by Isabel Jolie
My hand wanders farther down, and I mentally curse jeans and how hard they are to maneuver. I sit up and unbutton her jeans, grabbing both her panties and jeans, and wrestle them off. Wanting her completely naked, I reach behind her to unsnap her bra. Gorgeous. Her dark, wavy hair falls down around her shoulders, almost to her breasts. Her bare pussy glistens. She plays with her folds while her chocolate eyes stay on me. She moves in slow circles then inserts her index finger. She moans, seductive eyes still on me. Damn. Could she be any sexier?
My jeans hurt because my cock has no space. I had planned to go down on her, but I can’t wait. I grab the hem of my shirt and send it flying across the room. Unbuttoning my jeans, I push them down and kick them off. She pulls her wet finger out and sucks on it.
“Fuck!” I climb onto the bed and drive into her. One thrust, and I’m balls deep, my stroke slamming her head against the headboard. “Put your hands on the headboard and push back.”
She does as I say. I ram into her like an animal. Owning her. Making her mine. I loop my arm around her leg and lift it higher, adjusting the angle to hit her deep. The headboard repeatedly thumps against the wall with each thrust.
Her orgasm comes hard and fast, her muscles tightening all around me in waves, forcing my climax. An explosion. My body shudders, and my erection pulses as her muscles milk my wasted cock.
I collapse onto Anna, breathing in her hair, placing my lips against her neck, feeling our rapid heartbeats gradually slow and intermingle. Our sweaty bodies press together.
A loud bang sounds. Followed by another bang. I raise my head, staring at the wall, the source of the noise. Anna giggles, and I reluctantly pull out of her, groaning as I roll onto my side.
“We may have been a little too loud for Lester.” She holds me tight, pressing kisses along my throat.
“Damn. I don’t know what came over me. I was going to put you in bed and let you sleep.”
“Well, personally, I’m glad I woke up.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s not like I’m going to turn an orgasm down.” She smiles her honest, big smile. My insides muddle in the strangest way, and my chest burns.
She’s so beautiful. Dark, mussed up hair, golden-brown eyes, kind smile. Natural. That fit body. Flat stomach, lean legs. She bites her lower lip in the little way she does. Sexy. Perfect. I set the pillows so I can lean back against them and pull her up to rest on my chest.
I run my hand through her hair, twisting soft strands through my fingers. I sigh. “Look. It’s fine when you go out with your friends. It’s good. You need your girlfriends. I get it. But please do me the favor of texting me back if you read my text. My mind goes crazy sometimes. Yeah, we aren’t official. You aren’t my girlfriend. But can you respond? Please? So I don’t worry about you.”
Anna rolls to her side, her bare breasts dragging across my chest as she shifts so we are eye to eye. She presses a soft sweet kiss to my lips. “Yeah, I can respond. I’m sorry for making you worry. I didn’t think about how you would feel. Next time, I promise I’ll respond. Let you know I’m okay.”
Chapter 19
Anna
The soothing sound of waves crashing on a beach rouses me from sleep. My alarm. I reach over and tap it off. Jackson’s leg wraps over mine, and one arm curves along my waist.
Last night, we had sex three times. First against the wall. Then on the futon. Then on my bed. I’d fallen asleep after a scintillating and bone-liquifying round of orgasms.
He’s never stayed over before. He always said he would one day. He’s still sleeping. My nature alarm must not work for him. I curl into his side, breathing him in. There’s a hint of his cedar scented soap, but there’s also a strong, manly scent mixed with the smell of sex. I love waking up next to him.
The last couple of weeks have been kind of perfect. He never complains when I go out with friends. I always let him know I’m safe when I’m out. Maybe seeing Chase in his misery forced us to treat each other with more consideration. Kindness. Care. And every time we part, I look forward to seeing him again. A little voice in my head nags, telling me that I’m slipping into a relationship. I ignore it. This is what we both want. Our friends thing works for us. We’re here for each other without all the crap and responsibility of a relationship. Work remains our number one priority. No big deal.
