Here's some pre-holiday cheer with a splash of citrusy fun. Enjoy!


I've managed dozens of catered events before. It's no big deal. Really. Confirm the venue and layout, verify the headcount, get the menu approved, get the contract signed, let everyone else take care of their shit and make sure the invoice is paid in full at the end. No sweat.

Right.

I've never been invited to one of those events. I've also never had to forcibly remind a client that I will NOT be on the menu so get your face out of my crotch and sign here. Now.

You blindly grab the pen, scribble something illegible in the vicinity of the signature line and drop the pen on the floor to free your fingers up for other work.

I slump further down in my chair, finger nails scraping your scalp, hips lifting. Urging you faster. More. Please. . .

Fuck. . . . . I'm going blind.

It's at least a minute before the sparks and flashes dim and normal vision returns. You are kneeling between my feet, shirtless, pajamas hanging loose around your hips. I'm still wearing my bra and blouse. I have no idea where my skirt and panties disappeared to. Under my desk? Who the hell knows? I'm late for work and I need another shower.

"Don't you have to be somewhere? Crunch numbers? Schmooze another millionaire over coffee and pastries?"

"I had an appointment to meet with the caterers for our holiday party at 7 am." You pull your phone off my desk and open an app. "Yep. And it looks like we wrapped up ahead of schedule. I'll be at the office by 8 with plenty of time to prep for my 8:30 schmooze appointment. Perfect."

You kiss my clit one more time and pat my trembling thigh, laughing when I flinch and glare at you. "Fine, if you're running ahead of schedule, you can drop me off at work since I missed my bus."

"Sounds great," you reply, tossing the words over your shoulder carelessly as you cross the hall to my bathroom. Just for that I'm not joining you in the shower. You can work out any latent frustration all by yourself.

I strip off my remaining clothes, grab a washcloth from the linen cupboard and follow you to the bathroom. Your body is a blur behind the shower curtain but your movements are obvious all the same. I wet the cloth and scrub my face. Your breathing is loud in this confined space. Steam is billowing from around the curtain. I feel myself throbbing in time with your strokes and I grit my teeth. I rinse and wring out the washcloth repeatedly, sponging away the sheen of sweat that coats my body. I drop the cloth in the laundry basket and leave the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. Your moan follows me through the closed door. You groan out my name and it sounds loud, even over the spray of the shower.

Gah. . .

I was a bit nervous when we sat down and had the birth control conversation. I will not take hormonal birth control and condoms are not 100% effective. That means that until I'm ready for kids, sex is off the table for about one week out of every month. Your response surprised me. In a very pleasant way. Like everything else with us, you took my restriction in stride without a word of argument or complaint.

"Whatever you're most comfortable with. It's a good thing we have other options."

And then you proceeded to demonstrate.

I never realized how sexy and erotic it could be to masturbate together. Or each other. I also didn't realize how tempting it would be to just say, "Screw it." and ride you bare, letting the chips (or in this case, the sperm) fall where they may. I've succeeded at maintaining self control so far. Success can be surprisingly disappointing.

When I'm ready. . .

When will I be ready? I have no clue.


I'm dressed again in fresh clothes and half way through a luke warm mug of coffee when you join me in the kitchen. Your hair is combed but still damp and your tie is loose around your neck. I hand you your coffee and tighten your tie, making sure your collar lies smooth. I bite my lip to control my smile. You're smirking at me. Yes, I know you were putting on a show. And yes, I loved it. You bastard.

"Ready to go?"

"Absolutely."

You drop me off at my office and I'm pleased to see it's only 7:53. I'm actually early.

"Lunch at noon?"

"Sorry, babe. Not today. Could you have Sally send something up for me?"

"No problem. I'll see you at home this evening."

"I'll let you know when I'm on my way. I need to swing by my house and hang out with Barkley for a bit. He probably thinks I gave him away to the neighbor kid."

"Why don't we stay at your place tonight?"

"I don't have a real bed yet," you warn me.

"It's a good thing we have other options," I tease.

I lean across for a kiss and scurry into my office with a parting wave.

I pull the crumpled contract out of my purse and set about making the necessary calls to ensure we have everything lined up for the holiday party at your office next Thursday.

Gary pops in and out of the office all day, his brow furrowed and his voice even snappier than usual. By mid afternoon my temper is rising and I kind of want to snap his scrawny neck. Angela has her coat on and is wrapping her scarf around her neck when I pull her aside for a private interrogation.

