36. Lucy
36
Lucy
O peration: Project Utter Confidence (aka Hammond & Co.’s upcoming 50th Anniversary Gala) has officially entered the ‘Oh God, Is This Actually Happening?’ phase of planning.
Which means I’m in full panic mode.
The goal is simple: throw a glittering party so blindingly successful that our clients, investors, and the entire New York business elite forget the words ‘financial distress,’ ‘scaffolding collapse,’ and ‘CEO had a massive coronary.’ Instead, they’ll think ‘stable,’ ‘resilient,’ and ‘wow, that interim CEO cleans up nice and doesn’t seem totally clueless.’
Fingers crossed.
I’m huddled with Carol, our receptionist slash event manager, and Liam O’Connell, our head architect whose family has basically built half of Hammond’s portfolio. We’re finalizing the seating charts in the main conference room.
Liam is meticulously arranging tiny name cards on a scaled diagram of the ballroom like a general planning a crucial battle. Meanwhile Carol is frowning at the catering estimates.
Myself, I’m mostly trying not to hyperventilate about the budget for floral arrangements versus the looming specter of the SPE cleanup costs.
Ah, the glamorous life of a temp CEO: juggling potential bankruptcy with the optimal placement of canapés and flowers.
“Okay, so the delegation from Sumitomo Realty needs to be near the exits, they always leave early,” Carol mutters, tapping a name card. “And Mrs. Vanderbilt complained last time the music was too loud near her table.”
“We need the architectural renderings displayed prominently near the entrance,” Liam suggests, adjusting a tiny cardboard cutout representing a display easel. “Remind people of our legacy. Our foundations.”
Foundations , I think grimly, picturing Dad’s secret network of shady financial entities. Yeah, let’s maybe not draw too much attention to those particular foundations.
“Everything looks great, guys,” I say, forcing a bright smile. “Ambiance of quiet luxury, food that screams ‘we are definitely not broke,’ and enough mood lighting to make everyone look ten years younger. Perfect.”
Carol hands me the updated RSVP list. “Almost everyone important has confirmed, dear. However, there is…” She hesitates.
I scan the list. Senators. Banking bigwigs. Real estate rivals. Ava and Gideon, of course. They’ll be front and center. And Christopher Blackwell… confirmed .
My heart does a little skip.
Good.
His presence sends the right message .
But why was Carol hesitating?
My eyes snag on another name near the bottom. Typed out in crisp, impersonal font.
Mr. Mark Blackwell.
Confirmed.
Excuse me??
What??
Mark Blackwell?
Christopher’s estranged, vindictive, possibly-trying-to-destroy-us father?
RSVP’d yes ?
To our party?
“Are we sure about this?” I ask Carol, tapping the name. My voice sounds weirdly high.
Carol peers at the list. “Oh, yes, dear. Came in this morning.”
“I didn’t even know he was invited...” I comment.
“Every member of the Blackwell Innovations board has received an invite,” Carol explains. “As per your instructions.”
“Oh,” I say.
Damn it. Figures.
Well, there’s no going back on it now.
With luck, he won’t show up.
Yeah right.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Good to know.” Good to know the Jaws theme music will be playing in my head all night. “Thanks, Carol, Liam. Let’s finalize this later.”
Back in the relative safety of Dad’s ( my ) office, I immediately call Christopher. He needs to know his viper of a father plans on gracing us with his presence.
He picks up on the second ring. “Blackwell.” His voice is clipped. Colder than usual. An icy chill crawls up my spine.
Uh oh. Ice King mode engaged.
What happened?
“Hey,” I say tentatively. “Everything okay? You sound… tense.”
“Dealing with some internal matters,” he replies dismissively. No elaboration. Just that flat, controlled tone that usually means he’s either furious or plotting world domination. Or both. “What do you need, Lucy?”
Ouch. Okay.
“Just calling because we got the RSVPs back for the anniversary party. And… your father confirmed he’s attending.”
Silence on the other end. A heavy, loaded silence.
“I’m not surprised,” he says finally, his voice tight with something that sounds suspiciously like suppressed rage. “The old bastard never could resist sticking the knife in and twisting it.”
“What do you mean? What happened?” I ask, alarmed now.
He sighs, a harsh, weary sound. “He called an emergency board meeting. Tried to get them to rescind the revised Hammond partnership terms. Used our relationship, photos of us, as evidence my judgment was compromised.”
My stomach plummets. “Oh my god, Christopher. Did they…?”
