It's a Work Thing

by Michelle Karise

  Unbuttoning my shirt cuff, I began rolling up my sleeves.

  Jasmine

  Rules exist for a reason. Rules are there to keep everyone in line and protect us from harm. Without rules, modern life would cease to exist as we know it. The weaker classes of society would be harmed or forgotten. Traffic would remain at a standstill. There would be no winners in a simple game of basketball.

  I knew ER Wallace had rules regarding employee fraternization when I'd unbuttoned the top button of my blouse. I didn't care that the rule was "to establish clear boundaries between personal and professional relationships" when I'd slid my blouse off and tossed it to the floor.

  I'd thought to hell with rules when I stood from the chair and unbuttoned my skirt. I didn't give a fuck about being taken advantage of when I shimmied out of it. The only thing on my mind was thanking God that my bra and panties matched and that I'd invested in laser hair removal.

  In ER Wallace's eyes, "romantic relationships between supervising, managing, and executive employees and subordinates are strictly prohibited." It had been a good thing that Garrett and I were peers, because I almost passed out when his long, thick length banged against my pussy.

  The policy stated, "employees are prohibited from engaging in any physical interactions that would be seen as inappropriate to the work area." I'd known that, but the only thing on my mind had been settling back on the king-sized bed with my legs lewdly splayed open. Besides, I wasn't in a work area, I was in a hotel room on my private time.

  Garrett stood at the edge of the mattress, his hazel eyes darkened to a copper brown as he watched my attempt at seduction. Without taking his gaze from mine, he untwisted the cap on the miniature vodka bottle and took a swig. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. For a moment, I thought he intended to honor the promise to remain a perfect gentleman.

  He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons on his shirt. I didn't expect him to kneel at the edge of the bed and run his hands along my calves and hips. I was so uncertain of his next steps that I raised up on my elbows and watched. I gasped when he pulled me by the ankles and positioned his face between my thighs.

  "Jasmine, what the fuck are you doing to me?" he growled, teasing my seam with his thumb.

  "Show me." I moaned while jerking my hips upward. My nipples were pebbles, my wet panties were a hindrance. I wanted his fingers on me, inside of me. He must have felt the same way because his hand moved to the side of the fabric and gave them a forceful tug. The cloth snapped against my skin as they fell away. It didn't hurt, but it caused another wave of moisture to rush out of my pussy.

  "Those were La Perla," I moaned.

  "I'll buy the whole fucking store for you. I'll save these for later." He made a show of putting the sliver of ripped fabric into his shirt pocket. My eyes were wide and wild as my heart raced.

  In one fell swoop, he nudged his shoulders underneath my legs until they were draped over them. What he did next shocked the shit out of me. He pressed his nose to the crease where my thigh met my pelvis and inhaled. His cheek stubble scratched the delicate flesh, rocketing me off the mattress. Inviting him back to my room wasn't a well thought out move. His head wasn't supposed to be at the juncture of my thighs, but my God, I was happy it was.

  I flinched when he ran a soft finger along my slit, spreading me apart. His breath heated my skin as he spoke.

  "Your pussy is so pretty, I wonder how you taste." He leaned forward and nipped the delicate skin of my inner thigh and plunged a finger inside. His tongue teased me with a small circle around my clit. He closed over my sex and sucked and licked and lapped. His finger slid in and out and circled around and around me. Then he added a second finger. My head lolled back, and I fell against the mattress as his fingers and tongue worked me. He continued relentlessly rubbing me until my walls crashed down on his fingers, and he sucked my clit until I stopped throbbing against his tongue. I couldn’t catch my breath as I rode the waves of ecstasy.

  After I shattered, Garrett smoothed the hair around my face and gathered me in his arms. He cooed all the loving words a woman needed to hear after exploding from a man's tongue. "The most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he said, and "delicious," "this is for me," and "thank you."

  Basking in the afterglow, I purred under his firm grip until my eyes became weighed down with drowsiness. He positioned me under the covers, leaned over, and kissed my temple.

  "Sweetheart, I had a great time. I wish I could stick around, but I don't want to take us to the place we aren't ready to go. We have plenty of time. Book nothing on your calendar for next Friday. You're spending the weekend with me."

