by West, Harper
Tyler tries to talk me out of it. He reminds me that it’s an awful invasion of privacy and that I’m being creepy and controlling.
But I can’t help myself. The idea that Ivy might be seeing someone and that someone might be sneaking into her bed every night, has me behaving like an irrational caveman. God, if there is some other man in her room, I don’t know what I’ll do. Tyler reminds me that even I’m not powerful enough not to go down for murdering someone and I try and calm myself down.
Ivy signed the paperwork agreeing not to discuss her living situation with any other Rutledge Enterprises employees. The last thing I need is to be gossip fodder in my own office building.
What surprised me, however, was how long it took Ivy to agree to move in.
When Tyler presented her with the offer and the paperwork, she actually had asked for a few days to think about it. I was beside myself. What the hell was there to think about? She gets to move out of that hell-hole of an apartment and into a beautiful high rise. And she doesn’t have to pay for it.
I mean, I know that Ivy is stubborn and independent and hates taking handouts. But, come on.
Finally, she relented. I’m not completely sure why, but when she came into the office on Wednesday, she signed the contract and said that she’d move in over the weekend.
Tyler offers to help Ivy with her moving boxes. I don’t.
She refuses, anyway.
The whole process is suspicious. She doesn’t start moving in until way after dark and security footage from the lobby shows her refusing help from the doorman as well. Most interestingly is her final trip through the lobby.
I shake my head as I re-watch the footage for the third or fourth time.
Then she starts setting up in the apartment. I don’t have a camera set up in the living room, second bedroom or kitchen so I’ll just have to assume that she’s decorating the space to resemble her old place. The nice one. On the Upper West Side.
It was a sweet space, homey and feminine, and I felt comfortable in it right away. She always had fresh flowers in vases. And she loved throw pillows. Right now, I picture her scattering her colorful decorative pillows and filling glass vases in an effort to make the space her home.
Then finally, she moves into the bedroom.
I’d bought her a bed. I told her that the Kenabes’ had simply left a pretty new mattress behind and she accepted it readily. But it’s new. And it’s just like the one in her old place. She, Tyler and I had many a great memory on that old mattress.
I watch as she lays her light pink cotton sheets over the mattress and spreads her quilt over the top. She plugs in a bedside lamp and alarm clock. And, of course, a pretty vase of flowers graces the little nightstand.
It takes under fifteen minutes, but the room immediately feels warmer. It screams Ivy. And its torture for me to watch. Beautiful, painful fucking torture.
She sets up something on the corner of the room that I can’t quite see.
It's a big bedroom, and I focused the camera solely on the bed. One track mind, I guess.
It’s almost two in the morning when she finally starts getting ready for bed. I watch her towel dry her hair in the bedroom while wearing her favorite little nightgown. It’s a flimsy cobalt blue thing with cream colored lace around the top and bottom hems. It makes her red hair look even redder. It makes me smile. Quite frankly, I never cared what Ivy slept in. Mostly, when we were together, she slept naked. But Ivy always liked to feel sexy when she slept, even if she was alone.
There’s no sound on the camera feed, but Ivy’s lips are moving. She’s talking to someone. Maybe she’s on speakerphone with Oliver.
Fuck, even when he’s not in the building, he’s invading her space.
Of course, I’m invading her space. It’s hypocritical, I know.
She looks around the room before getting into bed. She turns out the light.
Then she gets up with a start.
Fuck. She spots it. She spots the camera. She’s looking right at it. After turning out the lamp, the camera must be emitting a little light or motion sensor or something.
She gets out of bed and walks right up to it.
I wait for the backlash. I wait for her to start cursing at me or throwing things at the camera, but she doesn’t.
She smirks. Fuck, she looks amused. The corner of her mouth twists up into an evil smile. She toys with the strap of her nightgown, letting it fall over one shoulder.
I lean back in my leather desk chair, watching her.
It's different now that she knows I'm watching her. I feel less creepy but more vulnerable. My dirty secret exposed.
I let out the breath I’d been holding as she lets her other strap fall down.
The gown slips lower and lower off of her body until it falls to a satin puddle on the floor, leaving her standing there naked as a jaybird and so fucking beautiful my chest starts to ache.
She knows just how to torture me.
As a very wealthy, privileged man, there aren’t many things that I can’t have. And she’s showing me the one thing I’ll never get my hands on. Her.
I’m so hard that I’m hurting. I palm my throbbing dick to try and calm myself down, willing this hellish hard-on to go away. I shouldn’t be doing this. Not with her. Not if I don’t want to spend the foreseeable future walking around emotionally wrecked.
I should turn the camera off. Look away. Something.
But I don’t. I just watch.
She saunters over to the bed and lies down, over the quilt, propping her head up on a pillow so that she can still look at the camera. I see her chest rise and fall as she grazes her pebbling nipples with her fingers.
My belt is undone before I even realize it. My hands, my dick, my entire body acting of its own accord. I take myself in my fist with a relieved groan, sliding up and down my shaft.
