Ruthless In A Suit (Book Three)

by Ivy Carter

  We fall asleep in each other’s arms, and I know nothing can go wrong.

  “Oh, shit. Jackson.”

  I look at the clock and it’s after nine. We have to be at my parent’s by ten-thirty and even though it’s a little more than a half hour drive—in no traffic—we still have to go by Jackson’s so he can shower and change.

  “Wake up,” I say, nudging him.

  But he only wants to wrap me back up in his arms. He pulls me back to him and covers my neck in kisses, his hand instinctively cupping my breast. And it feels so good, and there’s almost nothing I’d rather do than see this morning in bed through, but we have to get going. Even though my parents are super easygoing, I don’t want to stroll in flushed and late and smelling like sex. So we have to get showered and get going.

  “Come on, I’m serious,” I say. Goosebumps spring up on my arms from all his kisses and touches. I sit up, scooting out of his reach. I throw the covers off him, intending to make him cold so he’ll get up. All I manage to do is expose his sculpted body—and his dick, rising to the occasion. He moves toward me like a lion hunting its prey—slowly, methodically, eyes on the prize. “Don’t you dare, Jackson,” I say. “I’m serious, we have to get dressed.”

  But I want it just as much as he does. I laugh as he tosses me on my back. He takes my bent knees in his palms and pushes them back toward my shoulders. “Don’t worry. I’ll make this quick.”

  My body is ready to take him as he slides his dick back in where it belongs. I moan as he moves inside me, more slowly than the last time and despite the clock ticking away. I don’t care, though. My mind goes blank to everything except the feel of Jackson in me, his hands on me, keeping my knees pressed to my shoulders so that my pussy is fully open to him. When we come, we come together, sweating and panting.

  “See? That wasn’t so bad,” he says in my ear, kissing me one last time before sliding out of me.

  We’re both a bit dizzy as we get dressed. We decide we’ll both shower at his place, and I grab some fresh clothes and my makeup bag. I might have to finished dressing in the car on the way out to Lexington. This is my whole deal, from last night to this afternoon, and I have to admit I didn’t plan it very well. Even if we had gotten up earlier, and even if he hadn’t just taken me, we’d still be pressed for time having to go back into Back Bay before driving out of the city.

  I just want everything to go perfectly today. Yes, that was the perfect way to start my day, but I don’t like the feeling of being rushed. My parents don’t appreciate tardiness. As we fly out of the city, I hope we can get there on time, and the day can continue without a hitch.

  Jackson

  Emily’s family home is a little tan ranch-style house on a quiet street filled with trees and dog walkers. It’s like I’ve died and gone to suburban hell.

  That’s mean. It’s actually quite charming in a Norman Rockwell kind of way. It’s just so totally opposite from what I grew up with. This place oozes warmth and we haven’t even made it through the front door yet.

  Emily is fidgeting as I pull up in the driveway. I take her hand.

  “Nervous?” I ask.

  “A little.”

  “Why? Do you think I'm going to blow it or your parents won’t like me?”

  “Neither,” she says, and then, “I don’t know. I just want them to like you as much as I do, see what a good man you are. I don’t want any of the differences to matter.”

  By “differences” she means money—specifically mine. I kiss her fingertips. “You have nothing to worry about. Everything is going to be perfect. I promise.”

  Her parents greet us with open arms—literally. I’m going in for the cheek kiss on Mrs. Brown when she envelopes me in a full-on hug. It throws me off. And then I reach out for the handshake with her father and he does the same thing. I’m not a fan of social touching. I think it’s presumptuous and frankly a bit invasive.

  “Come in!” Mrs. Brown says. The house is warm and stuffed with tchotchkes that would have my mother breaking out in hives. Mrs. Brown touches my back as she guides me from the foyer, overflowing with rain boots and umbrellas and, God, even a beach ball.

  “Thank you for having us, Mr. and Mrs. Brown,” I say. I present her with the bottle of Veuve Cliquot I brought as a gift, thinking there’d probably be mimosas.