  The sentence wasn't a question, rather a statement. I dreamily nodded.

  "Are you sure you don't want to stay? You haven't had your turn." I stretched against the bed.

  "I'll take care of myself." He winked and patted the pocket containing my shredded panties.

  Damn, why is it so much fun to break the rules?

  The next day was the shortest and busiest day of my life. Thoughts of Garrett and his magical tongue ran loops through my head. I was acutely aware of his presence. My heart rate increased as he smiled a knowing smile. When I met him in his office for a mid-morning encore, I was a soaking wet mess. We returned to the war room with mischief all over my face, and me smeared all over his.

  I didn't feel guilty about the act, we were both single adults. We were careless for having sexual contact in the office. When we'd finished, I told him that we wouldn't do it again. At least, not at work.

  At noon, Lilah and I hightailed it to Midway Airport. We whizzed through the pre-screened airport security lines. After making it to our gate, we grabbed cocktails at a nearby bar and grill.

  "You've seemed distracted all day. What's going on?" She took a long sip of the gigantic virgin piña colada in front of her.

  "Last night, I went on a date with Garrett Hamilton."

  A loud gasp escaped Lilah, and she clamped her hand over her mouth to silence it.

  "Congratulations!"

  "No. No, don't congratulate me on this."

  "It was good, right? Please tell me he knocked the bottom out of your ass."

  I was thankful that she’d leaned in and whispered the expletive.

  "It was sublime. I'm afraid that we took it too far."

  She breathed a sigh of relief. "Tell me how far you went."

  "Um. Third base."

  "My. Oh my." She fanned herself with her napkin. "Wait. Who did what to whom?"

  "He did me."

  "That's good. If you’re having second thoughts, it’s better to be the receiver. What are you thinking?"

  "I feel like I've opened Pandora's box. Now I'm crouched in a proverbial corner waiting to see what types of crazy shit I've unleashed. I'm up for partner, and he's the client. He lives here, and I'm in Atlanta. Do you think this is the smartest idea? What if he breaks my heart?"

  "What if he makes you wildly happy?" She smiled a wide, dreamy smile. "Don't worry about work. As long as you both consent, it should be fine. Love happens. We spend the majority of our time at work; we can't stop it. Look at Bill and Melinda Gates. He was the CEO, and she reported to him. Besides, you two aren't serious. What would you say? 'Junior, Garrett Hamilton performed oral sex on me.' That's not the policy."

  Lilah's workplace flings were legendary. As far as I remembered, no one cared about them. Employee fraternization policies were antiquated. I was an adult, and I didn't need to ask for permission to date anyone.

  "I'll disclose our relationship when and if we become serious." I took a sip from the boozy shake in front of me.

  "That's the best move. Wait until you become serious and then you tell Junior." Lilah nodded. “I’m happy for the weekend. I’m looking forward to a bit of me-time. Family dinner this weekend?”

  "Always. What's going on with you?"

  "Errands. The story of a consultant's life.”

  "Here. Here." I raised my strawberry daiqu
iri high.

  As Lilah stated, I spent the weekends running errands—the dry cleaners, car maintenance, and a little shopping for replacement underwear. Sundays were for the family dinner. Each week, my sister's family and I converged at my parents' Brookhaven home. Alexandra and I would do all the preparations for a blow-your-diet, stick-to-your-ribs feast.

  Our dinners weren't about the cooking, it was about connecting with family, and this Sunday was no different. As usual, our mother, Honey, sat at the kitchen island wearing a watercolor floral apron with a wineglass in her hand. She’d swept her hair into a loose chignon, looking closer to thirty-five than fifty-five. Her job was to cut or measure odds and ends, but she spent more time reading fashion magazines or bringing us up to speed on the local gossip.

  "Can you believe Bryce proposed to that bookkeeper? She wears those tight dresses and displays her bosom. It's causing a stir amongst the BLA wives." She tsked. "Jasmine, I wish it would have worked out for you two."