She brings her knees up and spreads them, letting me see how glistening wet she is. How pink and perfect. Letting me obsess about how sweet she tastes and how tight and amazing she’d feel around me. Her fingertips travel down, between her breasts, over her stomach, past her little belly button, and lower.
“Ugh,” I grunt. I’m leaking pre-cum and decide to use it as lubrication rather than reach for any lotion. The familiar sounds of slapping and panting fill my small office.
Ivy circles her clit with her fingers. Her back arches and she throws her head back.
I know for a fact that Ivy Lawrence cannot fake her orgasm. So all of those spasms and noises she's presumably making are genuine. She's enjoying pleasuring herself for my amusement. And she probably knows that I'm sitting here with my cock out, stroking myself, slack-jawed and dying with need to touch her.
She comes with a rush, creaming into her own hand. Her face contorts, and she flushes red. Her eyes get hazy as she gives into the feeling and lets it sweep her over the edge. I watch her try to catch her breath. I watch the sweat dry from her skin, wishing that I could be there to lick it off.
I come. But it’s underwhelming because I’m alone. Alone and dreaming of the woman I’ve never gotten over.
I clean myself off and turn off the camera.
Chapter 8
Ivy
Fuck him. Fuck Logan.
That camera stunt has me fucking roiling. When did he get so damn paranoid? And why? Does every apartment in this whole godforsaken building have a creepy camera in it? Or was it just mine?
Anyway, I know that my form of retaliation seems a little strange. It seems like I’ve just given him exactly what he wanted, but that’s the thing about Logan. Throwing a blanket or something over the camera or just breaking it would have egged him on.
No. I decided to dangle myself in front of him like the proverbial carrot. Logan grew up poor and with absent parents. He desperately envied the other children who had loving families, clean clothes, and nice toys. He never went to friends' houses because he hated seeing things he couldn't have. He has a lot of great qualities, but he is a jealo
us man sometimes.
Showing him what he was missing out on, night after night, was the quickest way to get him to back down.
And I know that Logan is still in love with me. If he had really moved past our relationship, he’d be chatting about the weather and treating me like any other employee. But he isn’t. He’s ignoring me like the plague, which is pretty difficult considering that I’m the company’s receptionist. And then, of course, moving me into his building was the icing on the cake. Tyler must have told him about my living situation and suggested moving me closer.
I’m sure it killed, him, but Logan did agree.
The next morning, I tear through the rest of the apartment for any other cameras and thankfully don’t find any. My sitter should be here any minute to tend to Oliver while I’m at work. She was understandably surprised at the sudden address change but didn’t ask too many questions.
Oliver starts fussing, and I pick him up to bounce him around a bit. He seems to like that. My baby was born with a head full of dark hair, but he’s started going blonde in the past few months. He has Logan’s bright blue eyes, too. But those cheeks are all Tyler.
I know that they technically can’t both be the father. I’m not an idiot. I know how biology works. But I can’t help thinking that Oliver doesn’t look more like Logan than Tyler or vice versa.
When I got pregnant, my mother fought for a paternity test to determine which guy was actually the father. In her mind, this would determine whether I would be with Tyler or Logan. Either one was an acceptable choice in her mind. Both were wealthy, generous, and stable. Both would stand up and do the right thing. Either would have married me if I’d suggested it.
But that was the issue. I didn’t want to choose. I wanted both.
And refusing to choose between them was not an acceptable choice. Not in her eyes, at least.
“Sweet little baby," I coo at him. He gurgles and smiles. I swear he giggles. It fills my heart with a strange kind of warmth. I loved my son instantly, and I knew that I would do anything and everything to protect him and provide for him. I'd lay down my own life before I'd let anyone harm him.
Patty shows up right on time. She surveys my new apartment, wide-eyed.
“Did you win the lottery, Ms. Lawrence?” she asks.
I shake my head, trying to come up with a believable reason that I’d suddenly have all this money.
“My… um… uncle died," I tell her, "He was quite wealthy, and he left me this apartment."
Patty seems to accept that explanation and takes Oliver from my arms.
I have to admit that it breaks my heart a little to pass him off to a stranger every morning. But I try to keep my emotions to myself as I smooth my dress down and touch up my makeup before bidding Patty and Oliver farewell and heading out the door.
Now that I no longer have that long train ride to work, I have time to treat myself to a fancy coffee from the shop in the lobby of our building before heading to my desk. I greet a few coworkers and have a lovely encounter with a salesperson. I smile and take a refreshing deep breath. It’s looking like a good day.
Until Ms. O’Dell approaches reception.
“Ms. Lawrence, Mr. Rutledge wants to see you,” she informs me.
“Why?”
She shrugs. “I’m sorry, but I have no idea,” she says, “My instructions were to send you up to his office and to run the desk until you return.”
I look her up and down, trying to figure out whether or not she is withholding information. I don’t think that she is.
“How did he… seem?” I ask, hoping that wasn’t too odd a question.
She purses her lips.
“I mean, did he seem angry?” I clarify.
