by Roxy Sloane
I could feel my cheeks flush, but I didn’t look away. “I thought drinking scotch just meant I appreciate the finer things. And that I’m willing to take it slow when I’m enjoying them.” For a moment we just stared at each other, heat building between us. I finally broke eye contact. “So do you want some, or not?”
“I’ll have the Macallan, thank you.”
“Excellent choice.” I handed him two glasses and said, “Why don’t you pour one for me, too?”
“Only if you take it slow,” he said, our fingers grazing as he passed me the drink.
I lifted my glass to him, took a quick swallow of the scotch, and brought it with me as I made my way to the bathroom to get ready. I set my things out on the counter and got to work, opting for a simple-sexy look: smoky eyes, a touch of lip gloss, and a few loose waves in my hair.
When I came out of the bathroom about twenty minutes later, I headed straight to my bedroom to change into Bianca’s dress, only realizing after I’d locked the door and pulled off my clothes that the dress was still sitting in the living room. Damn.
I cracked the door open just enough to lean my head into the hallway. I could see Jackson sitting there on my sofa in that sexy tuxedo, drinking my scotch and paging through a novel that I’d left on the table next to my reading chair. My stomach did a little flip at the sight of him. There was something irresistible about the strong line of his shoulders in the dark jacket, the shape of his hand around the glass, the intensity of his focus on the book. . . I suddenly felt tight and hot between my thighs, memories of his cock flooding through me.
“Um, Jackson? Can you bring me the dress, please?” I called out, pulse hammering as I tried to snap out of my sex-hungry haze.
He glanced up and saw me hiding behind my bedroom door, my bare shoulder exposed as I leaned against the door jamb. He set the book aside.
“Of course.” He picked up the garment bag and brought it to me, but when I took the dress and hung it on the back of the door, his eyes flickered past me, past the cracked-open door, into my bedroom. A wicked grin lit his face, and when I looked over my shoulder I immediately realized what he’d seen.
“Just what have you got on the bed there, Ms. Parker?” he asked. “Something naughty?”
It was my rabbit vibrator, hot pink against the cream colored quilt and impossible to miss. I’d decided not to bring it up to Jackson’s place but had left it sitting out on the bed in my hurry to pack. I don’t know what possessed me to say what I said next, instead of telling him to march his ass straight back to the couch and wait for me there. Maybe it was the scotch. Maybe it was knowing what I wanted and refusing to go for it halfway. But no matter what it was, in that moment I knew that my need for him was overwhelming, undeniable.
“Would you like to find out?” I replied, my voice low with the lust pounding in my veins. “I can show you how it works.”
“I would love a demonstration,” he said, his eyes dropping to my breasts, the nipples tight and hard through the sheer lace of my bra. “But we’ll be late to the awards. Perhaps after?”
“Hmm.” I smiled at him, rising to the challenge. “Perhaps not.” I opened the door wider and turned around to unclasp my bra, giving Jackson a full view of my round ass in my black lace thong, casually stretching my arms up and arching my back enticingly as I pulled my hair over one shoulder. “Too bad. Maybe next time you’re in the city.”
I turned back around, wearing nothing but my skimpy panties, and reached for the edge of the door as if to close it. But Jackson was standing in the doorway, rooted to the spot, his lips parted and his eyes glued to me. I opened my mouth to tease him some more, but before I could get the words out he was in the room, slamming the door as he pulled me against him and carried me to the bed.
“I need to see you come,” he said gruffly as he set me down on the quilt and tugged my panties off. “Hard. Fast. Now.”
“What about the awards?” I asked innocently, pulling his eyes to me like magnets as I traced one languid hand over my breasts, my belly, dropping lower to trace the wet lips of my pussy. “I’d hate to make you late.”
“We have time,” he insisted, his voice strained. “I know you can be quick.”
“Yes I can,” I said, tapping my clit with my index finger.
He grabbed my hand, set the vibrator in it, and said, “Sit there,” indicating the pillows at the head of my bed. I did as he demanded. “Now show me.”
