by Luke Steel
I clothe her in black garters and fishnets, tie her hands with velvet ribbon and press her face to the desk. She’s at my mercy. My hand moves faster, my dick gets harder, and when I’m ready to blow, I snatch the silk pocket square from my suit and catch the thick, white liquid as it spurts.
My dick is still jerking in my hand when the intercom buzzes.
“Mr. Stone, your four o’clock conference call is waiting on line three. Are you available to speak with the Congressman?”
Jesus Christ, Emma Vance keeps screwing me over. How does this woman make me forget to take care of my shit? I toss the semen-soaked fabric in the trash and press the button.
“Thanks, Marge. Tell them I’m walking in now. Traffic or whatever. I’ll pick up in half a minute.”
After the painful conference call, which I have to bluff my way through because I’m not prepared, I pour myself a drink. This day is blown.
And whatever it is about Emma, trying to ignore her isn’t working. If nothing else, maybe I can screw her out of my system. Get enough of her to scratch this itch. Once the SocialTech deal goes through, it won’t matter how long this affair lasts, because I’ll rarely run into her. But until it runs its course through my libido, I’ll do what’s needed to get her in my bed. Fucking her into submission doesn’t seem to be an option, so making nice is the next one.
Whiskey in hand, I find myself back at the computer. Not working. Instead, I click through the North American Muay Thai association website for details on the upcoming tournament, trying to picture the sexy brunette kicking the shit out of someone. Dammit, I have to admit I like the way she rolls. I pick up the phone to call my jeweler.
My team has been in touch with hers for the last two days. Now that I know what to ask for, the data seems bottomless. I’ve also been making some calls and digging further into the inside story of SocialTech as my team sends little requests for information, keeping the lines of communication open. I don’t want them entertaining other offers. They could be.
She could be.
And as I find out more about her, the less I want that to happen.
I’ve always strictly separated business and personal affairs, but if not for my intimate interest in Emma Vance, I’d likely have missed the way the force of her personality powers the company. She wants to sell, but she doesn’t want to hand over the reins, and she might be right. Backing down on this would be a first for me, but she’s a first. Possibly unique.
All this procrastination and distraction feel foreign to me. I do things. I cause things to be done. What I don’t do is sit around waiting.
I push back from the keyboard and stride to the credenza, where I open a square, wooden box. A gold chain gleams against white satin, holds a single pendant: tiny kickboxing-style gloves rendered in exquisite golden detail. My jeweler, a real artist, made this up for me on short notice. I’m normally a diamonds and pearls guy. I go for the gifts any woman would want. But Emma’s not any woman.
I’m running a risk with buying a gift at all after the way our last tryst ended. Especially jewelry. She walked out thinking I was using sex to get what I wanted. This gift has to say a lot of things, not least of which is “I want you for more than your company.” That’s a lot of work for a piece of metal.
I settle the smaller box into the larger package on top of the T-shirt that reads “Sport of the future.” It needs a note. I’m sorry won’t do, because I’m not sorry. Not for fucking her. Even if it fouls this deal, I won’t regret it.
Good luck, Emma.
Nate
I want to say more, but everything else I think of sounds pathetic. I settle for my cell number and seal the note. Marge looks up when I set the box on her immaculate desk in the office adjoining mine.
“Please send this package overnight to Emma Vance at SocialTech.”
Marge’s eyelid twitches. “Does the package need insurance?”
“Yes.”
“It’s an unusual shape for business documents.”
Marge is not only almost twice my age and dangerously competent, she’s been with me for years. I have few secrets from her.
“It’s a personal gift for Ms. Vance.”
She nods and jots a note to herself.
“Is the SocialTech deal still stalled?”
“Yes, for now. The ball’s in our court.” I pick up the Rubik’s cube she keeps on her desk and start turning it absently. “Her counter offer was patently ridiculous, both the price tag and the additional demands. She can’t sell the company and retain control. Something’s bugging me, though. I’ve done some more digging. SocialTech employees, even if they leave, talk about their time there like a mystical experience. ‘Working at SocialTech changed my life.’ That kind of thing.”