  Bryce Williams was my most recent ex-boyfriend and a current member of the Black Law Association, or BLA. We'd dated for seven months in what many people deemed a promising relationship. Everyone had loved us and felt we'd been perfectly suited for each other. So many hopes and dreams rested on our finding love. My parents could finally breathe because I'd found a good man, and I could quit traveling across the globe, settle down, and have two children.

  I think people liked the look of us. It was Alexandra who had compared us to Barbie and Ken's friends, Christie and Steven. As children, my sister and I had argued over who would pretend to be Christie and marry Steven. Each time, I lost out on walking her down the aisle into the handsome man's arms.

  I had been traveling for work when Alexandra texted photos of Bryce skulking in a dark corner at one of Atlanta's famous nightclubs. He'd lied and said he was sick when I'd called. Little did I know that he was out with an accountant from his office. In all honesty, I didn't blame him. Bryce would have had to be blind not to notice her. The girl was gorgeous—all smooth, cocoa brown skin, big brown eyes, and dangerous curves encased in the finest bodycon dresses from FashionNova.

  He'd initially lied, but after showing him the photos, he confessed. Like Christie, I'd been in love with a soulless, dickless, plastic man.

  My mother and her circle couldn't get over working closely with a woman they thought had contributed to the demise of Bryce's love for me. It wounded my soul when she spoke as if I'd lost out on the best thing in my life. I shouldn't have blamed her; she didn't understand that our relationship had lacked the heat and lust I needed.

  There'd been no creativity or imagination. We didn't make love or fuck, we engaged in coitus. With him, I didn't have a clit or a pussy. I had a clitoris and labia. I would never scream, "Fuck me slowly against the wall," because he liked to have coitus in the bed with the lights out.

  I didn't share a lot with my mother. I found her advice basic and archaic. Is your man disinterested in making love? Give copious amounts of massages and smiles. Is your man a cheater? Wear more alluring clothing and high-heeled shoes.

  Yeah, right—like wearing a booty dress would keep a man from cheating.

  I wasn't the least interested in following in the footsteps of my mother and sister and giving up my job to become a housewife. I wanted the man, the hot sex, the children, and the career. I wanted it all.

  "Hey, mom. We're ready to fry the chicken. There's a plastic wrap covered bowl in the refrigerator. Do you mind getting that?" Alexandra called over.

  I smiled gratefully at her flawless execution of changing the subject. My mother sashayed to the large stainless-steel refrigerator and pulled out a dish containing chicken soaking in buttermilk brine.

  "Mmm. I love when we cook my mother's recipes. It makes me feel like she's still here," she said, sadness filling her voice. She paused for a beat before continuing. "Alex, what time should we expect Jackson?"

  "He's at the golf course. He should be here for dinner. He knows the time." Her response was short with a hint of finality. Not one for catching or acknowledging hints, my mother pressed forward.

  "You should call him. Your dad needs male company. All he wants to do is sit in the movie room and watch television."

  Alexandra's mouth formed into a thin line. Instead of answering, she checked if the oil was hot enough to fry the chicken. She turned knobs on the deep fryer before placing the end of the wooden spoon to check the temperature.

  "Here, Mom." I handed her a paper bag filled with spices and flour. "You know what to do."

  Because our mother was a bit of a priss, she used tongs to lift a chicken leg from the bowl and gingerly placed it in the paper bag. She shook and turned the bag a few times before pulling the chicken out and dunking the breaded pieces in another bowl of buttermilk. Then, she performed the shaking process again.

  Once all the pieces were perfectly battered and placed on a racked sheet pan, she handed the pan to Alexandra. Alex dropped a piece of chicken in the hot oil and watched until it rose to the surface, a beautiful golden brown. Once satisfied, she placed another piece in the fryer, and I prepared a serving dish lined with a paper towel.

  At three-thirty on the dot, my father began saying grace, thanking God for family and the hands that prepared the food. After prayer, we passed around serving dishes that held the fried chicken and the assortment of sides.

  Jackson hadn't arrived on time for dinner, and anger had formed all over Alexandra's face. I sat between my seven-year-old nephews, Christian and Kellan, and kept them entertained.

