10 Shades of Seduction

by Tiffany Reisz

  Davies walked past us, one of the account execs still dangling on his arm like a piranha, teeth sunk so deep that it was unwilling to admit defeat. Bruce did not even glance our way.

  “Okay,” Clement said. “Too short a notice. But I won’t be giving up. Persistence is a Southern virtue.” He grinned that straight-teethed grin at me, his eyes bright in their sincerity, and I couldn’t help but smile.

  “Soon enough, you’ll break and be glad you did.”

  I laughed, couldn’t help it. He was arrogant, but he was also cute and funny.

  “I gotta go,” I said.

  He nodded and swiped a curved finger under my chin before releasing me from his gaze.

  * * *

  Bruce was standing before the window, his back to me when I entered his office.

  “Lock the door,” he said. His voice was barely audible.

  I did as he asked. He was asking, wasn’t he?

  He waited until I was seated in one of the two chairs that fronted his desk before saying, “You and Johns seemed to be getting along well.”

  “He’s a friendly guy.” I shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but I sensed that some kind of showdown was coming.

  “And you? How friendly have you been?”

  How was I supposed to respond to that? Obviously, he had something he needed to say.

  “He’s been here, what, two months and you and he are whispering and handing off notes like a couple of teenagers.”

  Obviously, he had eyes in the back of his head, but this agitation was out of character. He needed to get a grip. This was not something that should be discussed here, even with the door locked. I hated it when he got all possessive. I’d never really made any commitments to him, and I don’t like being pushed. I pressed my lips together. The walls were too thin.

  “It’s bad enough that I have to suffer Alex Rodriquez, but at least he doesn’t live in town, and he doesn’t work for the firm.”

  “What’s really wrong here?” I asked him.

  He turned back to the window. He didn’t say anything for a long time, so I stood up to go.

  “I want to fuck you,” he said to the window.

  “Maybe we can meet after work,” I said, turning toward the door. “Maybe I can arrange something.” I tossed him a smile over my shoulder.

  “Here. Now.” The words were a short burst through his pursed lips.

  “I don’t like bringing this to the job.”

  “You did with Alex.”

  “That was once and it was before.”

  “Well, then you owe me a once, here.”

  “I don’t owe you anything, Bruce,” I said as I headed to the door that joined my office to his.

  But he was there before me. “Glory, Glory,” he was saying. “I didn’t mean... I...” And he was reaching for me, his long powerful arms securing me, but I pushed at his chest.

  “No,” I said, “neither of us owes the other anything.” My hands were pushing hard against him. He held me tighter and, lowering his head to mine, he tried to kiss me, but I turned my head from side to side, trying to avoid his mouth.

  “It’s just that—” he was saying, and I could feel his hardness against my stomach. His hands were at the back of my skirt, on my ass, cupping and squeezing the flesh of my cheeks through the cloth. Then he was tugging at the skirt and I could feel the fabric rising, the cool air on my thighs. I tried to push him away again, but he held me tighter, his upper arms a vise trapping mine. His mouth groped for and found mine, his tongue eager and aggressive.

  “Stop it,” I said, and shoved at him. “Not like this. Not here.”

  “I just want to feel you,” he was saying as his fingers ducked beneath the thin line of my thong and ran down the crevice of my ass to sink into the heated flesh of my sex. “You are always wet for me,” he was saying as he slipped his fingers between the folds, oblivious to anything other than his own needs. “You’re so fucking sexy.” His fingers slid deeper, coating themselves in my lubricant as he pressed the thick ridge of his penis deeper into my stomach, burrowing, as though seeking warmth.

  “When we were in the meeting, all I could think about was the time you bound my arms to the headboard with one of your stockings. Then you rolled that cock ring down the length of my penis and I was afraid that you would just leave me there. You can be so cruel sometimes. But you climbed over me, straddled my head, pressed your wetness to my face and made me suck and lick at you until you came.” He was breathing hard now and his cock twitched against my stomach.

