by Eva Luxe
I already have everything I need— I certainly don’t need a woman to change me for the worse. I like my life and my attitude just fine the way it is.
“Well, my toy making company is of meager means and cannot afford that,” I tell him, returning his shrug. “I wish it were as simple as digging into one pocket to find money to fund the other empty pocket. But you guys do commercial litigation. Business law. Patent disputes.”
I shrug, not really knowing what all kind of law they do. But I do know it’s lucrative enough to make them the biggest law firm in Albuquerque and one of the biggest ones in the Southwest United States. And that they’ve been perfectly competent at the work they’ve handled for me.
But now a large patent lawsuit is gearing up against my toy making division and I need them to do more work for me and they know it. They’ve got me over a barrel.
“You know how it is,” I continue. “I can’t fund anything from my other ventures or the other side would be able to pierce the liability shield. I can only use the money that the company has and it really isn’t as big as you think it is.”
Unlike my balls , I think, as I stare at the forlorn look on all four of their faces. They’re bigger than yours are .
They didn’t expect me to turn them down. They thought they had me right where they wanted me. But no one has me anywhere I don’t want to be.
They think I need them more than they need me. They’re wrong. Sure, they’ve done good work for me and I know they can help me on my big case. But I also know that running a big, fancy-looking firm like this isn’t cheap.
They need whatever money they can get from me. And I didn’t get to where I am by giving up my money that easily. They’re going to have to do better than that, or kiss my money’s ass goodbye.
I nod at all of them.
“It was very nice finally meeting you in person.” I nod at the men, and then at the women. “I hope that both of you couples have very nice ‘happily ever afters’ together. But I must be going now.”
As I turn to walk out the door, I hear Ron calling after me “Wait, Damien, don’t go.”
“Damien, Damien, Damien,” Asher chimes in, trying to sound nonplussed even though I know he’s shitting bricks at losing my business. “You know we’re all just negotiating here. Let’s work something out—”
“Nope,” I say, as I walk out the door of Ron’s office, while they still try to call out to me to come back.
Let them beg and plead and fall all over themselves chasing me down the hallway trying to get me back in there. They’ll just make fools of themselves.
Asher’s right. We’re negotiating. And I’m a better fucking negotiator than they are. I learned a long time ago that the best negotiation tactic is a willingness to walk.
And walking is what I’m doing. Until I run right into one of the sexiest fucking girls I have ever seen.
“Ouch,” she cries, dropping the legal files that are in her hands.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell her. “Here, let me.”
I bend down and pick up her files but I can’t stop staring up at her face.
What is it about this fucking law firm? I can’t help but wonder. Do they only hire absolute goddesses who make men want to trade their soul— and their wallets— for the privilege of being close to them?
The two women in Ron’s office— Madilyn and Ruby, I think their names were— were typical lookers but in my personal opinion— which is all that fucking matters, of course— this girl I’ve just bumped into is head and shoulders above them or any other girl here. I don’t just mean that literally— she’s tall; she should play basketball or volleyball but she looks like more of the bookish type, with her horn-rimmed cat-eyed glasses and her blonde bangs nearly covering her eyes— but figuratively, too.
Those eyes are still managing to peek out at me despite everything trying to cover them up, and they’re a beautiful shade of light green, like a field that goes for miles and miles that I could just fucking get lost in. And speaking of things I’d like to get lost in, she’s got curves that go for miles too, and they’re in all the right places.
“I’m Damien,” I tell her, reaching out to hand her the files.
“Katie,” she says, looking flustered, as she takes the files from my hand. “Sorry. I’m Katie. And I’m a bit of a mess considering you just ran into me like that.”
Her own hands might as well be an electric fence. Both because they send a jolt of electricity throughout my entire body and also because they should be marked “Danger, danger— do not get too close, do not touch.”
“I’m sorry about that,” I tell her, and as she blushes I realize I’m having the same effect on her that she’s having on me. “I didn’t see you. I was in a rush to leave.”
Holy fucking fuck. I just literally ran into the woman of my dreams. And that is not a good thing. Because I don’t dream about sweet innocent looking girls like this. My dreams would be more like a nightmare to her.
I’d only corrupt her. I’d like to tie her up and lick her from her neck to her toes while she shivers with anticipation.
I’d like to bite her nipples and then her clit until she begs me to take her. And then I’d like to pound the fuck out of her with my huge cock that is already getting hard just from looking at her and standing this close to her.
She couldn’t handle me. I would tear her to shreds.
“My apologies, again, for that,” I tell her, as I rush to the door, glad I didn’t make a deal with the outrageously expensive Ron and Asher.
I can’t be in here again. Because if I’m being honest with myself, I must admit that I don’t think I could handle this Katie girl either.
Sure, my cock could— my cock could handle any woman and leave them whimpering, out of breath but still begging me to fuck them all over again. But my heart’s a different matter.
I don’t give that to anyone. And certainly, not to someone who makes me feel powerless just by standing in front her of her.