"What's up with him today? That stick is so far up his ass he's choking on it."

"He's freaked out because Olivia's pregnant."

"What? How did you find that out?"

"He was talking to her on his cell just outside the front door on Monday. Actually, he was yelling. I could hear everything even though the door was shut and I was sitting at my desk trying to ignore it. I guess she's pretty far along and has been hiding it."

I think back to the last time I saw her here at the office, bundled up in her coat even though it's always 70 degrees in here. How do you hide something like that from your husband? Maybe it isn't that hard if he's never around. I feel for her. I know you would never yell at me like that, especially if I told you I was pregnant. You'd probably take me home to celebrate by having sex sans condom. My stomach flips at the thought.


It feels like sacrilege to order take out in a kitchen like this. But you've been staying at my place so much your fridge is almost completely bare. I recork the Riesling and put it in the fridge alongside your half of the seafood pasta I bought at Buca di Beppo. I shove my feet into my boots and go outside to play catch and wrestle with Barkley. It's almost 7. You could be home any minute or you could wake me up at 10 to mess around. Your schedule is anything but consistent but I don't mind. Being the boss has its drawbacks, but it has a few perks, too. Like writing oral sex with your fiancé into your schedule and calling it a 'business meeting'.

I check Barkley's water bowl, give him a kiss and head inside. My nose is running, I smell like a wet dog and my fingers are stiff with cold. You're leaning against the counter in your partially unbuttoned dress shirt and slacks, an empty plate beside you and a glass of wine in your hand.

My mouth starts watering. You look so damn edible it's almost criminal.

"I'm going upstairs to have a bath."

You raise your glass and your eyebrows. You swallow and watch me as I shed my extra layers and wash my hands.

"Is that an invitation?"

"You don't need an invitation. I have an open door policy."

My heart skitters as I climb the stairs, your footsteps heavy with purpose several steps behind.

I start the bath and peel off the rest of my clothes. The bathroom is small with chipped porcelain fixtures and faded tiles. When your contractor gets back to work next week we'll be spending even less time here. I'm eager to see the transformation, but I also love it just how it is. My toothbrush in the cup with yours. My green towel hanging beside your gray one. A bottle of Midol in the medicine cabinet next to your eye drops and deodorant. It's kind of perfect.

When the bath is full I sink into the hot water with a sigh. My skin shivers at the extreme change in temperature. I feel the flesh around my nipples tense as the scalding water rushes over them, sloshing between my breasts when I lean back. I tilt my head back until my hair is completely soaked. You sit down on the closed toilet seat a couple feet away. Still holding your wine. Watching.

I squeeze a dollop of body wash onto my pouf and work it into a thick lather. Eyes averted, I run it up and down my arms, over my chest and stomach, lifting my legs from the water one at a time. Taking my time. Your gaze bores into me. The steam is stifling and I feel short of breath. I rinse away the bubbles and lie back in the water with my eyes shut. With trembling hands I continue to wash myself, stroking my breasts in slow circles with the pouf until the skin is warm and relaxed, but my nipples still stand erect and sensitive to the cooler air.

I mimic the circular motion with my left hand around my belly button. I hear you put your glass down on the counter. The sound echoes sharply through the water that fills my ears. Even with my eyes closed, I sense you getting closer. Kneeling. Arms resting on the edge of the tub.

My left hand creeps lower, dipping down in the water, beneath the floating bubbles. I spread my right hand, cupping my entire breast. I catch my nipple between my knuckles and pull it up, stretching the skin taught. With my left hand, I use my second and fourth fingers to part my lips, stroke my middle finger slowly up and down my slit, dipping inside and running the tip of my finger slowly around the opening to my vagina. I bite my lip and imagine these are your hands. Your fingers.

I hum my pleasure, hearing my own voice like a mermaid's song beneath the water. I brace my feet at the end of the tub, spreading my thighs as far as the walls allow. Your hand is on my knee. My inner thigh. Sliding down slowly. So slowly.

I sense the moment your control breaks a split second before it happens. It's like the air pressure drops suddenly. The storm breaks with a crack of thunder and a microburst.

Your other arm plunges beneath the water, your sleeve soaked and clinging to my skin as you lift my shoulders. Your lips close over mine. Your tongue invades my mouth as your right hand finds and joins my left. Fingers tangling. Stroking and plundering. Gliding into velvet heat and circling, pressing, clenching. I feel the blood rushing through my veins. Tiny vessels bulging hard as wires against our twisting fingers.

