Chapter 16 You and I in the Bathroom 2
~Hermes~
Now it’s game over.
I scream it internally as my whole body stiffens.
Then the light clicks on.
Fuck.
She feels it — I know she does. My cock, hard and straining, pressing against her through the coat she’s wearing. My coat. Thank God for it, or this would’ve gone nuclear.
One more second and I’d have lost it. I’d have flipped her onto the desk and buried myself inside her like some beast. She’s already in position anyway.
"I'm sorry, sir!" she blurts out, voice high with panic.
I pull back, confused, brows furrowing.
Why the hell is she apologizing?
I’m the one who should be sorry. I walked right into this. Right into her. It’s me who looks like the predator now.
She’ll think I’m a fucking pervert.
"I—I need to use the restroom. I’ll be quick!" she stammers, already scrambling off me.
"Wait—" I hear myself call after her, my instinct overriding logic.
"Use mine instead." My voice is too low, and quiet.
I don’t want her in there — not really. Her scent, her presence — once it’s soaked into my space, it’ll haunt me. It’ll undo me.
But she’s gone. Sprinting toward the staffs bathroom like it’s a lifeboat.
I stand there, tense, with my head buzzing.
What is she thinking?
Will she tell someone? File a complaint?
Should I go after her?
No, no looking like this–
I glance down. My cock’s raging hard, straining against my slacks like it wants to punch through.
I hiss between my teeth.
Nope. No way I’m sorting these files looking like this. Not with her in the same room . I just won’t survive it.
I head for my private bathroom and lock the door behind me, dragging my slacks and boxer-briefs down in one rough motion.
I don’t waste time.
My hand wraps around myself and I jerk hard — one stroke and I’m already leaking.
Because it’s her.
Because she’s wearing that fucking dress again.
And, she stumbled right into me, her chest flattening against mine while I was just trying to roll up my goddamn sleeves.
Now it’s all I see.
The way that dress hugged her thighs, the slight bounce of her breasts as she caught her balance, the scent of her neck where my face nearly dipped — fuck, fuck, fuck.
I lean back against the marble wall, fist curling tighter, stroking slowly at first. My breath’s shallow, sharp.
I see it in my head now — short, tight, no room to breathe.
She’s standing at my desk, bending forward. This time she's wearing my coat or that dress. She's naked, no underwear.
Her hips wiggle once and I grab them. I guide myself in.
I groan, breath catching in my throat. My hand works faster.
Her voice. That moan she made when I filled her, as if she'd waited her whole life for that moment, and it cracked her open.
My breath gets rough.
I gasp once — a sharp inhale I can’t control. "Fuck," I grunt, tipping my head back.
Her ass slammed into me by accident, but now I’m fucking her on purpose in my head.
My hips jerk forward into my hand.
God, her scent. Her fucking body.
Her voice saying my name. "Mr. Grande..."
A breath escapes — ragged, guttural, punched from my chest. “F—fuck,” I hiss under my breath.
The pressure builds too fast, and I let it. I want it fast. Before she comes back. Before I make an even bigger mistake.
I pump hard — once, twice — and groan low as the orgasm hits fast, brutal, unavoidable.
I stifle a shout, biting the inside of my cheek, but a loud breath bursts from me anyway..
The sound that slips from my throat is animal. A strangled grunt. It's half-growl, half-curse.
I pant through it, cock twitching in my fist, come spilling across my palm as I shake with restraint.
I don’t look down, I don’t want to look.
Because then I’ll see exactly what I did. Exactly who I did it for.
And she’s still in the building.
Fuck.
I pull up my slacks and boxer, adjust myself, and step out.
Then I hear it — a scream.
Her scream.
“Fuck—” I curse under my breath, already rushing across the room before the thought fully forms.
I halt in front of the bathroom door. My hand hovers near the handle. I hesitate.
"Miss Alex— June—"
I freeze. I’ve never said her name aloud before. Not once or properly. I only issue commands, and instructions. Press the intercom when I need her.
But now? Now I need a name.
