**Christopher**
‘You’re back again?’ Luke mumbled with annoyance. ‘Dude, don’t I see you enough already?’
‘Shut up,’ I replied, glancing over at Stacey. I may as well be a ghost, her eyes firmly glued to her laptop and her quick fingers reminding me that this was a working space, not a high school drama.
‘Well?’ Luke sighed. ‘What is it this time?’
‘Never mind.’ I left with clenched fists, breathing out an acrid exhale.
This was fucking torture. I haven’t slept more than four hours a night in the past week and a half, and I’ve been falling behind on my cases. Running low on sanity too.
My mind was fucking scrambled, the only silver lining my incessant need for more associates to cover for my lack of productivity. Yeah, that’s the highlight of my day now. I used that need as a valid excuse to talk to Stacey as often as I could, but if I thought she was cold before, this was a fucking Russian winter.
Whoever said hell was hot didn’t know this kind of freezing.
*Good night Chris.*
Her eyes were full of sorrow, of what could have beens and if onlys. She returned my coat but took a piece of my soul that night and I’ve been living like a shell of myself ever since.
I tried losing myself in alcohol, to jack off until my loads were clear, to do anything to give myself a fucking moment of relief from this incessant mental marathon of *her*.
Her. I wanted, no, *needed* her.
Yeah, I was officially a loser. While she was making work her bitch, I was on my fifth coffee by ten-thirty and making laps from my office to Luke’s, hoping for scraps of her time, whatever she would toss me.
Shambles.
After a few days of self-destructive behavior, I realized that weight lifting was the only way I could find a few hours of mental solace. There wasn’t much that could penetrate the intense fight-or-flight response that came to the forefront of my brain when benching two-sixty, not even the redheaded goddess that barely knew I existed.
Out of pure necessity, I made the gym a daily go for the past week. Everything was sore all the time, muscles complaining under the rapidly forced growth, but it didn’t matter if I was becoming a Stallone body-double; day by day, my mind was falling deeper and deeper into an insane cycle that I saw no end to. Or maybe I didn’t want it to. I had no clue.
What made matters worse was that I turned into an awkward ass every time she was within earshot. My body was a cobra to her flute, turning into a tense bunch of muscles whenever I heard her voice or smelled her signature floral perfume.
The other day I was walking through a Bed Bath and Beyond, and my dick got hard as stone when I passed by the potpourri section.
Fuck my life.
‘Damn, your eye-bags look like ball sacks,’ Jacob snickered, throwing down a file on my desk. ‘These are the numbers on Ed Eagle’s copyright suit.’
I held up a middle finger on my left hand while flipping through the pages with my right. ‘Fine, now leave.’
Instead of taking my cue, he leaned in towards me, squinting. ‘Now that I see it up close, they’re more like old, saggy tits,’ he said more seriously, as if he was investigating the meaning behind an abstract painting. ‘Hey Steve! Come to Chris’ office and look at his ball bags!’
‘Get the fuck – ’
‘Present. If I heard correctly, you said ball bags? We talking below the waist or – ’ Steve rushed into the room as if he was a surgeon needed for an immediate procedure, mouth opening as he saw me. ‘Whoa, those are some heavy hangers.’
I sighed. ‘Get the fuck out. Both of you.’
Jake ignored me. ‘See, I thought they looked like a ball sack at first, but now I was thinking of old, elderly titties. You see it?’
Steve tilted his head, scrunching his eyebrows intently and breathing in deeply as if it was a decision that held massive weight. ‘I don’t know, I was thinking more like deflated piñatas. But I can see what you mean, it’s pretty National Geographic under there.’
‘OUT!’ I roared, shooting up so fast my chair lurched backwards. ‘NOW!’
Snickering, they began their leave, knowing I could have them simultaneously pleading uncle within five seconds. They always had the tendency to poke up, and I was usually the one saving their asses from bigger kids they angered in grade school.
‘See you at the party later, what are you dressing up as anyways?’ Steve asked as they stood outside my office door.
I slammed the door in their faces before replying, breathing in the beautiful silence.
