“I like it here. Very pretty,” I said, noticing ferns and orchid, a feeling of lightness and nature.
He nodded without looking up from his menu. I liked that, because this was business. I looked over the menu and settled on the herbed salmon with jasmine rice. After we ordered, he looked at me almost purposefully.
“I’d like you to elaborate on what you said in the meeting about more specific training. I think it would be useful for me to know some scenarios—I have been meticulous in my career to avoid any kind of ambiguous or sexual interactions with employees, but there is as you said more to it than the obvious.”
He seemed to falter, to be unsure. It stunned me that the most confident, impressive man I’d ever known was uncertain about something.
“Well, okay, the bywords here are reasonable and consent. If a reasonable person would take action, then you’re probably okay. Like when we were in the car if the driver slammed on the breaks to avoid an accident, and I grabbed your arm. That would be a reaction that a reasonable person might make and immediately let go. But if he slammed on the breaks—”
“And if I used the opportunity to touch your breast, that would be unreasonable. I might throw out my arm to stop you from lurching forward, but coping an opportunistic feel would be over the line. I think that’s obvious.”
“Yes. And if we were attending a funeral for a board member or something, a solemn post-work occasion, and you put your arm around the widow to comfort her when she cried, that’s normal. If you grabbed her ass—inappropriate,” I snickered, “or if you seemed upset during the funeral, which you obviously wouldn’t because you’re devoid of feelings—and I covered your hand with mine like this,” I reached across the table and laid my hand on his, squeezed his fingers a little.
My sentence trailed off. My eyes tracked to the spot where I held his hand. There was energy there. That was the best word I could come up with for it. Energy crackling off that touch, that perfectly commonplace, platonic touch.
His thumb skated across my palm and I rolled my lips under and bit them in response. He was holding my hand, stroking my palm with one thumb. If we had been at a funeral, the entire interaction would have communicated—‘it’s okay, have a tissue’ and ‘thanks, that’s kind of you.’ But in a restaurant, across a table from my billionaire boss whose most basic gaze set my skin on fire, the touches said something more like, ‘oh god that feels good’ and ‘if you think that feels good, how about I stroke you like this?’ I swear to God, I wanted to moan. Hence biting my own lips to keep from it.
Obviously, I should have withdrawn my hand, the point made or not about casual, not sexually charged contact, but I wouldn’t deny myself. I let myself have this one moment. This breathless moment where I had laid my hand atop his and squeezed his fingers only to have him rake his thumb back and forth across my innocent, unsuspecting, hopelessly horny fingers. If I groaned, ‘oh god yes,’ that would be embarrassing. I swallowed the words with great effort. Every single part of my body down to the soles of my feet prickled with an awareness of him. My pulse was throbbing in my throat. I knew if he looked up at my neck he would see the pounding of my heart visible there beneath my pale skin.
“And would this be reasonable? If I caught your hand and held it?” he asked archly. I cleared my throat.
“That brings us to the second key word. Consent. It’s likely very rare for there to be a mutual attraction between coworkers of unequal positions of power, but ending harassment doesn’t end romance. It makes it better because we’re sexual beings,” my eyes skidded to his face. Not one eyelash betrayed a reaction to my use of the words.
“And we can speak about our desires. If the other person wants it, too, then they say so. You have to have enthusiastic consent. Consent isn’t ‘I guess’ consent is ‘yes, more, please.’” I said. I breathed the last few words, my voice husky.
“So if I held your hand, the simple act of not taking back your hand isn’t consent? The fact that you gripped my fingers tighter, as if you’d never let go? The way you bit your lips and then licked them? Are those not nonverbal cues to continue?”
“They could be, or they could be reluctant or have a fear of retribution. It could be arousal or it could be fear. Silence, freezing, not speaking up, those can be responses to a threat as well.”
“But I’m no threat to you. You have as much power as I have in the interaction. ‘Yes’ was waiting on your tongue. I could feel it, and I could hear it,” he said. His voice, oh God, his voice! I could feel his voice sliding up and down my chest. I wanted to lick the sound of it, dark and glorious, but I had a point to make, and I was nothing if not stubborn.
“You could easily be a threat to me. You could force me. You could retaliate if I refused. You could hurt me physically or ruin me professionally. Barter prestigious assignments and promotions or threaten termination or loss of privileges—there’s so much power you could leverage over me in your position so much that would make a woman afraid to say no, or feeling like she couldn’t afford to. That’s coercion.”
“A real man doesn’t need to coerce a woman. He offers. And she accepts.”
“What if she doesn’t accept?” I challenged.
“I’ve never experienced that,” he said plainly. And I felt it straight down to my bones.
“I bet you haven’t,” I sighed.
“Why do you say that?”
“Oh, it isn’t acceptable to make remarks about a coworker’s physical appearance. So no comment,” I said.
“I asked. You’re allowed to answer. I won’t report you,” he teased.
“You’re—” I chose my words carefully— ‘your appearance might be defined as classically handsome.” It sounded wooden, hollow in my ears, too cold a description.
“I see. So I might be categorized as having symmetrical features?”
“Exactly,” I laughed.
“Say what you want to say, Cat. You don’t have to hold your breath around me,” he said. God, that was appealing. A man who wasn’t going to take offense if I misspoke or if I joked about something serious. I smiled in spite of myself.
“Okay, you look like pretty much every red-blooded woman’s fantasy. Like George Clooney would play second fiddle to you,” I finished, surprised as hell that I was that open and honest. Even though he’d asked for it. What the hell was I doing?
“Clooney’s a distant second? I’ll tell him that in person at the next fundraiser,” he chuckled.
My face must’ve turned as red as it did hot because Brent broke into shoulder shaking laughter. “Don’t worry, I won’t actually say tell him that.”
“Oh good,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to have to change my name and move to a new country to escape the embarrassment.”
Brent chuckled. “You’d be surprised how low key and self-deprecating George is about his looks.”
With a half-smile, he released my hand as our food arrived. My hand felt cold without the grip of his, but the rest of my body was warm with the knowledge that I wanted him. I knew it couldn’t go anywhere, but the fact that he knew how attractive I found him infused every minute with possibility. We ate our food and spoke of other scenarios calmly.