I pulled open the drawer of my night table and took out the KY, rubbing some of the lube along the length of the vibrator, more for show than because I really needed it. I watched his pupils dilate as I stroked the silicone head and shaft.
“Your turn,” I said, reaching out a slick hand toward him.
“This is about you,” he said, shaking his head. “I want to watch you fuck yourself.”
“And that’s exactly what you’re going to see,” I told him. “But I’m not going to get off if you don’t take off your pants and come here.”
He did as I asked, freeing eight swollen inches from his pants, and I squeezed his cock in my hand, lubing it up with short, firm strokes as I lapped at the tip with my tongue. He let out a low groan and pulled back.
“That’s enough.” He picked up the rabbit and turned it on, twisting the knob to full power. It made a gentle whir as he reached over and pressed it between my legs. “Take it. Show me, Ellie. Now.”
I took the vibrator and stared into his eyes as he leaned back, his hand pumping up and down his cock as he watched me spread my legs. My pussy lips were already so red, so sensitive. As the vibrating head touched my exposed cunt, a moan escaped my lips and I closed my eyes. Jackson groaned, and his free hand closed over my breast, his thumb circling my nipple.
I opened my eyes and dipped the head of the vibrator just inside my opening, slipping it in and out in shallow thrusts. It was agonizing, watching Jackson watch me, so turned on he couldn’t stop himself from letting out harsh gasps as he jerked off by my side. I knew it wouldn’t take long for either of us.
“Fuck yourself, Ellie,” he said. “More. Don’t hold back.”
I rolled to my side and tilted my hips to allow the shaft of the vibrator to penetrate me all the way, pushing it deep inside my pussy. I gasped as the vibrations electrified me, rapidly pulling me toward the edge, my hips bucking in response, the tip of the toy pulsing deeper and higher. I moaned again, helpless. My eyes never left Jackson’s.
“That’s it,” he growled, his fist working faster around his hard, straining cock. “Harder. Faster.” I obeyed, my pussy gliding up and down over the slick silicone, every nerve ending inside me tense, tight, and ready.
I stopped just long enough to flick the switch down to a slow pulse, just long enough to show Jackson how wet, hot, and open my pussy was before I slid the vibrator back inside me with a gasp.
“Tell me how it feels,” he said.
“So. . . fucking good,” I moaned breathlessly, my eyes closing as I fucked myself softly.
“Good girl,” he growled.
“God, Jackson, I’m coming,” I told him as the slow vibrations pulsed through me, strong and hot and deep. I shifted onto my back again and turned so my pussy was facing him, lifting my knees and setting them wide apart so he could see exactly what I was doing to myself. He could only moan in response. “Watch,” I said.
And then I pressed the tiny rabbit ears around my clit and let the sensations roll through me, hot and tingling and relentless. I was losing control. I started to orgasm, moaning louder and faster as I finally let go and came for him, came for Jackson Ford, the rush of heat releasing in shockwaves through my body, reaching every nerve ending. “Yes,” I panted, arching my back. “Yes, yes, yes, Jackson, fuck, yes.”
“Ellie,” he groaned, leaning over my body to come in hot, desperate spurts across my belly, biting my shoulder softly as he shuddered against me.
“My God, Ellie,” he said. “You’re fucking perfect.”
We cle
aned up and dressed quickly, finished our drinks, and headed out the door. Jackson held open the car door like a gentleman, and after he slid in beside me, his hand found mine. My knees were still shaking as the car pulled away.
12
The Rochelle Sandling Awards, one of the literary world’s few truly formal events, has been held for the past few years at The University Club. When we stepped out of the car Jackson surprised me by keeping hold of my hand, and together we made our way through the lobby to the coat check and then on to the gorgeous wood-paneled room where the party was already in full swing.
It was nerve-wracking to be at his side. I couldn’t stop worrying that one of my coworkers from DR—or worse, Louise herself—would see me cavorting around here when I was supposed to be up in the Berkshires extracting a manuscript from my date. But the event was so packed that we were repeatedly surrounded by people who gravitated to Jackson with well wishes. Their constant presence seemed to keep me hidden among the crowd, much to my relief.
