by Ava Claire
I blinked, heat making every part of me hot and bothered. I was all but panting, clawing my clothes off so he could see what he did to me. Just how ready I was.
An older man was staring at me strangely, almost like he could see right through my clothes; see the gears turning in my head, so I looked away before I could blush and confirm his suspicions.
When I saw a familiar face, the sides of my mouth stretched up a few inches. The glow of recognition colored her pale features and she returned the smile, moving in my direction.
She extended her hand. “Miss Montgomery!”
I shook it heartily with a laugh. “Leila.” The ‘Miss Montgomery’ stuff was awkward as her handing over the envelope when we met. The envelope that contained concise then ridiculous instructions.
Remove your bra and panties prior to boarding.
Funny, now I’d gladly remove that and more.
I shushed the overly horny part of me and tried to focus on what Maggie was saying.
“...and I guess congratulations are in order!”
I shifted my weight with an uncomfortable chuckle. “Thank you.” Uncomfortable was modest. Suddenly very un-exciting parts of me were wet--like my palms, sticky with sweat. I was gritting my teeth behind my lips because I knew what question would come next.
“How are the wedding plans coming along?” She didn’t wait for a response. “I”m sure you have something beautiful and extravagant planned.” She leaned in, bringing an air of perfume and a new wave of queasiness rocking through me.
“Between you and me, I knew that you two would end up together. Your chemistry was off the charts.”
The blush had nowhere else to go. I was red all over and I opened my mouth and breathed a sigh of relief when I saw Jacob coming through the sliding doors. She followed my line of sight and something about good to see me or privacy or good luck or something irrelevant. At that moment, everything but Jacob was irrelevant.
I wasn’t sure how he could turn a white button down shirt and khakis into sex, but I felt like I could already feel him slick against me. Inside me. And when our eyes locked, I had to root myself in place so I didn’t dash over and jump his bones on the spot. The dark waves that framed his handsome face seemed longer than I remembered and he was rocking a bit of stubble that gave him a rugged edge that suited him well.
My brain functioned long enough for me to take a few steps forward. I opened my mouth, not even caring that a bumbled mess was about to come out, but he just rounded an arm around my waist and pulled me to him, lips crushing against mine.
Tongue in my mouth.
Body pulsating as his masculine scent hung in the air around me.
We were in public and making love with our mouths, our hands, and I didn’t care. HIs hands drew up from my behind and I exhaled a moan as he cupped my cheeks, coming up for air.
“Come with me.”
My first thought was ‘hell yes!’ but I was still solidly dazed and aroused and trying to remember how to do anything but kiss him. And now that I knew he was back and missed me, wanted me as much as I wanted him, I had to remind myself to breathe in and out so I didn’t pass out.
I gripped his hand, not paying much attention to where we were headed. To be honest, I’d follow him right off a cliff. I wasn’t thinking clearly or rationally at that moment--and it suited me just fine.
And then I blinked and saw the sign indicating we were heading in the direction of the bathroom.
I was sobering up, but I shrugged off the tiny voice that whispered we were about to out-do every public display of sexiness. I wouldn’t let myself believe it until I followed him into the men’s bathroom.
He didn’t check the room for any other people, he just pushed me back against the door and reclaimed my lips. My eyes were open, wide and unsure as I took in the surroundings. Rich people really did have it better. If I walked into the bathroom in the main terminal I’d instantly want to take a Purell bath. Here, the bathroom was like a freaking hotel. Pedestal sinks, hand towels instead of paper towels. Glittering chrome fixtures. There was even some classical music flowing from speakers above us.
Jacob paused, his eyes hot with disapproval as he looked down at me. “Where are you, Leila?”
“I’m here.” In the bathroom. “I just--”
“Are concerned about our location?”
The fact that his fingers were already at my zipper, pulling it down, told me he wasn’t. “I’ve been thinking about being with you, touching you since I got on the plane a week ago. I’m not waiting one more second.”
