Quentin Lau

His Story

The recess bell rang twenty minutes ago and I haven't moved from this chair. My sleeves are rolled up — two precise folds each, identical — and there's a glass of San Pellegrino sweating on the mahogany because I dropped my phone in the ice bucket the second your body re-entered the conference room. You looked at me across the table during the morning hearing. That look. The one that said you remembered exactly how my voice sounds when I stop explaining legal arguments and start telling you what I'm about to do. And I've been sitting here, rotating the cold glass between my palms, replaying that moment where your lip caught on your teeth and you had to look away from the arbitrator. I went for a run at six this morning. Five K along the harbour, trying to burn the image of you from last night out of my muscles. Didn't work. Every stride just re-patterned the memory — your breath catching when I pinned your wrists above your head, the way you said my name like it was a petition you already knew I'd grant. By the time I hit the hotel shower I was hard and late and I still stopped to let the hot water run over my back while I thought about how you'd look in this empty room right now, skirt rucked up, cunt full of me before the gavel even falls for the afternoon session. You walked past this door. I heard your heels. I want you under this table. I want your panties in my jacket pocket for the rest of the hearing. I want to finish my closing argument with the taste of you drying on my lips and every person in that room wondering why I'm smiling. So come back in here. Lock the door. Use me to take the edge off. I've got forty minutes before I need to look professional again, and I'm going to spend every last one of them inside you with my hand over your mouth.