That peace lasted all of half a second, because then I was hit with the fact that I forgot all about the Halloween party at Luke’s tonight.
Typically, I hated family get-togethers; I saw these apes enough. I’d usually consider skipping altogether, but the one consistent aspect of our parties was the booze. There was more chance of Trump replacing the Dalai Lama than there was of me dressing up, but considering the week I had, I wasn’t about to pass on an excuse to get blacked out drunk for one night.
At least I wouldn’t be alone.
__________________________________
**Christopher**
I didn’t know where the fuck I was.
The room was spinning, a mixture of faces and sounds passing by my senses, a rolling movie that could be attributed to eight empty glasses by my couch.
Apparently, Stacey didn’t even bother showing up, and as much as I wanted to believe I was here for the booze, I knew an opportunity to be close with her was the real reason.
Like I said, I was a fucking loser.
Since that plan went to shit, I drowned myself in the next best thing: dirty martinis. Though I normally cut myself off at two drinks, sensibility was the last thing on my mind right now. It worked, somewhat, and it wasn’t until six drinks in that I could go two seconds without thinking of her.
Stacey.
Where the fuck was she? Being Abigail’s best friend and a vital component to our firm, I was sure she had been invited. A gut-wrenching thought her skipping out because of me rang in my mind, and the pain nearly split my head in half.
There went my Stacey obsession hiatus, but you know what? Fuck trying to forget her. I wanted her dominating my psyche because I wanted to dominate every part of her body.
A frustration built up deep in my balls. Something. I needed something.
Eyes heavy, I dipped my hand into my front pocket and pulled out my phone. It wasn’t hard finding her on my contact list, as the screen was already on the “S” section; I nearly dialed her twice in the past ten minutes.
I was coherent enough to now I wasn’t in a state to speak to her, but texting, texting would be fine. It took me at least five minutes to send off a few messages, hand-eye coordination all but shot, and the booze in my blood made me feel invincible enough to write honestly.
Content, my lids dropped, and the next thing I knew I felt my brain trying to escape my head. At least the spinning stopped.
‘Damn it, he woke up before midnight,’ I heard Jake’s voice call out somewhere to my right, a hint of disappointment in his tone.
‘You owe me twenty bucks for that,’ Steve snickered full of pride, his voice coming from the left.
‘Chris? Can I get you anything?’ I blinked and looked over to Jillian’s voice, and she was kneeled beside the couch, dressed as Goldilocks. ‘Water maybe?’
‘Stacey,’ I said, the name coming out hoarse and small. ‘I want Stacey.’
‘Hey Stace,’ Jillian called out. ‘Chris is asking for you.’
I forced my heavy eyelids upward, instantly more alert. Holy shit, was she here?
My dry eyes scanned the room and when I saw her, it was like a volcano split open, revealing my fiery goddess. Either I was hallucinating or she was actually here, and motherfuck did she look good.
Though my visual assessment skills were compromised, I assumed she dressed as a cat, fake ears poking out of her red locks. A black tube top hid her round breasts, and she opted for black shorts and pantyhose. Fucking pantyhose.
Her ivory skin was nearly glowing through the translucent mesh, and the only reason there wasn’t a tipi in my pants right now was the gin in my blood.
Speaking of blood, the sight of her made my blood rush to my head, and the last thing I saw before I passed out again was that look on her face; a look of pure discomfort.
______________________________
**Stacey**
‘I’m going to get back there. I don’t trust a buzzed Jake more than two minutes with Abigail,’ Luke said almost with a snarl.
‘Sure, I’ll stay him with him for a bit longer,’ I replied, panting. Dragging Chris’ limp body felt like moving an African Rhinoceros. ‘Thanks for bringing him here with me.’
‘No problem. Oh, and don’t let him vomit on the sheets,’ he muttered as he held the doorknob in his hand. ‘They’re cotton. Peruvian . . . or Persian, or . . . something that Abigail saw on Oprah. Whatever, just keep an eye on him please.’
‘Sure.’
