In that moment, I hate him.
I hate him even as my body reacts to his touch. I’m so fucking humiliated and yet I’m also turned on. The fact that Jackson knows—that this other huge, handsome, God of a man knows what’s going on not two feet away from him… that my shame is complete… So why God is it so fucking hot?
I stop thinking, I just feel. Gentry’s hand, where it’s not supposed to be. In this room, with these two absolutely powerful men, no one saying anything even though everyone knows exactly what’s going on—
The waitress pushes open the door, holding a huge tray of food. Thank God. Surely Gentry will have to pull away now.
But. He. Fucking. Doesn’t.
He keeps fingering me the entire time the waitress moves the appetizers out of the way and sets down the main course, pasta with a white sauce, mushrooms, what look like scallops, other herbs and a fancy garnish in the middle. Focusing on the food can’t distract me from Gentry’s touch for long though. It smells delicious, but there’s too much sensory overload going on in my most sensitive of places.
“Would you like some fresh mozzarella?” the waitress asks, holding a shredder and a block of cheese over my pasta—at the same time that Gentry starts rubbing doubletime at my clit. Jackson continues watching all of it with a darkly intensive stare.
Sweat breaks out on my brow. “Um, I— I—,” I stutter, squirming my legs to try to pull away from Gentry’s hand. He just follows, though, no matter that it only makes his hand under the table that much more obvious.
I feel my cheeks flare and I shake my head vehemently. “No,” I manage to choke out. The next second, my back stiffens from an especially sharp jolt of pleasure. “I’m good.” My voice comes out much more high-pitched than normal and I want to cry. Stupid, fucking traitorous body.
Gentry starts to talk to Jackson about the robotics industry in Silicon Valley as he rolls pasta on his fork. Somehow he manages it one handed. I don’t even know how. He eats lazily, like his other hand isn’t so obviously occupied.
I keep my gaze locked firmly on my plate, only daring to look in Jackson’s direction out of the periphery of my vision. Enough to tell that he too is staring only at his plate while he eats. I don’t know whether it’s chivalry or embarrassment for me. I just want all of this to end. Shakily, I pick up my own utensils and try to pick at my food.
Gentry’s fingers have slowed down. I’m not right on the precipice anymore. He’s torturing me at a low heat, pushing his fingers lazily in and out, in and out. Never letting me forget he’s right there but not letting me over the edge so I can be done with it either. I hate him. I hate him so much for doing this to me. The sweat prickling at my brow feels like it’s going to drip down my temples any second.
I grab my water glass and take a deep swallow instead. I hazard an outright look at Jackson. Still not looking my way. God, is it possible he doesn’t know what’s going on? Maybe he thinks Gentry is just adjusting his napkin on his lap for a really long time. Please God, let him be oblivious somehow. It’s just a horrible, ugly secret and— Oh, oh God, yeah, right there, that spot. Come on, you bastard, just a little more pressure… I struggle against arching in my chair and try to cover my short panting breaths with another drink of water.
Gentry keeps the conversation light and never even approaches talk of either company. But near the end of the meal, or at least when Gentry’s plate is almost empty, his tone changes.
“That’s not the way I remember it, you know,” Gentry says, voice going from light-hearted to more serious. I’m confused for a second, then realize Gentry has abruptly gone back to the remarks made at the very start of the meal. “The way I remember it, we were best when we shared things.” He arches an eyebrow and it seems like there’s some innuendo to his words I’m not catching. But then his thumb begins to press more urgently at my clit again and he inserts a third finger inside me. I readjust myself in my chair so that I can press up against his hand, praying that it’s unobtrusive. Fuck, what am I doing? But oh— Oh shit, oh God, oh—
Jackson scoffs. “And yet when we supposedly shared, you were the one who always came off with all the,” his eyes narrow, “prizes in the end.”
I’m trying to pay attention to their conversation, I really am. Every word seems laden with double entendre or some kind of code I’m missing the key to. But the way Gentry is so masterfully playing my body, the edges of my vision are starting to go hazy as heat rushes to my lower core.
Jackson’s low rumbling voice isn’t helping either. I’ve never heard a sexier voice. I try to focus on what he’s saying. Christ, I have to get myself under control. I’m not going to come right here. I’m not.