I felt the whispers of protest on my tongue. I wanted him, God I wanted him--but in the car or at least in a room where we could lock the door. Yet as soon as my dress puddled at my feet and he let out a deep, rumbling groan of approval, I said the hell with it.
Let them walk in. We’ll give them a hell of a show.
He gripped my breast, kneading it as a finger flicked over the nipple. “Good girl.”
I reached forward, hand cupping his erection. “I don’t want to be good.” I watched the wild lust stampede across his usually controlled expression, setting his eyes on fire when I undid his belt. “I want to be bad. I want to be punished.”
He closed his eyes as I stroked him, giving in for a few minutes, for a few blissful moments before his hand abandoned my breast and gripped a fistful of my hair, tugging my head toward him until pain rippled across my scalp and met the wetness growing between my thighs.
“You like provoking me, don’t you?”
“I love it,” I said hoarsely. Defiantly. Knowing he loved it too. Loved my headstrong spirit. Loved it when I disobeyed or forget to ask his permission so he could punish me.
He released me, pulling his belt loose. “Go over to that chair. Hand on the cushion. Ass facing me. Count every strike.”
Human nature amped up my nerves as it sunk in that he was about to use the belt on me, but I practically ran to the chair, wasting no time before I put both hands down, bottom up and waiting.
As much as I liked to pretend I forgot my training to get a rise out of him, I knew how important it was to count. It would give me something to concentrate on besides the fear that bubbled in my gut and the sting of the leather, but it also grounded him.
The whistle cut through the silence. When it collided with my flesh, the hiss of pain became a shout.
“One.”
We didn’t make it past five before I was using the color. His eyes were wild, crazed with a need that could have made me climax all by itself. And then I saw him bulging, every inch solid. Lips, core, ass--I didn’t care. I just wanted him. I stepped forward, catching his eye as my lips trembled with anticipation. I was sure that he was about to corder me to my knees, but I was wrong.
“Turn back around.”
I wheeled back around, feeling the chilly air agains the wet of my juices before a moan ripped from my lungs. He moved inside of me, reminding me of everything I missed, everything I ever needed. When the first climax rocked me I knew I was losing it. Moaning, crying out. His moans matched mine.
His fingers cut into the tender flesh of my hips as he released, filling me. Pieces of him mixing with pieces of me.
We pushed out of the bathroom. Me tugging at my dress, he looping his overnight bag over his shoulder, pointed toward the exit. Most people avoided our gaze altogether. Maggie was near the concierge desk and flashed me a wink that made me whisper ‘oh my god’.
I looked up into his blue eyes. Embarrassment and shame made me want to die right there. “Just how loud were we?”
His eyes smoldered. “Loud enough.”
My whole face tingled as I squeezed my eyes shut. “They know...they’re looking at us...”
When it came out I wished I could take it back. Whenever we fooled around at the office and I brought up concerns about other employees gossiping about it he’d comment they’d be out of there so fast their head would spin. He had enough clout that he’d make anyone looking at u
s sideways regret not averting their gaze and I didn’t want anyone to get in trouble because we couldn’t contain ourselves.
But the look he wore wasn’t the one he used when he was on the warpath. The look was playful and heart meltingly sexy. He gripped my hand with a smile.
“Let them talk.”
****
I knew it was gonna be one of those days before I even walked through the revolving door at the Whitmore building. One of those days that made you wonder why you got out of bed in the first place. A kind of day where the stars align and everything that could possibly go wrong does.
It started off with Jacob letting me sleep in because I was so tired. This whole thing could have been a segue into something sexy considering the reason I was so exhausted had everything to do with nakedness, wetness, and awesomeness. Instead, I woke up alone, freaking out for a minute and thinking I’d dreamt up that he was back. Unfortunately, I still jerked awake an hour past the time I needed to be up to make it to the big midweek meeting Missy headed up; right when people were getting used to me being in the trenches and shunning special treatment, I went and did something I knew I would never get reprimanded for.
