Chapter 7: Bare legs spread across Seth's keyboard, Megan arches under him as the copier hums rhythmically in the empty office, her moans echoing off cubicle walls while time slips away unnoticed.
The stale air of the office building tasted of dust and decades-old carpet adhesive, thick with the silence of abandoned workstations. Fluorescent tubes hummed an indifferent elegy above the labyrinth of grey cubicles. Seth sat hunched at his desk, the glow of the monitor etching weary lines onto his face as he scrolled through lines of code, the map of Portugal a faded dream pinned beside it. Two months since the graduation party. Two months of brittle normalcy, the memory of Megan’s whispered I felt it a cold stone neither dared truly examine.
The metallic scrape of the stairwell door echoed down the hushed corridor, a jarring intrusion. Footsteps, light and quick. Megan appeared around the partition wall, a vision of summer in the sterile gloom. Sunshine-yellow sundress, hair loose around her shoulders, holding a woven picnic basket aloft. Her smile was wide, infectious, but beneath it, Seth glimpsed the familiar flicker of something else – a restless energy, a need to push against the quiet dread.
"Surprise!" she announced, her voice too loud for the tomb-like quiet. She set the basket on the corner of his desk, displacing a precarious stack of reports. "Thought you could use rescuing from spreadsheet purgatory. Chicken salad. Homemade."
Seth blinked, momentarily disoriented by the sudden vibrancy she brought into his grey world. "Meg? What are you...?" He glanced around instinctively, though the floor was deserted, everyone fled for lunch elsewhere. "You didn't have to—"
"Course I did," she cut in, already unclasping the basket. The scent of fresh bread and dill cut through the stale coffee odor. "You've been buried here for days. And..." She paused, her gaze meeting his directly. That flicker intensified. "I missed you. Properly." The words held weight, a deliberate echo of the distance the constant fear had imposed.
He pushed his keyboard away, a warmth spreading through his chest that had little to do with the imagined chicken salad. "Me too." He stood, the worn office chair groaning in protest. "This place feels different with you in it."
She didn't reply immediately. Instead, she stepped closer, the yellow fabric of her dress brushing against his khakis. Her fingers traced the edge of his desk, then drifted up to touch his cheek, surprisingly cool against his skin. The simple contact sent a jolt through him, erasing the lines of code, the fluorescent hum, the quiet terror. Her eyes, dark and searching, held his. The air between them crackled, thick with the unsaid, with the memory of frantic couplings against windows and leather, seeking oblivion.
Then, without preamble, she hoisted herself onto his desk. Papers cascaded to the floor in a fluttering white waterfall – project timelines, budget reports, forgotten memos. They landed soundlessly on the industrial carpet. She sat perched on the edge, her bare legs swinging slightly, the hem of her sundress riding high on her thighs. The playful smile was gone, replaced by a focused intensity that stole his breath.
"Hungry?" she asked, her voice low, rough at the edges. But her gaze wasn't on the basket. It was fixed on his mouth.
The question hung in the air, heavy. He understood. This hunger had nothing to do with chicken salad. It was the same desperate hunger that had driven them onto her father's couch during fireworks, into the churning heat of the hot tub, against her childhood bedroom window. It was hunger to feel alive, to silence the persistent, gnawing fear of the consequence they might have already created.
He stepped between her knees, his hands finding her hips. The cheap particleboard desk creaked under their combined weight. Her skin was warm through the thin cotton. "Starving," he growled, the word scraping in his throat.
Her hands flew to the straps of her sundress, yanking them down her shoulders in one fluid, impatient motion. The soft yellow fabric pooled around her waist, baring her breasts, pale and perfect in the cold office light. She gasped as the cool air hit her skin, arching her back, offering herself. The sight was a punch to his gut, primal and overwhelming in this sterile place. He bent his head, his mouth closing over a nipple, sucking hard, drawing it into the heat. She cried out, a sharp sound that echoed briefly in the cavernous space, her fingers tangling in his hair, holding him there.
"Fuck, Seth," she moaned, her hips grinding against the edge of the desk. "Need you. Now. Please."
He didn't need asking twice. His hands went to his belt buckle, fingers fumbling in his haste, the metallic clang loud against the quiet. He shoved his khakis and boxers down just far enough, freeing his cock, thick and heavy and already straining. He pushed her sundress further down, bunching it around her hips, revealing the dark triangle of curls beneath. She was already slick, the musky scent of her arousal cutting through the dust and bread, a potent aphrodisiac. He ran his fingers through her wetness, felt her tremble, heard her sharp intake of breath.
He positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance. Her legs hooked around his waist, pulling him closer, her ankles locking behind him. Her eyes, dark pools of desperate need, locked onto his. "Yes," she hissed. "Now. Don't wait."
He thrust forward in one powerful motion, burying himself deep inside her tight, molten heat. She arched violently, a choked scream escaping her lips as she was filled. Her inner walls clenched around him, shockingly tight. He braced his hands on the desk on either side of her hips, the cheap laminate cool beneath his palms. The desk creaked ominously with each powerful thrust he drove into her. Papers fluttered again from the remaining stacks.
Megan wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face against his shoulder, muffling her cries. Her hips rose to meet each plunge, her body demanding, taking, matching his ferocity. Below them, the forgotten chicken salad sat in its basket. Above, the indifferent fluorescents hummed. All that existed was the slick, rhythmic slap of their bodies joining, the frantic panting, the desperate sounds torn from her throat against his shirt, the groan rumbling deep in his chest. It was violent, possessive, a raw assertion of life against the pervasive dread, a physical exorcism attempted on a cheap office desk.
Her climax came suddenly, a silent convulsion at first. Her body locked around him, every muscle straining, her internal muscles fluttering wildly, milking his cock. Then the cry ripped free, loud and raw in the empty office, echoing off the partitions. "Oh GOD! Seth! YES! Fucking... coming!" Her head fell back, throat exposed, body shuddering uncontrollably as the waves crashed over her.
The feel of her pulsing around him, the raw sound of her release, shattered his control. He drove into her one last time, deep, grinding hard as he exploded. Hot cum pulsed into her clutching depths, jet after jet, spilling deep inside her as he groaned, the sound guttural, almost pained. He leaned his forehead against hers, breathing raggedly, pinned deep within her as his body shuddered through the aftershocks.
Silence descended, broken only by their harsh, ragged breaths and the relentless fluorescent hum. Sticky sweat cooled on their skin. The scent of sex hung heavy, incongruous with the scent of old paper and dust. Seth slowly pulled out, a soft, wet sound that seemed obscenely loud. He saw his release immediately begin to seep from her, a gleaming trail against her inner thigh onto the scratched surface of the desk. The sight was a cold dash of reality. Again. Deep. Unprotected. Here.
Megan slid off the desk on trembling legs, her sundress falling back into place, hiding nothing of the evidence now staining the fabric. She didn't look at the mess. She looked at him, her eyes wide, pupils blown, the frantic energy drained away, leaving only a hollow exhaustion and the familiar, chilling glint of panic. Her hand instinctively pressed low on her belly.
Outside the cubicle, down the silent corridor, the sudden, mechanical whir and clunk of a printer springing to life shattered the fragile silence. Then footsteps. Distant, but approaching.
Megan flinched, her eyes darting towards the partition wall. The panic flared bright. Without a word, she grabbed a wad of tissues from his desk dispenser, shoving them inside her underwear with frantic, clumsy movements, her movements jerky with fear. She wiped hastily at the desk with another tissue, smearing the evidence. Seth yanked his pants up, fumbling with his belt, his own heart hammering against his ribs. He grabbed a stack of discarded reports, slapping them down haphazardly over the damp spot on the desk.
The footsteps grew closer, paused somewhere nearby. They froze, staring at each other, the air thick with the scent of their coupling and the metallic tang of fear. The printer whirred again, then fell silent. The footsteps resumed, fading away down another corridor.
Silence returned, heavier now. Megan smoothed her crumpled dress, her hand still pressed low. She wouldn't meet his eyes. She picked up the picnic basket, the chicken salad inside untouched, forgotten. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the handle.
"Seth..." Her voice was a thin whisper. "I... I have to go." She didn't wait for a reply. She turned and walked quickly, stiffly, towards the stairwell door, the yellow dress a disappearing smear of sunshine swallowed by the grey labyrinth. Her phone buzzed in the woven basket, a sharp, persistent hum that vibrated against the wicker, echoing the terrified pulse Seth felt hammering in his own throat as he stood alone amidst the scattered papers and the lingering, damning scent of their desperation.
