Graham
IT TAKES THREE TRIES TO get my belt secured. I don’t even attempt my tie.
I may have gotten off, but I’m still fucking high on her. There is no after-sex dump, no bottoming out of desire that makes you feel human again.
The door opens and I pivot on my heel without thinking. She’s standing in my office, no worse for the wear. The only indication of the last few minutes is a little plumpness to her lips and a ruffle of her hair.
The fact that she looks more beautiful post-coitus is disconcerting. An orgasm is supposed to bring you to your senses. It’s supposed to quell the hunger, make you think logically and feel less needy. So why that isn’t working in my favor now is worrisome. Why am I still considering kissing her, sitting her on the loveseat and asking about Columbia and business school and yoga?
Neither of us speaks. We stand, fidgeting, as we feel out the other. The twinkle of anxiety isn’t hidden in her eyes, the shuffle of her heels against the floor another flag that she’s unsure of where we stand.
I would offer her some comfort if I could find it. Truth is, I don’t fucking know where we stand now either. I’d like to be able to see her Monday morning and not feel like . . . this. There has to be a solution.
“I’ll make reservations at Zuva. My friend Fenton Abbott has been asking me to try his new restaurant anyway,” I say, clearing my throat while I search for my discarded tie. “We can talk there.”
Fresh air would do us both some good, maybe clear out the pheromones still swirling around my office. She doesn’t answer, but when I look at her, she’s smiling. Good sign.
“Let me find my phone . . .” Looking around my office, I see it lying against the wall.
“Graham?” She moves in front of me towards the door. “I already have plans tonight. Remember?”
My hand drops to the side. Surely I misheard her. “Excuse me?”
“I have plans. I told you that when I came in here.”
“You’re still going?” My temple throbs. There’s no way she’s going to some take-out dinner with some prepubescent punk after what just happened.
She shrugs lightly. “Yeah. I told him I’d be there.”
“Your cum is sitting in a pool on my desk,” I say, motioning to the evidence. “And you are going on a date with someone else?”
Her brows pull together in faux confusion. “I’m not sure I understand why you care?”
“Are you serious, Mallory?”
“The question is are you serious, Graham?”
My jaw clenches. I wish I had my tie. I’d fucking tie her ass up on that loveseat and refuse to let her leave. Kidnapping? Maybe. But at least she’d have some sense fucked into her before I let her up.
How can she waltz out of here, to see another man no less, and leave me worked up?
“Did you think fucking me would make me not go with Keenan?”
Her audacity sparks something feral inside me. Stalking across my office, I stand just feet in front of her.
“I’m going to be late,” she says, a tease in her tone.
“You’re really going?” When she nods, I walk towards her until her back is against the wall. My hand slides between her legs and she parts them without objection. She’s wearing panties now, which makes me happy.
Dipping my finger inside her still-soaked body, I slide it roughly through her slit. When I pull it out, it glistens in the light. “Be careful,” I warn. “You still have me dripping out of you.”
Her lips part and I watch her try to contain herself. “I’ll keep that in mind.” She pushes off the wall, her body coming so close to mine it nearly touches, before walking out the door without even looking back.
As the latch shuts, everything hits me all at once. The chaos of my office. The confusion in my head. Her juices on my desk.
Oh my God. I didn’t use a condom.
I didn’t use a fucking condom.
My hand slaps my forehead as I pace a circle. What am I fucking doing? How did I manage to lose that much control? Fuck!
Not only did I just fuck up epically, I just gave her the upper hand. I have to regain this and quick.
I scrub my fingertips down my face, hoping some sense filters back in my brain. This isn’t just out of control. This is borderline psychotic.
I don’t do this. This is Lincoln shit. This is the stuff Barrett used to call and ask for advice on how to repair it because he’d let the damage be done.
Damage be done. It’s sure as shit done here in so many ways.
Picking up the strewn items and placing them semi-close to where they belong, I try to tell the anxiety in my gut to stand down.
I can fix this.
Taking a deep breath, I fall in my chair and don’t look at the imprint of her round ass on the glass that covers the top of my desk in front of me. That won’t help. Instead, I squeeze my eyes closed and imagine this is a situation Lincoln has presented me with. What would I say?
If this were one of my brothers, I’d tell them they’re ridiculous. That they could have sex with any woman they want. Why do they have to pick a woman they work with, a woman with so much access to all the things that are important to them? Why compromise business with pussy? It’s weak. It’s stupid.
I’m fucking stupid.
I’d tell them to break things off slowly, but to get out of the situation as quickly and harmoniously as possible and then not get into it again. I’d probably call them reckless and rash a few times for good measure.
Yet, when I open my eyes and all I see is her, I know it’s not going to be that easy. I need her help.
Chuckling, I roll my eyes. I’m so lying to myself.
When I imagine her smile, I know I’m screwed. And when I remember that she’s with another guy, I know I’m in way over my head and I have to get out of it before I drown. I have to regain control. I need this on my terms.
Wheeling my chair around, I open her email from earlier. My fingers begin clicking the keys.