  “You shivered against my face. The lips of your sex were so hot and your spicy smell was everywhere. I pressed closer so that I could feel the vibrations and my nose dipped into you. I inhaled so hard it made me dizzy.” A thick finger was circling my entrance. “As you came, your pussy beat against my mouth and your juices ran down my jaw and coated my lips. I wanted to swallow you whole.”

  I stilled, thinking that maybe if I didn’t respond he’d understand that I didn’t want this. Not here. But he was intent on arousing my desire so that he could confirm his claim on my body.

  “In the boardroom, with Linda complaining about sign-in sheets, I was thinking about how wet you always get. I was so hard for you I barely heard what Birch was saying. All I could think about was dipping my hard fucking cock into your wet pussy.” He said the words into my hair as though they were words of love rather than lust.

  He was a grown man, not a teenager. He knew how to reel it in, and I was far from falling for that “I’ll die if I don’t get some” bit. If we were anywhere else, I would have struck out, loudly proclaimed my objections, and he would have been on his ass, writhing in pain. But we weren’t anywhere else and I would never call him out here. He knew it, too. So he pressed his advantage, his hand on my breast now rubbing it through the silk of my blouse and then using his thumb to rouse the nipple.

  His hands were rough and purposeful as he turned me about and pressed me against the wall, face-first. I let him. I would concede him this victory. He shoved my skirt up farther until it rode my waist like a belt and then he was shoving my thong aside. From behind me, his hand pressed between my legs, opening my stance as a finger slid up through the widening passage of my thighs, nudging its way through the slippery labia to tangle with my clitoris. The broad tip of his finger slipped up and around, engaging in a sort of gliding dance that ended in a wet kiss as its tip pressed the swelling nub. I shuddered, as he knew I would. His lips nipped at my neck; his tongue darted out, leaving a trail of damp tingles. Even through the growing haze of need, the sound of his zipper seemed to resonate throughout the room. The muscles of my pussy clenched in expectation.

  The tip of his penis, a huge knob, pierced my opening as he gripped my right hip with one hand and my left shoulder with the other, securing my position. I leaned against the wall, hands splayed, all at once angry with him and with myself. I should have never become involved with this man. You don’t shit where you eat. An adage well worth repeating.

  As he pushed forward, my sex twitched, anticipating the hard length of him.

  “Glory,” he breathed as he thrust forward. I knew he was biting his lip as my heat consumed him. I knew that when he got it all in, the whole length of him, he would hold it there and just rock it back and forth to soak up the heat and the juices and then he would ride me hard. I knew what he liked and that was why he was afraid, afraid that I might start to like someone else and that I might decide not to come back. This whole bit was about him staking his claim, marking his territory. But my knowing this didn’t stop me from pressing back so that I could take more of him in.

  He was a big man. Every time I was with him, it was a revelation, that he could fill me so completely. The walls of my sex clenched around him as he rasped forward, his fingers digging into my hip, his heavy sacks slapping against the backs of my thighs as he rammed himself into me with a conquering force until the heavy knob touched bottom. Then he pushed forward even more, even though there was
nowhere else to go. A groan, low and long, accompanied the pressure.

  He pulled back just a little, then thrust forward, as if he was testing the depth of my womb, as if he was trying to plant himself there and was burrowing himself a little nest. Then he was moving, the long draw back and the rasping thrust forward, the pace increasing as he did this over and over as I clenched around him. He was breathing hard. I couldn’t breathe. My hands were slippery against the wall. I trembled and, stumbling, stepped forward in order to restore my balance. “No,” he said, much too loudly, as both of his hands found my hips to draw me closer and secure my sex to his.

  “Oh, fuck, Glory,” he was saying, “Glory.” His voice was an incessant whisper.