You suck the air from my lungs. The heat from my soul. And I burst into liquid flames, crying out my ecstasy as you drink it in, ravenous and relentless.

I convulse over and over before I finally dissolve, boneless and sated into the swirling waters. I would drown if you weren't holding my head above the water. Your right hand still cups me, holding my slack fingers captive against the softness of my sex. Your lips are smiling against mine. I don't have the strength to smile back. I think you like that.


The day of your holiday party arrives and I cannot quell the panic that swells within me, crowding out appetite, sense and rational thought. I'm so scatterbrained right now that any and all distractions derail me.

You are very distracting. I flee my apartment while you are still in the shower.

I barely make it to my bus. Today is not the day to be late. I'm skipping lunch and leaving an hour early to prepare for the party. Your party. Where I will meet your coworkers and friends. I'm nauseated by the thought.

My nerves don't let up all day, even after I have confirmed every last detail with Ms. Lopez, the chef, servers, bartender, cleaning crew, and so on. Angela watches me with sympathy. She's leaving at lunch time and won't be there to run interference between me and Gary. He's had more than a week to adjust to the idea of fatherhood and it has only made him worse. I'm one more condescending, spiteful, dickhead comment away from walking out. My desire to ensure the success of your office party tonight is the only thing keeping me from committing homicide.

I log out of my computer at 4 pm with a bitter smile twisting my lips. I didn't come close to finishing everything on my list. In my defense, it was an insane amount of work to finish in only 8 hours. I at least managed to cross off everything urgent and the rest will have to wait until Monday. I plan on dragging you home after the party, getting completely hammered, screwing you until neither of us can walk and then sleeping until noon tomorrow.

I hurry home, stuff my hair under a shower cap and wash away the stress of the day. After toweling off vigorously, I slip on my new underwear and thigh high stockings. The backless bra is more problematic and it takes me almost ten minutes to force the contraption into a somewhat comfortable position. My breasts are pinned into place with far more than the 'recommended' number of adhesive pads. Yes you're worth it, but still. . . Ugh.

I'm furious and cursing by the time I step into the dress I bought for this occasion. It's a royal blue, long-sleeved mini dress. It's high cut in the front but plunges dangerously low behind. I thread sliver hoops into my ears, outline my lips and eyes with far more makeup than I normally wear, and coax some volume into my hair with my round brush, spray gel and a hair dryer.

I want your eyes pinned to me all night long. And I want everyone you know to see it. Call it immaturity. Call is possessiveness. I'm staking my claim on you. The office pool is officially closed. There's no way anyone will think you're gay - or in any way remotely available - after tonight.


I know I present an incongruous image climbing out of my old pick-up dressed like this. I get a lot of looks as I slip my silver sling-back pumps on, hitch my purse over my shoulder and hop down from the cab. The damp, cold air sinks straight into my skin and I am shivering violently by the time I have paid for parking and walked the half block to the lobby of your building. I wish I had a coat to wear that didn't look like it was bought at a thrift store. I reach for the door with my left hand and my ring winks at me. It's all the encouragement I need.

The gentleman at the security desk nods at me as I pass and head straight to the elevator. I check the time - 6 pm. I have an hour to make sure everything is perfect for your party. I step out into the lobby of the 24th floor and take a deep breath. This is it. Show time.

Your company's offices take up the entire floor. The reception area is decorated with real evergreen garlands, silver glass ornaments and twinkling white lights. It looks and smells a lot like Christmas. There is nobody behind the desk but I hear voices and the clatter of tables, chairs and dishes through the double glass doors.

At first I am appalled by the chaos I see. But after a few moments I start to see the order. It's a choreographed dance and a woman I assume to be Ms. Lopez is conducting. She is shorter than me, a bit heavier and loud. Very loud.

I turns out I had nothing to be worried about. Before my eyes, tables pop up, cloths are draped, chairs arranged and chafing dishes fall into place. Within minutes of my arrival, the set up crew disappears to change into their serving attire. I look around and see the bartender methodically arranging his bottles. I approach him and check that he has everything he needs. A case of white and one of red wine. Good wine, too. You don't skimp. He's got decent scotch, bourbon, vodka, juices and other liquor for mixed drinks. This looks like it's going to be one hell of a party if the alcohol supply is any indicator.

"You must be Bella," Ms. Lopez suddenly materializes at my elbow.

