Nata

In my lab, I put the random papers from the only unused bench into a cardboard box so I could go through them later. I massage the remaining ache at the at the top of my neck below my hair and squint. The florescent lights are too bright on a normal day, but after sleeping less than five hours, they burn my retinas with the vigor of airborne acid. I should've brought sunglasses, but that'd get me even more glances than the dozen Kate has already thrown my way in less than an hour.

From the outside, today looks like all other days: I woke up at five and made it to work. I had a double shot of espresso. Twice. I took an Advil. I answered my emails and conducted two out of the three interviews for the new hire for my lab with Samson and Fiona as my panel.

The main difference is that I'm sore.

Not in a way I've ever been.

After I started track in middle school, muscle soreness became the norm. I liked it. It was in a way proof that I worked hard and pushed myself. If I was sore after a run, I took it as a tangible indicator of progress, a more immediate way to know I worked hard than the gradual improvements in physical form or shaving seconds off my best times. Those took weeks, if not months, to achieve.

But being sore from sex? New to me.

Even though one of my fears about having sex with Phillip was that I wouldn't know how to do sex with someone other than Samson, this weekend proved that fear was unsubstantiated. I shift from one foot to the other. The change in position brings no relief, only more awareness of how swollen I still am. How even the light contact with my panties creates too much friction.

I'm sure porn stars are sore from sex, but I've never thought I could be. I guess that's what I get for having sex so many times in two days.

"When are we going to talk about you driving away with Phillip?" Kate places a frozen sample into the lyophilizer and shuts the door.

"There's nothing to discuss." I move my low ponytail to cover the hickey on the spot behind my ear that most definitely is a new-to-me erogenous zone. "I need to go prep for the last interview."

The feel of Phillip's lips kissing their way from behind my ear down to the hollow below my throat—new erogenous zone number two—sends my neck, chest, and face into the kind of overheating they're only used to experiencing from exercise. My stomach flutters.

The no kissing on the mouth policy was a wise choice, because I don't need to catch feels or allow my brain to trap itself into thinking there's something more than procreating going on between Phillip and me. No kissing is a perfect boundary to keep the lines of our deal clear. But no kissing did not save me from enjoying myself. A lot. Phillip wasn't exaggerating his expertise. Everything his did to me I craved more of. I rest my hand on my flaming cheek. Or maybe it's just the novelty part of sex with a new person.

"I was locating a fire extinguisher you two were so hot together on the plane." Kate picks up some bottles with solvent and hands them to me returning me to the here and now. She watches me like I'm a mood ring and will give away what happened without opening my mouth. "The least you can do is tell me what happened after you got into his limo, while I clean up the bench for whomever you end up hiring."

The only available bench somehow became a solvent storage and although I was glad that the last candidate Samson actively been pushing on me flared his nostrils at the sight of his potential place of work. The person I'm interviewing next is who I think I want to hire. She's the only candidate who ticks most of the requirements on my list.

I stack the bottles on a shelf in the dedicated shelving unit. "Thanks for your help."

"And?"

"And what?" I take the final jug and walk away from Kate.

She follows me. "You know I'm not below begging when it comes to juicy romantic gossip."

"If you are referring to Phillip and me, there's exactly zero romance between us."

"Go on." Kate sucks in her lips and stares at me with anime-wide eyes.

"There's nothing to go on about." I've never talked to anyone about my sex life. Barely even with the person I was having the sex life with.

"Don't feed me that bullshit. I have eyes and those eyes saw the way he looked at you." Kate collects the random containers and beakers and sets them into the sink to wash. "I wish I chose to stay on the commercial flight and given you the opportunity to do whatever he clearly had an intention of doing with you."

I take the clean glassware from her hands and stack it into the drying oven. "Why were you never this enraptured to hear about Samson's and my relationship?"

Kate raises her hand in a 'hold on' gesture and lifts one finger. "First: you and Phillip are having a relationship?" She lifts another finger. "Second: I never liked Samson for you. And unlike you, I trust my gut." She does a rewind motion with her wrist. "Back to number one—Nata and Phillip have a relationship? What stage are we? First base? Second base? Third base? Home run?"

Explaining why Phillip and I started with the home run means violating our NDA. But I won't be able to fain immaculate conception once I'm pregnant enough to show. My gut churns at the future scenario. Hope and fear combine their forces to elevate my heart rate. I press my lips together and look at the bench to see if there's anything else I can occupy myself with. Focus on the immediate task at hand. I grab a rag and a spray bottle and cover the bench's surface with the antiseptic-smelling cleaning solution.