“I want to collaborate with you again,” Gentry says. “I’m developing a new drone that I’d like you to take a look at. I’ll have legal draw up papers so everything’s clear up front. Any patents developed would have clear fifty-fifty ownership. But out of it could come knowledge and business relationships that would benefit both of us in the long term.” How can he talk logically while so thoroughly finger-fucking me? Christ, I shouldn’t have even let myself think that phrase. Finger-fucking. It made it worse. Dirty. Forbidden.
I grit my teeth against the pleasure but I swear I can feel myself getting wetter and wetter. Oh God, did Gentry’s fingers just squelch? Did Jackson hear it?
But Gentry’s still busy talking, thank God. “I have relationships and exclusive contracts with suppliers that I’d be willing to cut you in on if you agree to this partnership. These manufacturing contracts could slash your bottom line by more than twelve percent. Sharing my connections with you won’t hurt my bottom line since we don’t operate in the same marketplaces.”
“And you’d just hand them over?” Jackson’s eyes are drawn in cynicism.
Gentry smiles affably as he nods. “Of course, I’ll get something out of the collaboration as well. I’ve been watching the clean energy solutions you’ve developed and incorporated into your machines with some interest over the years. I’ve drawn up designs for a new UAV incorporating AXCO plastics, Kuramoto motors, and your energy-saving technology. We’d take over the top performing models in the business and lock in the DOD contracts for the next decade.”
Even through my sex haze, I saw the spark of unintentional interest light in Jackson’s eyes when Gentry began talking. But it doused at the very end of Gentry’s spiel.
“I was never interested in military applications.” Jackson shakes his head. “And I stopped playing your games a long time ago, Bryce. You said if I sat through this meal, I’d get CQ-9.” He folds his cloth napkin and places it beside his plate. “I’m not in the mood for dessert. I fulfilled my end of the bargain.”
Right as Jackson moves to stand. Gentry does something with his hands, the fingers inside pressing up while he hits a certain place on my clit and oh God, yes right there. After the entire lunch of teasing, I’m so swollen and ready and Gentry somehow knows the exact way to play my body. My vision goes white for a second as a short tremor shoots through me.
Oh— oh— yes, don’t stop, don’t— oh— oooh—
It’s all white spots and chest-seizing fire for a moment. When I can finally take a full breath again, I realize that I’ve grabbed at the tablecloth, squeezing it in a death grip between clenched fingers.
Oh fuck. I probably look like a lunatic. A horny, sex-craved lunatic.
When I open my eyes, Jackson’s just staring at me, an unreadable expression on his face. And I’ve never felt more mortified or shamed in my life. I drop my head and want to curl into myself and my misery. How do I keep letting this happen to me? Why am I so fucking weak when it comes to Gentry?
I see it now. I’m going to be destroyed by the time this is all over. He’s going to crush me because I’m not strong enough for his… What was it Jackson called it? Gentry’s games. That’s all this is to Gentry. A game. He brought me here just for this. He knew what he was going to do ahead of time. He planned this… this… p
ublic shaming. Except to him, it’s a game. I’m a plaything to toy with until I’m all worn out, used, and broken. And just like a six-year-old does, he’ll toss me in the trash and forget me once he’s done with me.
I feel like I’m going to throw up my crab cakes.
Gentry stands and holds a hand out for Jackson to shake. The same hand that was just inside me. Still probably wet from my juices. I have to fight not to hunch even further into myself. It’s not the way I should be playing this. I should be showing Gentry that I am not affected. That I’m strong and can face up to anything he dishes out. I have to. I already paid rent from the money he fronted me for the first month’s work and God knows I’m not backing out of my attorney’s appointment. Not after how far I’ve already gone.
This might be a game to Gentry, but I have to keep holding on long enough to keep my family together. A year at least. He might be using me, but I can use him right back. I’m not a victim here. I won’t be. I straighten my back even as I keep up the internal pep talk. I can fucking do this.