Jackson was great with people, showing no signs of the arrogant jerk I knew he could sometimes be, and he had some clever or thoughtful remark for everyone who greeted us. As each person approached he would introduce me and say, “Do you know my new editor at Denton Rifkin, Ellie Parker?”
I was excited to discuss my projects with the people who asked, knowing my passion for great writing and compelling stories was usually contagious at this type of event. I was completely in my element.
As a member of the catering staff passed with a tray of champagne, Jackson lifted two glasses for us and then lifted his in a toast. “To forging ahead, despite a rocky start,” he said.
I toasted back with a grin and teased, “The rocky start was all you. I’d expect a man of your. . . advanced experience to be able to handle his new editor’s first pass notes a little better.”
“That wasn’t the rocky start to which I was referring,” he said, watching the bubbles rise in his glass for a moment. “Do you remember the Fiction Center awards dinner, about five or six years back?”
“No. Wait, yes. Maybe?” I was stumped. “I would have been just starting out as an editorial assistant back then. Sometimes I went to events if we had extra tickets, just to mingle and meet people. . . are you saying we met each other then? There’s no way I wouldn’t have recognized you. Are you sure that was me?”
“Positive.” He nodded, grinning. “Though I’m not surprised you’ve forgotten it. I found you tossing up your champagne in a potted plant on the patio, hiding in the corner with your dress all rucked up in your arms so you wouldn’t get it dirty kneeling on it.”
I almost spit my drink, my cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “That was you? You were the nice man who found me outside and stood watch so nobody would find me getting sick in the flowers?”
Jackson threw his head back laughing, and I soon joined in.
“I’ll never forget it. You were beautiful, Ellie. In that fiery, headstrong way of yours. I watched you circle the room, determined to fit in and make contacts, but clearly so anxious about all the literary celebrities that you weren’t paying attention to how many drinks you’d had. After that sixth champagne flute, seeing the greenish tinge on your face, I figured you might have to make a quick exit. And you did.”
“And you followed me!” I accused, smiling. “A helpless young girl, totally inebriated and at your mercy.”
“I was concerned for your well-being,” he defended. “And I was completely respectful. But you know what did me in, in the end?”
I shook my head, enjoying the story.
“It was after you were done being sick, when you stood up and shook your dress out and headed back toward the party. And I said, ‘It’s pretty brave of you to go back in there,’ and you shrugged and said, ‘Courage is grace under pressure.’”
“Hemingway!” I laughed.
“That’s right. And I thought, this woman’s gonna do just fine. And so you have.”
“Well I’ll have you know that I’ve since learned to hold my liquor appropriately at these events.” I took a big swallow of champagne to prove it.
“I can see that,” he said, tracing the curve of my wet lower lip with his thumb. I felt my face heat again, but this time it was with lust.
I looked away and noticed the historian Robert Morberly crossing the room toward us. I got up on my tiptoes and excitedly whispered to Jackson that the Pulitzer Prize-winner was heading our way, and after Jackson introduced me, the two men chatted about Morberly’s latest book and his new home in Maine. When he insisted that Jackson needed to move to the neighborhood, he added that it would be a good idea to bring me, too.
“Nothing boosts a writer’s morale like having a brilliant, beautiful woman next door,” Morberly said.
Jackson patted his shoulder. “She’s a hard-ass too, though, I’ll warn you. Won’t shower your work with empty praise, and she most definitely loves her scotch.”
We all laughed, and Morberly headed off.
Then, as we made our way through the crowd, we heard someone else call out, “Jackson.” Guess we wouldn’t be finding our seats any time soon.
A tall dark-haired man stepped forward and extended his hand to Jackson. “Cooper Smith,” he said. “From Sebring Press. Congrats, man.” He grinned, completely ignoring me. “I hear you’re not with Solly Braunstein anymore. We’d love to have you over at Sebring. We’re big fans of your work and we’d really take care of you.”