  My pussy twitched and tingled and a low growl slipped from my throat as the rasp and tug quickened. I closed my eyes and let the current take me, the clean frisson like water lapping up my body caused my toes to curl in my shoes and my nipples to become stones. He was pounding at my backside and ramming himself deep and deeper until my pussy started to jump and clutch at him. A low whine came from somewhere deep in him as he started to come, a long swoosh and then in a series of jerking spurts that caused him to bounce against my backside, a supple brush and press of his groin against my nether cheeks.

  Stumbling, he fell drunkenly forward before he could catch himself. His weight and momentum thrust me into the wall and I crashed, headfirst. The loudness of the thud startled me more than the pain of the contact.

  After only a moment, he caught himself. Using the strength and length of his arms, he secured me to his chest apologizing for his clumsiness while just as clumsily patting my head as though looking for lumps. Or maybe he was trying to soothe me. Whatever his motivation, his heavy hands only increased my irritation.

  “I’m fine,” I said, separating myself from him as I made an attempt to straighten my clothes. “I’m going home,” I added. The extent of the wrinkles in my skirt became more and more obvious as I smoothed it down over my hips. My blouse was a mass of creases, I could feel his seed slithering out of me, and the stickiness of our mingled juices clung to my inner thighs.

  He nodded, having tugged his pants back into place. “I’m sorry,” he said, ducking his head as though embarrassed.

  No, he wasn’t sorry. He might have been a little embarrassed at having to temporarily relinquish the impenetrable mask that he usually wore, but he wasn’t sorry that he’d taken what he wanted. I’m sure he was thinking that he’d done what he had to do, marked his territory, the evidence of which was oozing out of me as I stood there.

  I opened the door and slipped into my office, where I cleaned myself up as best I could with the wet wipes I kept in my bottom drawer. When I was done, I used my cell to call Clement on his.

  “Eight o’clock?” I asked.

  “Seven,” he said, without missing a beat. “I’d like to pick you up, if that’s okay?”

  I gave him my address and went home to take a bath.

  * * *

  The play had been a little sad, but well acted and Clement seemed to be a fan of Tennessee Williams and Lillian Hellman, the Southern playwrights, he called them. After the curtains closed and the applause died, we walked along the rain-dampened streets and debated the merits of the play we’d just seen. I felt like I was being regaled by a scholar, but in a really good way. He supplied insightful asides about the writer and similarities between this and his other plays, and he spoke with a shy intensity that soon gave way to his playful wit when he realized that I found the topic entertaining.

  Over dessert and coffee at a diner near my apartment, he spoke about his brief stint as a theater major before he realized that he was more interested in the literature than the performance and that neither promised to be profitable. I told him about the time I played Blanche Dubois in an undergraduate production of Streetcar and we both fell over laughing when I gave him a taste of my Southern accent. He saw me home and secured a promise that I would see an upcoming college production of a Beth Henley play the following week. Then, standing two steps below me on my stoop, he pressed his lips to mine in a very warm, but chaste kiss. It was a date, like something out of a Thornton Wilder play, but we were very much alive.

  I was in great spirits at work the next day. At first, Bruce was a little cautious toward me. Instead of calling me in to pick up a set of contracts that I was supposed to review, he grouped them with some letters Claire had to post and had her deliver them to me. When he couldn’t stand the suspense anymore, he came to stand in the door between our offices, something that he rarely did, and asked me how far I’d gotten with my research on a prospective client. I handed him the file with a smile. He beamed with relief.

  Clement was waiting for me in the lunchroom. He plucked my Lean Cuisine out of my hand before I made it to the microwave.

  “Let me take you out to lunch,” he said, clasping my hand with his free one. His fingers stroked the palm of my hand as he tried to pull me closer.

  “I’ve got a lot to do.”

  “We can make it a quick one. But you need to get out. We need to get out.”

  I laughed. “You need to get out. I’ve got work to do.”

  “Davies can get along without you for a few minutes. Dottie’s has a fried catfish special that goes well with Corona.”

  “And you would know this because?”

  “It’s the same special she had last Friday.”

  He must have seen my will floundering, because he put my Lean Cuisine back in the freezer and turned back to me with, “My treat.”