“Don’t forget I know you,” Gentry says. “You rarely make decisions without weighing all the odds. All I’m asking for is collaboration on one drone design. The exclusive contracts I can connect you to, with some of the best suppliers in the business, will bring your company a bright future.” Gentry leans in, and I realize this is the hard sell the entire lunch has been leading up to. “You might be number one in the US, but if you want CubeThink to be internationally competitive, you need an edge. I’m offering it to you. Why don’t you mull over the opportunity and get back to me?”
Instead of just shaking hands, he pulls Jackson forward and gives him another half-hug pat on the back thing like he did at the beginning of the lunch. And then, to my further mortification, I notice him slip my thong into the pocket of Jackson’s jacket.
I cringe and look away. I suppose I played my part in the meeting after all, even if I don’t understand it.
When Gentry pulls back, Jackson’s face is, as always, unreadable.
“Perhaps after you’ve had some time for further consideration, I could have Miss Cruise send over more proposal details.” I look up sharply at the mention of my name, but Gentry’s already moving on. He holds out an arm for me. I stand and take it, face still to the ground. I can’t look up at Jackson. If I never see him again in my life it will be too soon.
I don’t even flinch when Gentry guides me by the small of my back out of the room.
It’s only once we leave that my stomach settles and I realize how hungry I am. I barely touched any of that delicious looking pasta. Part of me wishes I could be back in that dining room finishing my meal with Jackson instead of leaving with Gentry. Because I wonder if the scarier-looking shark might just be the safer of the two.
CHAPTER 6
“Mommy! Nose! Nose!” Charlie grabs my nose with his slightly grimy fingers and a delighted smile.
I laugh, pulling away and wiping any dirt from my nose onto the shoulder of my shirt sleeve. Ah, the weekend, when I can wear ratty old t-shirts and jeans. “Yep, nose.”
I bop his nose with my forefinger and he giggles, then toddles away from me in a short circle on the grass. I grin at him.
We’re at the park where I’m sitting on my favorite picnic blanket. I took him to the small kids play set, but all he wanted to do was run around on the big grassy area. Fine with me. Sitting out in the sunshine on this Saturday paradise? You don’t have to twist my arm.
Charlie runs back at me, full toddler speed. I hold my arms out. “Whoa, buddy!”
He slams into me and then grabs a chunk of my hair. “Hair!”
“Yes, hair.” I snuggle him close. He smells like baby powder and sunshine. “How’d you get to be so cute?” I ask him. “I didn’t think you could get any cuter but then you got to be two-and-a-half and now you’re talking and toddling and you’re more fun than ever!”
“Fun!” Charlie echoes. Then he starts wriggling to get out of my hold. “Up. Up.”
Ah, ain’t that the way of it? When he was small, all he wanted was cuddles all day long. Now he’s always squirming to get away so he can run around. They always say kids grow up too fast. I let go of him, and he’s off again.
“Stay close,” I call. I don’t have to worry though. He’s already stopped and is bending down to inspect something on the ground. Now I just have to keep a close watch to make sure whatever it is doesn’t go in his mouth.
“Miss Cruise? Is that you?”
I look around and see a jogger. For a second, I can’t place him. He’s a runner, that’s obvious. A big man. A mountain of a man, really, with powerful thighs and a sweat-soaked chest that’s so wide it requires a full swivel of my eyes to take all of him in.
“Miss Cruise?”
And then I blink, because the deep voice is familiar. I put my hand over my eyes to block out the sun that’s shining from behind his head.
Finally it clicks and my mouth drops open. It’s Mr. Vale. Recognition hits with the force of a taser striking my nervous system. I sit up stiffly, and my head whips around to find Charlie. He’s got a stick and pokes at something in the dirt. My precious innocent baby.
All I can think is: no. No. My two lives do not cross. Charlie’s mom and… that other woman do not share the same space. Cannot. I’m on my feet in the next second and backing away from Mr. Vale toward Charlie.
“Come on, honey.” I turn toward my son, grabbing the diaper bag to swing it over my shoulder and then yanking the blanket. “Time to go.”
“Wait, Miss Cruise—”
I pause only long enough to shoot the coldest glare of my life over my shoulder. It seems to convey everything I can’t say in the moment—step off, get the fuck away from my son—because Mr. Vale immediately holds up his hands and starts backing away. “Have a nice day.”
