Can't Touch This by Marley Gibson

does is talk about work.  Bottom lines and spreadsheets, leads, and client services.  I admire that he’s so dedicated to the company, but I’d like to get to know more about him.  Where he went to school, how many kids are in his family, what’s his favorite ethnic food, how does he take his coffee in the morning.  I shake my head hard over the last thought and pick back up on him talking about “quality assurance follow-up” on something or other.  I’m a hard worker, but there’s a time and a place for everything.
    “Why are you so business-focused,” I ask and then bite my lip for my forwardness.
    “It’s my job,” he says.
    “Sure, it’s a job, but it’s not your life.”
    He stares ahead.  “Work defines us.  It’s who we are.  We spend more time at the office than at home or with our family.  A job worth doing is worth doing well.”
    I admire a strong work ethic.  I also know that unless you’re an owner or a major stockholder, you’re just a working stiff.  And it scared holy hell out of me that with the flick of one person’s wishful wrist, I can be gone >>poof<< in a matter of seconds through layoffs or reduction in force.
    “My dad worked his ass off for twenty-five years for a company,” Kyle says.  “His customers loved and respected him.  He won awards, garnered accolades, and retired a happy man who made a difference in people’s lives.  I’m just trying to do what the old man did.”
    I smile and cut my co-worker a tad bit of slack.  Still, we’re on the beach and I want to relax.
    “Kyle, Kyle…”
    He squints over his sunglasses.  “What?”
    I put my finger to my lips and say, “Shhhh.  Let’s not talk about work anymore.  Let’s just enjoy the beauty of nature that’s before us.”
    “Oh.  Right.  Sorry.”  He leans back and keeps quiet.
    The Eden Roc cabana boys interrupt every now and then, tending to our every need.  For a modest fee, cute little Marco brings cushions for the beach chairs and offers to get us drinks.  Kyle passes, as do I.  Don’t want him to report back to Jiles that I’m a lush in the middle of the afternoon.
    Unable to talk business non-stop, it seems that Kyle’s fallen into a deep sleep.  His breathing deepens and he doesn’t move.  Like his old man, Kyle works his own ass off, so I can see why he’s exhausted.  However, this gives me the perfect opportunity to inventory his rock-hard muscles that tighten with each of his breaths.  He’s under a lot of strain and stress in his position at DigitalDirection.  Expectations are high in the company, so I do I understand his non-stop business talk and focus.  I soften as I scan my eyes up to his face.  His parents much be very proud of him and what he’s achieved so far.  I’m sure his dad brags about him to the neighbors and his fellow retirees.
    There’s more to Kyle Nettles than just his classic good looks.  I hope to learn more as we get to know each other more.  For now, I can’t help but admire the physical as he sleeps in the sunshine.  His chest is sculpted as if it were chiseled by the master artist Rodin and set in his garden in Paris for all to see.  My hand lifts to explore the small dusting of dark hair that swirls between his pecs.  My pulse accelerates as I gaze upon this magnificent specimen of a man, damning my treacherous thoughts of throwing myself on him right here, right now.  I’m out of control.  I’m in need of major cooling off.
    I spin away from Sleeping Beauty and hoist myself off the chaise.  The wrap gets tossed onto the ground and I break into a finish line type run through the sizzling sand.  The churning waves pull at me as I rush into the refreshing and cooling waters of the Atlantic.  Exactly what I needed to put out the flames of desire threatening to consume me and ruin my career at DigitalDirection.
    Damn these men and the control they have over us women.  Like the moon tugging at the tides.  As I plunge deeper