December 2017

ZOE

A cold sensation of dread slithers down my spine as Will stands in front of my desk, delivering an eloquent resignation speech. At one point, his words blur into a distant hum as blood rings through my ears. This is what happens when I fail. When I can't keep people happy. They leave to find someone else who can.

"I hope you understand," he says. "I've learnt so much under you, and in my heart I would love to stay, but I feel I can give more, and The Regent will offer me that."

I breathe out a long sigh and lean back in my chair.

"I do understand. I would never want to hold you back, Will. Is it the title or the money?"

"Both." He passes his resignation letter from hand to hand. "I wouldn't expect the pay rise without the promotion, though."

It would destroy us to lose Will. He's the glue holding this team together. And what about me? I rely on him. I trust him. At the same time, he's good enough for this promotion at The Regent. He deserves it. And right now, I can't give him that because the role he deserves here is already occupied. By me.

Next week will be judgement day. Either I get the Hotel Manager position and promote Will to replace me, or I don't get the position—for the second time—and I'm the one who hands in their notice. Whatever the outcome, there will be an open spot for Will.

"Have you signed a contract with them yet?" I ask.

"Not yet."

"Can you give me a week?"

He stops fiddling with the letter. "A week?"

"You can tell them your current employer is trying to negotiate. It might even get them to increase their offer."

"And is that what you're doing?" His brow furrows. "Negotiating?"

Hopefully he doesn't think I'm stringing him along; he should know me better than that. Still, if he is going to trust me enough to put his other offer on hold, I owe him the same.

"This is confidential, so don't repeat it to anyone." I sit up in my chair and rest my forearms on the desk. "I have an interview for the Hotel Manager position next week. If I get it, I'll promote you."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Wow, Zoe. That's great. Your interview, I mean." A softer smile lifts his mouth. "You'd make a great Hotel Manager. I'd be honoured to work with you."

"Thanks. I'm sure there are other great candidates, too. We'll see." I don't tell him it's not my first time trying. That won't exactly fill him with confidence.

"I can wait a week." He shoves the letter into his back pocket. "Even if just to buy you a congratulations drink."

*

At midnight, two days before my interview, I get a text from Mark. Straightaway the hairs on my arms stand up because he hates texting. He's more of a phone call kind of guy.

Mark: Are you awake?

Me: Yes. Why?

Mark: Can I see you?
Mark: There was an incident. I need a friend.

I sit up in bed and stare at the message. An incident? What the hell does that mean? Heart thumping, I tap out a reply. It takes me several attempts because my fingers are shaking. Is he okay?

Me: Yes. Come over. Are you okay?

Mark: Fine.

Ten minutes later, he knocks on my door. Gentle. Slow. Not his usual confident, answer-the-damn-door-now knock.

I open it, and he's absolutely not fine. Jacket looped over his arm and tie hanging askew, he stands on the other side with exhaustion leaking through his bloodshot eyes. His tall, dominant frame is slumped, hair dishevelled. Thankfully, I see no signs of blood.

"What happened?" I breathe. "Are you hurt?"

He shakes his head. "I'm fine."

Taking his hand, I tug him over the threshold into my living room. As soon as I've shut the door, he whirls around and cups my face between his two large palms. His hands tremble against my cheeks as he rests his forehead against mine.

"Can I kiss you?" he rasps.

In the eleven years we've known each other, I've only seen him like this once. Fear creeps down my spine at the thought of what might have triggered this tonight, and in that moment, I know I'll give him anything he asks for. It doesn't matter what's happened between us in the past or what might happen in the future. Tonight he needs a comfort, and I'll be whatever kind of comfort he needs.

"If that's what you need," I whisper back.

His swallow is loud, strained. "It's not what I need. But I'm trying not to be an arsehole."

I fold my hands over his and brush my thumbs over his wrists. Our eyes meet. Desperation burns in his emerald irises. Tipping my head back, I graze my lips over his. A ragged breath leaves his mouth. His hands tighten around my jaw, calloused fingertips biting into my scalp.

"Be an arsehole," I tell him, nipping his bottom lip. "Just let me make you feel better."

He walks me backwards, slow but purposeful steps, until I hit the wall behind me. Caged between an unyielding surface behind me and an equally unyielding mass of muscle in front of me, my stomach flips with anticipation. And when his lips part mine, our mouths react like it's been eight days, not eight years. This time, though, it's different. Not just because it's been so long, but because the man kissing me has gone through something tonight that's rocked him. And hardly anything rocks Mark Anderson.