And that was just the beginning.
After I was late, I had not time to whip up coffee so I decided to swing by Starbucks on the commute and after getting the cabbie to wait, realized exactly why I never did Starbucks on the way to the office. I got dangerously close to giving the paparazzo who seemed intent on turning the wait into a photoshoot the middle finger. Instead of anything newsworthy, he got lots of grimaces, grit teeth, and glares.
Naturally, I only got a sip or two in before a pothole sent my cup backward, drenching my silk blouse in my venti quad shot white chocolate mocha. I tried looking on the bright side, knowing I had some spare shirts in my office and buttoned my blazer to hide the brunt of the damage--and then I saw the swarm of paps gathered around the entrance. Before I could get out a, ‘What the--?’ I heard the drawl of none other than her.
Rachel Laraby.
I should have just turned around, slid back into the cab, and told the driver to take me home, but I just drew a harried breath and proceeded toward the impromptu conference, telling myself that maybe in the span since Rachel Laraby had last made herself known, she’d done some maturing. Hopefully excelled at a life lesson called Acceptance: Getting Over Jacob Whitmore and My Unhealthy Obsession With Ruining His Fiancé.
In fact, I was gonna scoot past all the flashing bulbs and go straight inside. She wasn’t my client or my concern anymore. I was two feet away from the entrance when my name rung out over the clamor.
“Leila, do you have a minute?”
If it was a pap, I would have ignored it altogether. I was good at just going about my business as far as their questions were concerned. If I was at a premiere, that was one thing, but in general, their questions were along the lines of rude things like how Jacob was in bed and my thoughts on the subset of PR fans who had a theory that the reason I was never on the show was because I was only there to answer phones and look pretty because my fiancé was the CEO of the company.
I refused to dignify either of those questions with a response, but since all attention was centered on me, the lack of an answer or acknowledgement would give them something new to talk about.
The huddle parted like the Red Sea, revealing Rachel at the forefront. She looked amazing per usual, pairing a chic blood red dress with her mahogany locks. Her green eyes were intensified by gold hoops in her ears and sweeping strands of gold at her neck. She didn’t even finish her once over, emerald gaze drinking in my stain before her lips spread a little wider as a couple of cameras flashed. Great.
“I was just talking about the new program I’m pitching to the board,” she continued. Her feline like features narrowed with amusement as I frowned.
“What program?”
She raised an eyebrow. “We talked about this, remember? I mean, it was the product of our conversation.”
Heads snapped back in my direction. Nicely played--now the company would look bad if I didn’t go along with whatever new plot she’d cooked up.
I hated to lie, or give Rachel Laraby an inch, so I just shifted and cleared my throat.
She seemed disappointed that I didn’t embarrass myself by saying, ‘Huh?’, but she recovered, corralling the attention back to her.
“The program is called Reach. I was inspired when I followed the story of one of Whitmore and Creighton’s troubled clients, Mia Kent.”
Confusion and wariness took the backseat in favor of indignation. This is her play? The saint?
I couldn’t be the only one that saw right through that. But as they all faced her with wide eyed adoration, I knew that she was reaping the rewards of being America’s Sweetheart. The beautiful, troubled figure that the world couldn’t help but root for.
“As an actress that has struggled with addiction, I know all too well how in need Mia truly is.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder, nodding in my direction. “I’m just glad I’ll be able to help her and I’m so grateful to Leila for offering me this opportunity.”
She’s insane. Completely insane.
The company’s PR executive saved me from literally melting down, charging through the doors and informing the photographers that they were trespassing. Monique Leferve rivaled Jacob in the kicking ass/taking names department and she moved them back the appropriate amount of feet in record time.
Her big brown eyes were reduced to slits when she turned her ire to Rachel. “Ms. Laraby, I was unaware of any conference scheduled for this morning.”
