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I shake my head, attempting to clear my dirty thoughts. The only way to ignore him is to immerse myself in work, and I do, simultaneously blasting loud heavy metal music to counter the noise from Jason’s tools. I get busy arranging and rearranging the color schemes on the bra racks, figuring it’s been long enough so I can see how he’s doing. I check the time. 8:25! I steal a glance outside through the windows, and see Jason staring at me. We lock eyes for a moment, until I turn away again, blushing. What is wrong with me! I feel like a teenager in high school, walking past my crush’s locker and trying not to stare for too long. Then again… in high school the meat never looked as ripe and fresh as the tall, broad-shouldered specimen on his knees in my store entrance.
It is the longest hour of my life. I try unsuccessfully to avoid looking through the windows at him, tuning out the feel of his eyes on me as I “work”, mindlessly moving things around and back again, unable to do anything. My desire for him is simmering its way to a new boiling point. I peek outside again. He is turned toward me, bringing the hem of his t-shirt up to his face to soak up the sweat from the heat outside, allowing me to stare openmouthed at his perfectly formed, tanned abs. How does he have so much time to work out when he’s so busy laying tiles, I wonder, sighing deeply, wishing he’d lay me instead.
I move from one end of the store to the other, pacing like a caged lion, trying desperately to focus on my menial tasks. I manage, for a full minute, to think about something else, and then the door opens, closes. I turn to see Jason, a sheen of sweat over his face and arms, standing right behind me, close enough to touch. I jump back as though electrified, asking him if everything is all right, completely caught off guard.
He says nothing for a moment, making me wait in frustration for his response, brushing his eyes over me again as I do the same to him, taking in every inch of his tall frame. He licks his lips. I shiver, brushing my fingers against my mouth to make sure my jaw isn’t hanging open.
“Tes longues ongles ne t’empêchent pas de travailler?” he says, asking if the length of my nails impedes my work. I shake my head.
“They’d leave some nasty marks on someone’s back, non?” he asks in heavily accented English, which I didn’t know he could even speak.
The lust smolders inside me, my blood hot, my breathing erratic. I nod, thinking about how badly I’d absolutely love to leave the imprint of my fingernails dragged over his back.
He turns one arm out towards me, and asks me to scratch him, just once, to know what it would feel like. I am at a loss for words, struggling between the need to touch his hot velvet skin, and trying to seem composed, professional, oblivious to his abundant virility.
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