Lisa

"Another Saturday night and you ain't got nobody," Minnie sings.

"It's Wednesday. And shut up." I shuffle beneath the throw and reach for the remote control. "There's a House Hunters marathon with my name on it."

"God, that show." Minnie fluffs out her hair. She's in blue lipstick tonight, and she and Hyunjin are hitting up some new restaurant in Midtown. "I didn't know you were into it. How did I not know that?"

"Guess I'm a woman of mystery." I eye the tortilla chips and salsa I've got lined up on the coffee table next to a bottle of tequila. Minnie doesn't know about my mysterious House Hunters addiction because there's nothing to know. I'm watching the show because it's on and I can't focus or care enough to explore my other options.

"Want to know the big secret?" When I glance at Minnie, she clarifies, "About House Hunters."

"Uh…" I haven't been curious about anything but Jennie in days. "Sure."

"They've already bought their house before the episode starts. They're only looking at the other two for the show. And you know how you can guess which house is the one they're going to 'pick'?" She gives me a wicked grin. "It's almost always the one with no furniture in it."

She waits, like she's expecting me to be outraged that she ruined the mystique. All I can say is, "Oh. I'll have to look for that."

Her brow wrinkles. "Jesus, you are out of it. You have been all night. Are you coming down with something?" She even approaches me, her high heels clomping on the floor, and puts her hand on my forehead. "You're warm!"

I move away in irritation. "Yes, because your hands are always cold. I'm fine. I'm just tired, that's all."

"That job is messing with your head." Luckily, her phone bleeps from the arm of the sofa, and she snatches it. "Hyunjin's waiting outside. Gotta go."

I wave her off, and the door closes behind her, leaving me with a heterosexual couple on TV and my thoughts rattling around in my brain. I could do without both. But I leave the TV on and don't bother trying to think about anything else now that Minnie's gone.

Wednesday night and I ain't got nobody, because my "somebody" is out at a big fundraiser and isn't my "somebody" anyway. In spite of all the evidence to the contrary. We've been going at it for a week now.

You'd think I'd be ready for a break. I'm not. We said we'd keep this to the office. I'm following my own rules, and it's not doing me a damn bit of good. I set up the boundaries just so this wouldn't happen, just so I wouldn't sit around thinking about her and wondering what she's doing. And who she's doing it with.

After all, we're not exclusive. I sit up straight on the sofa when I think of that. I never said we'd be each other's one and only. I'd just kind of taken it for granted, since we don't exactly have a lot of spare time to find anyone else outside of work, but right now Jennie's at a fundraiser rubbing shoulders with rich men in tuxedos.

Hold on, self. I breathe deeply. Technically, she's not even divorced. Word's probably still spreading through Atlanta society. If nothing else, hooking up publicly with another guy would complicate that process, and it'd be terrible for her image. God knows Jennie Kim cares about image more than she cares about anything else, especially me.

"I love the woodwork," the woman on TV says. She's looking around a room with no furniture, and her smile looks fake. Maybe Minnie's right. The other two houses probably look better, if the TV hosts picked them out for the show; I vaguely remember my college roommate complaining that the couples always picked the worst houses.

I wonder if Jennie watches House Hunters, or any other kind of TV. What would she be into? Would it be trashy reality TV or serious stuff like Masterpiece Theatre? Historical dramas? Documentaries? I can't see her enjoying a sitcom, but maybe I'm wrong. I really don't know much about her.

Except for how it drives her crazy when I hit the G-spot at just the right angle and just the right time.

I gulp and start sweating. My fingertips are twitching with the urge to take care of myself, which I've done twice today already—the first time was as soon as I woke up. I do it every night when I get home from work, too. It's torture to get my hands off Jennie and know I have to wait for satisfaction until I've gained the privacy of my bedroom. Waiting is necessary, I know. Every day, I get closer to losing myself, and I can't let that happen—but danged if it isn't torture.

Last night I almost called her while I was fucking myself. I thought about getting her to listen to me. The thought turned me on so much I ended up not being able to wait long enough to do it. Afterward, I realized it was a good thing. I can't make myself that vulnerable with her.

You mean like she gets vulnerable with you?

I shush my inner voice. Yes, Jennie makes herself physically vulnerable. That's not the kind of vulnerability I'm worried about. I'd rip off my clothes for her in a second if there was no danger of her stomping all over my heart in her stilettos.

I'd kiss her, too.

My eyes fall shut. Fingers touch my mouth—my own, unbidden. I can't help remembering what happened in the elevator. It was too much at the time, too overwhelming, but now I can't help thinking that kissing Jennie would be incredible.

