Monarchs and morphos

“Another meeting that could have been an email,” he whispers in my ear. Carl leans back in his chair, pleased with himself.

I stop smiling. I don’t want to look complicit. Above all, I don’t want to let on that the sensation of his breath lingering just under my ear excites me. The blood rushing to my cheeks is already a giveaway.

I look up at him. He’s no longer looking at me, instead turning his attention to our team lead.

I lose myself in the hollow of his neck, in the curve of his Adam’s apple, in the faint stubble of his barely two-day-old beard. I think of his razor gliding across his face, his tensed jaw, the delicate movements of his wrist, and the tired morning eyes I yearn to know.

I run my tongue over my lower lip, a tongue that longs to retrace the path of the razor’s blades over his skin, the corner of his mouth, the tip of his chin, and the base of his neck.

I think of the sound his belt would make if he unbuckled it here, now; if he threw it on the table before pushing me face down next to it, hiking up my skirt, sliding down my panties and running his tongue along the length of my opening before penetrating me gently.

I shake my head, a subtle shiver erasing this imaginary hook-up from my mind.

Until last Friday, Carl was just a colleague. Carl was ordinary. Carl left me feeling completely indifferent. Then there was that moment in the purple glow, that moment when the light from the karaoke screen reflected perfectly in drops of Carl’s sweat, that moment when the world turned upside down. The taste of tequila. That fucking Joy Division synth. That fucking Joy Division synth.

Get a taste in my mouth as desperation takes hold . . .

I wasn’t supposed to have fun at an office party.

My shoulder, my hip, my waist, my thigh, newly discovered erogenous zones since he sat down next to me. The skin on the left side of my body, suddenly as sensitive as the tips of my nipples, revelling in being so close to him.

Carl leans into me, like he’s about to say something. I have this absurd fear that he can read my thoughts. My stomach clenches. I panic like a deer caught in the headlights of a Mack truck.

Someone gets up to turn the lights off. The projector switches on: Agenda. Carl changes his mind and settles back in his chair, clearing his throat. I can’t focus—his calf brushes against mine, and a jolt of electricity shoots from my ankle to my vulva. Something hot begins to throb below the sternum and between my legs.

Yes, this meeting could have been an email. But an email would have deprived me of the sweet anticipation of waiting for Carl to get up from the cubicle next to mine, of timing my steps just so I pass him in the hallway, narrow enough that I feel the heat radiating from his body without even brushing up against him.

In the second that I nearly skimmed Carl’s body with my own, I imagined the sensation of his pelvis pinning me against the wall, of his fingers slowly tearing at my fishnet tights. I imagined his breathless voice asking me, “Is this what you wanted, for me to fuck you hard enough for everyone to put every one of your orgasms on the agenda?

I want him to push me up against the bay window of the meeting room, force me to lay my desire bare and relieve me of it, all in the same breath.

Carl sees me staring at the exit. Just as he asks me in a whisper if I want to leave, the door to the meeting room opens. A flurry of blue and orange rushes into the room: monarchs and morphos. Our colleagues shout and run out in panic. I stand up but freeze immediately, there are too many butterflies, and all I see is a haze of colours.

And then, silence. The room is empty. All that’s left is Carl, perfectly calm. All the butterflies have landed on me, not a speck of my skin or clothing is visible.

“Don’t move. We can’t let them fly away.”

I blink, and a few monarchs flutter around my head. Two blue butterflies land on my lips. I can hardly breathe.

Carl approaches slowly, his fingers skirting the butterflies’ wings to unbutton my blouse. Without startling a single butterfly, he gently slides his hand under the fabric and caresses my breast. The agonizing slowness with which he makes circular movements around my nipple stretches time, intoxicates the monarchs, and fills my mouth with mauve light. I salivate, wishing the butterflies would leave me alone so I could suck him off.

Carl’s hand moves down my skirt. Monarchs and morphos follow him, their wings tickling the insides of my thighs, and I tremble, contracting every muscle in my body to keep a spasm of pleasure from crushing one.

“I love the way you run your fingers over your lips when you’re bored. I’ve always wanted to do the same to you here.”

Around my clitoris, the same slowness, the same delicacy. Without meaning to, I beg him aloud to let me suck it. “No,” he replies, before licking behind my ear, pulling my breasts out of my bra with his other hand, unzipping his trousers—

The lights come back on. Fuck. I’ve lost track, I’ll have to start again. I glance to my left: Carl is daydreaming, his eyes fixed on my cleavage. He sees me looking at him and immediately turns away. His face turns red, but only for a split second, long enough for two or three morphos to escape from my mouth.

“Carl? What are you doing tonight?”