Page 72 of Pink Ink

No.

Not hallucinating.

That’s her. Waiting in front of my door. Fidgeting with her fingers right before she shoves them into her pockets.

I quickly straighten my tie, fix my hair, and stroll toward her. I’m not sure whether I want to fuck her against the wall as punishment for the doe-eyed, lust-filled, obsessed teenager she’s turned me into, finger her until she tells me every single sordid detail of what’s gone through her head this past week, or sit her on my face until we both can’t breathe.

It’s like she’s trying to torture me with her short burgundy tartan skirt that would look so much better gathered around her waist.

Or on the floor.

I’m not picky.

My attention lands on her lace-clad thighs, and my semi goes to full mast. Just great. I’m going to have a meeting with HR come morning.

My only saving grace is that her turtleneck is covering her entire chest. Although it still does very little to minimize the temptation to rip her bra off with my teeth and take her nipples into my mouth.

“Mr. Shaw.” The three syllables come out in a single breath. I can’t tell whether it’s nerves, fear, or exasperation.

I don’t like any of the three options. So I go with a surprising fourth and final answer: lust.

Dilated pupils. Flushed skin. Subtle panting.

My lips pull into a grin. Well, well, well. It appears we’re mirroring the same thoughts. Maybe a repeat of last week is on the table after all.

She clears her throat. “I forgot my camera in your office.”

My grin falls.

Swell.

Now I’m pissed off again.

I deliberately forgot to bring it to class yesterday so there was an excuse for her to visit my office. But of course, she conveniently didn’t even show. After spotting her camera bag in my office last week, I foolishly thought she’d be on the first train back to campus and knocking on my door. Yet again, she proved me wrong.

Wordlessly, I unlock the door and shove it open, then deactivate the alarm. And because I can’t help myself, I say, “You weren’t in class yesterday.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

From the corner of my eye, I watch her enter the room. Clearly, I don’t give her enough credit. I expected her to lie and say she was sick, or bluster with one excuse or another. No, just a flat, obvious response.

I stride to my desk and grab her camera from the top drawer. I pause for a moment to toy with her black panties that I’ve kept in there for safekeeping.

There’s so much I could say. The first and main one being, why the fuck does she have an image relating to the Order in her camera roll?

Of course, I can’t ask her that since I’m sure she’d rip me another one if I confessed to going through her photos. Also, because she isn’t an acolyte, and if she became aware of the Order and started shaking trees she shouldn’t, the Order would sign her death certificate.

How would that conversation go?Reyna, you took a picture of the Order of the Hallowed Hive’s symbol—Yes, hives as in beehives, not the rash. Anyway, where did you find it? Do you know what it means? Are you prepared to die with the knowledge? Can you spread your legs again, please? I think I’m going through withdrawal.

I think not.

Other than that, I was disappointed to find zero photos of her in her camera roll. I hoped to find at least one or two self-portraits, clothing optional. Nothing.

I turn to pass Reyna her bag, but she’s nowhere to be seen. Like every other time she’s come in here, she can’t seem to help making herself at home, looking around without asking. I didn’t know she’d be here, so I didn’t have time to cover the two pieces I’m currently working on—the very two things she’s standing before.

My nerves develop a pulse, beating harder with every step I take toward her.

She’s become my only glimmer of sunlight, and I’m sick of living in the dark.