June? No. That’s dangerous. Too dangerous. That name already lives in my head, echoing in gasps and moans every time I come undone in silence.
Miss Alexander?
What the fuck am I doing? She could be dying in there and I’m debating semantics.
I reach for the bar handle again—but stop.
Because I hear the scream is moving closer.
And then I see her.
Rushing toward me. Her Bare legs flashing in that dress. My goddamn coat gone.
And I don’t think. Instinct punches logic in the gut. I spread my arms.
She crashes into me like a fevered hallucination—soft, warm, real.
Her ass slams against my hands, and I nearly groan. Jesus Christ. There’s no barrier this time. No coat.
No goddamn shield between me and insanity.
She’s all curves and heat and barely-there fabric.
"Mr. Grande…" she mutters.
But I’m not focused on her face. I’m too busy telling my hands to calm the fuck down — and they’re not listening.
So I do the one thing I shouldn’t.
I squeeze those soft butt cheeks like a goddamn pervert — the exact label I now stamp across my chest.
Her eyes drop. I follow the movement—and react fast. I drop her.
"Ouch!" she cries as she stumbles. I lunge forward, hands catching her by the waist to steady her.
"Easy. You okay?" I ask, already hating how soft I sound.
She covers her face like she’s hiding something. And then she mumbles in the tiniest voice:
"There’s a hjkshjkshjk…"
I don’t catch a damn thing.
"…What?" I blink, leaning in. My ear catches the edge of her mouth. "Say it again?"
And then she screams, loud enough to rattle tile.
"THERE IS A ROACH IN ONE OF THE STALLS!"
I flinch hard. "Jesus Christ, June, I said tell me, not yell—"
Silence drops like a hammer.
I freeze. She does too.
Her face pulls into a shocked twist — surprise, confusion, something else I can’t name.
Like this is the first time I’ve said her name, but it’s not.
She doesn’t just know.
She doesn’t know her name is carved into the darkest part of my mind, branded on the back of my teeth, whispered into my pillow, and laced between every exhale when I can’t fucking sleep.
I’m holding a mop.
She’s behind me, pointing like we’re in a war zone and I’m the poor bastard assigned to breach the enemy line.
We walk slowly toward the stall.
In all my thirty-two years of existence — thirty-two composed, high-functioning, Harvard-educated, heir-to-a-billion-dollar-empire years — I’ve never found myself in this particular scenario:
Tracking down a roach.
With the girl I’m actively, violently, unreasonably obsessed with.
"Careful…" she whispers, voice tight with fear. Her fingers barely touch the hem of my shirt — not even a full grip, just the tips, like she’s anchoring herself to me while pretending not to.
I glance down.
My coat is on the goddamn floor, crumpled like a corpse beside the sink. I stare at it, and then at her.
She follows my gaze. Her cheeks turn pink. "Sorry," she mouths, barely audible.
I almost laugh. Almost.
I steady myself instead. That’s what men like me are supposed to do. Be steady, and composed. Be the calm before the storm, never the fucking storm itself.
We reach the stall.
I count to three under my breath, push it open with the mop like I’m breaching a crime scene.
And there it is. The damn roach.
Big, and ugly, sitting near the drain like it pays rent.
I move the mop, ready to end this—
"WAIT! Don’t—don’t kill it!" she squeals behind me.
I pause, slowly turn my head to look at her. "Excuse me?"
"Just… just trap it or something," she pleads, with wide eyes. "What if it has, like, roach babies? Somewhere?"
That’s it. I lose it.
A low laugh escapes before I can stop it, and then I’m laughing — actually laughing, the real, full-throated and unfiltered laughter, that I haven’t done in years.
She blinks, clearly. "Uhm... What's funny, sir?"
"You," I manage between laughs, wiping at my mouth. "You’re terrified of a damn roach, and then you try to save it?"
"I didn’t say save!" she protests, but her voice breaks into a giggle.
Another laugh bursts out of me. She catches it. And then she’s laughing too breathlessly, nervous, and uhm– cute?
And for a moment, we’re just… laughing.