She would do me in. And I don’t get done in by anyone.
I’m Damien Hudson, self-made billionaire and master of self-control. I have got to get out of this place and make sure I never see that beautiful creature again.
Chapter 4 – Katie
When I get home, I take a few big hits from my vape pen and give myself a little pep talk before getting out of my car.
You can survive the crazy circus. Just a few more months.
Even though my job is boring, sometimes I wish I could stay there forever. At least at the office, I’m free to do what I want: help Jim when he actually needs my help, read my many books when he doesn’t, even smoke weed although now I’m relegated to doing it in my car, which isn’t too much different from how things are at home.
Except at home, I not only have to hide my dirty little weed smoking habit but pretty much everything about myself, too. I’m nineteen years old and I still live with my parents. How fucking embarrassing.
The reason I don’t have many hobbies is that there isn’t much they let me do. Books have always been my best friends before I met Ruby. I also watch movies on my iPad or tablet since my parents don’t believe in TV. And I even taught myself to sew and embroider to pass the time.
Yeah, I’m a regular little house on the prairie dweller. But I need to get out of here because it’s driving me crazy. I just need to save up the money.
Luckily the law firm pays legal assistants— even newer ones like myself— pretty damn well. I started out as a “floater”— a temporary assistant who fills in where needed— and was pretty happy in that position since it was light on responsibility and heavy on free time.
And they still paid even the floating position pretty well so that I could save my money and get out of my parents’ house. I had no complaints. Life was pretty smooth sailing. Then they promoted me to being Jim’s secretary because no one gets to hang out in the sweet spot of being a floater forever.
At first I dreaded extra work and re
sponsibility— I had no idea what I was doing and was sure I was going to someone commit malpractice even though I’m not even licensed to practice law— but it turned out to be an even easier gig. And it paid even better— much better, in fact— than the floater position had.
So now I’m coasting along in the slightly faster but still slow lane at work. You know, the one where you’re not sure if you should scotch on over to the right to let the cars behind you go faster, or if it’s worth putting pedal to the metal a little bit and joining the cruisers in the far left lane, risking speeding tickets and pile-on accidents.
People keep asking me what I’m going to do next, but change is fucking scary and increases my already- present anxiety, so I usually say nothing, even though I want to say it’s none of their damn business. The next step up would be a paralegal but that seems like way too much work although they’re paid even more.
I don’t even like the legal field. I’m just doing this to save money, get out of here, and figure out what I might want to do next. So, for the time being, I’m happy with where I’m at in life— a concept I’ve found that most other people have a hard time grasping.
If they’re not striving towards the Next Best Thing or working towards some Perfect Vision of the Future they might never have, people just don’t seem content. It takes a pothead like me to have these deep, profound thoughts and to be happy with the here and now, when I’m not freaking out with anxiety or depressed over circumstances beyond my control.
Speaking of circumstances beyond my control, I need to go face my crazy family. I reach into the consul and grab the little bottle of Febreze fabric spray and apply a generous portion of mist all over my clothes and skin.
It’s probably overkill, because it seems my parents wouldn’t recognize the smell of pot if it wafted over to them and said, “Hi, I’m of the Devil.” But if they did find out what I was doing, they would probably make me go give a public apology to the entire congregation. So, I try to stay on the safe side.
My dad is a pastor. We have to live in the parsonage house right beside the church where he preaches. So, we’re always under scrutiny from the congregants. And we’re always reminded of that fact and told we must be on very best behavior. Hence my anxiety.
Anyone in my situation would need to smoke pot to calm down. I can’t even tie my shoe without my dad looking out the window to see if some neighbor is watching and judging how far my skirt rides up my knee as I tie it.
Now, as I walk into the house, my little brothers are running around shooting each other with Nerf guns while my slightly younger sister is practicing her piano lessons. She’s still fully indoctrinated and plays the organ for church services. Obviously, we have nothing in common.
“Hi,” I yell to my mom, who is cooking dinner in the kitchen and who strains to hear me over my sister’s pounding of the keys and production of the music notes.
“Hi honey, how was your day?”
This question comes from my dad, rather than my mom. I didn’t even know he was home. He peeks his head around the corner of the wall separating the living room from the kitchen.
“Tamara, can you please cut that out for a second?” I ask my sister.
She sighs gruffly but stops playing the hymn mid-sentence.
I lift mine eyes up, unto heavens, where does my... plays in my head as I try to answer my dad.
I still know every word to every hymn, just as I know seemingly every important Bible verse. I was Bible quiz champion every year at Good News Camp. I was a teen missionary spreading the gospel throughout Central America.
My parents are so disappointed with how I’ve turned out, which surprises no one. They wanted me off at some Bible college by now, or married with a baby on the way.
“My day was fine,” I tell my dad. “I’m going to go on up to my room now.”
“Oh honey, we’re going to have a family dinner,” my mom says, frowning in disappointment. “Just as soon as this pot roast is ready.”