“Really,” said Jackson, cocking his head and glancing at me. I tried to keep my expression neutral, but Jackson must have known I was not happy that this guy was trying to snipe my author. “What do you mean, exactly?”
“Well, I don’t know what your deal is now, but I can guarantee we’ll beat DR on advances and royalties. They don’t know what you’re worth over there.”
“Advances and royalties,” said Jackson, nodding to me. “So you’re saying the standard royalties wouldn’t apply to me.”
“Well yeah,” Smith said. “You can pretty much write your own ticket, man. And we’ve got really sweet marketing budgets, the kind that will put your next book in the front window display of every major media retailer in the country.”
Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “As opposed to now, where I achieve that same positioning through only the strength of my projected sales and my already-established popularity.”
“Right on,” Smith said, missing the point entirely. “And with your cred, you can score primo release dates.”
“Wow, primo,” said Jackson, nodding along. “Oh, have you met Ellie Parker? My editor at Denton Rifkin.”
I smiled brightly and held out a hand. Smith’s face froze, and his mouth hung slightly agape. He looked down at his own hand as if trying to figure out what to do with it.
Just then, an elegant woman in a black dress appeared at Jackson’s side, thanked him for coming, and asked if she could show us to our table, right up front and center since he was one of the guests of honor.
With his hand on the small of my back, Jackson guided me through the crowd and then pulled my chair out for me as we sat. We both chatted easily with the other honorees while enjoying the tastefully catered dinner, and since I’d accidentally skipped lunch I cleaned my plate with zero shame.
After the plates had been cleared away, the President of the Sandling Organization asked the five honorees to stand onstage while he gave a little tribute speech about each of them. Photographers appeared and their cameras flashed. Then everyone in the audience erupted in a standing ovation. When Jackson sat back down, he set his award medal next to his wine glass and reached for my hand under the table.
Soon after dessert, an exquisite white chocolate mousse garnished with spun sugar and tangerine peel, Jackson leaned over and whispered, “Let’s get out of here.”
We said our good nights and exited to the lobby where he said, “Wait here, I’ll get the coats.”
As I waited, I began to feel like Cinderella just before the c
lock strikes midnight. What would happen when I went back to my routine at work, and he to his life of writing and seclusion? And Olivia? Or if not Olivia, the other women he no doubt must be seducing left and right when he jet-setted all over the world for events? I clearly didn’t fit into that picture. And though I’d said I could keep it casual, I was starting to realize that the more time I spent with Jackson, the less I wanted to be away from him.
When he helped me into my coat I said, “Thank you,” and I think those were the only words we spoke until we reached the car. It felt like something had shifted between us.
As Louis drove out of the parking lot, we sat side by side, not touching, and each of us seemed to be in our own world. Just as the car was pulling into traffic, the young woman in the black dress whom we’d met earlier waved us down. The driver stopped and rolled down the window so Jackson could speak with her.
“Mr. Ford,” she said, “your medal was left at your table. Wouldn’t you like to take your award with you tonight? We’re holding it in the administrative office.”
“Oh, of course,” he said politely. “Louis, would you mind going in to get it?”
So our driver went in with the woman to retrieve the accolade while Jackson and I sat side by side, in comfortable silence. I stared out the window, watching a few wind-blown autumn leaves skate along the sidewalk, lost in thought.
When Louis returned, I leaned forward and said, “I’ll be returning to the Perry Street address, thank you.”
“Wait, Ellie,” Jackson said. “It’s late and I’ve got a room at The Pierre a few blocks away. Why don’t you stay with me tonight? I’ll get you back home first thing in the morning.”
I looked at him, trying to read his expression, torn between the sensible, adult choice that would distance me from this man and my little happily-ever-after fantasies right away, or the choice that felt good (and would probably feel good all night long) but was very likely worse for me in the long run. I took a deep breath. Someday in the future I’d learn from my mistakes. Today was not that day. “Okay. I’ll stay.”
