Allure

“You forgot something.”

Her voice calls me back, back into that darkened room with no clear purpose. I am on the precipice of war, a part of me lurching back towards her and another keeping my feet firmly planted at the exit. The world is silent. I’ve taken the initiative and stood up from that chair, making a break from the battle, yet here she is. Her voice calls me back.

“What?” My voice is shaking no matter how hard I try to keep it steady. I clear my throat immediately after, gaining back some control. “What?” I repeat, straightening my back and gripping the door handle so tight my knuckles turn white. I don’t turn around, and I know that’s what gives my fear away, but I can’t bring myself to look back into that darkness. I can’t look into her eyes again. I know the caged animal inside of me will be released, and I will be thrown back against the wall, back into her world.

I can hear her shuffling some papers on her desk, her chair creaking ever so lightly, just enough to excite me into thinking she has stood up to approach me. I bite my cheek, hiding my hopeful smile. “Turn around and see.”

“Why can’t you just tell me?” My voice is sharp and quick, with the same type of bitterness as your morning coffee. But I know it only shows I’m rattled. My grip has loosened on the door handle.

“Why can’t you just turn around?”

She’s calm, cool, collected- everything that draws people towards her. She has the type of presence that demands command of a room, and this room is no exception. I grimace; if I keep fighting her on this, I’ll lose, but if she sees my face she’ll win. She has a point. I can turn around. I want to.

My grip falls.

My mother always told me to never look back when you cut something from your life. When something is over, it’s over, and hanging on to any hope of it reviving itself is simply foolish. It’s a waste of time. But still, I found myself turning my head, searching for her familiar figure among the shadows. It’s a waste. I know. But that doesn’t make it any less attractive.

I spot her smirk first- as expected, that’s the only look she ever really has. I spot the item next: A black laced thong, clenched in her fist, the rough fabric abrasive towards her milky white skin. A look of surprise takes me as I take her in; her eyebrow is raised, the smirk still there, a light look of superiority in her eyes. The silk robe is draped over her, untied, only acting as a tool of seduction.

I clear my throat, turning my eyes away quickly, trying to hide my surprise. “Th-That’s not mine.”

Shit. My voice cracked.

Her voice was full, smooth, and undeniably threatening. “Take it. A souvenir.”

And just like that, I jump off of the cliff. My feet are unglued from the floor, the door slowly shrinks in size. Without thinking, I approach her. Before I realize it, we’re a foot apart; she has her thong in one hand, and my unwavering lust in the other. “I’m going to need more than a thong as a souvenir.” My voice comes out without my permission; she’s already skillfully unbuttoned my shirt, running her cool finger down my chiseled body in admiration.

“Too bad. That’s the severance package,” she muses, looking directly at me, never averting her eyes or slurring her words.

I grab her hand and pull her towards me, so that there is no distance between us. Just her and I, the only figures in this deafening room, the only ones in the world. My voice cracks- it’s always been difficult for me when a woman stares directly at me- and comes out in little more than a whisper. “I don’t want that.”

Completely exposed is the only way to describe it, the feeling that you get when a woman has your life in her hands. She can crush it in an instant if she really wanted to… you can only pray she doesn’t. She could crush it and move on to her next catch, especially her. She could have anyone she wanted in that office.

“Good,” she whispers back, breaking from my grasp and walking across the room. I reach out after her, but she just gives me a look of control, completely opposite from my face of pure desperation. “You depend on me. You rely on me. You don’t get to walk out that door, Mr. Kent.”

“I know.”