Chapter 3: Kiss
The office air tasted like dust and recycled electricity. Milo kept his head down, his fingers moving automatically across the keyboard, entering figures into the spreadsheet. Every cell in his body was hyper-aware. She was a magnetic field, warping the space around her.
He felt her before he saw her. A shadow fell across his desk.
“Hey, numbers guy.”
Izzy leaned against the cubicle partition, holding two mugs. She placed one beside his mouse. “Brought you coffee. You look tired.” Her voice was loud, performative for anyone who might be listening. But her eyes were doing that thing again—the blue gone dark and fixed on him like he was something to eat.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, not touching it.
She didn’t move. She just stared, a slow smile spreading. Then her tongue poked out, wet and pointed, and traced the seam of her own lips from corner to corner. She followed it with a grotesque wink, one eye squeezing shut while the other remained wide and vacant. It was the face of a cartoon ghoul, a pantomime of hunger that made his stomach clench.
“Gotta run some copies,” she announced cheerfully to the air, and sauntered away. The normal sway of her hips was exaggerated, a slow-motion roll that made her skirt strain.
She was at his desk five more times before lunch. Each time with a flimsy excuse—a question about a file, a missing form, a pen she’d “borrowed.” Each time, the silent film played across her features: a mimed kiss with spit-shiny lips, her fingers making a circle and another stabbing through it, her eyes crossing as she pretended to gag. Once, she just mouthed the words whole hand and walked off, leaving him frozen.
The break room was a relief. Empty. He stood by the sink, running cold water over his wrists, trying to calm the frantic pulse he felt everywhere.
The door clicked shut.
He turned. Izzy stood with her back against it, the cheerful mask gone. Her breathing was a little too quick.
“You’re all I thought about,” she said, the words rushing out. “Last night. This morning. On the drive here.” She moved towards him, not with her usual sashay, but with a predatory directness. The space was small, claustrophobic with the smell of burnt microwave popcorn.
“Izzy, don’t—”
She grabbed the back of his head, her fingers tangling in his hair. There was no teasing now, just a shocking, physical force. She yanked his face forward, burying it in the soft, overwhelming expanse of her chest. The fabric of her blouse was thin. He could feel the heat of her skin, the hard nubs of her piercings beneath the silk. He couldn’t breathe. He made a muffled sound of protest.
“Shhh,” she whispered, her other hand clutching his shoulder, holding him there. “This is what you wanted, right? From the conference room? My best friend, right Milo?” She ground his face against her. “Say it. My best friend.”
It was a wet, stifling darkness. He felt a hot droplet land on his scalp. Drool. She was actually drooling. The visceral, animal reality of it broke something in him. He went limp.
“Say it,” she insisted, her voice a low growl.
“Your… your best friend,” he gasped, the words vibrating against her.
She released him so suddenly he stumbled back, hitting the counter. His glasses were askew, his mouth and chin smeared with her lipstick and a faint, shiny dampness. She was flushed, her chest heaving, a wild gleam in her eyes. She looked at the mess on his face like it was a trophy.
“Good,” she breathed, and then she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her.
The afternoon was a blur of panic. He scrubbed his face raw in the men’s room. He avoided all human contact. At 4:55, he made a break for the elevators, desperate to escape.
The car was empty. He punched the button for the garage, leaning against the wall as the doors began to close.
A hand shot through the gap. The doors jerked open.
Izzy stepped in, cool as anything. The elevator descended.
She didn’t look at him. She watched the floor numbers tick down. Five. Four.
Then she pounced.
It wasn’t a kiss. It was an assault. Her mouth crashed into his, teeth knocking against his own. Her lips were sloppy, insistent. Her tongue, thick and aggressive, pushed past his clenched teeth, licking into his mouth. She tasted of coffee and mint and something metallic. She made a low, grunting noise in her throat as she kissed him, her hands gripping his face, holding him still for her consumption.
He couldn’t move. The elevator hummed. The kiss went on and on, a grotesque, wet eternity. She explored his mouth like it was a cavity she was trying to clean out. Her hips pressed him into the cold metal wall.
With a ding, the elevator reached the parking level. She peeled herself off him, leaving him gasping. His glasses were fogged. His entire mouth was numb, painted a garish red.
She looked utterly composed, except for her smeared lipstick. She dabbed at it with a finger, examining the color.
Then she looked up at him, and her voice shifted into something high, girlish, a parody of shyness. “So, I was thinking…” she said, batting her eyelashes. “You should take me out. Like, on a date. Friday. Pick me up at seven.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a verdict. The fake shyness evaporated, replaced by a flat, hungry certainty. She reached out and straightened his collar, her knuckles brushing his throat.
“Wear something nice,” she said. She turned and walked out into the dim garage, the click of her heels the only sound besides the frantic, ragged sound of his own breathing trapped in the still, descending box.