I never thought my first real adult job would involve so much sexual tension—and definitely not with Jamie Taylor. I’m Alex Carter, 22 years old, last semester of college, sort of shy in person but good with words on email. I’d landed a summer internship in downtown Chicago at a mid-sized PR firm, which sounded corporate and dull on paper, until the team introductions happened that first Monday.
Jamie was there—mid-20s, short dark hair pulled into a low messy bun, sharp halfway between soft and tough. They wore black jeans and a faded Ramones T-shirt under a navy blazer. Most people treated the welcome lunch like a chance to impress, but Jamie had this way of laughing in a crowded room that sounded honest and sexual at the same time. My eyes kept finding them when I wasn’t supposed to look.
We didn’t work in the same department, but our teams shared the sixth floor. There was one tiny kitchen, always stocked with bad coffee and cheap granola bars, and that’s where I first really met Jamie. It was two weeks in, and my nerves still hadn’t fully faded—they caught me pouring milk into cold coffee and grimaced.
“Try it black,” Jamie said, sliding up next to me. Their eyes—a muddy blue, closer than I realized—caught mine. “You’ll get used to the taste or go numb, whichever comes first.”
I laughed, splashed coffee on the counter. Jamie grabbed a paper towel and wiped it up, shrugging. For the first time in the office, someone didn’t treat me like a lost kid.
Conversation with Jamie was easy in that small kitchen. We talked about weekend plans (mine: Netflix and waffling over emails, Jamie: dive bar, band practice, maybe Tinder if they got bored). By the third week they’d started saving me a seat on the windowsill during Friday bagel hour. Small stuff, but it got me comfortable, less like I was always one slip from being outed as a fraud.
I won’t lie—sometimes I went out of my way to see Jamie in the hall or hang around the kitchen at weird times. But as much as I liked the flirting, it was just that—harmless, I told myself. Jamie probably acted like that with everyone.
By the fourth week, I noticed Jamie looking at me when they thought I didn’t see: once in the reflection in a glass door, again at the printer when our hands brushed stacking paper. Still, I always chickened out when it came to taking things further. I wasn’t sure if I should—what if I misread their signals? What if I screwed up and it got awkward, killed the little daily rush that had made work bearable?
The real shift happened at the firm’s big “Summer Soirée.” Dress code: business casual, free drinks, endless nibbles. I wore a navy shirt that made me look blonder, newer, maybe even competent. Jamie wore black pants so tight it made my mouth dry every time I looked—even from across the room. They found me at the wine station, clinking their glass against mine.
“You look tense,” they grinned. “Too sober for a party?”
“Just trying not to say anything stupid to my boss,” I replied, trying to sound cooler than I felt. Jamie tilted their head, grinning.
“Come outside,” they said. “Better view. I’ll save you from overthinking.”
We ended up on the back patio, string lights overhead, the smell of boxed wine and the city drifting around us. The party noise dulled behind the glass door.
Jamie leaned against the railing, close enough that our arms brushed. “So, are you going to ask, or should I?”
I swallowed. “Ask what?”
“If I’m flirting,” they said quietly, voice suddenly low. “If I’m interested. Because, honestly? Kind of obvious at this point.”
They turned to face me, one eyebrow raised, like a challenge.
My stomach twisted, all my nerves falling away because god—it was obvious, but now I had to decide if I was jumping into something or freezing up. Jamie watched me, waiting, not pushing but leaving the door wide open. I felt a little drunk, a little dangerous. I wanted it. But this was my first time risking it at work—with a person like Jamie, who seemed to set the pace and rules.
I was so close, I caught a faint whiff of their cologne, sharp and warm. I smiled and shook my head nervously.
“I… kind of want to kiss you,” I managed, voice shaking.
“Then do it,” Jamie said.
I did.
Their lips tasted like wine and mint. It was soft—at first. Then Jamie pressed closer, tongue teasing against my mouth, teeth catching just the edge of my lower lip. I felt a bolt of arousal, heat pooling low in my stomach, and just when I thought I might get carried away, Jamie stepped back.
“Not here,” they breathed, eyes dark, almost hungry. “I don’t want to give your manager a show.”
We exchanged numbers—not for the first time, but this time with a purpose. The rest of the party was a blur. My skin felt electrified every time Jamie brushed against me.
That Saturday, we messaged all afternoon, nudging lines back and forth, making the tension simmer. Jamie finally said, “Come by after nine. I’ll order something. Bring that mouth.” My heart pounded so loud I almost backed out. What if I was too inexperienced? Too awkward? But another, braver part of me—one Jamie dragged out—wanted to know just how far we’d really go.
Their apartment was a loft in West Loop: high ceilings, black sheets tossed over a worn sofa, posters taped backyard-style to concrete walls. Jamie wore a white T-shirt half-tucked, a smirk that made my knees weak.
“Beer?” they asked.
“Please,” I answered, too aware of how dry my throat felt.
We talked for a while, low music humming. Jamie watched me, eyes warm, fingers tapping on their thigh. Every time our knees touched, the air felt tighter. At some point, Jamie took my beer and set it on the table, then looked at me—really looked.
“Come here,” they whispered.
I crossed the distance. Jamie’s hands moved to my hips, tugging me close. When we kissed, it was slower but greedier than before—tongues moving together, hands running through hair. Jamie’s teeth grazed my jaw, then my earlobe. I shivered.
“Still nervous?” Jamie murmured, breath hot on my throat.
“It… it’s been a while,” I admitted. Jamie’s hands slid under my shirt, fingers grazing skin. My breath hitched.
“I’ll go slow,” Jamie said, lips brushing my collarbone.
Our clothes came off in steps—first shirts, then Jamie undid my pants, sliding their hand underneath, fingers teasing lightly till I gasped. I pressed back, hands tugging at their belt, the friction making my head spin. We stumbled to the bed, sheets cool against our skin, mouths tangled, Jamie’s hands everywhere.
It was hotter, messier than I’d ever imagined—Jamie taking control, pinning my wrists over my head, licking down my chest, their mouth finding all the places that made me squirm. Their touch turned greedy as I moaned, begging without words.
“Tell me what you want,” Jamie breathed, their fingers slick, sliding along my thigh.
I blushed, but managed to whisper, “I want… you. All of you.”
Jamie smiled wickedly, shifting between my legs, one hand braced beside my head, the other teasing me, making me arch. Their mouth found mine again, and I lost track of time, chasing every touch.
I’d never come so hard—never felt that raw, that open, with someone before. Jamie wrapped me close, tracing circles on my hips, both of us breathing heavy.
Afterward, we lay tangled in the dark, laughter and sweat and whispered confessions mixing. Jamie pressed a kiss to my temple.
“So, still nervous?” they teased.
“No,” I admitted, grinning, “just hooked.”
And it was true. That stand-out summer, every time Jamie caught my eye in the office, the memory burned between us, a secret only the two of us really knew how to read.