The list of staff at Whitmore and Creighton who hadn’t ignored or gossiped about me when I leapt from aide to personal assistant to CEO was a small one--and Monique’s name was on it. That being said, we weren’t buddy-buddy either. She was an older woman and a student of the school of work being work and personal time and socializing things to be done when you were off the clock. She had a domineering presence and even Rachel shrank back a little bit before she rolled her shoulders back and gave Monique a chilly smile.
“Always a pleasure, Monique.” She gestured at the area that had just been jam packed with people with cameras and questions. “It was just a tiny announcement, nothing to worry yourself with.”
“I’m the head of the press and public relations department at Whitmore and Creighton,” Monique replied, matching Rachel’s cool tone. “That means anything that involves the press, Whitmore and Creighton, and our clients is absolutely my concern.” The brown eyes that usually gave me a warm smile were anything but friendly when she got me in her sights. “You should have run this by me first, Ms. Montgomery.”
I shook my head emphatically. “This was my first time hearing about any of this.” There were no other ears within listening distance so I had no problem chunking Rachel beneath the bus.
Rachel’s eyes flashed, not going down without a fight. “Hold on one second--”
“Inside,” Monique hissed, leading us inside the building. Once we were through the door, I wanted to put as many floors between me and Rachel as possible, but I knew this conversation wasn’t over, so I followed Monique to the coffee shop on the first floor.
There were only a few employees near the back, typing furiously on laptops and a barista stocking the sugars on the island near the door. My mouth watered as the smell of brewing coffee hit me like a punch to the gut. Since the only way to get caffeine five minutes ago would have been sucking on my blouse, I’d consigned to just grabbing something after I checked in with Jacob. I opened my mouth to say I’d be right back, but snapped it shut when I saw Monique hadn’t brought us in here to bond over a cup of coffee.
Rachel completely missed the memo.
“I’ll take a triple soy latte, as dry as possible,” she said, sauntering over to a table with a sigh liked she’d just done something terribly exhausting.
Monique didn’t even flinch. “Tell me about the program.”
Rac
hel shrugged a bare shoulder. “It’s all on the website. Ask Leila.”
“What?” I said shrilly, shaking my head again and dodging the darts Monique hurled my way. “I have no idea what’s going on--”
“Leila, this isn’t the time for modesty,” Rachel said, pulling her shades from the top of her head and placing them on the table. “Reach was a fantastic idea and is going to garner so much positive capital with the public.”
The tight line of Monique’s jaw relaxed slightly, like she hadn’t thought about it from that angle. She walked over to the table where Rachel sat and pulled out a chair, lowering herself slowly. Still suspicious, but listening.
I caught Rachel’s eye over Monique’s head and mouthed, “What the fuck!” but her smirk told me that I was along for the ride, whether I wanted to be or not. I forced a smile when Monique whipped around to me, gesturing at the seat beside her.
“So tell me more about this program.”
Rachel looked at me and when I croaked, she filled in the blanks. “We’re still working out the kinks, but it’s an outreach program, dedicated to helping troubled youth and young adults. When I started following Mia Kent’s story and tragic suicide attempt, I saw so much of myself in her. This business can be amazing and terrible and I know if I would have had a veteran actress who’d been there and could steer me in the right direction, maybe I wouldn’t have made some of the mistakes that still haunt me to this day.”
So now she was Mother Theresa. This would have been all well and good if not for the fact that she’d completely made up my involvement in this operation. Monique was nodding, probably imagining all the goodwill the company could garner with an organization like this, but I knew that if Rachel Laraby was involved, there had to be some sort of ulterior motive.
Rachel swept her hair over her shoulder, drawing a breath and releasing it slowly. “That being said, I knew that Leila had a personal relationship with Mia and would be best suited for approaching her and asking her to be a part of this process. I fully intended to discuss this with Mia first, but the press heard the rumblings of it and found me as I was on my way to schedule it with Leila.”