The buzzing phone faded with Megan's retreating footsteps down the concrete stairwell, leaving Seth alone in the fluorescent wasteland. The scent of their frantic coupling clung stubbornly to the air, mixing with dust and spilled toner. He stared at the papers hastily covering the wet smear on his desk, the frantic energy replaced by a hollow chill. Again. It wasn’t hunger; it was panic seeking oblivion.
He sank into his groaning chair, hands trembling. Portugal mocked him from the wall map. Freedom felt impossibly distant, buried under a mountain of fear and spreadsheet purgatory. That glint of pure terror in Megan’s eyes as she’d pressed her hand low… it mirrored the cold dread coiling in his own gut. Something had to change. He couldn’t let their story become just frantic couplings in inappropriate places, punctuated by fear.
"Need air," he muttered aloud, the sound swallowed by the empty office. "Real air." Not recycled office dust. He grabbed his phone, thumbs flying. Booked it, he texted Megan hours later, after scouring deals, his fingers clumsy on the keys. Big Sky. Montana. This weekend. Just... get out. No mention of the office, the desk, the shared terror. Just escape. Her reply was agonisingly slow: Montana? Seth, that’s… huge. Then: Okay. Okay, let’s go.
The plane’s descent punched through thick clouds into shocking clarity. Mountains, vast and jagged, clawed at a sky so blue it hurt. Snow-blanketed valleys stretched endlessly below, dwarfing the grey labyrinth they’d fled. Seth watched Megan press her forehead to the tiny window, her reflection showing wide eyes, the tense lines around her mouth softening slightly with awe. "It’s… immense," she breathed, her voice thin. "Like another planet."
Cold hit them like a physical wall at the lodge, sharp and clean, scented with pine and woodsmoke. It burned Seth’s lungs, a welcome assault after the stale office air. They lugged rented skis and stiff new boots to their cabin, a snug pine sanctuary smelling of fresh timber and cedar. Megan unpacked silently, methodically, her movements precise. The unspoken question hung between them: Is this just another distraction?
Sunrise painted the slopes pink and gold the next morning. Seth wobbled off the chairlift first, his rented skis feeling alien. Megan followed, more graceful but tentative. "Remember the bunny hill?" she called, her voice carrying strangely in the thin, cold air. A nervous laugh escaped her. He remembered their first disastrous date: miniature golf, spilled milkshake, awkward goodnight peck. Simpler terror.
He pushed off, aiming for a gentle green run. Snow hissed beneath his skis. The speed, the sheer openness, was terrifyingly liberating. Wind whipped tears from his eyes. He heard Megan’s startled yelp behind him as she caught an edge, stumbling but recovering. "Seth! Slow down, you maniac!" Her shout held genuine alarm, then a burst of laughter, clear and bright like shattering ice. He hadn’t heard that laugh since… before the party.
They spent the day falling, laughing, helping each other up, snow plastered to their jackets and goggles. The physical exertion was pure, exhausting, demanding focus. No room for office desks or pregnancy scares. Just the burn in their thighs, the sting of cold on exposed skin, the shared gasp at a sudden vista of endless white peaks. Megan tackled a steeper blue run by afternoon, her face a mask of fierce concentration, then pure exhilaration at the bottom. "Did you see?!" she yelled, breathless, cheeks flushed crimson. "I didn’t faceplant!"
Later, muscles screaming, they soaked in the outdoor hot tub as twilight bruised the sky. Steam rose around them, blurring the jagged silhouettes of the mountains. The silence was comfortable now, laced only with the bubbling water and distant shouts from the lodge. Megan sighed, sinking deeper, her eyes closed. The tension had seeped from her shoulders, replaced by a deep weariness. "Every muscle feels like overcooked spaghetti," she murmured.
Back in the cabin’s warmth, Seth unearthed the massage oil he’d impulsively packed. "Turned out useful," he offered weakly, holding it up. Megan eyed it, then him, a flicker of the old wariness in her gaze. Then she nodded, a small, almost shy movement. She laid face down on the thick rug before the crackling fire, pulling her sweater off to reveal the worn tank top beneath, the muscles of her back taut.
He knelt beside her, pouring oil into his palms, warming it. His hands hovered for a second over her skin. Touching her always felt like crossing a threshold now. He pressed his palms firmly onto the knots at the base of her neck. She flinched, then a low groan escaped her, dissolving into the fire’s crackle. "God, yes. Right there." Her voice was muffled by the rug.
