Jane Air

face so close to mine I swear I could feel the taste of her on my tongue.
Her shock and outrage at my appearance.
Her indignation when I took a cookie from her not-so-secret stash on her desk.
If only she knew what else I wanted to take from her.
And give to her.
And do to her.
Before she caught me in her office last week, before I heard her keychain outside the door and the sound of the young assistant’s frantic explanation, I was standing in the center of the room.
My little forest elf liked books.
A lot.
They were everywhere. Stacks and piles and boxes, all opened, all stuffed full of books. Shelves with books lined up horizontally and vertically. Ancient, dusty hardcovers. I took a few and cracked them open, amused as tiny puffs of dust sprouted beneath my nose. Others were new, crisp, some still wrapped in plastic, beneath sticky notes reading Review due or Respond to Ted.
It had put a frown on my face.
Who the hell was Ted?
And why was he giving her gifts?
Fuck Ted.
I pull myself back to the present, where my nymph is standing, fully dressed this time, unfortunately, and looking at me with that stern, silent librarian face. That face that makes me want to say obscene things about the Dewey Decimal system and pull her into a dark corner, bury my face between her thighs until she forgets all about Ted.
“Then why aren’t we meeting in my office?” She asks, exasperated. It takes me a minute to understand the context of her question, so deep am I in my filthy library thoughts.
Right.
No table.
I gesture with my hand, encouraging her to walk towards what would be the main sitting room, if there were any place to sit.
“Because your office,” I can’t help but say, hoping she can’t see my smile, “is full of shit.”
Another huff. She’s walking behind me but I can feel her indignation.
“My office is full of books. Not shit.” There is a slight pause. “It is…a bit messy.”
I grin at that, leading her through the sitting room and towards the far end of the house, into the massive, empty room.
Swinging the double doors open, we both walk through. There’s no furniture in here either, but at least we have the enormous, sixty-foot window to look through.
Outside, the sun shines sharp and clean across the trees and grass, the shades of green reflecting off the window and casting crystalline dances along the marble flooring.
“You’re quite the minimalist,” She says behind me. I turn and she is gazing upwards, taking in the enormous chandelier. It twinkles in the sunlight, the crystals catching the hues of yellow and blue and green from outside.
“I haven’t unpacked yet.”
“Unpacking requires boxes,” she smiles and shakes her head. “You haven’t moved in yet.”
I shrug.
It’s hard to explain. When you’ve had multiple houses, bought and sold. When you’ve had more pieces of furniture than you can remember, more bedrooms and bathrooms and designer kitchens and remodeled basements and fabulous views.
Cars and clothes and art and all the other things that everyone says you just have to have, even though you don’t particularly want any of it.
And you sell it, or renovate it, or streamline it, or repaint it.
Or give it all away.
Some things don’t matter, the more you get used to them.
I catch her leaning back slightly, tilting her head and watching the light dance across the bare expanse of three story walls, the chandelier throwing movement and color where there was none just a few hours earlier.
The line of her neck. The shape of her waist. Even the soft fit on her shirt, buttoned practically to her chin and all the way down to her wrists.
Some things, I can’t help but think, only matter more, when you get used to them.
Or perhaps, I smile again, as she turns her head towards the window and opens her mouth slightly, watching a deer cross the lawn only a few feet from the house, some things you never really get used to.

8
Jane
There’s no furniture anywhere.
Like, at all.
And we are standing inside this monstrous room, as large and tall and round as a grain silo, which is completely empty except for a chandelier the size of an elevator, hanging thirty feet up in the air, made of crystals.
Or diamonds.
I sneak a glance towards him. He’s looking over my shoulder at something. I don’t know what, since there is nothing in this room.
I googled him last night. And again this morning.
His girlfriends are supermodels, or were. According to various gossip sights, he’s taken a step back from all the publicity. No more falling out of bars drunk. No more answering interview questions about what kind of underwear he prefers.
His house in California has a view of the beach.
His net worth, supposedly, is nine figures.
I glance at the chandelier again, tiny rainbows twinkling along the curving walls.
Definitely diamonds.
“So-” before I can finish my sentence he smiles and tosses a pillow into my arms. Hoisting my bag higher up my shoulder I grab it, staring at him.
Does he want a pillow fight?
What is this, a slumber party?
My eyes drop to his shoulders. I watch the smooth lines and curves of muscle beneath his fitted shirt as he bends to pick up another pillow, so white it blends in with the marble at his feet, and my mouth goes dry.
I…would not mind a slumber party with this man.
“We can sit on these.”
Of course.
The pillows are for sitting, not for flirtation.
Butt cushions. Not sex cushions.
Damn.
“Right.” I follow him to the far side of the room, away from under the perilous chandelier (seriously, that thing is HUGE) and towards the floor to ceiling, curved glass window from which sunshine sparkles.
He drops the pillow on the floor and squats down, thighs straining beneath the fitted denim of his jeans, feet large and bare and stretched outward as he reclines, smiling at me.
I place my pillow on the floor, relieved at the cool marble beneath my feet as I arrange myself, as professionally