by Ivy Carter
I push her back with my hand, getting her into position so that I can take her. But Emily isn’t having it. Not tonight. She turns until she is on her hands and knees, her ass popped up toward me. She looks over her shoulder at me and I swear, I couldn’t close my mouth if I tried. Staring at her round ass offered up to me is the hottest thing I’ve seen. I don’t even realize I’ve taken my dick in my hand, giving it slow strokes. As if she couldn’t get any hotter, she lowers her body to her forearms, so that her ass is really primed and waiting for me. I can’t wait a second longer.
I move forward and easily find her soaked slit and I push my long dick slowly into her cunt. We both moan out, the new angle giving us both new pleasure. I slide my dick out, coated in her juices, then push it back in, her hole so tight. I watch as my dick widens her and disappears into her pussy. I pump her slowly, stretching out her walls. She moves back into my dick, moving with me, wanting more. I increase my tempo, gently at first, testing her out. Sweat is dotting her back, lining the ridge in her spine, and I run my hand over it. She’s pushing back even harder into me, so I give it to her back, slamming my dick into her, my balls smacking her ass until she’s screaming out and I’m exploding into her, grinding myself as deep into her as I can into her pussy. Fucking hell, I never knew a woman could be so hot.
After a moment I slowly pull myself out of her. She stands, reaching out for my shoulder as she sways.
“Whoa,” I say. “You okay?”
Her eyes have fallen shut; her cheeks are flushed red and her hair is a mess. Naked fucked Emily standing before me could get me hard again in about thirty seconds.
“Yeah,” she says. A smile forms on her lips. “I just need a minute.”
I hold her hand as she walks away to the bathroom. I rub my hand through my hair as my mind slowly comes back. She could make me forget everything, and gladly. I need her in my life, always. Business aside—in fact, screw the business. I don’t want anything, only Emily. I can’t continue keeping these feelings inside me. I have to tell her how I feel.
Emily
I splash water on my face in the bathroom not far from the living room. I cleaned myself up—as usual, Jackson had me absolutely drenched—and I still needed a cool down as my senses slowly come back to me. I dry my face and try to fix my hair, smoothing it down into something that doesn’t make me look like I just woke up in the forest.
I go into the kitchen for a couple glasses of water. The glow of a laptop illuminates the refrigerator. I can’t help but turn to look at the screen.
My eyes scan across an email. I see the words, but I have to go back and read it more slowly because I can’t believe my eyes.
The gist? In order for Jackson to take over the family business, he has to prove his “family values” by getting married.
He’s been using me this whole time as some sort of sick contest with his brothers. Draw me into his life, wine and dine me a little, and then pop the question—only so that he can get the real prize. I know how bitter he’s been about not taking over the company like his father had told him his whole life, but I never imagined I’d be a part of some plot to become his trophy wife. And here I am, standing naked in his kitchen, the cold of the travertine floors sending chills straight up my body. All I want is to get out of here but my clothes are in the living room, where Jackson still is—probably naked.
A shame builds up in me for believing someone like Jackson could be with someone like me—much less fall in love. I knew he was out of my league, and I only mean that in terms of hotness (damn him) and money. In all other ways, my family was right. He’s not the man for me. He only cares about himself and his business.
When I storm into the living room, he’s (thankfully) got his boxers back on and is lounging back on the couch, one arm behind his head like he’s posing for an underwear ad. Jesus, his body…. I literally can’t look at him. I find my panties and slip them on.
“Come here,” he says, lazily reaching a hand out for me.
“No,” I say.
He sits up on his forearms. “You okay?”
I throw his pants aside and find my skirt and blouse but where the hell is my bra?
“I just want to get dressed,” I say.
“Are you cold?”
I shake my head no. I can’t speak. Not yet. I definitely can’t look at him. Finally I find my bra on the other side of the ottoman and I snatch it up. I turn my back to Jackson as I finish getting dressed.
“Emily,” he says. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
I can’t stop the tears from coming, as much as I want to. I swipe my cheeks clear before turning back to him. He looks so confused, maybe even concerned. But it’s part of his act. I know that now.
“I wasn’t snooping,” I begin. “Not that it matters, but I wasn’t. Your laptop screen must lack a sleep mode or something because it was on, bright and shiny when I went to get some water.”
“What are you talking about? Come here. Sit down.”
“No. I saw it,” I say, and everything starts to bubble up at once, completely out of my control. “I saw the email between you and your brothers and some lawyer guy. First son who gets to altar gets the company? What kind of sick shit is that, Jackson? You’ve just been using me this whole time as a way to take over your family business. How sick in the head are you?”
“Emily, wait,” he says. He’s standing up now and stepping toward me. I step back.
“Stay away from me, Jackson.”
He raises his hands in surrender. “I’m not…I won’t touch you, Emily.”
“This has all been a lie,” I say. “It’s all bullshit. What, you thought I was dumb enough to go along with this? That you could woo me with your big house and private rooms and rooftop pools?” Tears stream down my face at the memories. All those things he did for me—that I thought he did for me. It was all a scam. “That whole time you were just priming me to be your little wife. Did you think I’d be thankful to you for saving me from a life of middle-class boredom? That you could appease me by writing a check to my cute little charity?”