“The motion failed. Barely,” he bites out. “But the point was made. He drew his line. Told me if I continue with you, with this partnership, our relationship is severed. Completely.”
Guilt washes over me, cold and sickening.
This is my fault.
Our relationship.
Project Nightingale .
It’s costing him his father.
Maybe even jeopardizing his control over his own company.
“Christopher, I… I had no idea. I’m so sorry. This is… this is because of me.”
“Don’t be absurd,” he snaps, though his voice lacks its usual conviction. “This isn’t about you. It’s about him. His ego. His inability to accept my defying him. It was always going to come to this.”
“But maybe…” My voice trembles slightly. “Maybe it wouldn’t have, not like this, if I wasn’t involved. If Hammond wasn’t…” I trail off, the next words tasting like ash. “Christopher, maybe… maybe we should cool things off. Just for a while. Until things stabilize. Until your father backs off. I don’t want to be the reason…”
The reason your family implodes.
“Don’t,” he cuts me off, his voice dangerously quiet now. “Don’t even fucking finish that sentence, Lucy.”
“But…”
“No. Absolutely not. That’s non-negotiable.” Before I can argue, he continues, his tone shifting back to cold command. “And given my father’s tactics, his willingness to use surveillance, his general lack of ethical boundaries… I’m assigning part of my security detail to you. Effective immediately. Darius Wade and Rebecca Torres. They’ll be discreet, but they’ll be close. Consider it standard procedure under the circumstances.”
Security? For me? “Is that really necessary?” I ask, bewildered. The idea of having bodyguards shadowing me feels utterly surreal. And reinforces the guilt.
Now I need protection because his father might be unstable?
“Knowing my father? Yes, Lucy,” he says grimly. “It’s necessary. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” He hangs up before I can react.
Twenty minutes? Be where in twenty minutes? Here? My office? My heart starts hammering against my ribs. That cold, controlled tone combined with ‘non-negotiable’ and ‘I’ll be there’… it doesn’t sound like he’s coming for a calm discussion.
Sure enough, exactly nineteen minutes later, Carol buzzes me, her voice flustered. “Mr. Blackwell is here, Lucy. He… didn’t wait to be announced.”
The door to my office bursts open before I can even stand up. Christopher fills the doorway, radiating an intensity that sucks the air out of the room. He looks furious. Controlled, yes, but utterly furious. His blue eyes are like chips of ice.
Behind him, in the hallway, I glimpse Elijah and Maya, plus two unfamiliar faces. A muscular man with watchful eyes (Darius?) and a sharp-featured woman scanning the surroundings (Rebecca?). They don’t follow him in. They don’t need to. His presence alone is overwhelming.
He steps inside and shuts the door firmly behind him. The click of the lock echoes in the sudden silence.
Okay. Definitely not here for a calm discussion. My cheeks are probably already flaming red. Fight or flight? Third option: blush furiously and hope he doesn’t notice?
“We need to talk,” he says, his voice dangerously soft as he advances towards my desk.
“About the security detail?” I squeak, trying to sound composed. Total fail. “Christopher, I really don’t think…”
“Not about the security detail,” he cuts me off, stopping directly in front of my desk, looming over me. He places his hands flat on the polished wood, leaning in slightly. Close enough that I can smell that intoxicating cedar and black pepper scent, laced now with something sharper. Anger. Determination. “About this ‘cooling things off’ bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit,” I protest, trying to hold his gaze, trying not to shrink back. “Your father… the board… I don’t want to be the cause of…”
“You are not the cause,” he interrupts again, his voice dropping lower, rougher. “You are the reason . The reason I’m finally done playing his games. The reason I’m choosing my own fucking path. And there is no version of that path that doesn’t include you. Are we clear?”
His intensity is terrifying. And exhilarating. And making it very hard to think straight. Or breathe.
“But…” I try again, driven by guilt, maybe by a stupid, subconscious desire to push him away before he gets hurt more because of me. Maybe even testing that icy control, wanting to see something crack. “Maybe distance would be smarter right now. For both of us. Less ammunition for your father…”
His eyes flash. “Smart?” He pushes off the desk, circling it slowly, deliberately, like a predator stalking its prey.
Me.
I’m the prey.
And okay, part of me is maybe kinda sorta into this.
Especially considering the sudden heat emanating from between my legs...