  * * *

  Dottie’s was full. As Clement and I stood near the entrance, giving our eyes time to adjust to the darkness of its interior, Claire came up behind us.

  “Hey.” She smiled at Clement. To me, she said, “You usually eat in. I’m surprised to see you here.”

  I shrugged.

  “Hey, there’s a booth opening up,” she shouted over the din as she brushed past me. “Come on.”

  Clement grabbed my hand and we followed her to the booth. The guys who were leaving threw some bills on the table and, before they could move away, Claire was sliding onto the bench, pushing empty bottles and baskets of leftover crusts and fries to the center. She scooted all the way to the edge as though making room for someone else. I slid onto the bench opposite her and Clement slid in next to me. She looked a little disappointed, but moved her purse to the space next to the wall as she slid back to the center of the bench.

  A waiter came, counted the bills left by the booth’s previous occupants before shoving them into his apron pocket, and then ferried their leftovers to a nearby dishpan that sat on what looked like a luggage rack.

  “Something to drink,” he asked when he finished wiping the table down.

  “Miller Light,” Claire chimed.

  “A couple of Coronas,” Clement said, indicating with a twist of his fingers that I was included in the order.

  Claire looked at me as though a light had come on in her head.

  “To eat?” the waiter asked.

  Clement looked to Claire. She smiled at him. “A burger, no fries.” He nodded and told the waiter that we were having the catfish special. “Fries?” he asked me. I shook my head no. The waiter left and Clement settled back, his shoulder leaning against mine. I pressed my lips together to keep from calling him out in front of Claire. These men with their need to flex their feathers were beginning to annoy me beyond endurance and this one had no reason whatsoever to make claims or assumptions. Didn’t he know that Claire was taking notes? His actions, however, suggested that he was counting on it. I scooted over a bit to give him some room. He settled his right hand down next to my hip, his pinky pressed against my thigh. The waiter returned balancing bottles of beer and glasses on a round tray.

  “What was all that noise yesterday when you were in Mr. Davies’s office?” Claire asked as she poured her beer into a tall glass.

  “When?” I asked, pretending ignorance as I sipped my beer fr
om the bottle.

  “Right after the morning meeting,” she clarified. “You went in and a few minutes later there was like this crash and then a groan or maybe the groan came first. I went to see what happened. You know, to see if anyone had been hurt, but the door was locked.”

  I wondered whether she was that naive or whether she was just being a bitch.

  “I don’t know. I was only in there a minute.”

  “You must have heard it. Your office is right next to his.”

  I shook my head, shrugged, and took another sip.

  “Well, anyway, he came out a few minutes later. Left for the day, said to forward all of his calls to his home phone. When I went into his office to make sure everything was okay, the only thing out of order was the empty rocks glass he’d left on his desk blotter.”

  “How long have you been Davies’s assistant?” Clement asked Claire.

  Thank God, because when Claire got a whiff of something she stayed with it like an old bird dog until she’d broken its neck, shook the life out of it and laid it at her master’s feet. That made her a good partner when you had something to research, but when you wanted something to stay buried, you had to work hard to distract her.

  “Nearly three years.” She smiled at Clement.

  “What’s he really like?”

  Claire grinned. She liked the attention. She liked Clement.

  “He’s wonderful when he’s in a good mood, but he can be a bear at times.”

  “What makes him a bear?” Clement asked, sounding genuinely curious.

  Claire smiled coyly, taking a demure sip from her glass of beer as she thought about her answer. I sat back and watched the two of them. I liked being on the sideline.

  Claire was saying, “It’s hard to say. The little things don’t bother him. Sometimes he can be a teddy bear, but at other times nothing seems to please him.”

  “What sets him off?” Clement asked me.

  “He likes things his way.”

  “Yeah,” Claire agreed. “But you usually handle him so well. That’s why I didn’t know what to think yesterday. That crash. Then you left, and a few minutes later he comes striding past my desk.”