I play with his hair and place a kiss right below his ear. To make our morning run, we need to get moving. Chewie jumps on the end of the bed, eyes alert, tail wagging, ready to go.
Jackson’s eyes flutter open. He snaps his fingers at Chu, and she jumps off the bed and trots into the den. I run my fingers along his jaw, scratching his morning stubble. He smiles, lowers the sheet, and takes my nipple in his mouth as his hand wanders lower. Oh, holy hell. My lower body contracts, my nipples erect, anticipating what’s to come. But no time to play.
I pull away, but he growls, situating himself between my legs with his enormous erection rubbing my entrance. I whimper. “But we don’t have time.”
If he hears, he ignores me. He strokes the tip of his cock up and down my folds. I’m soaked. I watch, mesmerized as his hard cock dips then pulls out. I circle his precum with my thumb, then suck the salty juice.
“Fuck, Anna.” He plunges in. Oh, holy hell. What a way to wake up.
MY PHONE VIBRATES AS I rush down the hall to my office, late.
Jackson: Pick you up at 8, k?
Me: Might have to work late.
Jackson: We’re supposed to be in the West Village by 8:30.
Oh, shit. I bite my thumbnail. Totally forgot. I’ll need to shower and blow out my hair.
Me: I’ll be ready.
Jackson: Did you forget?
Me: Someone kept me up all night. Brain a little slow.
Jackson: Was it worth it?
I roll my eyes.
Today’s not a good day to be punch-drunk. I tried to explain that to Jackson when he came over last night, but reason vacated after his lips took possession. I seem to lose control around him. Not really a good thing.
Today, my team presents our plan to the agency partners. If they don’t like what we created, it will mean a weekend of fixing what they didn’t like. The pitch is Monday morning in Atlanta.
It’s seven-thirty. Not as early as I aimed to be in the office, but I’m still the first person opening our agency doors. Most people don’t arrive until nine.
My team meets in my office, and we prepare with one last run-through of our presentation.
During the presentation, the panel, consisting of the two owners and agency founders, two group account directors, and two group creative directors, all maintain stoic expressions. My team does a solid job presenting the creative. After we complete our presentations, we take our seats at the conference table. Nick speaks first.
“Thanks, Anna. Would you and your team mind if we discuss the creative privately?”
“Of course.” Shit. Not a good sign. Feedback, including negative feedback, is always given in front of the team.
As I follow my team out, I watch the executives. John, the creative part of the two-person founding team, opens his mouth but then closes it after Benton, his account half, stares him down. I close the door behind me, leaving the panel to their private discussion.
Delilah follows me to my office. “Has that ever happened before?”
“Not to my knowledge. Maybe they’re trying something new.” It’s bizarre. My team deserves at least a “great effort, guys” even if the end result needs work.
Should I have pushed back in the meeting? Did I let my team down? I’d shown the creative to my other colleagues, and all initial feedback had been positive. At twenty-six, I’m young to be in this role. A more experienced creative director might have refused to leave. Should I have refused to leave? Should I have asked questions before agreeing to leave?
If they had liked the creative, they would have said so. If requested changes were minor, we would have received those reques
ts in the room. My stomach churns. Delilah sits in my office, and we run through theories. I should work, but I can’t work. Delilah eventually returns to her desk, and I open Pinterest.
About an hour later, John walks into my office, followed by Nick and Christian. Christian, our new business VP, acts more or less like an account person on all new business accounts. He developed the strategy and has worked closely with us over the last few weeks on this pitch.
John speaks first. “Anna, the work you did was impressive. But Nick has convinced us we need an alternative strategy with at least two campaigns behind it. He wants to spend the weekend working with your team on the new strategy and creative concepts. He’s convinced us that if we let him do this, we’ll end up with a stronger pitch.”