She shrugs. “One person’s mentor is another’s nemesis.”
“I don’t know.” I consider the puzzle in my hands. “I didn’t find any disgruntled ex-employees or clients. But Ms. Vance has been busy. She funded her MBA and SocialTech largely from the sale of rights to a team-based productivity software and some kind of tracking app. She’s retained iron control over not only operations and marketing, but development. Not many programmers are also equipped to lead a company, but she clearly is.”
“She sounds like quite the paragon,” Marge observes dryly. “Are you certain she’s the brains and heart? Surely she’s got a competent team.”
I twist the cube a few more times. “I knew going in she was a control freak. The thing is, that normally stifles creativity. Especially in a small company like hers. It’s one reason why I structured the offer the way I did. I wanted to be able to go in, salvage the working parts, and undo any damage caused by her holding the reins too tight. They’ve grown almost too fast, so that has to end, and I want to pick up the pieces before they self-destruct.”
“And yet you’re talking to me about it, so you must be uncertain. Unlike you to misjudge someone that much.”
“Hey, in my defense, I hadn’t met her face to face yet.” I set the completed Rubik’s cube in its spot on Marge’s desk.
She adjusts it a hair.
“Did that make such a big difference?”
“Yeah, I think so. On paper, she’s not any different than any other tech CEO. She was riding a bubble based on the product and good timing, I was sure of it. It fit the profile.”
“But she’s a computer whiz and also a sharp businesswoman?”
I laugh. “Mags, you show your age when you say things like ‘computer whiz.’ But yeah. I can’t give her everything she asked for in the counter offer, but it’s looking like I need to find middle ground. Something that benefits both of us, because frankly, I might want to stay on her good side. The more I read about SocialTech, the more likely it seems that her business and human management are as much a part of its success as the tech. I don’t want to buy the company and be left holding a bag of random parts that don’t work together anymore.”
“And this personal gift is part of that process?” She raises both eyebrows until her forehead gathers in deep furrows.
“Yes. I mean no, of course not. This gift is personal, entirely unrelated.”
Marge’s face stills into ultra-discreet mode. “I see. I’ll make sure this finds her tomorrow, Mr. Stone.”
“Thank you, Mags. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Better figure it out. I retire next year.” She threatens to retire around this time every year, but she never means it.
“Liar.”
“Be careful or I really will retire out of spite, Mr. Stone.”
“I believe it,” I say with a chuckle. “Thank you, Marge. That’s all I’ll need today.”
She gathers her purse and keys. “I’ve got a few errands to run, so I’ll take this by instead of calling for pickup. Good night, Mr. Stone.”
“Night, Marge.”
She passes on sensible shoes to the heavy oak door at the entrance to our suite. I trudge back to my office and find a stack of s
ignature pages Marge has left there at some point like an office ninja. I’d swear they weren’t here when I took Emma’s gift out to Marge. Someone else left them, or Marge is a sorcerer.
I push them aside and pull out Emma’s counter offer. Thumbing through, I start making notes.
6
Nate
My cell vibrates from the treadmill cup holder in my workout room, and I let the hand weight fall on the mat with a clink. I scrub a towel over my face and pace over to check it. A number I don’t recognize flashes on the screen. It has to be her—she’s the only person who has this number and isn’t already in my contacts. It’s been more than a week since the failed buyout negotiations. I don’t know what to expect from the call.
That thrills me.
“Nate Stone here.”
“Hey, Nate. This is Emma. Vance.” Her voice is even, almost cold. The low, raspy quality it had when she was turned on is absent.
“I’m glad you called. How did it go this weekend?” Today should be the last day of the tournament.
“Ah—fine. Good. First in my weight class.”
She sounds distracted. She won a national competition but is blowing it off. Either winning is expected, or something else is bothering her.