From my view of the kitchen, I can see my dad walk over to my mom and sniff his nose up in a distasteful manner.
“That’s pot roast?” he says.
“Yes,” she answers hesitantly.
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“It’s not totally done cooking,” she says, already with a note of apology in her voice.
“Well why not?” he demands. “I’ve been working on Sunday’s sermon all day long and you can’t manage to have dinner on the table at a reasonable hour.”
“Mom, Dad, don’t fight,” I plead, something I feel I’m constantly doing.
It’s pointless. They don’t listen and come Sunday morning they will forget all about their fighting, just in time to act like a big fake happy family in front of the congregation. And I’ll have to play my role as the good little oldest daughter.
I’m used to it, but it still sucks.
“I would just like to sit down to a nice meal and a clean house for once,” my dad says, fighting more instead of less and obviously not listening to me. “I don’t even understand what it is you do all day.”
I don’t want to hear him berate my mom any further. I wish I could pipe in that I don’t understand why she stays with him all this time— especially after everything he’s put her through— but I know that would only make things worse instead of better.
I’ve learned a long time ago that there’s nothing I can do to make anything any better for either of them. I can only make things better for myself by removing myself from the situation. And I have a certain boyfriend waiting for me to spend time with him— William Faulkner. The Sound and the Fury isn’t going to finish itself.
“Well, I’ll be in my room until dinner’s ready then,” I say, as I head for the stairs that lead up to my room.
“See, now Katie’s home from a long day of work at the law firm and you don’t have anything for her to eat,” I can hear my dad tell my mom. “I’m sure she’s starving.”
“I’m fine, Dad,” I say. Except for having to deal with you .
I’m a grown woman and can and should make my own dinner. But I also learned a long time ago that it’s pointless to tell that to my dad, too. He still sees me as twelve years old.
I’m happy to slip out of my work clothes and into comfier clothes. I can’t help but look at my body in the mirror and that immediately makes me think of the guy who bumped into me at work today.
Damien. He’d told me his first name and then Ruby later told me he’s Damien Hudson, owner of a bunch of different lucrative companies.
He’d approached the firm to help him pro bono — for free— on some sort of venture in which he makes toys for kids with disabilities. But Ruby had done some of her sharp online detective work and found out he’s worth a fortune so since then the firm has been charging him and now plans to charge him more.
I haven’t been able to think straight since that happened and it’s not because of the weed. I’m a lot more used to vaping than I am being literally plowed into by a super-hot guy I had just been ogling from afar.
I can’t get over the way he looked at me. Like he thought I’m as attractive as I think he is. I look at my large but kind of saggy breasts in the mirror and wonder if he liked them. I run a hand over my nipples, which are getting harder just by thinking about him.
Then I touch the hair down between my legs. Should I shave? Does he like a bush? Trimmed? Bikini wax? Bald?
I can’t believe I’m even thinking about these things, involving this stranger of all people. It’s not like I’m really going to sleep with him.
Is it?
But why did he look at me that way?
How could I lose my virginity to someone who looks old enough to be my father? Even if he is dashingly handsome and powerful and filthy rich?
I have leggings and a long, comfy shirt to put on but I decide to slip under my sheets naked. I’ll just read for a little bit, I tell myself, in the nude before getting dressed for dinner.
B
ut I can’t concentrate on any of the words. I know I’m in too deep already, if a guy in real life makes me swoon more than Faulkner’s words do.
My hand returns to where it just was— my nipple. I twist it a little bit and wonder if that’s what Damien would do to it. He seems to be the type to like it rough. A real alpha.
I don’t know why —I never thought that would be my taste— but I think I’d like it. I lay the book down on my bed and slip my other hand between my legs. My fingers travel up and down my clit before deciding to rub on it just a little bit.
Yes.
It feels really good, but I wish it was Damien. Not just in my mind but here with me in person.
I bet he would know what to do to make me feel even better. I begin to rub myself harder, faster, opening up my legs a bit to be able to play with myself better.
I imagine his mouth on my nipples, and then on my clit. I feel myself getting so wet as I massage myself and think about Damien all over me. He would know how to get me off even better than I’m doing right now. But just thinking about him is making me feel so good.
I lean back on the pillow and allow a wave of pleasure to roll over me as I think about Damien bending me over and taking me from behind. I imagine he has a huge cock and knows what to do with it— both of which are things that I know must be true. I can just tell from looking at him. He exudes confidence, decisiveness and power.
But he wanted me too. I could tell that I had an effect on him. And thinking about his dark brown eyes looking at me as he has his way with me makes me give way to a full on orgasm.
Oh, my God , I think, but try not to say out loud. I don’t moan, although I want to. I don’t say a word. I just give in and let myself go to the thought of complete abandonment and surrender.
To Damien Hudson. The guy with the power to make me have the best orgasm I’ve ever giving myself, just by thinking about him and playing with myself.
“Katie!” I hear my name being called at the same time I hear the knock on the door.
“Just a minute!”