Christian stands beside John, livid, his face beet red thanks to an Irish temper.
I reason with John. “It’s almost noon on Friday. The presentation and boards we presented took over two weeks to complete. The work we complete this weekend on a new strategy will not be as polished and together as what we’ve already completed.”
John nods in agreement. He’s a creative. Of course, he agrees with me. He doesn’t get in the trenches anymore, but every single creative in this agency ultimately reports to him. We’re his people; he’s been in my shoes before.
Nick speaks up, looking smug. “If you don’t think you can do it, we’ll get another team to tackle it and do it right. The creative was weak and off strategy. We need more options to show our breadth and abilities.”
Christian glares at Nick, and the temperature in the room increases by several degrees. “We have a solid presentation. If you had concerns about the direction we were headed, you could have stepped in last week when we went through concepts.” He grits his teeth, the muscles in his jaw flexing.
John interrupts their glare-fest. “Anna, I’m gonna be honest. This is all bullshit. I’d personally like to strangle Nick.”
That comment wipes the smug expression off Nick’s face. Something tells me he expected to be seen as the hero, the leader pushing to get more work and improve the presentation.
John continues. “But Nick convinced Benton. This is an important pitch. It gives us a chance to get our foot in the door at Coca-Cola.” He pauses. “I’ll stay and work the weekend with your team. We’ll work together. We already have the alternate strategy the executive team just agreed on. If we can work tonight on concepts and agree on everything tomorrow morning, then Saturday afternoon, we can present revised work. Sunday, we can complete the presentation boards and the digital presentation.”
It crosses my mind to suggest a different team. Fresh blood that hasn’t worked insane hours the past two weeks. Fresh eyes. My pride won’t let me get the words out. Plus, suggesting another group risks me coming across like a defensive brat. It’s an insane schedule. But it’s also a chance to work hand-in-hand with John. So maybe that’s the silver lining. I can sell my team. Give them Monday off.
Nick addresses John. “John, you don’t have to work this weekend. I’ll stay and oversee the project. I want to see us win this account, which is why I pushed for the absolute best we can do in today’s meeting. Trust me.”
John’s skin flushes and his nostrils flare. I understand. His team, his people, stand in the crossfire of this mess. “No, this isn’t your project. It’s Christian’s. I’ll work with Anna and her team. They will need the extra creative help. Anna, can you look to see if we can pull in some extra ADs and staff the graphics studio for the weekend?” He then turns to Christian. “You and Anna did good work on this. Your work together is solid. Christian, you remain in control from the account side.” John checks his watch. “Anna, can you clear your calendar for the rest of the day?”
In an upbeat voice, I respond, “Absolutely.”
My frustration surges sky-high, and I want to close my office door and scream. But John built this agency. A part of me thrills to be working on a project with our founder. And I don’t quit. I dig in and keep going.
John turns to question Christian. John never utters a word out loud to Christian, but he answers. “Me too. I’m here on this.”
A heavy sigh escapes John. “Okay. Let’s meet in my office in thirty minutes. I need to call my wife and tell her about this change in plans for the weekend. Anna, please talk to your team and prepare the graphics studio. Then we’ll review the alternate strategy, and we’ll have a brief to share with the team soon. We’ll order dinner in. It’s gonna be a long night and weekend.”
Nick’s cheeks flush crimson. Anger? Embarrassment? I’m not sure which, and I don’t care.
After Nick leaves, Christian frowns while staring at the papers on my desk. My gut says he wants to unload. We’ve worked together quite a bit on this pitch. But Christian is a professional. Right now, time is of the essence. Maybe one day after work, when this is all over, he’ll unload over a beer. Nick’s a snake. I don’t doubt he orchestrated this whole thing as some sort of political play, attempting to take over the new business group or some nonsense.
“Anna, let’s go tell your team together. They lost their weekend. You shouldn’t have to tell them alone.”