“Congrats. Do you get a belt or something?”
“A medal. Look, thanks for the necklace.” She says it fast and low, like a kid being forced to apologize to a sibling.
“Emma, it’s important to me that you know it was a personal gift. Not business. The business center, that was personal, too. I didn’t have an agenda when I went there, and I hate that you walked away thinking I did.”
I pause for her to respond, but I get only silence.
“I mean, I want you to understand that I want SocialTech, too. I don’t intend for this deal too fall through, and we’re working on something. But I hope you like it—the necklace.”
Well that was a spectacular display.
She sighs. “No, really, Nate. Thank you. It’s actually kind of perfect. I loved the necklace, and I’m wearing the shirt now. Everyone’s jealous.” The teasing note in her voice sounds like a smile.
I swivel the mouthpiece away from my face and exhale, closing my eyes. I hadn’t even realized I was so hung up on her liking the necklace.
“Nate? Still there?”
I swing the phone back. “Yeah! Yeah, just thinking.”
“Hey, I’m sorry I was bitchy about it. I’m a little gun shy about expensive gifts.”
I chuckle. “That might be a first. I thought everyone liked presents.”
“Yeah, until some asshole thinks every woman has a price. Presents aren’t much fun when you realize they’re just a tool. Give a woman some diamonds, and she owes you for the rest of her life.”
“What kind of douchebag would do that?” I hold the phone to my ear and walk over to pour some water from the dispenser.
“The crazy ex-boyfriend kind.”
“Ah, I see why you’re a kickboxing badass.”
She finally lets out a genuine laugh, the kind that starts in the belly and bubbles up.
“He can’t do too much damage from Spain. I just have to dodge phone calls most of the time.”
Jackass ex-boyfriend who can’t take no for an answer and lives in Spain. Good to know.
“Is your tournament the one in Vegas?” I hold up an arm to assess sweat level. I hadn’t been working out long when she called.
“Uh yeah. Why?”
“Can I convince you to have dinner with me tonight?”
“You’re in Vegas?” Her voice rises in alarm on the last syllable.
“No, not a stalker. But my plane can touch down in a little more than two hours. Plenty of time for a dinner date, if you’re interested.”
One breath. Two breaths. “This is unexpected. What do you want, really? Is this personal or business?”
“Can’t it be both?”
“I don’t know, Nate. It sounds like a bad idea. I like to know where I stand.”
“Give me a chance to have this discussion face to face. Make a decision then. But I’m telling you now that my personal interest in you is independent of my business interests. Whether or not we acquire SocialTech, I want to see you again. If you want, I’ll keep my hands to myself until you tell me otherwise. I’m not going to pretend I don’t want you. But there’s no reason either interest has to be compromised by the other.”
“I’m not going to lie, my confidence level is pretty low that you’ll be decent if we can’t come to an agreement.”
“Then let me impress you. Dinner for now, and see where that goes.”
“All right. Beta test, but drinks only.”
She can’t even go on a date without negotiating. It’s freaking adorable.
“Deal. Pick you up at nine?”
“I’m at the Cromwell. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
Marble and glass, leather and crystal, sequins and neon lights: Vegas glamour is splashed everywhere, even in a boutique hotel like this one. I wait for maybe five minutes before she saunters into the room in tight black pants and a loose maroon top that makes me think of what I can’t see. It swishes around her as she walks, and blood surges downward as I watch it cling and release. Her thighs curve with muscle. I’d give my left nut to have them wrapped around me again. The dark waves of brown hair falling over her shoulders gleam golden in the hotel’s lights
A glint of gold at her throat makes my stomach twist with hope. If she’s wearing the necklace I sent, I’ve got a shot.
She spots me about ten feet away, and I wonder if my face reflects the poorly suppressed excitement hers does. I peck her on one flushed cheek, the barest pressure, then step back. Hands off, as promised. But I hope she didn’t notice the way I stealthily inhaled against her skin, relishing the sense memories triggered by her perfume.