  “What in the world? Champagne?” Mrs. Brown says. “I wouldn’t even know how to open this. And it’s Martha and Joe, sweetie.”

  I give Emily a quick look. Who doesn’t know how to open champagne? You just unscrew the cork. Whatever, Martha and Joe, I can get used to that.

  Emily’s siblings are in the living room, and they both rise when we walk in. I’m introduced to sister Sabrina and big brother Dax, who eyes me with the sort of suspicion I can respect from a girl’s big brother. Extra points for not hugging me. Dax shakes my hand and Sabrina gives me a little wave.

  Martha sets the bottle of champagne on a side table and invites everyone in to the dining room table. A feast is set out with stacks of waffles, a plate of eggs and another of bacon.

  “Martha, this looks amazing,” I say, choosing a seat. Emily sits next to me. I can tell she’s still a little nervous. A pleasant smile has been plastered on her face since we walked to the front door. I reach for her hand and give it a squeeze.

  “Aw, so sweet,” Sabrina says. I move my hand away from Emily’s—I hadn’t intended for anyone to see what was meant as a private moment. “Don’t stop on my account,” Sabrina says, not missing a thing. “You should see my parents slobber all over each other. It’s disgusting but also sort of sweet.”

  I realize the entire family is looking at Emily and me—do they expect me to touch her again? What do they want from me? Whatever it is, at this point I prefer to keep my hands to myself if it’s going to cause this much commotion.

  “So, Mr. Brown—”

  “Joe,” he says, sitting down. Martha has set a pot of coffee on the table and…a can of whipped cream? Everyone is seated, parents at the heads of the table and Sabrina and Dax across from Emily and me.

  “Sorry, Joe—”

  “Jackson?” Martha says, interrupting. “Before we get started would you like to say grace?”

  I am momentarily stunned. Grace? Like, the prayer? My family attended church on the major holidays—Christmas and Easter—but that was strictly for appearances. During services, my mind always wandered to my homework or a project I was working on. I absorbed nothing because I knew it meant nothing. I’ve never said a prayer in my life, out loud or to myself.

  “Mom,” Emily says. “He’s the guest.”

  “That’s exactly why he should do it,” Martha says. “Please, Jackson. We’d be honored.”

  Jesus, I’m not the pope here to bless their food.

  “No, truly,” I say, going for modesty. “I’ll just end up mangling it. This is your home. You or Joe should say grace. I insist.”

  There’s a beat of silence that tells me maybe that was the wrong thing to say. I could have made up some words, blessing the food and thanking God for this day. But I don’t think perfect strangers should assume I’m religious. It’s like they’ve put my faith—or lack thereof—to the test, and I failed. Little do they know that being tested and being set up are two things I really fucking hate.

  Joe says the blessing and soon we’re passing the dishes of food around the table. I hope the awkwardness has passed and I can get back on my game. I’m so good with adults—I was around them more as a kid than people my own age—and to not do well today would be failure on so many levels.

  “Martha, this all looks so amazing,” I say, doling out scrambled eggs onto my plate.

  “Dad made it,” Dax informs me. “We don’t go along with the patriarchal ways around here. There’s no women’s work.”

  “Jesus, Dax,” Emily says.

  “Emily, watch your mouth,” her mother says. Sabrina stifles a laugh. Grown adults being reprimanded at the dinner table. Okay. This is di
fferent.

  I stare across at this guy, only a couple of years younger than me. “I didn’t mean that at all. Whoever set this all up, it looks amazing. I’m thankful you all invited me.”

  “Jackson, tell us about your work,” Martha says in a clear effort to smooth things over. “Emily hasn’t told us much about you but she did mention that you met through the Children’s Education Fund.”

  “It’s such a great organization,” Joe says. “What made you decide to get involved?”

  “Emily,” I say. “She stormed into my office one day, demanding money.”

