by Stella Gray
Everyone knew this wasn’t a Jeffrey Epstein/Ghislaine Maxwell situation, that I wasn’t grooming them to be passed off to someone like my father—they knew I would do everything in my power to keep them safe. But that also meant I was often a bit overprotective.
I didn’t care. I would fight to the death to keep them feeling safe.
Which also meant I was going to give Ford a little talking-to.
Because as much as I didn’t want to bring down the mood, I knew what an incorrigible flirt my husband could be. I couldn’t think of a time I’d seen him interact with a woman without pouring on the charm. It didn’t matter if she was a fresh faced co-ed or a grandmother with a dozen grandkids. Ford saw a female and instantly turned on the charm.
That wouldn’t work here. He couldn’t flirt with the girls. He couldn’t give off any kind of sexually charged dynamic.
“So listen. I just want to reiterate that they’ve been through a lot,” I said, walking over to him. “And some of them are uncomfortable around men. It’s one of the reasons I prefer to have women teach the workshops.”
Ford nodded. “I get it. Really.”
“Good,” I said, relieved. “I just want you to understand where the girls are coming from.”
He nodded again, but before we could talk more, the door to the conference room opened and the girls began trickling in. They smiled at me, but when they saw Ford, I noticed a few of their smiles faltering.
I glanced over at Ford, whose own smile had dimmed a bit. He’d noticed their change in attitude when they’d seen him.
Sitting down at the back of the room, I was nervous all over again. I held my breath as Ford introduced himself.
“I have to thank my lovely wife, Emzee, for inviting me to come in today and teach you all about real estate,” he said. “Do you mind if I turn off the lights? It’ll be easier to see the PowerPoint, and I’ll turn them back on afterward so you can read the hand-outs I brought.”
The women nodded, and I could sense them loosening up a little already.
I was impressed. Not just by Ford asking permission, but with the tone of his voice as well as his demeanor. I hadn’t been sure he’d really heard what I was saying, but wow.
There was absolutely no flirtation in his words, none of the usual winking or banter. My playboy husband was stepping up, 100% professional, treating the women around the conference table as seriously as he would treat any man.
The lights went down, and as Ford talked us through his background, his job, and all the ins and outs of real estate development, I found myself riveted. Not just by what he was teaching, but by how he delivered it. And he was calm, approachable, and thoughtful in responding to questions. I even asked a few myself to keep the ball rolling.
After he was done and the lights came up, he passed around packets that contained notes and resources and other helpful information. When I got mine, he flashed me a small smile, but by the time he was back at the front of the room he was all business again.
“So let’s go over a typical career path, and bear in mind that not all real estate is about commercial or residential development—some of you may be interested in becoming an agent, helping people find their first home or working with a restaurant owner seeking new locations.”
He spoke with authority, but not aggression. The eye contact he offered came with brief frowns of concentration, not little winks of acknowledgement, and he paid no more attention to any one attendee than he did to any other. In fact, the only time I saw even a hint of the flirtatious Ford that I knew was when he’d walk over every so often to give me a big grin or a shoulder squeeze that everyone could see.
It felt good to bask in his light, but I’d almost forgotten how sexy it could be to bask in it whilst in public.
As he started to wrap up, I realized I was practically squirming in my chair. All the intelligence and tips and authentic displays of helpfulness that Ford had showed during the seminar had me more hot and bothered than I could have ever imagined.
By the time the last questions had been answered, I was just about ready to bone my husband right there in the conference room.
Ford concluded his talk to a round of applause. As the women filed out, he handed each of them his business card and told them they could reach out if they had any more questions. Once we were alone again, I closed the door and quietly locked it.
When I turned back to Ford, he was packing up his computer, completely oblivious to the way I was staring at him. Like he was a five-course meal and I was starving.
Luckily, I’d reserved the conference room for two full hours. We still had it for another fifteen minutes.
My entire body was buzzing with desire as I pushed away from the door and stalked toward him, unbuttoning my blouse as I did. By the time Ford looked up, my shirt was open to my navel and my cleavage was showing, plumped up above my black lace bra.
He did a double take, and then his smile morphed into the wolfish one I knew so well.
“Why, Mrs. Malone,” he said, turning and crossing his arms as he leaned back on the desk. “Are you trying to seduce me?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Malone,” I said, finishing with my shirt and opening it wide so he could see that the black lace was see-through. “Are you looking to be seduced?”
It was a question I didn’t really need to ask. When I reached him, he grabbed me by the waist and spun me around to face the conference table, his hard cock pressed up against my ass. His hands slid over the tight stretch of my skirt before going down to the hem.
“Is this what you want?” he demanded.
I spread my hands on the table, arching my back. “Yes,” I hissed.
“You’re a dirty girl,” he said, but I could hear the heat and delight in his voice.
“We have less than fifteen minutes,” I said.
“I can make you come in five.”
His confidence only made me hotter, and by the time he got my skirt up past my hips, my underwear was soaked through. Ford let out a groan when he realized it.
