couldn’t look away from the marks on her neck. They felt like an accusation. An invitation. A terrifying promise.
She didn’t step back. She tilted her head, a predator assessing its prey. Her gaze dropped pointedly to his own collar, then back up to meet his eyes. A slow, satisfied smile touched her lips. "I really enjoyed our date, Ron," she murmured, the pitch dropping, becoming intimate despite the open-plan office bustle behind them. Kevin was talking loudly about his fantasy football draft two aisles over. Someone’s printer whirred to life. "Did you think about it? Over the weekend?"
Ron felt like the floor was tilting. He gripped the coffee cup tighter, the heat biting his palm. Words jammed in his throat. He wanted to deny it. To say no. But the phantom pressure of her mouth, the shocking intimacy of her tongue… the image of her frozen under the awning… it had played on a relentless loop in his head. He nodded, a single jerky movement, unable to form a lie.
Puck’s smile widened, predatory and radiant. "Good." Before he could blink, before he could even register intent, she moved. It wasn’t frantic, but it was decisive. One hand shot up, fingers surprisingly strong as they curled around the knot of his tie, just below the collar. Not harsh, but firm. Anchoring him. She yanked him down a crucial few inches. He gasped, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the cup.
Her other hand slid beneath the collar of his shirt, her cool fingers finding the sensitive skin of his neck, brushing over the fading mark from Friday. Then her mouth was there. Not gentle. Not a peck. Hot, wet pressure. A deliberate, claiming suck. The sensation was shocking – a jolt of pure, illicit heat straight down his spine, warring instantly with a wave of panicked embarrassment. He froze, utterly rigid. The coffee cup trembled violently in his hand. He could feel the pull, the scrape of her teeth for a fraction of a second, the wetness of her tongue smoothing over the spot. It lasted only a few heartbeats, but it stretched into an eternity under the buzzing fluorescents.
She released him as suddenly as she’d grabbed him, stepping back smoothly. Her lips were slightly parted, her breath quickened, eyes blazing with unrestrained triumph. She licked her lower lip, a quick, unconscious flick. A fresh, vivid red mark bloomed just below his ear, stark against his flushed skin, mirroring the rope burns peeking above her own collar.
Ron stood paralyzed. The coffee cup felt like a bomb in his hand. His neck throbbed – a hot, insistent pulse radiating from the new mark. He could still feel the phantom pressure of her mouth, the ghost of her tongue. Shame warred with a terrifying, unwelcome thrill that coiled low in his belly. He was trembling. He couldn’t speak. He could only stare at her, wide-eyed, breath ragged.
Puck’s gaze held his, unblinking. Her voice, when she spoke again, was low, husky, cutting through the office drone like a knife. "So. Dinner. Thursday. My place this time. Eight o’clock." It wasn’t a request. It was a mandate. A continuation. She didn't wait for an answer. She turned on her heel, the sharp click of her boots echoing on the hard floor as she walked away, back towards the creative department, leaving Ron standing there, branded twice over, the steam from the untouched coffee curling uselessly into the sterile, indifferent air. His free hand rose slowly, trembling, not quite touching the new burn on his neck. The office hummed on, oblivious. He felt like he might collapse, or scream, or both. The scent of her – coffee, ink, and something darkly floral – lingered around him.