  “It didn’t happen like that,” she says. “We had an appointment and he tried to cancel—at the last minute and for the third time. I couldn’t believe it. I was so annoyed.”

  “You’ve got a headstrong daughter here, Joe,” I say. “She wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  “So what’d you donate?” Sabrina asks. “Time? Services?”

  “Oh yeah,” Dax says. “CEF has that great mentorship program. Is that what you’re doing?”

  “No,” I say. “I donated money.”

  “Yeah, but what else?” Dax asks. I stare at him for a moment, not understanding the question. Finally he says, “I mean, you didn’t just write a check, did you?”

  “It was a check for a hundred thousand dollars,” I clarify.

  “Jackson was very generous,” Emily says.

  “Yeah, but I mean,” Dax continues, “what are you doing now?”

  I’m ready to strangle this guy’s neck when Joe steps in and says, “I think maybe what Dax is getting at is perhaps how you got involved with CEF. What drew you to them out of all the other worthy non-profits?”

  “Just Emily, really,” I say. “Truly, she was very persuasive.”

  “Being so wealthy you probably donate to lots of causes?” Joe asks.

  “Just Emily’s.” I smile at her, hoping she’s feeling more relaxed. “And I’m not that wealthy.”

  “Oh, come on,” Sabrina says. “Everyone knows you’re rich as hell.”

  “God, Sabrina,” Emily says.

  “Sabrina, please,” Martha says, looking a little mortified. “I’m sorry, Jackson. We shouldn’t talk about such things anyway. Although it must make life a little easier, not having to worry about money.”

  “I still worry about money,” I say. “My company certainly has profit goals every quarter. If I don’t make them, I hear about it from the board.”

  “Croft International is one of the wealthiest companies in the country,” Joe says. “How can you sit and worry about making even more money?”

  “It’s my job,” I say simply. “We have shareholders who expect a certain amount of return on their investments. I don’t think it’s too outrageous to give them that.”

  “But don’t you think, at some point, it’s enough? How much money do you have to make for you to say, Okay, I’ve made enough. Now I’m going to start giving it away?”

  “There is no number. We live in a capitalistic society.”

  It looks like old Joe is on the verge of a head explosion when Emily steps in. “Come on, guys. Stop being so hard on Jackson. Hello, we met because of his donation. A very generous donation that shouldn’t be overlooked. It’s the biggest in the fund’s history.”

  Martha mutters something about how that’s not the issue as Joe refocuses on his eggs.

  “What about the mentorship program?” Dax says.

  I look across at Dax. “What about it?”

  “Why don’t you get involved in it? Being the head of a company is the exact kind of person I’d think they would be looking for. Wouldn’t you want to mentor a young kid, expose them to the business world and help them see the heights they can climb?”

  “Believe me, if I could find a way to add more hours to the day, I would. I hardly have the time to do much of anything, besides work. My days are filled from top to bottom, keeping the company running and earning money. It’s an eighty hour a week job, and that’s when things are slow.”

  “You make time for exercise, right?” Dax says, eyeing me carefully. “It’s the same concept. You just do. You make the time.”

  What this kid is not getting is that I don’t want to make the time for shit like that. I’d rather write the damn check. But of course I don’t say that.

  “Can we ease up on the third degree?” Emily says. “Jeez, guys. He’s not on trial. He’s here so we can all get to know each other.”

  “Emily is right,” Martha says. “I’m sorry, Jackson. We’re just so focused on charity in this family. We’ve all chosen to donate our lives to service so we’re a bit passionate about it.”

  “Well, I’m happy to help fund that passion,” I say. As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret it. Fuck, what a mistake. Condescending asshole, that’s me. “What I meant was—”

  “No, it’s fine,” Martha says. “There are those who do, and those who write the checks. It all makes the world go around. When you do have a moment to relax, what do you like to do?”

  She’s good—moving on quickly after her dig at my money. What is it about this family and money? I thought it before about Emily and now I see where it comes from. They really hate money. I’ve never known such a way of thinking could exist.

