Mave was profoundly confused, her emotions in upheaval, her mind in a whirl. For a while she considered the possibility that she was actually sick with some kind of stomach flu because it seemed so tight and empty and she couldn’t eat. Then she thought it might be a mild heart attack because it was pounding so hard she could hear it and jumping around in her chest, plus she seemed to be having a great deal of trouble breathing all of a sudden and when she looked at her face in Roger’s bathroom mirror, it was all flushed (her face, not the mirror).
Eventually she rejected all those physical explanations and two or three dozen more because they didn’t explain the prime symptom: she was as wet as a leaky faucet, you know, down there. Well, alright, it had been awhile since she got laid and Roger hadn’t been very obliging in that way when they were in his office together, but she knew what simple physical lust felt like – that ache to have something inside you, pounding away, even if it was only a perfectly-shaped cucumber – and it wasn’t just that. It was different.
She was consumed by Robert, filled by him in places other than the one between her legs (which was particularly, almost painfully empty at the moment), places she never knew existed and still didn’t understand. It was almost enough for her to be in the same room with him, to gaze into his eyes when the opportunity offered itself, to memorize the expressions that crossed his face, to imagine what it would be like to have those huge arms wrapped around her and those thick, hard lips attached to hers, to wonder if his size 12 boot meant anything special.
She maneuvered herself so that if he moved he had to brush against her, and when their shoulders touched for a nanosecond as he passed by, she shivered. Whenever she thought she might be able to catch his eye, she arranged her flexible body in her most provocative poses – sitting with legs crossed at mid-thigh and the hem of her skirt riding not that far from her waist; standing with hip thrust out while sensuously smoothing her dress over her ass; pulling her neckline down even further and arching her back so that her glorious breasts – the breasts that had made her a fortune, literally – seemed even rounder and fuller than they usually did, which was, let’s face it, plenty.
One of her most reliable moves was the bump-and-roll, and she used it twice on Robert. She would “accidentally” collide with him as she tried to move past him, put her hand on his arm, stroke it, and say “Excuse me” in her sexiest, most sultry voice. The first time he ignored her. The second time, he smiled at her briefly and said “No problem.” Her knees went weak and she damn near melted on the spot.
It was frustrating, though. She was working like a plow horse and all she managed to harvest were a few brief touches, a couple of perplexed looks, and that tiny smile. Normally, her targets would be signing checks by now but Robert was focused exclusively on that DJ woman, who was deep in conversation with Juliette Rose and Roger and barely noticed Robert’s ardent worshipping-from-afar behavior. What, Mave asked herself repeatedly and with increasing heat, did this woman have? Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t visible.