Only problem is, kissing's another sure way to get my heart in trouble. When it comes to kissing, I have no poker face. I don't kiss if I don't mean it, if I'm not willing to put something on the line, and it seems like my partners can always tell.

I sigh and try to focus on the show again. No good. These people are annoying. Maybe I'll watch Nanette again or start Russian Doll. Everybody tells me that's pretty good.

My phone beeps with a text. I frown. Maybe Minnie forgot her wallet again.

But when I look at my phone, it's not Minnie. It's Jennie. My lock screen reads: I brought it with me.

It takes me a second to work out what she means. Brought what, a case file to a fundraiser? I wouldn't put anything past Jennie Kim at this point. Not even—

Not even bringing a remote-controlled vibrator.

My whole body lights up. I swipe open to my text app, and I almost type out an explicit reply before I remember that paper trails (or whatever the digital equivalent is) are really bad. How do I respond? I'm not exactly in a state to be thinking clearly.

Well. How would Jennie put it?

I take a deep breath and try to keep my fingers steady as I type. In the Ritz-Carlton, Jennie has a vibrator inside her. Has she worn it all night? Or did she put it in her clutch and sneak off to a private place at an opportune moment?

In the end, the simplest questions are probably the best. I type.

Where are you?

After a couple of seconds that last for years, she responds.

Restroom.

After another second.

Handicapped, single occupancy.

That answers that question. I bite my bottom lip. I can't think of anything to say. Maybe that means I shouldn't say anything.

Instead of saying something, I open the vibrator app.

There are a lot of settings. Low. Medium. High. Ultra, whatever that is; maybe something even higher than high. Then you get wave, tide, surf, and crest, because orgasms are like the ocean, I guess. There's echo and pulse, and—

I'm overthinking it. Jennie's waiting. I decide to stick to the basics and select low. Then I text her.

Tell me when you want increased productivity.

The reply comes almost immediately.

Now.

Got it. My breath is coming faster as I switch the vibrator to medium. I can't help trying to imagine her environment. Restrooms aren't the sexiest locations, but the Ritz-Carlton's is bound to be a step above your ordinary restroom, and the point isn't the features. The point is that you're somewhere you could be caught any second because you couldn't control yourself, because you had to text your side piece in the middle of an important party so you could get off ASAP.

I'm starting to ache just thinking about it. And I can take care of it. She's not looking. We can get off together for the first time. At the thought, I feel wetness beginning to gather between my thighs.

Jennie texts.

Increase.

I gulp. I move it up to high. I wish I had more feedback than text messages. In fact, if Jennie's coherent enough to text, I can't really be doing my job. Her hands should be unsteady, her head should be tilted backwards while her mouth parts, as if she's begging for kisses.

I can't help it. I've got to call her.

For a second, I think this is a step too far and she won't pick up. Then, on the third ring, she does.

"Lisa," she says, a breathless whisper.

That's it, that's all it takes, and I'm shuffling my yoga pants down my thighs. I can control this thing one-handed, right? I put her on speakerphone so I don't have to hold her at my ear. "Have you been wearing it all night?"

"No. Just—just now."

"What made you want to put it in?" I press my fingertips against the cotton of my panties. It's getting damp fast. "What got you going tonight, Jennie? Or who?"

For a second, I wonder if it's a man after all. Or, worse, a woman. Maybe Yoona Lim is at that party, resplendent in suit and tie, and she got Jennie hot and bothered. At the thought, I pull up the app again and choose a setting at random. It turns out to be pulse.

"Oh!" Jennie gasps.

The sound makes me arch my hips. I bite back my groan. "Tell me."

"I-I don't know. I put it in my bag. I was thinking about—I just was, for God's sake." She hisses. "Stupid, I shouldn't have—"

Is she going to stop? Hang up and take out the vibe? No, hell no, I can't let that happen. "Yes, you should have. Do you like it? Is this good?"

"It's—it's—" I change the setting to wave, and she groans, "Yes. Oh, yes."

"Tell me what you're wearing." I begin rubbing myself again, resisting the urge to shove my hand underneath my panties. "Tell me what you look like."

"It's Dolce and Gabbana—black—" God, her voice is already breaking into pieces, and we've done this for less than two minutes. "Knee-length?"

"Is that a question? What's your hair look like?"

"It's…up. Oh, Lisa, more…"

I can practically taste her against my mouth. I swallow to keep from salivating. That lucky fucking vibrator. "Tell me about what you're wearing underneath. Or are you bare for me?" I keep rubbing myself through my own underwear.