Christian’s a good account guy. He understands that even people who aren’t married with kids have lives outside the office.
“Sounds good. We’ll get through this. It doesn’t sound like this was your fault at all.”
He exhales loudly. “Nope. Nick was trying to play some sort of crazy game to take over this pitch. But the way he did it, stepping in so late, he’d prepped those guys before you presented.” He stares up at the ceiling and huffs. “Let’s go. Let’s do this. We don’t have much time before we need to be in John’s office.”
We meet with the team and update everyone. They aren’t shocked.
Then I stop by for an unpleasant talk with the studio manager. Jerry had a few choice words to express his displeasure at being asked at the eleventh hour to have the studio staffed over the weekend.
Next, I meander through the cubicles to recruit a few extra art directors and copywriters for weekend duty. It’s not a super tough sell, because it’s an opportunity to do work for another brand to put in a person’s portfolio. But it also means losing the weekend.
By the time I’ve recruited four more people and ensured staffing for the studio, forty-five minutes have passed. I’m late walking into John’s office.
The three of us spend the afternoon coming up with a creative brief based on the alternative strategy. Usually, Christian would have written the creative brief on his own, but given how little time we had, John wanted us all working on it together. Then the three of us brainstorm concepts together.
I’ve never had the chance to work with John before. He’s brilliant. We bounce ideas off each other like teammates. Any anger or frustration about losing my weekend filters away. This is why I work at a smaller agency—to learn from experienced, gifted creatives. I love my job. These people. This agency. I’d never get this experience at a big agency. Not at my age.
Delilah knocks on John’s office door and announces food is set up in the conference room. Wow. Six o’clock already.
Christian briefs the team over dinner, then I assign each art director with a copywriter and send them off to concept. We agree to review initial concepts at 9:00 p.m.
As everyone’s filing out of the conference room, I glance at my phone and mutter a low, “Fuck!”
Christian frowns. “Everything okay?”
“I forgot I’m supposed to go out with someone tonight.” Christian is still sitting with me in the conference room, and John’s about to return. I look up from my phone. “I need to go call someone.”
Christian chuckles. “If I’d known you were dating someone, I would have reminded you to call when John and I went and made our calls.”
I roll my eyes at his comment, choosing not to respond. Fuck. It’s almost seven o’clock, and I’m supposed to meet Jackson in an hour. We’re not dating, but it’s
rude to bail last minute. Dating? These last few weeks, he’s kind of become my best friend. I want to see him every morning and every night. The slipping I hadn’t wanted to do? I’ve pretty much fallen. Relationship or not, I feel more for Jackson than I’ve ever felt for anyone. And he’s not going to be happy with me.
Jackson picks up on the first ring, and I brace myself for his anger. He sounds out of breath, like he’s been rushing around. “Hey, there. I’m in my apartment getting ready. Where are you?”
“Jackson, I’m so sorry. I’m still at work. We have a new business pitch on Monday, and everything got derailed. I’m going to have to work tonight and through this weekend.”
Silence.
“I really am so sorry. It’s not my fault. We gained some new information on the account, and we have to change the pitch.”
Silence.
This sucks. It’s a work event. He asked me to attend weeks ago. Almost two months ago. I told him I’d go with him, and I want to be there for him, but I have no choice.
“When did you realize you couldn’t make it tonight?” His voice quivers across the line with ill-concealed anger.
Oh, shit. Guilt smacks me, and I hesitate before answering. “Earlier today. We had a presentation to executives. It’s been a shit storm since. I’ve been working nonstop. It’s been insane.”
“You forgot about tonight. Or are you doing this because I stayed over? Are you making this up to avoid me? Is this you freaking out?”
Whoa. What? “I don’t want to dignify your question with a response. I have work. It’s a huge pitch, and by the way, you made me late to the presentation this morning. But of course, why would I expect you to take my job seriously?” I snap. Guilt, hit the bench. Anger, you’re up to bat.
