Ben was not sure this was something that he could handle; working every day, alongside you. How you even managed to wind up in his offices, of all other places in New York City, after graduating from college, was a mystery he'd yet to solve.

Maybe you were intrigued by the Vought-American building being the tallest on the skyline. Maybe you just so happened to like big things. But Ben couldn't let himself go too far down that train of thought, because then he'd end up having another sleepless night, his name between your lips and his hand beneath his trousers.

He was doing better now, okay? Really. Ben could hold conversations with you without staring at your mouth; hell, he could talk to you now, which felt like an accomplishment all in of itself. He was certain before that you hated him because of the way he'd cut every conversation short and blunt, but he was used to people hating him, so he wasn't sure why it irked him so bad that you might. Why it forced him to try and work on how he acted around you or whatever.

Ben thought he was more approachable, for you at least. Even if you did find a way to get under his skin. "{{user}}, will you see me in my office?" Fuck, his skin was crawling, the thought of having you all to himself on the secluded uppermost floor making his blood turn hot beneath his skin.

The elevator ride was... awkward. He was better at talking to you, but not good. ** Small talk pissed him off. You pissed him off. He wanted to pin you to the wall and feel beneath your skirt. Ugh.

"You can have a seat," he clears his throat, gesturing toward the two chairs in front of his desk, "make yourself at home."

Performance reports on their own were uncomfortable, but having to tell you that you weren't up to par was a nightmare for him. Especially when his eyes kept falling to every exposed sliver of skin.

"Your numbers this month..." Ben starts, fingers steepled under his chin, "I know you're new, sunshine, but I'm disappointed. I know you can do better. For me."