“I don't think so," she answers, "This didn't seem like a ‘she's about to get fired' thing if that's what you're worried about." She leans in a bit and lowers her voice. "But, really, I've been working here for almost two years, and I can't read Mr. Rutledge for shit."
I laugh. That’s by design.
I thank her for her candor before taking the elevator to the top floor. I stop myself from barging into Logan’s office, remembering that we’re at work and have to pretend like we’re total strangers.
“Come in, Ms. Lawrence,” he calls.
I enter. Logan’s office is an impressive space. Tasteful dark wooden furniture, modern artwork, and a distinctively masculine energy.
“Close the door behind you.”
I oblige. He gestures for me to sit in the chair opposite his.
“I wanted to apologize to you, Ms. Lawrence,” he tells me.
“Please call me Ivy,” I say.
“Ivy,” he says. He mumbles my name like he’s thoughtfully mulling over it, deciding whether or not he likes it. It reminds me of the way he used to say my name, over and over, whispered into my ear after he’d come and he was all spent out. He’d hold me close and…
“It’s fine,” I tell him, shaking off those thoughts.
“No, it's not," he says, "Putting that camera there was a complete invasion of privacy, and I know that it was wrong."
“It was.”
“I hope that you still feel comfortable living in the apartment,” he says.
I nod. “I do.”
“And I want you to know that I will never invade your space again,” he assures me.
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Or that of anyone that you might bring home,” he adds.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying that should you bring anyone back to your apartment for a romantic encounter…”
“What, Logan. That I have your permission or something,” I say, slightly miffed.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“But it’s what you implied.”
“I just mean that I won’t get in the way of your dating life,” he says, backing off.
“Great," I say. Not that it matters. I have no intention of dating any time soon. I sigh, looking at Logan. There's a reason he's digging at this, and there's a reason he's called me up here to apologize.
I stare him down, waiting for him to cave.
It takes a minute.
“Ivy, who’s Oliver?” he asks, finally.
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” he says, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Tyler drove you home the other night and said that you were concerned about someone named Oliver.”
“It’s none of your business,” I tell him.
“You’re seeing someone,” he asserts.
“Again, it’s none of your business.”
“Is he the reason you were living in that terrible apartment?” Logan wonders.
“Leave it alone.”
“Is he the reason…”
Another staredown. I feel my blood start to boil. Of course, my son is the reason my life is completely different, but I certainly don’t blame him for it. I know that Logan thinks I was led astray by some devious, manipulative man, not my child, but I’m still fuming.
“Is he the reason I lost everything?” I’m all but shouting. “Is he the reason I had to come crawling on my hands and knees to my exes and beg for a receptionist job?”
Logan doesn’t waver. “Is he?” he asks slowly.
I refuse to answer.
“Were you with Oliver when you were with us?" he asks. His voice is small like he's worried about the answer.
“I…”
“Is Oliver the reason you left us?”
I feel a lump rising in my throat.
Eighteen Months Ago
I sit on the closed toilet, checking my phone. It feels like an eternity has passed, but it’s only been thirty seconds. Fuck, this test isn’t fast enough. My breathing is ragged and sweat pools on my brow.
Finally, the timer dings.
I reach for the test.
It’s positive. I sigh out.
I assure myself that it’s going to be okay. A lot of women out
there get pregnant before they’re ready and their lives turn out just fine. There are a lot of powerful women out there who get pregnant and work until their babies are born and then return to their positions. I make a mental note to look into expanding the company daycare program.
I think about telling the guys. I wonder what they’ll be like as parents. I smirk, picturing Logan all tough and protective, like a papa bear who will do anything to protect his cub. And Tyler will be the fun one, sneaking our little one ice cream or candy and taking him or her to the park to run around until they’re both tired out.
I know that our situation will be unconventional. Sure, a child saying, “I have three parents,” is strange. But families come in all shapes and sizes and who can really argue that a child needs less love in his or her life.
Logan, Tyler and I have never talked about kids. But maybe the guys will even be excited about this.
I decide to confirm the test with my doctor before letting the guys know.
He tells me I’m about six weeks along.
I return to my apartment feeling pretty happy. I look around. Wow, I haven’t really been living here much lately. When was the last time I slept in my own bed? A few weeks ago, probably.
I should give up this apartment, really. I've basically been living with Logan and Tyler, and once we have this baby, I see no reason why we wouldn't all live under one roof. We'll convert his third bedroom into a nursery.
Maybe we’ll get married.
Whoa. The thought hits me hard. But it feels kind of right. Marrying Tyler and Logan. Being their wife. Of course, we wouldn’t be able to be married in a church or in front of a judge. It would be a completely symbolic ceremony. But I can’t help but picture myself in a lacy white dress walking slowly down the aisle to my two handsome grooms.
Damn, now that I’ve let myself go there, it’s all I want.
I’m meeting the guys for dinner at a French bistro downtown. Perfect. I’ll tell them there. I put on my favorite turquoise dress. The guys always compliment me on it. Logan says that it makes my hair stand out. Tyler says that it brings out my eyes.