"No. I'm wearing black lace—I do own pretty things," she adds. Of all the times for her to sound exasperated. "Not just the cotton."

Cotton's not so bad. Right now, I don't give a damn what her underwear is made of. "I bet you still have it on. I bet it's holding the vibe in place, pressing it against you. Isn't it?"

"Oh. Yes."

It sounds like she's expending a lot of effort to keep whispering. Can I make her scream? Wouldn't that be the worst idea? "Good to know. Brace yourself." I change the setting to tide.

This draws from her a low, slow groan.

Part of me is dying to video chat this. The other part knows it'd be a disaster for her to see my face. Every inch of it would give away how much I want her. It's getting harder and harder to hold that back. How much longer can I go on?

I can't resist plucking the waistband of my panties. No, no, no. Not yet. "Is it good?"

"I'm close." The strain in her voice nearly undoes me. "Lisa. Close."

Realistically, I know we're pressed for time. She can't stay in the bathroom all night. Unrealistically, I could drag this out forever, listen to her quick breathing and heavy sighs.

I lick my dry lips. "You naughty girl. Couldn't wait. I didn't tell you that you could do this."

"Lisa!" Her voice breaks again. She loves being reprimanded when things are hot and heavy.

"I'll make you wait later." I'm pressing down into the sofa, desperately chasing the pressure I need. Can I get myself off just from doing that? Nothing would surprise me at this point. "I'll draw it out, Jennie. Until you lose your mind."

She moans again. "Lisa—I need—"

"You know what you have to do." I can picture so clearly her flushed cheeks and throat, the perspiration gathering on her smooth brow. "You know what you have to say."

"Please." It's a whimper, both ecstatic and broken. She hates submitting, she loves submitting, and right now she needs to get off more than she can decide between the two feelings. "Lisa, please—let me—"

I can't help myself. I slip my hand beneath the waistband of my panties and arch up against my touch. "Say it."

"Lisa? Are you—?"

I can't tell her. She can't know. "Say it."

"Please make me come!" On the last word, her whisper rises into a high pitch. "Please!"

I turn up the speed.

A short, sharp cry that's quickly muffled. She's probably covering her mouth with her hand while she struggles to stay upright as she comes, comes, comes—

I come, too, the second my finger brushes over my clit. I arch my back up and my mouth opens on a silent scream. Somewhere across town, Jennie's coming, too, and we're reaching our pleasure together—she doesn't know, and it's so good—

"Good girl," I breathe as I come down. I'm not even sure which of us I'm talking to. Right now, I don't feel like a very good girl. "Oh, that was so good."

"Yes." The husky note in her voice makes me shiver.

I bite back a groan. "Take it out. Clean it up." Inspiration strikes. "If I was there, I'd make you lick it clean for me." God, what a sight that would be. My hips arch involuntarily.

"Oh!" That note of outrage in her voice gets less convincing every time we do this.

"I'll see you tomorrow." The last thing I want to do is hang up, which means I have to. "Until then, don't get off. Got it?"

She clears her throat. "Oh, for heaven's sake—"

Yeah, right about now is when she starts getting imperious again. It's as much a turn on as anything else. Sure wish it wasn't. "Good night, Jennie."

I hang up, toss my phone onto the coffee table, and try to settle in and enjoy the warmth between my legs. Afterglow feels nice, and it's amazing not to have to wait half an hour for it after I'm done making Jennie come. I got to do it with her. I had her moans in my ear while I touched myself—

Okay. No. What was I just saying? Head out of the clouds. We've had our little interlude—because she couldn't wait for you until tomorrow, my thrilled inner voice whispers—and now it's time for me to think about something else. How about TV? Or how about school? My essay is…

My body flushes cold. My essay was due at 9:00 p.m. last night. And the professor never takes late work.

Goddammit! I cover my mouth with my hand, which still smells like me. What did I tell myself? That I wouldn't slip. That I could have this without it affecting the other parts of my life. I could compartmentalize.

Maybe I still can. I tug my panties and yoga pants back up and rush for my laptop. Maybe I can throw myself on the professor's mercy. I hate doing it—what excuse can I possibly give?—but I was doing so well in this class. Maybe that will sway her opinion. I'm no slacker.

I just have to think of a reason that's not also a lie. Something about how my job's been crazy. That's true enough.

I open my student email, click "Compose," and stare at the empty dialogue box, waiting for inspiration to strike. Or for my common sense to kick in. Anything but the little voice in the back of my head that's all too honest, telling me that I've got it bad and I'm in way over my head.

And that there's no way I'm going to stop.