What happens next is kind of...alarming.
Bryant Colliver points at the couch—and I go. I simply go. As if he has commanded something inside of me I didn't know was there. My feet are moving before I know what's happening and I'm sitting down in front of him, hands clasped together on my folder, my face level with his gold belt buckle. An odd impulse catches me off guard. I want him to cup my face. Stroke it. I want to drop everything on the ground, let my muscles go slack and let his single hand hold my entire body upright. Did I drink some bad milk with breakfast?
When he finally, finally, takes his seat beside me, I scoot back. As far away as possible. Because the impact of him is too potent. Too big. He smells expensive, like ice-cold gold. He's large and powerful and already this int