* * *
To: Mallory Sims, Administrative Assistant
From: Graham Landry, CEO
Re: Employment
Dear Ms. Sims,
Due to recent events, I’m declining your request for termination of employment with Landry Holdings. You are expected to be at your desk by eight o’clock on Monday morning.
Mr. Landry
* * *
“That’s it,” I say, shuffling the papers until the full Gulica Insurance file is on top. This quote is our coup, a rate nearly a third of all other competitors without having to resubmit our financials. It’s huge for Ford, cutting his start-up costs in half.
I stretch my arms overhead. Picking up my glass, the last swallow of an Old-fashioned in the bottom, I carry it through the house and into the kitchen.
The sky is dark as I peer out the window over the sink. My stomach rumbles, protesting the cluster of nerves that’s been wound in it all evening. Half of my attention has been on Landry Security, the other half on Mallory.
The glass hits the bottom of the sink with more of a thud than strictly safe. Both hands grasping the ledge of the farmhouse ceramic, I bow my head.
It feels like I’m torn in half, part of me living the life I know and the other being pulled away by some crazy need. Need for what, I don’t know. I’ve never had this problem before. I’m great at tuning out the noise and focusing. It’s my forte. If only I could focus right now on what I should. Namely, not her.
There’s nothing clean about this. As a matter of fact, it’s so fucking tangled that I can’t manage to straighten it out no matter how much I try.
“Hello?” I say, answering my phone after the second ring.
“Hey, Graham. It’s Camilla.”
“You avoid my calls left and right and then call me randomly on a Friday night. If you called to tell me you’ve gotten yourself in trouble, I really don’t want to hear it tonight, Camilla.”
She laughs through the phone. “I’m not in trouble.
I was just seeing how your week went.”
Spinning around, I let my back rest against the marble counter. It feels good against the scratches in my skin from Mallory’s heels.
Just like that, I’m fighting a hard-on.
“Graham?”
“I’m here. Just getting a drink,” I lie. “This week went well. Should it have?” I give her a second to consider where I’m going with this.
“Mallory said she offered to quit today.”
“I didn’t accept it.”
“She said that too,” she laughs. Her words calm the acid in my stomach just a bit. “I don’t think she meant it. What do you think of her?”
“I’m not discussing this with you, Swink,” I say, using the nickname our grandfather gave her years ago because she’s so nosey.
Camilla sighs. “You want to know what I think?”
“Not really.”
“Graham! Stop it and listen to me.”
Rolling my eyes, I switch hands. “I am. I’m listening to you meddle.” My jaw clenches. “Want to hear what I have to say about you setting her up on a date tonight?”
“Oh, did that bother you?” she asks sweetly.
“Why do I suspect that’s why you did it?”
“Because you’re not stupid,” she laughs. “Look, Ford and Lincoln have both said you like her. And,” she says loudly over my objection, “I’m friends with her, G. I know . . . things.”
“I know if you pull that again, your check from Landry Holdings next month will be late.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” she giggles.
“Try me. Now I have to get back to work since I’ve gotten nothing done this week.”
“That’s telling,” she mutters.
“That’s telling that something needs to change. I have Lincoln’s wedding to monitor before he fucks up his life. I have Ford’s security business to take care of, Barrett’s odds and ends he left behind here to deal with,” I sigh. “I have investment meetings all week for our portfolio and a land deal Dad wants to look at early next month that I have a lot of prep work to put in. Sienna is wanting to pull a part of her money out and invest in some fucking hat line that will be a total fucking loss, and I have to deal with Mom trying to convince me to let Sienna spread her wings. Then I have your bullshit, creeping around God knows where—”
“Stop it.”
“I could if you’d just be open with me about who you are seeing.”
“Who says I’m seeing anyone?”
I look at the ceiling in exasperation. “You said yourself I’m not stupid. Dad wants me to hire Parker to follow you around and—”
“You wouldn’t!”
“I haven’t,” I warn, “but I will if you don’t ‘fess up soon.”
She gruffs through the line, mumbling about me being overprotective, but it’s nothing I haven’t heard before. Finally, she sighs. “Why don’t you go take a bubble bath or something? Take the night off.”
“I don’t have the luxury to be unproductive, Camilla.”
“Easy there, big guy,” she says softly. “I didn’t say you did. I’m just saying . . .”
“Saying what?” I bark at my sister, then immediately feel guilty. “I’m sorry. I’m just stressed out.”
“I can tell.”
Silence stretches between us and I kick myself for letting things get like this. This isn’t me. I manage shit. Shit doesn’t manage me.
If I break, it all falls apart. If I fail, we all go down.
“When is the last time you did something you wanted to do?” she asks. “Not for work or for any of us, but for you?”
Pulling the phone away from my ear, I see an incoming text from a number I don’t know. “I don’t know, Cam. What’s it matter?”
“You need to take care of yourself,” she insists. “You act like you’re this . . . stoic guy that doesn’t need anyone. And maybe you don’t, I don’t know. But you need to enjoy your life. Find some balance.”
“I’m balanced. My scale just looks different than yours.”
“Balance is balance, Graham. It means what it means.”