"Yes. And you are Ms. Lopez, correct? It's wonderful to finally match a face to the voice." She is exactly how I pictured her from your description and the conversations we've had leading up to tonight.

"Yes, yes. Thank you for coming early. The food will be here soon?"

"Absolutely. 6:45. It looks like you have everything else in place and ready to go. This space is really amazing. It's beautifully decorated, too."

"My boys, they helped me. And Mr. Cullen, too. He's so tall. We didn't need a ladder."

I turn in place, taking it all in. The frosted glass partitions, dark wood furniture, patterned carpet and the shiny logo on the wall. It all looks very expensive. The garlands and lights soften the mood somewhat, but I still feel intimidated. We have a few minutes before the food arrives and none of your other employees are here yet. I'm pleased when Ms. Lopez offers to give me a tour.

It's all quite predictable, but in a highly polished, the best of everything kind of way. She shows me the cubicles, small offices, conference room, break area. Very nice, very clean, but definitely a place focused on business. Then she shows me into your office.

It smells like you in here. I pick up the scent of your soap and cologne, the spearmint gum you chew between meals, the comforting smell of leather and wood polish, and very subtly, that addictive, musky scent I know so intimately now. This is it. Your office. Where 'the action' takes place.

Of course Ms. Lopez knows. She's watching me now, a sense of vindication simmering behind her kind but inquisitive gaze. My crimson blush tells her everything I'm sure she already knew. I scan the room as disinterestedly as I can, but I can't stop my eyes from returning to your desk. How long until you make good on your promise?

We both hear the elevator chime through the open door. The serving staff pulls the catering carts from the elevator and begins setting up. The scents of prime rib, roasted potatoes, steamed vegetables and more waft through the office. Ms. Lopez scans me once more, appraising, approving, and we step back into the main area to welcome your employees and other guests.

I had my reservations about holding a holiday party at your office. I wondered why you didn't select somewhere offsite, casual and neutral. Watching you step from the elevator at five minutes to 7 o'clock, it all makes sense. You are the king of your domain, greeting employees, their spouses and your other guests. This is an open house of sorts. Less than a year in business here in the city and you've already expanded your network to include representatives from major insurers, investors, banks, builders and local politicians. I recognize several city council members and corporate executives. You make your way slowly to my side and draw me in for a simple kiss. Your hand on my waist, fingers brushing naked skin. Your lips on my temple. Your eyes saying hello, thank you, I love you.

The elevator doors continue to open and close, disgorging guests in pairs and crowds. The space fills to overflowing, people milling about with plates and drinks in hand. It's casual but beautiful, with instrumental music drifting in between conversations to fill any awkward silences. I meet your assistant, Mike, who seems a tad overwhelmed by the crowd. A gorgeous brunette with springy curls and equally buoyant breasts clings to his arm. She introduces herself and I realize I am now face to face with the infamous Jessica Stanley. She very. . . outgoing. But at least her lips look well moisturized. Glossy, even. Lucky Mike.

I manage to pace myself with the wine, only taking one sip for each bite of food. By 8:30 I've already picked out the handful of guests who will make fools of themselves tonight and wake with a hangover. Fortunately for them, their very kind and generous boss has declared tomorrow a day off.

I split my time between chatting with your associates and conferring with Ms. Lopez about the state of the food and refreshments. So far, things have gone off without a hitch.

At 8:45 you call for everyone's attention. You stand beside the giant Christmas tree. It's a stately Noble fir strung with garlands of silver beads and hovering protectively over empty boxes wrapped in glistening paper. I want a picture of this moment. Your smile is so big, so genuine, I can feel its warmth from 10 yards away. People turn to you and conversation dims to a hushed whisper. I slip along behind the crowd to speak with the head server. They should be replacing the empty chafing dishes with trays of petits fours and cups of fresh fruit with brandy syrup and clotted cream. I'm itching to try a bit of everything so I almost miss your announcement.

"I would also like to take this moment to introduce my fiancé, Miss Isabella Swan." My eyes almost pop out of my head. All thought of dessert flees and I stare at you and gulp. "Bella, come on up here for a minute."

I hate being the center of attention. Absolutely detest it. I grit my teeth and focus on not falling on my face as I walk through the crowd of smiling faces to join you beside the tree.

