I find the button to close the doors when I seeÂ her: shiny, raven hair pulled away from a round face accentuated with full, pink lips. Her body is the shape of an hourglass, apparent even under the pale pink dress that just skims her voluptuous curves.
â€œFuck me,â€ I mutter as my hand lurches forward to stop the doors from shutting.
â€œExcuse me?â€ Blondie chirps. â€œIf thatâ€™s an offer, Iâ€™m willing.â€
I ignore her. My eyes trained on the woman crouching in front of me so sheâ€™s eye-to-eye level with a little red-haired boy, I find myself taking a step off the elevator.
â€œHey! This isnâ€™t the therapy floor!â€ Blondie yelps.
â€œI know.â€Â But it might be the best kind of therapy if things go right.Â The bell chimes behind me as the elevator whisks her away.
The little boy joins the others in a makeshift line before they exit the room. She stands, grabbing a cup of coffee off of a ledge next to her before turning and catching me watching her. â€œOh!â€ she says, startled, wobbling slightly on her heels. Heels that make her legs look lean and toned with a high probability of looking fantastic around my neck.
â€œI didnâ€™t mean to scare you,â€ I smile.
â€œI, um.â€ She clears her throat like sheâ€™s trying to compose herself. â€œIâ€™m sorry. Can I help you?â€
Oh, Iâ€™m sure you can.Â
My smirk betrays the neutrality Iâ€™m attempting to convey. As her hand reaches for the small, golden charm at the hollow of her throat, all I can do is imagine pressing my lips against it. Touching her skin. Smelling her, what Iâ€™m sure is a sweet, sexy aphrodisiac. Skimming my hands down those curves, committing them to memory.
Slipping my hand into the pocket of my sweatpants, I adjust myself. If she notices, she pretends not to.
Classy too? Fuck me. Literally. Please.
â€œI was looking for Therapy,â€ I tell her, hoping to spur some conversation I can work into something more. Of course I know damn good and well where Iâ€™m headed. Itâ€™s become my new home away from home.
â€œYou need to go up three levels,â€ she replies. â€œThis is Child Life. Thereâ€™s no therapy happening here, although you might need some if you stay too long.â€
Her words are punctuated with a hint of sarcasm in the prettiest way. No malice. No attitude. Just a dose of playfulness that makes me want to keep her talking. Even as she turns down a hallway, effectively ending the start of a conversation, I effectively restart it by following her.
Does she think she can just walk away?