I rub the Formica hard enough to scratch the laminated top. Pregnancy that people can see—that's months away, and it's almost impossible that I'm pregnant after only having sex for one weekend. My core muscles clench at the memories. Every time I close my eyes today, I relived the feel of Phillip's hands on my butt, the greedy slopping sounds we created, the orgasm ramming its way through my nervous system. I slam the spray bottle on the sink and tear off a paper towel. "He showed me around his place."

"That blush tells me you weren't visiting his side for a tour of his kitchen."

"His coffee machine is a beast." I wipe the damp surface. It's so clean I could eat off it. "I've never experienced anything that good."

"So, that's what you call Phillip's"—Kate waves around her pelvic area—"machinery? With your coffee obsession, it only makes sense you'll call a man's cock a coffee machine."

My blush might just become a permanent condition. I hit her playfully on the arm. "Stop it."

"Tell me more about this beast of his."

I'm going to unfreind Kate, because an unbidden image of Phillip penis enters my mind like it entered me. Expertly. He knew what he was doing. And I want him to do it again. And again. And again. And... My underwear is both too hot and too damp. I might need a shower and a change of clothes before I go home. I roll my lips between my teeth.

"That good?" Kate covers the O of her mouth with her hand and fans herself. "I'm happy you're getting some well-deserved vitamin C."

"I haven't confirmed anything."

"Nor denied. I promise not to let Phillip know I know what you did Sunday night at his place." Kate drums her fingers on the sparking surface of the bench, as if she's the side character in a summer teenage murder-mystery movie.

"What did you do with Phillip Sunday night at his place?" Samson's voice is like a bucket of ice that cures my overheating condition.

"None of your business." Kate sets her fists on her hips and squares against my ex. "Ever heard of knocking? We're having a private conversation here."

"You shouldn't be having a private conversation at your place of work. Plus, we're waiting on Nata. The final interviewee is here but we can't begin without the person who's supposed to be the lab manager." Samson places his hand on the small of my back. The icy feeling spreads from there across my skin. "I want you to present yourself in the best light and as an assent to this lab. Being on time is the first thing." He pushes me toward the door.

I glance at the clock on the wall and curse internally at myself. I'm not late, technicality. I still have five minutes until the start time, but Samson is annoyingly right. I should've been in the room already, instead of not discussing my sexcapades with Kate.

"Thanks for getting me," I tell Samson and walk faster to escape the confines of his arm on my back as we stroll down the hallway to the meeting rooms' side of the floor.

"Are you really sleeping with that playboy?" He asks the back of my head.

"What happened to no personal conversations at work?"

He catches up with me and stays by my side. His hand finds its way back to barely above my ass, like he still has the right to keep it there. "I know we've been together for so long you might have cold feet before committing to me for the rest of our lives," he says into my ear.

His breath touches my temple, and I freeze. Everything about Samson is unpleasant to me, even the air coming out of his lungs sets me on edge. I speed up but he does as well. "I get that I've been your only sexual partner and that you might want to explore the field. You were not my first, but I want you to be my last." His hand catches my elbow and stops me.

"I know you are the person for me." His forehead rests on my hair and I shiver at the touch.

"You know I'm patient," he whispers.

"I hate thinking about another man touching you." His grasp on my elbow tightens.

I wrench it away from him as I step backward, and this time he remains in place. His gaze pleads with me, and the pain I see there hurts me. But not enough to stop walking away from him and putting enough distance so I can breathe normally again.

Samson undoes the top button of his shirt and rubs the back of his neck, eyes on me. "I love you, Natalia." He sighs. "I love you too much to let your fear of missing out mess up our relationship."

"Samson." I halt my backwards momentum and stand in the middle of a thankfully empty hallway. "Our relationship is over. I've never cared or wanted to sleep with another man. You know what I'm doing is not about that. Whether or not this thing with Phillip works out, I'm not going back to what we had. You can't give me what I want. And I'm not willing to compromise this time around. Not where kids are concerned. It's a non-negotiable, and no amount of patience on your end is going to solve that problem."

"And how is sleeping with a notorious man-whore going to solve it?"

"By him getting me pregnant." I regret the words the second they fly out of my mouth. Even if I didn't technically break the NDA, I said too much.

Samson's face falls. His gaze, cold and sharp, cuts through me. "I wish you went with a sperm donor," he hisses. "Would've been safer. Make sure you check for STDs." Samson storms ahead and enter the interview meeting room.

"Dammit." I curse under my breath. Following him into the room is the last thing I want, but it's interview o'clock. I tighten my ponytail, straighten my shoulders, school my features into an "I'm responsible, even-keel lab manager you want to work with" expressions, and enter.

Thank you!