“You look lovely.” My gaze lingers on the necklace laying against her skin.
She touches the pendant and smiles. “It really is perfect. Thoughtful.”
“Yeah, it’s safe to say you’ve been on my mind.”
“So I see. I’m still not sure where I stand on this business-pleasure hybrid.”
I wave her toward the door, and we start walking.
“I’d rather you be on the fence than on the ‘no’ side. For now, no business. Tell me about the tournament.”
She tells me about her matches—one forfeit, one easy KO, and one grueling slog for the title—as a chartered Rolls takes us to Mitsuki’s, a small, posh bar with dark wood paneling, intimate seating, and dim pendant lights splashing a warm glow over each table. A woodsy incense drifts around the entryway as I give my name to a server. She leads us past the tables and around a corner to an area hidden from casual patrons. As she passes me, I usher her forward with a hand on the small of her back, a habitual gesture. My palm burns where it touches her, even through the silky texture of her billowy shirt. I freeze and let her walk ahead. Hands off. Even an innocent gesture like that leaves me nearly panting with lust. She walks like she knows I’m watching her perfect ass. I walk like someone just punched me in the balls.
The smaller room has comfy seating clustered around low tables. We select a pair of deep purple, overstuffed armchairs and order drinks. I cross one ankle over the other knee and settle back into the chair. Emma’s chair is next to mine, but angled away. Although she sinks into the chair, her back stays straight.
“So tell me about the beginning of SocialTech, Emma. What made you decide to go with a startup instead of selling the technology?”
She stiffens. “Why do you want to know?”
“Because I’m interested in finding out what the numbers don’t show. And I’m interested in you. If any other date asked you this, it would be acceptable small talk.”
“You’re not any other date, though.” She’s not scowling, but her flat gaze feels hostile. “You’re the guy who wants to take over my company.”
The server ghosts our drinks on to the
table and disappears almost soundlessly. Emma snatches her gin and tonic and squeezes in a lime.
“Buy it,” I stress. “And only because you considered selling. It’s not like I’m forcing a takeover. We wouldn’t be here if that weren’t something you wanted, too, even if we don’t agree on terms. Yet.”
“Fine. My undergrad thesis was a forecasting project, which spurred my interest in predictive analytics.” She pauses as if this is where people usually tune out. “I was doing independent research during the whole of my master’s degree—internet sociology, some of us called it—and finagled a graduate internship at a massive marketing firm while I was finishing up the MBA. I saw what they were doing right and what they weren’t, and correlated it to the research we were discussing in class. And I coded. I built models and scrapped them. Universities have access to some interesting data sets.”
She stirs her drink. Her full lips press against the glass and leave behind a hint of magenta lipstick. She sucks her bottom lip in, savoring the taste of the bitter cocktail. My dick surges to life again, and I wrench my eyes away from her face.
“So what’s your real secret? Is it algorithms or something else?” I address the question to my whiskey as though I’m appreciating its aroma, not avoiding filthy thoughts of her.
“Honestly, I think we got lucky to a degree. Yes, my work is the backbone of everything SocialTech is built on, but our team—and I’m as proud of the team we built as of the tech—is the flesh and blood.”
“You know, most tech executives I see fall into two categories. Inept managers and iron fists. It looks like you avoid that trap.”
“My philosophy is primarily collaborative. I have certain lanes marked out where I’m the sole decision maker or share that responsibility, but I reward both individual breakthroughs and collective achievement.” She leans in, eyebrows knitting in a scowl. “I would hate to see SocialTech lose what makes it successful.”
“So would I, obviously.”
Emma had been leaning forward as she talked, inching closer. She lets her hand fall on the arm of the chair, and it lands close to mine. She pulls it back to her drink and scoots back into the chair. She stretches her legs with an appreciative sigh. Muscles tense under the fabric of her pants.