  “Honestly, in the past few years I haven’t even had time to even take a vacation. Pathetic, I know. Work is just so demanding that it takes up almost all my time.”

  “Is it fulfilling?” Martha asks. “Working so much?”

  “Fulfilling?” I repeat, as if I don’t know the meaning of the word—and maybe in this context, I don’t. I work because it’s what I do. I work because it’s expected of me. I work because it’s been drilled down deep in me, into my core, that I have to work harder and longer and better than anyone else—including my brothers. “Yes, I suppose I like what I do. It is rewarding.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Martha says. “And not to harp on the issue but I bet you’d feel even more rewarded if you found the time to do a little volunteer work. It doesn’t take much to make a difference in a life.” She smiles like she’s not harping on the issue.

  “Well, you’ve certainly all made me think,” I say—or rather, I lie.

  We finish the rest of the meal with the sort of pleasantries this afternoon should have been filled with. Sabrina talks about her professors and some guy she’s seeing and Dax talks to his father about ways to increase volunteer services at the non-profit he works at. He makes sure to shoot a few side-eyes in my direction. I want to ask, What the fuck did I do? For such a sweet family, these people seem like a bunch of assholes. Sabrina gets a pass, I suppose. She didn’t say much, but at least she didn’t insult me or take shots at me.

  One thing is for sure: this brunch did not go as planned. Now I have to go back and figure out where it all went wrong. But first order of business is getting the hell out of here and back to the sanity of the city.

  Emily

  We’re all about to move into the living room for more conversation. I see this as a fresh start to get things back on track after the contentious brunch. But it seems that Jackson has had enough.

  “Emily?” he says. “We should head back into the city.”

  “You think?” I glance at my watch. It’s not even noon.

  “You don’t have to get back to work now, do you, Jackson?” Dad says. “On a Sunday?”

  “I’ll probably stop in for a little bit,” Jackson says. “Get a little jumpstart on the week.”

  I stare at Jackson for moment thinking, Really? You’re going into work today?

  Dad turns to me and says quietly, “Sweetie, will you be okay?”

  “I’m fine, Dad,” I say as he kisses my cheek.

  “You’ve raised a very independent young woman,” Jackson says. “Emily is great at taking care of herself.”

  We all walk to the front door, Sabrina and Dax calling out how nice it was to meet Jackson even though I know they don’t like him. None of my
family likes him. This has all gone terribly wrong and I’m not sure why or how.

  “Nice car you got there,” Dad says, stepping out onto the front steps. Dad has never cared about cars. I can’t tell if he’s being nice or condescending.

  Mom stops me before I can follow Jackson out.

  “Emily,” she says. “What are you doing with this man?”

  “Mom,” I say. “Don’t.”

  “He’s nothing like us. He’s nothing like you.”

  “If you’d given him a chance you’d have seen how kind he really is. And he treats me really well, by the way,” I say, hating that I’m defending him. “You guys were all way too hard on him. You were rude.”

  “We were not hard on him. And maybe he does treat you well—with gifts and fancy dinners?”

  “No, Mom, that’s not what I meant…”

  “Actions speak louder than words, Emily,” she says. “The action I see is that he’s going into the office on a Sunday. He can’t even spend one whole day with you? What kind of partner is that? You deserve better.”

  “You only got a snapshot of him today,” I say. “He’s more than his job.”

  “Sure doesn’t seem like it. Honestly I don’t know a single other thing about that man aside from his job. And that I could have learned that from Google.”

  “I’m going,” I say, shaking my head. This isn’t going to get any better. Mom pulls me in for a hug before I can get away.

  “We just love you, honey,” Mom says. “We want the best for you, and you deserve a person who understands all the amazing qualities that make you who you are.”

  As we drive away, I feel like I’ve ingested a rock.

  “Well, that didn’t go as planned,” I say. I give a little laugh, like it wasn’t so bad but it’s at least fixable. Jackson keeps his eyes on the road. “You don’t really have to go to the office, do you?”