You take my hand and raise it to your lips with a smirk. I try really hard to scowl. My traitorous lips twitch instead. Your arm snakes around my waist, turning me to face the crowd. These are your people. The future of your business. Your family, of sorts. It hits me suddenly. That makes them mine, too. All of my effort, the planning, the frantic calls and coordination to make tonight perfect are no longer just about you and me. It's about all of them, too. I feel a sense of overwhelming pride. It's a foreign feeling, but exhilarating.

"Over the last three years, Bella has been the best part of my life. Knowing her, loving her, has made me a better man, a better boss, a better friend, brother, son, coworker. . . I can't count the number of times that her input or advice has helped me see through a tough situation or find the best route to a successful negotiation. Tough love or chocolate cake. . . she always seems to have the right recipe. Thank you, Bella."

Several people snicker and clap as I blush. I wonder how many of them were there when Mr. Simpson's chocolate torte arrived last month. Your words thrill me. I had no idea. . . this is how you see me? My eyes prickle and I look down, swamped by the emotions of the moment. I regain my bearing as you continue speaking.

"Many of you relocated with me from our Chicago office. Several of you came to us from competing firms. We've shared a lot of late nights, bitter disappointments and a few really stunning successes. And of course, we've all worked our asses off this year. Through it all, I have been overwhelmingly impressed by the dedication, perseverance and creativity of everyone on our team. Thank you for all your hard work."

Your words are met by spontaneous applause and I join in, swept up by the unbridled enthusiasm of this crowd. You quell the applause with your hands raised.

"What are you all clapping for? I haven't said anything you didn't already know." They laugh at your teasing. "I'm not the only one who wants to say something. You all know Marcus. He's my boss as well as yours and he would like to share a few thoughts and a touch of holiday cheer."

The applause that follows is slightly more restrained, but still welcoming and we step back a pace as an older gentleman in a dark, pin striped suit walks up to join us. He shakes your hand and greets me in a kind but reserved manner.

He turns to the crowd and addresses them in a quiet but stately voice, reiterating much of what you've already said and adding a bit of executive level oomph to it. Ms. Lopez appears at your elbow and hands you a stack of silver embossed sealed envelopes. You meet my questioning look with a wink. A couple seconds later you step up next to Marcus and he starts to call up your employees one by one. Then I get it.

Christmas bonuses. Nice.

I though those were a thing of the past. This must have been a really good year for your company. I see a few people discreetly opening their envelopes and peeking inside. One young man's eyes tear up and his very visibly pregnant wife looks radiant when she sees the contents. A festive feeling bubbles through the room as you invite everyone to grab desserts and the party resumes.

"I'm so curious, it's killing me. What was all that about?"

"Chicago is very happy. I already told you."

"Details."

"One month pay. In cash."

"Holy shit. That's awesome. Gary doesn't even sign his own Christmas cards. We do it for him. Needless to say, I don't bother giving one to myself."

"I've got you covered."

"Do you now?"

"Mm hm. Always." I lean in for a real kiss. We're still somewhat restrained. This is your place of business, after all. But still, your lips, the music, the sounds and smells of revelry. . . it's intoxicating. I wonder how long we need to stay before I can drag you home.

Marcus leaves soon after the bonuses have all been distributed. Over the next two hours, your employees trickle out the door into the lobby, silver envelopes tucked snugly into purses and coat pockets. With tomorrow off, I assume there will be lots of people out Christmas shopping. I'm glad we already checked that box.

I'm nursing my third glass of wine and contemplating stealing one more berry cup when Ms. Lopez puts her hand on my arm.

"I'm very happy to know you. I hope you'll come by the office more often. But now, I'm going to leave Mike in charge of clean up. You should go home, too. Take Mr. Cullen with you. He spends too much time here already."

I look across the room to where you are standing talking with Mike and Jessica. You catch my eye and smile, but I can read the lines of exhaustion on your face and in the set of your shoulders. You motion for one more minute. I can wait that long.

"Thanks so much. For everything. For looking out for him and for all the wonderful work you do. I know Edward relies on you. The whole office does. Oh, and let me know what you have planned for his birthday in June. I know it's a long way off, but I would love to embarrass the hell out of him."

I think I'm speaking quietly. I'm obviously not quiet enough.

"Embarrass whom?" you ask as you wrap your arms around me.

"Uh, nobody important." I'm a terrible liar.

Ms. Lopez laughs and pats me on the arm before catching up with Mike to hand over the reins. Mike looks crestfallen but Jessica links her arm with his and drags him over to the bar. He cheers up instantly. The bartender's tip jar is overflowing, another very positive side effect of your company's largess. He'll split it with the servers who are making short work of gathering the dirty dishes, silverware and glasses that litter the flat surfaces throughout the office.