This is brewing into a fight, one I don’t want to have. Not just because it’s Camilla, but because I just don’t have the energy. Or the temperament. “I’m not in the mood to have this conversation,” I tell her.
“Can I offer you a suggestion?”
“Sure,” I sigh. “Then I need to go.” I pull my phone away from my face again as an alert beeps through.
“Give Mallory a chance. She really needs this job, Graham, and I know she’s smart and—”
“It was her that tried to quit,” I remind her, my frustration going up a few notches. “I didn’t try to fire her. But, come to think of it, maybe I should’ve let her. It would resolve a few things.”
I’m right. I should’ve. But the thought of not seeing her on Monday morning gives me a feeling I’m not willing to deal with yet. I need to wrap my head around this before I go making huge moves. Well, bigger moves than I did today. Or sinking inside her again . . .
“Maybe you should consider why you didn’t,” she says gently.
“I need to go, Cam.”
“Come have lunch with Mom and I tomorrow.”
“I’ll try,” I say. “I’ll talk to you soon.”
Before she can pull me in a different direction, I end the call. Flipping to texts, I see the same number has hit me up a few times. I click on line.
There are four messages in green.
I got your email. You can’t just “decline my request” without talking to me about it.
Although, I find it telling that you want to keep me around. I’m good, huh? ;)
Just in case you were curious, we used forks. Real metal ones.
We had a meal and went our (separate) ways. My thighs are still kind of stuck together. Guess I’ll grab a bath and consider your REQUEST that I stay with your company.
My fingers are striking the keys on my phone before I can consider it.
It wasn’t a request. Don’t be late.
Her responds pings immediately.
Her: What if I am?
Me: I’ll make you work over.
Her: Does any of that include desk work in your office? If so, I’ll see you at ten after eight.
My hand goes to my cock as I imagine her on my desk, splayed out just for me.
Me: I’ll say you performed well for your first week.
Her: I’d say it wasn’t terrible working for you.
Me: Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence.
Her: Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been better.
Me: Any tips going forward?
Her: Use your mouth more, Mr. Landry. It’s how deals are made.
Mallory
THE SUN SHINES BRIGHTLY, WARMING my skin as I walk through Xavier Park with a mug of hot tea. I love Sundays, always have. The world sort of slows down for a second. People are happy from sleeping in or from going to church or hanging out on the sofa in their pajamas.
It’s a little treasure of life I’d forgotten about. With Eric, Sundays were a day to clean the house, iron clothes, change plumbing. There was never a leisurely breakfast or a trip to the country or a morning in bed with toast and television. I didn’t even realize how much I missed Sunday mornings until I got back to Savannah.
My phone stuffed in my pocket, I watch the geese on the lake and the kids playing on the swing sets and slides with their parents sitting at picnic tables, reading the paper.
It all makes my heart happy. The fresh air. The peace. The memories of Graham.
Keenan and I hit it off on our date, if that’s what you want to call it, but only as friends. By the third slice of pizza, we were joking about how pathetic we were, each clearly hung up on someone else.
I haven’t felt this happy in as long as I can remember. Maybe it’s not so much happy, it’s content. Optimistic. I’m not sure why the world looks a hint sunnier today, but it does.
My thig
h vibrates, my ringtone jingling in my pocket. I pull it out and see Graham’s name on the screen. Hurrying to a vacant table, I set my tea down and smile ear-to-ear as I answer it. “Hello?”
“Good morning,” he says. “I’m sorry to bother you today.”
“It’s no problem.”
“I took the entire Landry Security file home and I can’t find the Gulica quote.”
“It’s in the red paperclip. The top page is a yellow sheet, I think. Something from . . .”
“I got it,” he says. The way he says it makes me wonder if he didn’t have it all along. “Thank you. Good memory.”
I climb on the table, picking up my tea. I love the sound of his voice. It warms me from the inside out. “You’re welcome.”
“So . . .” He takes in a quick breath. “What are you doing today?”
“I’m at Xavier Park. Just walking around, drinking some tea,” I sigh happily. “I love Sunday mornings. What can I say?”
“Strangely, I do too,” he chuckles. “People are less assholish on Sunday. It’s like religion hits them or something.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
We laugh together, the kids behind me giggling as they run from the swings to the slide.
“When I was growing up,” Graham says, “my grandmother used to make a big Sunday dinner. We’d go to church and then to her house and she’d fry chicken or pork chops or make egg salad sandwiches. Us kids would run around her yard, raising hell, then we’d eat and watch football or take a nap or something. Those are some of the best memories of my life.”
“I’d just wake up and eat cereal and watch cartoons. My parents worked on Saturdays, so we’d have to go to a babysitter. Sunday was the day we got to stay home and sleep in. It was our lazy day. But you probably know nothing about being lazy.”
“Not really,” he chuckles. “But I do less on Sundays than I do the rest of the week. I may not take it completely off, but I do sleep in.”
“Until when? Five?”
“Six,” he protests. “I slept in until six today.”
“Slacker,” I tease. “I see you taking the day off. That’s why you called me to see about papers, right?”
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