He resumes his jog along the path, but I don’t stop long enough to watch him go.
“Playtime’s over.”
Predictably, Charlie starts crying. He fights it when I try to wrangle him back in the stroller, but I manage it. We’re getting close to naptime so that’s not helping matters either. I head in the opposite direction Mr. Vale went and look over my shoulder as I go. It’s probably an overreaction to leave, but seeing him here of all places…
I grit my teeth together. Fuck that shit. I’ve compromised myself enough already to make ends meet, but I draw the line at any of it affecting my son. I don’t care what Gentry or any of his friends—or enemies—think. I’ll move across the fucking country and change my name before any of this, these so-called games, pour over into my personal life.
As I push the stroller back for the long jog to my house, I keep checking over my shoulder. Another reason I chose this park was for the cardio I get from the jog on the way here and back, but now I’m ruing the decision. Maybe a lot of my recent decisions. What if all I’ve done by trying to solve one problem is bring on even more trouble?
* * *
Charlie falls asleep in my arms on Sunday as I rock him after his bath. I carry him gently to his crib in my room. He barely stirs as I settle him down. I can’t help doing that parent thing where I pause in the doorway and just stare at him for a minute or two with my heart going all gooshy.
He was whinier today than most. My standard silly-dance around the living room trick almost didn’t work the last hour before bedtime, and he was fussy during almost every other activity all day. Shannon thinks another tooth is coming in and from the amount of drool pouring out of his mouth onto my shirt and whatever toy he could shove in his mouth all day, I think she’s probably right. Poor baby.
He’s so beautiful when he sleeps. Precious. Perfect. His mouth moves in a sucking motion like he’s dreaming about his sippy cup. I grin and shake my head before slipping out the door.
Shannon’s in the living room on the couch with a blanket tucked around her, watching some gruesome forensic TV show. “Is he down?”
I nod and go reheat the spaghetti
I made earlier. Feeding Charlie dinner tonight was a feat all on its own, he was so fussy, and I didn’t get to my own dinner. At least he’s not usually like that. I sit down on the ugly-ass seventies maroon velvet lounge chair beside Shannon. It was a dumpster-dive score I’m especially proud of. A neighbor down the street put it out on one of those rare big-item trash pick-up days, and Shannon and I hauled it home. It’s hideous but comfortable as hell and therefore, my favorite place in the whole apartment to hang out.
I go to take a bite of my spaghetti but then catch sight of the blood and guts on the TV screen. As in, literally some dead guy’s organs and intestines.
“Oh hell, Shan. Why?” I avert my eyes, but way too late. Why do they always feel the need to go for the autopsy shots in these shows? “Seriously? Can’t we watch something else while I’m trying to eat here?”
“Hey, I was watching it first,” she shrugs. “You’re the one who decided to come in here with your spaghetti.”
I grumble and keep my eyes firmly on my food while I eat. I wince a little as a meatball squishes in my mouth. I’d like to say I’m one of those delicate girls who is put off her meal by it all, but nah, I close my eyes, let the queasy moment pass, then get over it and enjoy the fuck out of my pasta.
I look back up at the screen only when my plate is empty. Of course, the detectives are past the forensic part and are now storming the bad guy’s apartment. I’ve missed too much of the plot to care about what’s happening, but I keep watching anyway. I relax into the chair and let the stress of the day with the fussy kiddo roll off me. Ahh, evenings. God’s gift to mothers everywhere.
“So how’s the new job?” Shannon asks, eyes still on the screen. After a brief shootout, the cops have the bad guys in cuffs.
I tuck one of my legs up underneath my bum, trying not to let the surprise show on my face. Shannon and I might be sisters, but we’ve never been buddy-buddy. Well, that’s not exactly true. When we were really little, we used to do everything together. She’s three years older than me and my earliest memories are of her half-carrying, half-dragging me everywhere. Dressing me up and calling me her dolly. Holding my hand when we went to the park with Mom and sitting behind me with her arms around my waist as we slowly slid down the slide together. She’s the one who taught me how to tie my shoes.
Crush Me Page 7