‘Eight fucking martinis,’ Luke seethed as he closed the door behind him, and then we were alone in the guest bedroom, just Chris and I.
His breaths filled the silence, low and deep. He wasn’t snoring, but I’ve never heard anyone *command* air in the way he was. His large chest rose and fell, and then, my hands were on him, coasting over the hard surface. I let out a moan, knowing that the concrete walls would eat up most of the sound.
He turned to his side, and I retracted my hand instinctively, not wanting to have that awkward conversation in case he woke. Sighing, I looked around the barren room, and out of habit, reached for my phone. I’ve seen the messages a dozen times already, but the rawness of his words never failed to move me.
**Chris:** Where are u?
**Chris:** I think Om drunk.
**Chris:** You r the best. Youre so good at your job I just wish u talk 2 me more.
**Chris:** Can’t stoop thinking about u. Give me a change.
I wanted to cry, to hold him. This charade wasn’t easy for me either. There was a dozen times each day I wanted to walk up to him, press my body against his and pretend he wasn’t my boss. And when I shook my sorry head and reminded myself that he was, the realization was an aphrodisiac of the highest order.
I issued a quick text reply before placing my phone back into my purse.
His face wore lines of fatigue, bags heavy and dark underneath his closed eyes, and visible creases ran across his forehead even in sleep. Even then, his face was one of rugged handsomeness. From his chin dimple to his messy, short hair from being dragged down the hallway, I couldn’t help admiring his visage, running my hand across the bottom of his cheek.
His face was warm, near burning. Too hot just from martinis alone. I spent a few moments to cover him with a blanket in case he was coming down with something, taking my time moving up his torso. Even through his shirt, what was underneath was rock-hard, each abdominal muscle individual and separated.
By the time my hands got to his chest, our faces were close enough for me to smell the bitter gin on his breath, and I sat there with my hand on his chest, watching it rise and fall with each breath once again.
This was the closest I’ve ever been to him, and it saddened me that it was only possible because he was passed out. I considered speaking to his unconscious body, the idea feeling liberating somewhat as a consequence-free way to release my thoughts. I toyed with the idea, telling myself that even if he were conscious, he wouldn’t remember any of it anyways.
Lying down next to him, I put my head in the crook of his shoulder, wrapping my arm over his torso. It was like we were cuddling; like we were together, and a pang of happiness hit me at the thought of the twisted fantasy.
‘I need to protect myself,’ I whispered to him, half-expecting a response. ‘How do I know I won’t be kicked to the curb if things get messy?’ A few seconds passed between us, of me waiting, and I shook my head at my foolishness.
Deciding that my willpower couldn’t stand the proximity, I stood, and was surprised to find my eyes wet and a buildup of fluids in my throat, requiring me to swallow down the sorrow. Taking a deep breath, I grabbed my purse and turned to remove myself from temptation and rejoin the others.
As I opened the door, the ball-busting from down the hallway flooded the room, and I nearly missed the dry voice behind me. It was faint but it was there, that deep voice of literally, my dreams.
‘Stacey,’ the voice called out. My lips parted as I shut the door, turning on the floor lamp in the corner. ‘Stacey . . .’
‘Chris?’ I murmured as I sat down beside him again. His eyes were glossy but focused enough, and his lips were nearly cracked they were so dry. ‘Hold on, I’ll be right back.’
I left the room and returned moments later with a glass of water. ‘Drink this,’ I said gently.
He did as told, and his voice didn’t sound as scratchy afterwards. ‘You don’t need to be afraid,’ he said tiredly as his eyes began to close, the weight of his eyelids seemingly too much.
My ears perked up as I set down the glass. ‘Afraid of what?’ He couldn’t possibly have actually heard my little confession. ‘Chris, afraid of *what*?’ I was nearly shouting, and holding in so much air my lungs felt like overblown balloons.
But he never replied, instead passing out again. I breathed out deeply, chalking this up to just drunken stupor and after covering him up in a second layer of blankets, slipped back outside, a sudden sadness washing over me.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticstories/comments/7uv661/brimstone_series_book_2_episode_5