“Did you like my class?” he asked, running his finger along the fabric, touching me, teasing me, but not giving me any of the relief I was dying for.
“Yes,” I moaned as his other hand came forward to cup my breast, which was practically spilling out of my balconette bra.
His thumb and forefinger pinched my nipple, and I gripped the table with anticipation as I listened to him unzip his pants. I was waiting for him to slide my panties off, but instead he just pulled them to the side as he rubbed the tip of his cock against my hot, ready pussy.
“Ford,” I moaned. “Hurry.”
“You want this cock?” he whispered, his voice in my ear.
I nodded, loving the feel of him stretched out on top of me, of being pressed down against the cool surface of the table, my hips braced against the edge.
“Were you paying attention in class? Or were you thinking about my cock? About me fucking you here, at work, where anyone could walk in and see us?”
All I could manage was a breathy moan.
“You’re going to have to be quiet,” he warned me. “Very, very quiet.”
I’d never considered myself an exhibitionist before, but I was starting to realize that I really, really liked it when we had sex in a place where we might get caught.
Even though I’d locked the door, there was always the possibility that someone could walk by and hear us. And it was going to be very, very hard to be quiet with Ford teasing me mercilessly with his cock.
He was right there, brushing up against my entrance but refusing to fill me up the way he knew I desperately wanted him to.
“Tell me you were thinking about me,” Ford demanded.
“I was thinking about you,” I gasped.
He pushed forward, just a little bit, just the head of his cock slipping inside me.
“Come on, Em,” he said. “You can do better than that.”
“Please,” I begged, my voice hoarse. “Plea
se fuck me, Mr. Malone.”
With a groan, Ford sank deep inside me, filling me up, stretching me. My head went back and I bit my lip to keep from crying out. It felt so good. So naughty and dangerous and perfect.
My underwear was still drawn to the side, but Ford gripped the silky fabric in his hand and used it to rub my clit. The sweet, slick pressure was too much and soon I was muffling my cries with my hand.
Ford began fucking me harder, faster, whispering dirty nothings in my ear, clearly doing his best to make good on his promise to make me come in five minutes.
It only took three.
Emzee
Chapter 13
Cocktail parties were probably my least favorite way to spend an evening. I’d have to get my hair done, my nails done, take at least an hour to do my makeup and decide what to wear, and then spend the entire night in what was usually a too-tight dress and too-high heels trying to make small talk with people I didn’t know. Not the most comfortable environment for me.
Honestly, I’d much rather stay at home in my coziest pajamas, watching a movie on the couch with Munchkin and a full glass of wine.
But tonight’s shindig was a work event for Ford. It was one of those “schmooze a bunch of high-dollar investors” types of parties. The kind of thing he loved. And since he’d stepped in where he wasn’t comfortable—teaching that real estate class for See Yourself, helping mentor my girls—I owed it to him to be the consummate plus one. His help had meant a lot to me, and I was happy to return the favor. And maybe receive an equal reward for myself afterward…
Besides all that, I was his wife. Fake or not, it was my job to be at his side for stuff like this. So I did what I had to do.
Went to the salon to get a fuss-free updo, consisting of a blow-out followed by a sleek ponytail, got my nails done in a nice, respectable neutral beige. I did my makeup, nothing too fancy, and even traded my go-to black liquid liner for a subtler dark brown.
Then I picked a dress: a black Kate Spade sheath with an open triangle in the back. It wasn’t too showy, but it was definitely sexy, with cap sleeves and a hemline that hit just above the knee. After some deliberation, I paired it with my Jimmy Choo stilettos that made my short legs look a mile long. Grabbing my trusty Prada clutch, I checked myself out in the mirror.
Hot. Ford would appreciate the outfit, especially my exposed back.
But when it was time to leave for the party, he barely paid attention to me. He didn’t comment once on how I looked, or the effort I’d put into my appearance. And when we arrived at the ritzy art gallery where the event was being held, he beelined over to some short guy in a suit and seemed to forget I was even there.
I mean, I understood. To an extent. It was a work event. He had to put his best professional foot forward, not spend the evening flirting with his wife.
Yet as I stood in a corner, trying to look like I was happy to be there, I couldn’t help wondering why I’d been invited in the first place. Ford certainly didn’t need any help working the room, judging by the looks of it.
Wasn’t he aware how difficult it was for me to feel alone and abandoned in a crowd—especially one consisting of loud, wealthy investor types? Ford, of all people, should know precisely how anxious social events made me. Seeing as how he was the one who swooped in to rescue me when I was living the life of a permanent, solo wallflower in high school.
Fifteen minutes in, I’d had enough. Pity party over. If Ford wanted me to stand around by myself for a few hours, I would handle it. I’d been forced to endure worse. Time for a drink.
I went to the bar to get a glass of red wine, which I brought back to my corner and nursed slowly, trying to keep a pleasant, neutral expression on my face. At least I was by the door where the waiters came out with their trays of crab cakes, so I was always right there to get a fresh one.