He stops behind my chair. “You think I give a single fuck about ‘smart’ right now, Lucy? About political maneuvering? About his pathetic threats?” He leans down, his lips brushing my ear, sending shivers down my spine despite the situation. Or maybe because of it.
“The only thing I care about right now,” he whispers, his breath warm against my skin, “is making sure you understand that you are mine. And nothing, not my father, not your company’s problems, nothing, is going to keep me away from you.”
He spins my chair around to face him. Before I can react, he pulls me up, out of the chair, his hands firm on my arms. I stumble slightly, trying to regain my balance, maybe trying to create space, defy him just a little.
“Don’t push me away, Lucy,” he warns, his voice a low growl. “Not today.”
“Or what?” I challenge, tilting my chin up, fueled by a confusing mix of guilt, defiance, and burgeoning arousal.
A dark glint enters his eyes. “Or I’ll have to remind you who’s in charge.”
“Oh yeah?” I taunt. “Remind me then, big guy.”
Bad idea. Very bad idea.
In one swift, shocking movement, he pulls me down onto the desk with him, spins me around, and bends me over his knee like a recalcitrant child.
My skirt rides up my thighs and my face flames with mortification.
“Christopher! What are you doing?” I gasp, struggling instinctively.
Smack!
“But it’s during work hours!” I exclaim.
“Don’t worry, my security detail won’t let anybody inside.”
“But they’ll hear!” I say, the thought mortifying.
“Then stay quiet,” he commands.
His hand connects firmly with my backside, right through the fabric of my dress. Not painful, exactly, but shocking. Stinging. Utterly unexpected.
“Stop fighting me,” he commands, his voice rough against my ear.
Smack! Another sting, harder this time.
“Let me go!” I try to push up, mortified beyond belief.
He’s spanking me? In my office? Is this actually happening?
“This is your punishment,” he murmurs, his hand resting possessively on my stinging bottom. “Trying to push me away after everything? Thinking you know what’s best for me? Then defying me?”
Smack!
The rhythm is firm, steady, undeniably punishing, yet… oh god…
Why is part of me starting to… like this?
Humiliation wars with the strange, coiling heat low in my belly.
He holds me there for several more stinging smacks, ignoring my half-hearted struggles, until I finally go still, breathless and stunned into submission.
My bottom throbs.
My face feels like it’s on fire.
“Better?” he asks softly, his hand now rubbing soothing circles where it just delivered punishment.
I can only nod mutely, burying my face against his thigh, too embarrassed to look anywhere.
He chuckles, a low, dark sound. Then his hand slides deliberately under my skirt, his fingers finding the damp lace of my panties.
“Hmm,” he murmurs, his fingers exploring, finding just how wet I am. “Seems someone wasn’t entirely opposed to this.” He slides his hand into my panties, and dips two fingers inside me, stretching me, making me gasp. “So wet for me, Lucy. The wettest I think I’ve ever felt you. You like being spanked, don’t you? Like being put in your place.”
My blush intensifies, spreading down my neck. I want to deny it, but my body’s response is undeniable.
Damn it.
He pulls me upright slowly, turning me to face him. My legs feel shaky. My bottom still stings. My core throbs from his touch.
His eyes are dark with possessive intensity, the earlier coldness replaced by raw heat. He reaches out, his fingers deftly unbuttoning my blouse, pushing the fabric aside. He unhooks the front clasp of my bra, freeing my breasts. My nipples are already hard, aching points.
He bends his head, taking one nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling, then sucking strongly. Pleasure, sharp and insistent, jolts through me.
I moan softly, trying to keep my voice down, my hands automatically gripping his shoulders for support. He gives equal attention to the other breast, his teeth grazing lightly, sending shivers down my spine, before lifting his head.
His gaze drops lower. He unzips my skirt, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. My panties quickly follow. Then, he scoops me up easily, surprising me again, and sits down in my CEO chair, settling me across his lap, my bare bottom pressed against the hard muscle of his trousered thighs.
Oh god, more spanking?
But instead of punishment, his hand strokes my stinging skin gently for a moment, before sliding around, between my legs.
His fingers find my clit immediately, rubbing with expert pressure, while his other hand continues to deliver occasional, surprising smacks to my already heated backside. The combination is… electrifying. Pain and pleasure mingling, intensifying each other.
I gasp, arching against his hand, completely overwhelmed. He masturbates me relentlessly, watching my face, reading my reactions, pushing me higher and higher.
“See?” he whispers, his breath hot against my cheek, delivering another light smack that makes me jolt. “You belong to me. Everywhere. Right here. Like this.”
