Bentley
My eyes scan the document in front of me, brows furrowed because it’s not as flexible as I wanted it to be, so now I have a lot to fix in at least six pages. Maybe it’s because my head is not in the game—it’s clogged, clogged with Hillary.
I tell myself the only respectable thing left to do is to put distance between us, cut out whatever this… ache is. But distance does nothing. If anything, it sharpens the edges of her. Makes me want her even more, so much that it burns my lungs. I want to ring the intercom and tell her to come sit in the chair in front of my desk or on her knees next to my desk so that I can drink her in and restore my sanity.
I look down at my hand, trembling, itching to touch her. What did I put myself into? How did I get here? I managed to drag myself out