“Emily, no. I swear. It’s not like that at all. It never has been,” he says.
“So you’ve never thought of being with me as a way to win the seat at the top of the company?”
“No, not like that. Let me explain…it’s complicated.”
“I was so blind. My first impression of you was that you were a complete asshole and somehow I let myself forget that.” That day in his office he was so cocky. He was toying with me even then. “So what happened? You learned that you had to get married so thought of me? Some fresh, pliable girl for you to mold to your liking?”
“Emily, it wasn’t like that at all. My feelings for you are genuine. I truly care about you. Please.” He takes another step toward me.
My voice quivers as I say, “Don’t you dare touch me.”
I hustle out of the room and across the house, so unnecessarily big, just like his ego. Jackson chases after me.
“I do care about you,” he says. “Please listen to me. I know how that email looks but I don’t care about any of that. I don’t care what my asshole father wanted. I only care about you.”
“I may have been naïve once but my eyes are wide open now,” I say. “I don’t believe for one second that you don’t care about your business. It’s fine that you care about it—you should—but it’s the only thing you care about and that’s not okay. God, my family saw that within three minutes of meeting you. What took me so long?” I know what took me so long—I was swept up in those strong arms of his, those sensual kisses, those deft hands…
“Emily, I do care,” Jackson says, his eyes pleading—probably because he sees his beloved company slipping away. “I’ve been falling for you. Please. Stay.”
I want to slap him for saying that. His desperation to save himself is as pathetic as it is transparent.
“You’ve just proven my point,” I say. I swing open the heavy oak door and practi
cally run down Marlborough Street, away from Jackson and everything I let myself believe.
I throw myself back into school and work with renewed force. I have to keep my mind occupied—it’s the only way I can survive. Natalie and I spend an evening studying our asses off for an upcoming exam. Afterward we hit up a pub in Brookline where I drink way too many beers. I don’t even mind the old guys flirting with me. I laugh loudly, toss peanut shells on the floor, and give two shits about what happens tomorrow and zero shits about what happened with Jackson. I go through the motions of being carefree.
But when I’m in bed at night, just before sleep takes hold of me, I see Jackson’s face and I cry. I hate myself for it. I hate myself for missing him and feeling like I need him.
Sitting through Brent’s class is a different kind of hell. At least Natalie is next to me, but even she can’t shield me from the looks I get from other classmates—the disgust of some of the women, the salacious interest from some of the guys. I’m repulsed by the whole thing.
“Let’s think about examples due of process in public schools,” Brent says from the front of the class. It’s been a long week of trying to be okay, and I’m tired. It’s been raining and cold and everyone is coming down with colds. There’s a general miserableness to the room that’s felt by everyone, I think. Today it’s not just me. “What steps must be taken before any punishment is handed out when a student is suspected of wrongdoing?”
No one speaks up, so I raise my hand just to get the discussion moved on so we can get out of here. I want to get to the café and warm up with a hot tea and bagel.
“No one?” Brent says. “I’ll give you a hint—there are two things that must happen.” I keep my hand raised; he keeps ignoring me. “If these steps aren’t followed any conviction can be overturned so you better know this.” Someone yawns loudly. Brent sighs. “You must first—”
“Hello,” I say, pretty much surprising myself and everyone in the class—including Brent. “I know the answer. I’ve been raising my hand.” And we never raise our hands—we normally just speak out.
“The Fourth and Fifth Amendments, people,” Brent says. “Concerning—”
“Privacy and fundamental fairness,” I interrupt. Even from four rows back I can see Brent tighten his jaw. “The Fourth Amendment concerns itself with privacy issues and the Fifth Amendment gives the accused the right to heard. Ironic, huh?
“I don’t appreciate you speaking out of turn,” Brent says, and damn if he isn’t ballsy. Well, guess what? My balls are bigger.
“You don’t get to ignore me and spread rumors about me. Rumors, everyone. All lies,” I say, looking around the class. People had been staring at me, but now a few look away—the guilty. “The only thing I did to Brent was turn him down when he tried to get physical with me. Which, by the way, was pretty scary. I hope you ladies never have to experience having a guy shove himself on you. I should report you to Professor Stanwick,” I say, looking back to Brent. He doesn’t look pissed anyone—he looks scared. He should be.
I think about storming out of class. There’s only ten minutes left. But in that moment I decide staying will make Brent more uncomfortable. So I don’t move, and watch as he clumsily tries to get back on track with his boring-ass lecture. He dismisses us five minutes early. No one looks at him as they shuffle out the door. With a gut-full of confidence and Natalie by my side, I stop by him on my way out.
“I mean it,” I say to him. His eyes flash at me before continuing to shuffle papers into his canvas bag. “I will report you for mistreatment if you don’t stop harassing me,” That word seems to catch his attention—harassing. As it should. “You’re lucky I haven’t done it yet but I’m not afraid to.”