I’d probably eaten half a dozen and was just about to reach the bottom of my wineglass when I was joined by a tall, sandy-haired man with a friendly smile. He looked around my age, and he was handsome. Not knee-weakeningly so, like Ford—more of a bland, All-American kind of handsome, in the way of rich young men who wore Ralph Lauren and owned boats or horses.
“Hi,” he said, holding out a hand.
“Hello,” I said politely, quickly wiping my crab-cakey fingers on a napkin before I accepted his handshake.
“I’m Andrew.”
“Emzee,” I said.
“I couldn’t help noticing you all alone over here,” he said with that nice smile of his.
I flushed, embarrassed that a perfect stranger had noticed that I was basically hiding in a corner during a party.
“I’m just taking a breather from the crowd,” I said.
Which wasn’t a complete lie. I was taking a break…from the pressure to perform in a situation where I felt out of place and uncomfortable.
“Understandable,” he said. “It can get a little overwhelming.” He glanced over my shoulder. “And you definitely found the best place to hide. First dibs on the crab cakes.”
“They are pretty fantastic,” I admitted, feeling caught out.
Andrew gave me a wink. “It’s a good thing they don’t have shrimp cocktail tonight. Those are my weakness. I can put away ten, maybe twelve of them at a party like this. It’s pretty horrifying—for me and anyone else that’s watching.”
I laughed. It was hard not to like the guy. He was nice and funny, and he was putting me at ease. After he fetched us a fresh round of drinks, I thought to myself that maybe the evening wouldn’t be so bad after all.
“This is a really nice venue,” he observed, looking around the gallery.
“It is,” I agreed.
That was the one good thing about this event. Malone Real Estate Holdings had booked out a very well-known, highly respected art gallery. I’d heard good things about their latest exhibit, so I’d been looking forward to the location, if not the actual event. But once Ford and I had arrived, it became obvious that no one was really interested in what was hanging on the walls. And the room was a bit too crowded to get any good views of the photos on display.
But what I’d seen, I’d liked.
“I really like the curation,” he said. “Not that I can see much of the art in this crowd.”
It was as if he’d read my mind. I looked at him, startled.
“What?” he asked, mistaking my expression for something else. “Oh God, please don’t tell me you’re the photographer and this is exactly the kind of event where you feel your work is best displayed.”
I laughed again. “No, no, no,” I reassured him. “I’m not the photographer. I like the work as well. I was actually just thinking the same thing.”
“Ah. So which one is your favorite?” he asked. “Of what you can see.”
I glanced around, trying to reacquaint myself with the work I’d attempted to check out when I first arrived. I didn’t know the photographer, but I was impressed with what I saw. Lots of beautiful architecture, mostly in and around Chicago it seemed, but shot from unique angles and perspectives that made it look more like abstract art than photographs.
“I think I like that one the best,” I said, pointing to one across the room.
It was the skyline of our city, familiar and iconic, but captured from above in a grid pattern of shadows and shapes. I found it evocative and interesting.
“The artist has a gift for playing with light and dark to emphasize form,” I said. “And I can’t help noticing the care they seem to take with the negative spaces.”
Now it was Andrew who was giving me a surprised look.
“What?” I asked, feeling self-conscious.
“Nothing,” he said, smiling broadly. “I just don’t meet many people at these events who care much about art, let alone the specifics of form and negative space. I’m impressed.”
“Well, I do have a background in the arts.”
His eyebrows went up and I could sense his interest shifting completely over to me. I wasn’t us
ed to getting this kind of attention at parties. I knew he was flirting a little, which would probably bother Ford, but it seemed harmless. It wasn’t like I was flirting back.
I was simply bored, and Andrew was nice, and he was interested in art and photography like me. So far, he was the only person at this event who had made me feel like I belonged.
“So you are a photographer,” he said. “My assumption was half correct, then.”
Nodding, I admitted, “I mostly do commercial work for my family’s company, Danica Rose Management.”
His interest became even more obvious. “The modeling agency?”
“That’s right.” I hoped he didn’t know too much about the reputation we’d had before we switched our name and our brand. We were all still working hard to overcome the ugly notoriety our father had brought down on the Zoric name.
“You all put up some great billboards downtown recently,” he said. “I don’t suppose you had a hand in that campaign?”
“Actually, yeah. I shot all of those images,” I said. “I was promoted to a broader creative role a few months ago, so I basically ran point on the whole campaign.”
It had been intended as a relaunch of sorts—moving away from my father’s branding of the agency as a literal collection of the most beautiful women in the world, and toward an image that was edgy, artistic, and inclusive. My brothers had been happy to put me in charge.
Andrew let out a low whistle. “They’re lucky to have you.”
“It’s my job. Not that I don’t love the work I do for DRM. It’s just…I don’t know.”
“Just what?” he prompted with a playful look. “Tell me.”
“Sometimes I wish I could get away,” I confessed. “Step back from the family business and take a little time to do some projects of my own. I’ve had gallery shows, shot for National Geographic, but it’s been a while. Commercial photography can be a little mercenary.”