  "Auntie Jazzy, do you know that kid, Maverick?" Christian mumbled after taking a big bite of a chicken leg.

  "Christian, I don't want to see your food. Chew twenty times, swallow, then talk."

  He nodded and then counted as he hurriedly chewed the food in his mouth. "He threw cheese at us at the lunch table."

  "Why'd he do that?" I asked.

  "Chris laughed at his snaggletooths," Kellan chimed in.

  "Snaggletooth if there is one. Or snaggleteeth if it is more than one." I turned to Christian. "That doesn't sound nice."

  "Nope, but it was funny. I got him back, though. I spit water on him before we walked to recess." He continued to smack on his chicken.

  "Did you tell a counselor? Alex, did you know about this? I'm concerned about the lack of supervision at this day camp." I shot a horrified look at Alexandra.

  Her jaw dropped. "You do not go around spitting on people! And you don't bully." She wagged a finger at the two boys. "Next time someone misbehaves in the lunchroom, what do you do?"

  "Tell the lunchroom monitor," the two responded in unison.

  "Enough of that. No hollering at the children, we're having dinner." That statement prompted a shared look between Alexandra and me. Our mother never had an issue with the date, time, or location of any verbal reprimand when it was us. As a grandmother, she couldn't abide the slightest discipline for her grandchildren. "Jasmine, baby, we miss you when you're away. When are you going to quit that godforsaken job? It's hard not having you around."

  "Hon, let her take her time. It may take Jasmine a little longer to find what we have," the booming voice of my father answered.

  "Gee, thanks," I answered sarcastically.

  "I didn't mean it like that. I should have stayed out of it." He waved a hand and resumed eating.

  "Sorry, Dad. I'm tired of talking about it. I love you guys, but my job offers fulfillment I can't find anywhere else. Besides, I'm up for partner."

  "That's great, sweetie. I knew you could do it." My father ignored the look my mother flashed.

  "You deserve it." Alexandra beamed.

  "Partner? Like when you hold hands and walk to the big kids' section of the school?" Christian asked.

  "No. That means that Auntie Jazzy will make lots of money and be around a lot more. She can attend some of your school programs.” Alexandra smiled with pride.

  "Hurray! Hurrah!" Kellan shot his hands up in celebration. H
e stood from his chair and danced The Floss. His flailing arms nearly knocked his dinner plate to the floor, and he bolted back to his chair after a glance from his mother.

  "Calm down. It isn't official. I need a feather in my cap, and this IPO is the project that will give it to me,” I said.

  A visibly frazzled Jackson arrived when we were in the middle of dessert. My brother-in-law walked into the dining room and pecked a hurried kiss on Alexandra's cheek. He nodded a distracted hello to me, smiled at my parents, and patted my nephews on their heads. Like a good wife, Alexandra prepared a dinner plate filled with two pieces of chicken and healthy servings of the sides. He shoveled the food into his mouth while gulping down glasses of iced tea. He laughed and joked with my parents and smiled at my nephews' knock-knock jokes.

  After dinner, Jackson retired to the media room with my parents and the boys. Alexandra and I cleaned the dishes. We didn't mind cleaning because that would give us time to speak in private.

  I washed the dishes while Alex dried and put them away. She leaned over and whispered, "Don't listen to them. Enjoy your freedom while you have it. These people won't let me have a moment alone. The twins interrupt my bathroom time. Jackson felt that we were drifting apart, so he asked me to have sex with him every day. He read a bullshit article on Facebook about a couple that reconnected by having daily sex for a year. In the beginning it was fun, but we're on day thirty-three, and I'm over it. There's only so many positions that we can do. But it didn't stop my other duties. On top of being a fuck doll, I'm the boys' chauffeur, the family cook, and Jackson's assistant. I jumped at the opportunity to go to Vegas with my sorors."

  Alex's admission surprised me; I thought she had a charmed life. After her second year in law school, she married a man that would become one of Atlanta's super attorneys. She quit school to become a housewife and mother. The two lived within walking distance to my parents' home. They had all the trappings of success—luxury cars, a home featured in local lifestyle magazines, and two beautiful children. She had what most women wanted.