He worked slowly, thumbs finding tight cords along her spine, palms smoothing over her shoulder blades. His touch wasn’t the frantic grasping of the office or her father’s couch; it was methodical, attentive, seeking only to ease. He felt the tremors of released tension under his hands, heard her breathing deepen. The firelight painted golden patterns on her skin, highlighting old freckles, the curve of her shoulder. He traced the line of her trapezius muscle, down towards the small of her back, the oil slick and warm. This intimacy felt fragile, unfamiliar. Not a prelude to oblivion, but something… present.
Her hand slid back, searching blindly, and found his wrist where it rested near her hip. Her fingers didn't pull him closer or guide him; they simply held on, warm and solid. Anchoring. He stilled, looking down at her profile, the firelight catching the damp track of a single tear escaping the corner of her eye, disappearing into the rug. She hadn’t made a sound. He covered her hand with his free one, squeezing gently. The silence stretched, thick with the scent of pine oil and woodsmoke and something unnameable. Outside, the vast, frozen mountains held their breath.
The fire crackled, painting shifting shapes on the pine walls. Seth’s thumb traced slow circles on the small of Megan’s back, oil-slick skin warm beneath his touch. Outside, the Montana mountains stood sentinel in the freezing dark.
Her breath hitched, not from his touch, but from the memory flooding back. "That printer…" she whispered against the rug, her voice thick. "I thought my heart would explode."
"Same." His voice was rough. He remembered the frantic wipe-down, the terror freezing him mid-buckle. "Cheap desk felt like it’d collapse. Like everything else."
"Everything else hasn’t collapsed," she murmured, turning her head slightly. Firelight caught the tear tracks dried on her cheek, the vulnerability stark in her eyes. "Not yet." Her hand tightened around his wrist. "Montana was good. Needed this air." She meant more than the mountain chill.
"Yeah." He leaned down, pressing his lips to the tense knot where her neck met her shoulder. No urgency, just presence. "Real air."
The scent of pine and woodsmoke lingered on their skin days later, a ghost of Montana clinging as they navigated the thronging chaos of Washington D.C. on New Year’s Eve. Megan practically vibrated beside him, bundled against the biting cold, scanning the drunken, laughing crowds packing the sidewalk near Dupont Circle. "There!" she yelled over the din, pointing. "Fed! Jessica!"
Two figures broke from the mass: Fed, tall and grinning beneath a ridiculous light-up hat, and Jessica, Megan’s college roommate, waving wildly, cheeks flushed from cold and cheap champagne. Hugs were exchanged, clumsy in thick coats. "Seth, right?" Fed boomed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Megan wouldn’t shut up about you after that first disaster date. Mini-golf meltdown, right?"
Megan groaned. "Fed! Shut up!" But she was laughing, linking her arm through Seth’s as Jessica launched into a story about Megan’s teaching mishaps. The city pulsed around them – bass thumping from bars, laughter sharp in the frosty air, the raw energy of the countdown building. Fireworks began bursting overhead, painting the sky in fleeting, garish colors. "Almost midnight!" Jessica shrieked.
The roar swelled as the numbers ticked down on jumbo screens. "THREE! TWO! ONE!" The eruption was deafening. Confetti rained down. Strangers kissed. Seth pulled Megan close, her face tipped up to his, eyes reflecting the cascading light. Their kiss tasted like winter air and shared relief, deeper than the frantic office coupling, more solid than the Montana massage. A promise, tentative but real.
Hours later, stumbling away from the last bar, the cold cut like knives. Megan wobbled on impractical heels, shivering violently despite Seth’s arm around her. "Fuck, it's freezing," she gasped, her teeth chattering audibly. "Like Montana, but meaner." Jessica and Fed were arguing playfully about directions a block ahead, seemingly immune.
Seth stopped. "Here." He shrugged out of his thick wool coat and draped it over her shoulders, the residual warmth enveloping her. Then, bending down, he unlaced his sturdy boots. "Give me those ankle-breakers." He gestured to her flimsy heels.
"What? Seth, no, your feet—"
"Will be fine. Less than a mile. Give." His tone brooked no argument, the same quiet certainty he’d used booking the Montana flight. She leaned on him, balancing as she swapped shoes. The icy pavement bit instantly through his socks, a shocking jolt that cleared the last champagne haze. Her feet in his oversized boots looked absurd, vulnerable. He took her hand firmly. "Walk fast."