As I walk out the door I hear Natalie say, “Yeah, you spineless jackhole.”
Once we’re down the hall I turn to her and laugh. “What is a spineless jackhole?”
“I don’t know,” she laughs. “It was the first thing of.”
“I’m using it from now on,” I say. “Thanks for hanging around.”
“Of course,” she says.
I don’t know if it’s because I’m angry with the way things turned out with Jackson, or sad or surprised or what, but there’s something in me that says, No more messing around. If I want to get something done, I’m doing it. I can be professional, but I also don’t have the energy to deal with any nonsense.
Later I’m sitting in a meeting at the office, listening as junior members of the development team talk about their frustration with not getting meetings with prospects.
“They won’t respond,” says Amanda, who was recently promoted from administrative assistant. “I’ve sent two emails and gotten nothing back. I don’t want to be pushy about.”
Amanda is smart but this is frustrating. I know I'm only part time but I do far more work than many of the full-time employees.
“Who is this?” I ask.
“The senior VP over at Chase,” she says.
“Sonja Atkins?” I ask.
I feel the room’s eyes turn on me—yeah, I know who our prospects are. Everyone here should. Amanda says yes, it’s Sonja.
I lean forward. “What’s her number? Let’s call her now.”
I look to Jules for approval. “No time like the present. Want me to talk, Emily, or do you want to take this?”
“I’ll take it,” I say. I look to Amanda, who looks like she might vomit. “All she can say is no,” I tell her, repeating the old phrase from my dad.
We get through to Sonja and I swear the call lasts three minutes. All Amanda had to do was agree to a meeting with her and Jules about possible partnerships. That’s the first step. Sonja quickly agrees, and it’s done. Just like that.
“Well done, Emily,” Jules says. She looks to Amanda and the other junior staff and says, “Don’t be afraid of the phone, guys.”
As the meeting breaks up, Jules says, “Way to show some leadership. I knew you had it with that first big donation, and I'm glad to see you haven’t lost it.”
That first big donation is, of course, Jackson but she doesn’t say. Otherwise it’s a nice reminder that I’ve got this inside me, if I just let it out. I can be assertive. I took down that weasel Brent, after all.
On my way out to my parent’s place for brunch one weekend, I start to realize that good enough doesn’t work anymore. I can always be better. Like at work. Amanda’s emails weren’t good enough. They were fine, and fine doesn't get the job done. No one ever made a difference by being fine. I realize it’s probably how Jackson feels every day at work. It’s why he works so hard—something inside him, whether he was born with it or his father instilled it in him—because he can’t let himself be satisfied with anything but greatness. Jackson works his ass off to get it. Despite everything else, I have to admire that. Maybe I picked up a little of it from him.
“I can’t say that I’m surprised,” Dad says when I’m forced to tell them I’m not seeing Jackson anymore. “That was not exactly a match made in heaven.”
“Hardly,” Mom says.
“At least he was hot,” Sabrina adds. I kick her under the table. “I was being nice!”
“I see guys like him all the time,” Dax says. “They think giving money makes them charitable but it’s just a tax write-off. They actually save money come tax season if they’ve donated a little throughout the year. It’s a scam.”
“It’s ridiculous you all made him seem like a bad guy for giving money away,” I say. “Even if it is for tax purposes. Who cares? Money from people like that is what helps us do what we love. And Jackson works really hard for his money. I don’t see what’s wrong with working hard. Didn’t you guys teach us that, along with doing good?”
Mom looks at Dad a bit guiltily.
Maybe they’re right about some things—even Sabrina—but I feel like they’ve missed something important in Jackson.
“You guys were jerks to him. It was like giving money to a charity is as bad as slapping a baby. A
nd you tried to slam him with that patriarchal crap,” I remind Dax. “He’s not a bad guy. So can we just lay off?”
“Sweetie, we’re sorry,” Dad says. “We just want what’s best for you.”
I know they all mean well, but they don’t have to try to destroy something before I even know what it is. Or was. And what was it?
As I go back to the city, I think about that. What were Jackson and I? Stripped away, we were a guy and a girl who shouldn’t have liked each other but turned out to be crazy about each other. He was sweet to me. He seemed to take joy in spoiling me, not to show off his wealth but to make me happy. So why is that such a bad thing?
I start to feel hopeful until I realize that, oh yeah, he was using me. I curse him for being an asshole and a good actor. Jackson may have liked me well enough to consider using me to get control of his company but that doesn’t mean he cared for me. That’s what matters. That’s what hurts the most.
Jackson
“And so as we head into the final stretch, this makes it our most successful quarter ever.”
There’s clapping and few cheers around the boardroom table. Rachel Sullivan, one of several VPs, just delivered the news that should make me want to celebrate with a nice bottle of scotch. Instead I feel nothing.
“Congratulations, Jackson,” several people say after the meeting. My shoulders are clapped, handshakes are offered, drinks are suggested. Everyone is quite pleased with how the company is progressing. I feel empty.
