Impulses by V.L. Brock Read Free Book Online Page A

washbasin.
    What the hell was that? Where do I even begin to figure out this enigma?
    I exhale loudly, a deep anxious groan absconding from my throat. I lean into my arms, my elbows bending to accommodate my weight. The veins, muscle and tendons in my forearms flexing as I adjust my position.
    I peep down at the washbasin, my lips pursed, deep in thought.
    As I lift my head again, I regard the man in the mirror with a degree of insight. An appreciative smile is mirrored back at me, as I progressively begin to identify the emotion that I harbor… Hope.
     
     

FOUR
    ---------------------
     
    SAMANTHA
    Two weeks. And they are the most lengthy, frustrating, annoyingly lustful weeks that I have ever endured. The thing with desire, passion and lust is it’s easy to overcome. You quench the thirst, feed the desire, the act is done, you feel satisfied and you move on. But I cannot quench this thirst; God, knows that I have tried. But it doesn’t matter how many feeble attempts of closing my eyes and imagining that the man my body is working against is my boss, I know that there is only one person that can feed my desire, one which could satisfy me––Hayden Wentworth.
    I can’t bare this ache much longer. I am well and truly being pushed to my limits and I…I just can’t handle the raging pressure that my body and hormones are subjecting me to.
    Jessie constantly reminds me every waking, passing morning as I sit drowning myself in caffeine, to not ‘get physical’ as she put it, with, Mr. Wentworth. Apparently, job security is more satisfying than the need to eradicate a craving for amazing sex with your boss.
    So, I have been a walking time bomb. A mass of erotic, carnal energy, which is in desperate need of stimulating from the one who I undeniably know, can stimulate me.
    Swamped by uncertainty with what I am feeling, I sense my body needs closure. Surely it’s logical to have what I need, alleviate these feelings that have entrenched me and carry on with my life, rather than trying to relieve them in any way possible, ways that fail to bring me the sated feeling that I want. You wouldn’t eat a pack of potato chips if you craved for candy, it wouldn’t fill that spot. This is the exact same principle.
    Well, Samantha, you know where the door is my subconscious scolds, looking down on me in condemnation.
    Twenty-four years old, and I can’t find the strength to separate my sexual desires from my work.
    Cannot, or will not?
    Not being one to shy away from my desires, I feel my frustration and dissatisfaction pushing down and overwhelming my body. Internally, I am a coil, and the pressure of what I hanker for tightens my already restricted state as I am compelled to be reticent. It will only take a matter of precious time before my irritation shifts to resentment––resenting having to see him every day, leaning over his desk and permitting his intoxicating scent to caress my senses, and Mr. Wentworth himself for employing me. If he wasn’t my boss, then I wouldn’t be in this mess. If he wasn’t your boss, then you would never have met him.
    “Bye, Sam. See you next week,” Chloe murmurs as she strides toward the double, frosted doors, pulling her hair free of the fur collar of her trench coat, her heels clicking hollowly against the flooring. “Are you sure you will be fine finishing off here?” she asks, but due to my increasing irritability, my tone turns defensive.
    “Thanks, Chloe, I can manage,” I bark placing my hands on my hips, leaning my weight onto my right hip.
    We see that you are sexually frustrated, Samantha, but for the love of God, reign in the bitch.
    She lifts both hands in defeat. “Okay, okay. I was just checking, Samantha.” Shaking her head, she sighs dramatically at my unexpected, irrational outburst, and then departs.
    In an effort to push my bitchy, irrational persona back into her box and secure the lid, I rest both my hands on the smooth, cold surface of the reception desk.