Just as I feel myself nearing the edge, he stops, leaving me trembling and desperate. He stands abruptly, resting me on the chair, and sheds his jacket, tie, and shirt with impatient movements. My breath catches. His chest as usual is magnificent, all hard planes and defined muscle, courtesy of the private gym in his workplace.
He kicks off his shoes, unbuckles his belt. His pants follow, revealing long, powerful legs and the impressive bulge straining against his designer boxers.
My god, the sheer size of him never ceases to amaze me.
He pulls out a condom, sheathes his thick, already glistening cock with practiced efficiency. And I yearn to taste that cock and feel it inside of me.
He turns back to me, scoops me off the chair, and lifts me easily onto my desk, scattering papers and files everywhere. Normally I’d care about seeing the day’s work sent flying to the four corners of my office...
But not today.
He spreads my legs wide, positioning himself between them.
“Now,” he says, his voice a low growl. “Where were we?”
He enters me with a single, powerful thrust that steals my breath, filling me completely. His control is absolute, yet there’s an urgency, a primal energy I’ve only felt a few times from him, but not quite like this.
He sets a fast, demanding pace, fucking me against my own desk with a possessive intensity that’s both terrifying and unbelievably hot.
He leans down, sucking and biting gently at my neck, leaving marks I know will be there tomorrow.
Occasionally, he lifts me up with one arm, and his other hand finds my still-stinging bottom, delivering another sharp smack that sends sparks of confusing pain and pleasure through my system, making me cry out softly and clench around him.
“You like that?” he murmurs against my skin, his rhythm faltering slightly. “Like my hand on you?”
“Yes!” I gasp quietly, clinging to him. “Don’t stop! Please, Christopher!”
Oh god that was too loud, I know it was. I probably let not just the security detail but the entire floor know that I’m fucking him in my office.
He groans, his control seeming to fray just a little. He drops me back on the desk and grips my hips tighter, his thrusts becoming deeper, almost frantic.
“You’re mine, Lucy,” he grinds out, his voice thick with possessive need. “Mine, regardless of what happens with our companies. Our families. And I won’t let my father lay a fucking hand on you. Understand? I’m the only one allowed to touch you. The only one in charge of your pleasure… or your pain.”
His words, his touch, the sheer force of his possession… all of it pushes me over the edge .
My orgasm rips through me, violent and consuming. “Christopher,” I whisper, shuddering.
He leans forward and softly moans my name in my ear in return. “ Lucy. ”
He drives into me one last time as his own release shudders through his powerful frame.
Afterward, we collapse together, tangled limbs and slick skin lying on the wreckage of my organized desk.
He holds me tight against his huge chest, his breathing slowly evening out.
I feel utterly claimed. Possessed. And strangely… safe. Reassured. Despite the fact my backside currently feels like it went ten rounds with a very firm paddle.
Great. Meetings are going to require some creative seating arrangements for the rest of the day. Wonder if ‘executive discomfort’ is a valid reason to stand?
He might be fighting a war with his father, a war I feel horribly guilty about contributing to. But his message was clear. He’s not letting me go. He’s choosing this. Choosing us .
For now, anyway.
In addition to my throbbing backside, my neck stings slightly. I reach up, fingers tentatively exploring my neck where his mouth was just moments ago.
The skin feels hot, tender. Definitely marked.
Fantastic. Pretty sure I just acquired a few souvenirs that aren’t exactly board-meeting appropriate.
“Well,” I manage, my voice still breathless. “Looks like I’ll be investing in some strategically placed scarves for the foreseeable future. That, or industrial strength concealer.”
He looks down at my neck, then back at me, a flicker of something almost like surprise in his eyes.
“I couldn’t... couldn’t control myself,” he admits, his voice rough. “I don’t know what you’re doing to me. You… make me lose control.”
A slow smile spreads across my face. Despite the chaos, despite the fear, despite the very real possibility that the desk and chair now require professional sanitization… that admission feels like another victory.
“Oh really?” I murmur, tracing a finger over his kiss-swollen lips. “If this is you losing control, Mr. Blackwell…” I lean in, whispering against his mouth, “I can’t wait to make you lose control next time.”
He growls softly, pulling me impossibly closer, and for a little while, the looming threats of Mark Blackwell and corporate espionage and hidden financial disasters fade into the background, replaced by the undeniable certainty of the big man holding me in his arms.