They hurried, Seth wincing with every frigid step, Megan bundled impossibly in his coat that smelled of wool and him, her hand a warm anchor in his freezing one. They caught up to Fed and Jess outside the hotel, Jessica giggling at Seth’s sock-clad feet. "Chivalry isn't dead! Just frostbitten!"
The hotel room door clicked shut behind them, muffling the distant city roar. Jessica and Fed’s adjoining door closed moments later, leaving Seth and Megan alone in the plush quiet. His coat puddled at her feet. She kicked off the huge boots. "Your feet must be blocks of ice," she murmured, stepping close, her hands finding his chest beneath his sweater, seeking his warmth.
"Worth it." He pulled her flush against him. The tension from Montana, from the office, from the months of dread, coiled tight beneath the champagne buzz and the bone-deep chill. His hands slid down her back, over the curve of her ass, gripping hard through her dress. "Need you warm."
"Need you," she breathed back, tilting her face up. Their kiss wasn't gentle. It was heat seeking heat, mouths opening urgently, tongues clashing. The relief of the day, the energy of the city, the constant underlying hum of anxiety – it all fused into raw, sudden need. He backed her towards the wide bed, his fingers fumbling at the zipper of her dress.
It slid down, pooling around her ankles like dark water. She stood before him in just black lace bra and panties, the city lights from their high window painting her skin in shifting patterns. Gorgeous. His. He tore his sweater and shirt off over his head, kicking his freezing feet free of pants and socks. He was already hard, cock straining against his boxers.
She pushed him back onto the bed, climbing over him, her fingers hooking into the waistband of his boxers. "These are in the way," she growled, yanking them down. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed. She didn't hesitate. Her mouth descended, hot and wet, swallowing him whole with a hungry groan. "Fuck, you taste good," she mumbled around his length, her head bobbing, lips stretched tight.
He hissed, arching off the bed, fingers tangling in her hair. The suction was relentless, perfect. Her tongue swirled around the head, flicked the sensitive underside. The image of her on her knees like this, her tits spilling from the black lace, consumed him. "Christ, Meg… suck it… suck my cock just like that…" His hips jerked involuntarily.
She pulled off with a wet pop, a trail of spit connecting her lips to his glistening tip. Her eyes were dark, burning. "Want you inside me, Seth. Now. Fuck me." She scrambled up, shoving her panties down her legs. She straddled his hips, her wet cunt hovering right above his rigid cock. "Need to feel you. All of you."
She sank down, impaling herself slowly, gasping as he stretched her. "Oh God… yes…" She bottomed out, her heat engulfing him, tight and slick. She braced her hands on his chest, beginning to ride him, grinding her clit hard against his pubic bone with every downward stroke. "Fuck! Feels so fucking good!"
He gripped her hips, driving up to meet her plunges. Her breasts bounced with the rhythm, nipples hard peaks against the lace. The sight, the feel, the raw sounds she made – it obliterated everything else. Fear, cold, the world outside – gone. Only this. Her heat. Her tightness. Her gasps.
"Ride me, baby," he groaned, bucking harder. "Take it. Take my cock."
"I'm taking it!" she cried out, her movements growing frantic, wild. "Feels so fucking deep! Make me come, Seth! Fuck me harder!"
He slammed up into her, the bed frame thumping against the wall. Her inner muscles clenched around him, rippling as she neared the edge. "I'm gonna… fuck, Seth, I'm coming!" Her body locked, shuddering violently above him, a high, keening cry ripped from her throat. Her cunt spasmed around his cock, milking him, pulling the climax right out of him.
He roared, thrusting deep and holding there as he erupted, hot jets of cum pumping deep inside her pulsing channel. Wave after wave emptied into her. She collapsed forward onto his chest, sweaty and trembling, his cock still throbbing within her, the wet heat between them a shared secret.
They lay tangled, breathing ragged, the city's distant pulse a counterpoint to their slowing heartbeats. His sockless feet were finally warm. Her hand slid down his chest, fingertips brushing low over her own belly, a fleeting, unconscious gesture before she tucked it under his arm. The unspoken question hung in the humid air, heavier than the scent of sex. But for now, in the quiet aftermath, the dread felt momentarily distant, held at bay by the sheer, exhausting force of being alive together. The ring box hidden deep in his suitcase back home felt suddenly, terrifyingly real.