He tastes the same—coffee and mint—and he smells of the same cedarwood cologne he's always worn, but the look and feel of him is so, so different. In an exhilarating, nerve-wracking way.

I try to keep up, try to meet every pull of his lips, every sweep of his tongue, but it's impossible. His body screams powerful, and his mouth is no different.

"I need you," he growls against my lips.

"I'm yours." The words spill out of me fast, but I don't have time to regret them.

He spins me around, yanks my pyjama shorts down to my knees and bends me over. Pulse racing, I plant my palms against the wall. A clink of a belt buckle. A whoosh of a zip.

He drives inside me with a groan, and I hiss at the stretch, bordering somewhere between uncomfortable and euphoric. Shit. It's been three years since I've had a man inside me, and Mark isn't exactly an easy reintroduction to the world of sex.

"Fuck." He buries his face in the crook of my neck, his breath hot against my skin.

"Yeah," I agree with a shaky sigh.

Groaning, he pulls out a few inches, then pushes back in, his fingertips digging into my hipbones.

I spread my legs as I start to adjust to his size again. I can take him. I know I can. I did it for a year beforehand. His body might be bigger in every respect since then, but penises don't grow, right?

"Fuck, you feel good, Zo..." He eases out, then plunges in harder this time, his solid abs hitting my arse cheeks through the soft fabric of his shirt.

"So do you." I curl my fingers against the wallpaper, nails scratching the bumpy texture. "You're even bigger than I remember. And I've thought about it a lot."

It's the truth, but it's also what he needs to hear right now. Whatever has happened, he wants to be grounded. To be lost in something else. A distraction. I've no idea. But when it comes to sex, I do know him. Or at least I did a decade ago.

Judging by his rumble of appreciation, he hasn't changed. I didn't give him the vocal feedback he craved back then. As an insecure twenty-something-year-old, it felt like the only power I held over him.

As a wiser thirty-something-year-old, I couldn't care less about the power. I just want my friend to feel better.

He starts to take me faster. Rougher. Until he's pounding me into the wall, his gravelly pants drowned out by my high-pitched moans.

His cock is so thick and deep that it's forces out every stress and anxiety from my mind, so I can think of nothing but him. His broad hands on my hips, firm and confident. His huge body behind me, slapping into mine with every thrust.

"Yes, Mark..." My gasp is muffled by the wall, and then seconds later he releases inside me with a primal grunt and a shudder.

For several seconds, neither of us moves. My legs are trembling from the effort of staying upright while being fucked into oblivion for the first time in over a decade.

Even Mark's lips are quivering when he presses them to my ear. "I forgot to ask about protection."

"It's fine."

"I'm still clean."

"Me too."

Slowly, he pulls out, then tugs at my shoulder to turn me back to face him. Our eyes meet for a short beat before his mouth is on mine again, softer this time, like he wants to taste me properly now that the urgency has subsided.

As his tongue nudges mine, his fingers float between my legs. I jolt. Is he really going to touch me there when I'm full of his come?

"Did I hurt you?" His question is tender, his touch even more so.

"No," I say. "It's just been a while since..."

Can't go there. Pillow-talk 101 dictates that you shouldn't talk about sex with other people. We might not be in bed, but Mark has never been totally cool with me being with other people. And, honestly, I'd rather not hear about his hook-ups over the years too. We've managed to avoid that topic during our friendship—it's an unspoken rule—and that's probably half the reason we've been doing so well.

Two long fingers push inside me, just as his thumb smooths over my clit. He clearly doesn't care about the come, or maybe some twisted part of him likes it. Some twisted part of me likes it, the thought of his own fluid lubricating his fingers as he slides them in and out.

And oh my god, he remembers exactly how I like it. The exact speed and pressure I need on my clit. The curl of his fingertips against that sensitive spot deep inside me. It's like we never stopped. Like we never should have stopped. Because when it's this good, there's no excuse to deprive ourselves of it.

My thighs shake as I get close, and then his other palm lightly wraps around my throat and the orgasm rushes to surface.

"Say my name again when you come."

Pleasure erupts, detonating between my thighs like a bomb that sends shrapnel flying out of my throat in a scream. I come so hard it's nearly painful. I nearly beg him to stop.

I don't. Instead, I whimper his name over and over and over. 

***

Thank you for reading :) xx

***

I don't think they can pretend they're just friends anymore, can they? Where do you think they go from here? 👀