"I think everything is under control here. Wanna ride home with me?" I slip my hand down to link with yours.

"I don't know, I want to make sure everyone is going to get home okay."

"The security guard is loading the unsteady ones into waiting taxis down stairs. Ms. Lopez already arranged it."

"Am I getting the bill?"

"Meh. Probably. You got them drunk."

You roll your eyes and I laugh. Fair's fair.

"Well, I guess there's no reason for me to stick around."

"And one very good reason for you to come home with me." I lean in and whisper two words. "Garter belt." I allow my lips to brush against your ear lobe and stay there, holding my breath and waiting for your response.

You lower your mouth to my ear and reply, "Commando."

My eyes drop involuntarily down to your slacks, but your suit coat is buttoned and I have no way to verify.

I think it's time to go home. I need to investigate.

We leave your car in the garage overnight and walk out through the lobby to retrieve my truck. When the first blast of wintery air hits us you realize immediately that I'm not wearing a coat.

"Are you insane?"

"Probably."

"Here, put this on." You shrug out of your coat and I slip my arms into the too-long sleeves. I'm swimming in it, but I don't care. The air has gotten painfully cold. This just proves that women are deranged idiots where fashion is involved. Forget tires for my truck. You're buying me a winter coat.

The cab barely has time to warm up before we're pulling into my apartment building. The feel-good energy of the night is still strong in my veins as we hurry into the building and up to my apartment. Once inside I open a brand new bottle of 18 year Scotch.

"Wow. Fancy. What's the occasion?"

I grin as I hand you a tumbler half full of the smoky, aromatic whiskey. "You."

"I'm an occasion?"

"Do I need an excuse?"

"Naw," you reply, taking a long, deep breath of the vapors before tipping back your glass. Your eyes close as you roll the smooth liquid slowly over your tongue and then swallow. I mimic your motions with my eyes open, savoring the expression of sensual pleasure that softens your features. Loving the bloom of heat that spreads across my tongue and trickles down my throat to coat my stomach.

With glass in hand I lead you to the couch, ignoring the fact that our surroundings now are the complete reverse of half an hour ago. Our dress and appearance are out of place in my cluttered nest. But this is how we are. Unlikely and mismatched and perfect. I turn around and wait for you to undress me. One handed. Moving slowly and carefully through the growing fog of heat and liquor and desire.

We've come full circle. It's you, and me, and happy.


I wake up to the sound of my phone buzzing. We're curled up together on the rug, our dress clothes draped over the couch behind us. I kick through the pillows and blankets until I find my purse.

"Hello?" I ask blurrily. It's not even 8:30 and we didn't stop drinking until three. The half empty bottle of scotch winks balefully at me from the coffee table. It felt so good going down. It really did. Now, I'm not so sure.

"Bella, where the hell are you?"

"Gary?"

"Well, who the hell else would it be?" he snarls through the phone. PMS has nothing on this man.

"I'm off today. I'll get to it on Monday."

"Excuse me?" He's almost screaming now. I hold the phone away from my ear but it's too late. My head rings painfully, discordant and off balance.

"I requested today off the Monday after Thanksgiving. I'll take care of whatever it is after the weekend."

"You think so, huh? Well you're wrong. Don't bother coming in. You're fired."

"Well, have a holly jolly fuck you, too," I say and hang up. I'm sure I care. Somewhere. Okay fine. Not really. You're looking at me with raised eyebrows, circles under your eyes and your hair an unruly mess. You still look incredible. "I need a new job."

"I thought we already established that."

"Yeah, well it's official now. Gary fired me." I stretch and yawn. It feels good so I drag it out a bit. Your eyes are on my naked breasts and I see the ghost of a smile on your lips.

"Do you want your half of my Christmas bonus?"

I shrug. "Actually, I'm just relieved that I don't have to go in there again. I should care. I know I should. But I don't. Is that weird?"

"Nope. I'd say it's perfect timing. I mentioned to a couple associates last night, in a very offhand way mind you, that you are a communications major with experience in business management and event coordination and are interested in new opportunities. I have a few business cards in my wallet for you. But you can get to that on Monday. Right?"

"Right," I reply, slinking back beneath the blankets and pulling your hand to my breast. "Excellent plan."

Your response is non-verbal and kind of perfect.


A/N: Care to share your Best/Worst experience at a company Christmas party?