Chapter Four

      He knocks this time. And after I’ve taken a deep breath and told him to come in, I notice something different about him. Something I probably shouldn’t notice, as a person who’s definitely not obsessed.

      I’m not. I’m not.

      In fact, I almost let him leave the second he’s put the letters on my desk – tentatively, but in that same almost clumsy way he has. Eyes on me, as he just kind of nudges them over the wood.

      But then he turns to go and that different thing impresses itself on me immediately. His shirt is tucked in at the back. He’s tucked it in, and pulled the ridiculous stripy cardigan he has on over it right down, so that it covers the waistband of his trousers.

      I suppose it’s the small details that mean the most.

      ‘Benjamin,’ I say, though I’ve no idea what’s going to follow it. I just want him to stop for a second, and be easy in my presence. Hell, I want to be easy in his.

      Though that seems unlikely to happen when he turns back to me and I have to take in a million things about him. His face, those eyes, how broad his shoulders are. How big his hands look, even though he’s kind of clasping them one over the other. It looks for all the world like he wants to crack his knuckles, desperately, but is resisting.

      And I guess I’m resisting too, because Lord the sight is arresting. I don’t know what’s arresting about it. The length of his fingers? The way they kind of jab out at me like that, all awkward and not like fingers at all?

      I don’t know. I don’t know what to say next. What did Woods do, after our first encounter? After he first knew I was raring to go? Because it’s inescapable now – I know Ben is. There’s not a small series of clues, like the flush I got whenever I was around Woods, or how eager I was to do his every bidding.

      He masturbated while stuffing a remnant of my reprimand into his mouth. A blind buffoon would know what that meant.

      ‘Yes?’ he asks, so full of hope it’s unbearable.

      ‘Thank you,’ I try, but I know before I’ve said it that it’s wrong. It leaves an opening, and he takes it effortlessly.

      ‘Oh, no problem. I think you’ll find them more to your liking this time.’

      Why? Is his cock in there somewhere?

      ‘I’m sure I will.’

      I turn away then, and look at my computer screen. Of course there’s nothing on it – but he can’t see that. Hopefully I look like I’m all business, and not poised on the edge of insanity.

      ‘Well, if there’s anything else I can do for you, Ms Harding …’ he says, and so I can’t be blamed. It’s the fault of that little ellipsis he leaves on the end of his sentence, that little trail off into nothing.

      Anyone would want to fill that nothing up, immediately. Anyone.

      But still I wait, until he’s backing towards the door. Until he’s waving at me, casually, in lieu of a goodbye he doesn’t know how to give. See you later sounds too informal, I suppose. Until next time is almost a threat.

      Like the thing I then give him.

      ‘You could possibly not masturbate in your cubicle.’

      I see him freeze in position without turning my head, those soft-focus eyes of his bright and wide, on the periphery of my vision. Everything about him clearly stunned, even without the benefit of the sound he then produces.

      It’s almost a croak, I think, and it makes me snap my gaze to him. I want to see, I realise. I want to see how open and soft his mouth looks, how wide his eyes are, how rigid his body has gone. And once I’ve taken in all of these things undercover of a steely stare, my sex clenches, just once.

      ‘That is what you did, isn’t it?’ I ask, though of course we both know I’m not really asking. Or at least, I know. Because after a second, he answers.

      ‘I have literally no idea what you’re talking about.’

      ‘Don’t lie.’

      ‘I’m not – I –’

      ‘I would certainly advise that you not continue lying.’

      He spreads his hands out, as though they’re going to find the correct answers for him.

      ‘Just let me explain –’

      ‘Stop talking.’

      ‘Please, I –’

      ‘Just stop talking. Stop talking.’

      He’s breathing very hard, I notice – but he does what I’ve told him to. He even compresses his mouth into that oddly mean line, as though he needs a little extra barrier to hold his frantic words in. And when I just keep right on eyeing him, he actually wipes his clearly sweaty hands on the front of his trousers.

      I’ll confess: the gesture tweaks something inside me that I don’t want it to tweak.

      ‘Now. Answer honestly. Did you masturbate in your cubicle, Benjamin?’

      He doesn’t hesitate this time, despite the perspiring and the wide-eyed terror.

      ‘It’s … a possibility.’

      ‘Just a possibility?’

      ‘Well, yeah. OK. I kind of did it.’

      He laughs nervously, and that same thing inside me twangs. It makes me wonder if this would be easier if he weren’t so adorable … or would it be harder? If he was sure of himself, confident – a real Aidan Harcroft – would I be able to do this?

      And more to the point: does he know that I keep asking myself that question?

      ‘And what might it be?’

      Ohhh, this time he hesitates. I see his tongue touch the roof of his mouth, and those hands toy with the bottom of his cardigan. Of course I notice then that the thing isn’t buttoned there – in truth, I’m not sure if it really fits him, because it seems to splay out over his hips like a half-forgotten striptease – but that’s all right.

      What fun would it be if he improved all at once, in a single shot?

      ‘Come on,’ he laughs. ‘You know what it is. You just said it to me half a second ago.’

      God, he makes it so easy. I don’t have to try for the irritated look that comes to my face.

      ‘Remind me,’ I say, while