I know I love the way Darren kisses me, the way his beard abrades my cheeks and thighs, the way it feels when he pushes inside me, rough and fast or deep and slow, the way he groans my name in that deep timbre right before he spills inside me. I know those things to be very true. But all day, I’ve been wondering about how kissing Jourdan might be different, how touching her body might make me feel. Every night for weeks, I’ve been trying to imagine crawling between her legs like Darren crawls between mine. I wonder what she’ll taste like when I lick myself from Darren’s tongue.

I wonder, but I don’t know anything, and I hate that. I’m the kind of person who prides herself on knowing things. I do the research, I record, I remember. But these weeks of not knowing — of never being really sure if what I was feeling was a fantasy or a sprig of something more — have been torture. Okay, I’ve been horny but also very tortured; the two can coexist.

What I have discovered is that, straight or possibly something more, there are some things that I like very much. After each of their dates, I’ve been hanging on Darren’s every word about the time they spent together; what they talked about, what she wore, how he touched her, how she touched him. I quickly and desperately became the receptacle for every one of his fantasies about her because they fed my own, giving me material to construct something I’d never experienced before. I created a fantasy version of Jourdan in my head, mostly so that I could recreate myself. With my eyes closed and my fingers between my legs, it was easier to not feel nervous; I could press my lips to hers, strip her naked and taste every inch of her without wondering if I was doing it right. It was easy to make myself come all these weeks while letting Darren do the heavy lifting. But none of that has been as real as this afterwork drink will be, and I know it. My stomach is in knots.

My cell phone chirps with a calendar notification. It’s time for me to leave.

I gather my phone and tablet. I look up at Thomas. He knows I’ll be leaving this utterly pointless meeting early, but he actually looks sad when I nod at him and rise from my chair. I frown and shrug, pretending to be sad as well; whatever it takes to stroke his ego. I walk toward the door and nod at my assistant, Avery. They hold up the digital recorder to let me know they’re on it, and I give them a thumbs-up before I duck out of the conference room.