Chapter 5 #2
"Be careful, Bianca," he said. His voice was soft, but it carried. It was the voice of a king deciding whether or not to execute a traitor.
"I'm just looking out for you," Bianca said, laughing nervously. "I mean, look at her. She's... quaint. But she's hardly Vane material. Does your father know you're dating the help?"
"Heather isn't the help," Jerry said. He reached across the table and took my hand.
His fingers interlaced with mine, his grip tight, almost painful.
He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles, his eyes never leaving Bianca's face.
"She's the only real thing in this entire room.
And if you speak to her with anything less than absolute respect again, I will have your father's tenure reviewed by the morning. Do you understand?"
Bianca paled. She looked like she had swallowed a lemon.
"You're... you're making a mistake," she stammered.
"Goodbye, Bianca," Jerry said dismissively.
She turned and fled, her minions trailing behind her.
I sat there, my hand still pressed against Jerry's lips. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might bruise my ribs.
He lowered my hand but didn't let go. He looked at me. The intensity in his gaze was terrifying. It wasn't acting. That wasn't fake.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"I..." I swallowed hard. "You didn't have to do that. The tenure threat? That was a bit supervillain of you."
"She insulted you," Jerry said simply. As if that explained everything. As if burning the world down was a logical response to someone being mean to me.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"Don't thank me," he said roughly, pulling his hand back. "Eat your taco. We're leaving."
The drive back to The Spire was silent. Not the awkward silence of strangers, but a thick, heavy silence. The air in the car was charged with static.
When we got into the elevator, the tension ratcheted up.
We stood side by side, watching the numbers climb. 10... 20... 30...
I could feel him. I could feel the heat radiating off his arm where it brushed against mine. I could feel his gaze on the side of my face.
"You were good back there," I said, trying to break the spell. "Very convincing."
"I wasn't acting," he murmured.
The elevator dinged. The doors slid open to the penthouse.
We walked inside. I kicked off my boots and threw my coat on the chair. I needed to escape. I needed to go to my room and hyperventilate about the way he had defended me.
"I'm going to study," I said, heading for the hallway.
"Heather."
He caught my arm.
He spun me around. I gasped as my back hit the wall of the foyer. It wasn't hard, but it was sudden.
Jerry was there, caging me in, his hands braced on the wall on either side of my head.
"W-what are you doing?" I stammered.
"You're driving me insane," he growled.
His eyes were wild. The cool, collected "Judge" was gone. This was something else. This was the man who smashed opponents into the glass.
"I haven't done anything!" I protested. "I ate the taco! I smiled! I played the part!"
"You exist," he said, leaning down. His nose brushed against mine. "You walk around my apartment in my shirts. You hum while you cook. You look at me with those big, defiant eyes and you challenge everything I say."
"Someone has to," I breathed, my hands itching to touch him, to push him away or pull him closer. I didn't know which. "You're a control freak."
"Yes," he admitted. "I am. And right now... I am losing control."
"So let go," I whispered. A dare.
Jerry’s pupils blew wide, swallowing the gray.
He crashed his mouth down on mine.
It wasn't a sweet kiss. It was a takeover. It was a raid.
He kissed me like he was starving and I was the last meal on earth. His lips were firm, hot, and demanding. He didn't ask for entrance; he took it. His tongue swept into my mouth, tasting me, claiming me.
I whimpered, a pathetic sound that was swallowed by his growl. My hands flew up to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his coat. I should have pushed him away. This was against the rules. This was the contract violation to end all violations.
But I didn't push. I pulled.
I pulled him closer, opening for him, meeting his tongue with my own.
He groaned, a vibration that rumbled against my chest. He took his hands off the wall and grabbed my waist, lifting me up.
I wrapped my legs around his waist instinctively.
He walked us backward, blindly, until my back hit the heavy oak door of his study. He kicked it open and carried me inside, slamming me down onto the edge of his massive mahogany desk.
Papers slid to the floor. I didn't care.
He stepped between my spread knees, pressing his hips against mine. The friction was instant and overwhelming. I could feel how hard he was through his jeans.
"Jerry," I gasped, breaking the kiss for air. "The rules... the contract..."
"Fuck the contract," he snarled, burying his face in my neck. He bit down on the sensitive cord of muscle there, not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to leave a mark. "You think I can look at you every day and not touch you? You think I'm made of stone?"
"I thought you were," I panted, my head falling back as his lips trailed down my throat.
"I'm not," he muttered against my skin. "I'm obsessed with you. Since the moment you fell on the ice."
His hand moved.
It slid up my thigh, under the oversized sweater I had changed into. His palm was rough, calloused from the hockey stick, and hot. So hot.
He found the skin of my inner thigh and squeezed.
"Soft," he groaned. "So soft."
He moved higher.
My breath hitched. "Jerry... wait..."
He stopped. He didn't pull away, but he froze. His hand was inches from the heat of me.
He pulled back to look at me. His hair was messy, his lips swollen and red, his eyes blown wide with lust.
"Tell me to stop," he demanded. His voice was ragged. "Tell me to stop, Heather, and I will walk out of this room and never touch you again."
It was the ultimate test. He was giving me the control.
I looked at him. I looked at the man who had defended me. The man who had given me a home. The man who looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered.
I didn't want him to stop. I wanted him to ruin me.
"Don't stop," I whispered.
His eyes flared.
"Good girl," he growled.
He didn't wait. His hand slid higher, over the silk of my panties. He cupped me, his palm pressing firmly against my center.
I cried out, my hips bucking off the desk involuntarily.
"You like that?" he murmured, watching my face. He looked fascinated. He looked triumphant.
"Yes," I sobbed. "Please."
He moved his hand, rubbing circles through the fabric. The friction was exquisite torture. I was already wet; I could feel the dampness seeping through the silk.
"You're so wet for me," he said, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Tell me who this is for."
"You," I gasped. "It's for you."
"Say my name."
"Jerry," I moaned. "Please, Jerry."
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of my panties and pulled them aside.
When his skin touched mine—bare, wet, sensitive skin—I saw stars.
He didn't establish a rhythm immediately. He just touched. Exploring. Learning. He found the little bundle of nerves at the top and flicked it gently.
I shattered.
"Oh god," I cried, my hands tangling in his hair, pulling his face down to mine.
He kissed me again, swallowing my cries as he began to move his fingers. He was relentless. He was efficient. He learned what I liked in seconds—the pressure, the speed—and he exploited it.
He wasn't just touching me; he was playing me. Like he played the ice. Calculating. Dominant.
"Look at me," he ordered against my mouth.
I forced my eyes open.
He was watching me. Watching the way I unraveled.
"You're mine," he whispered. "Right now. In this office. You're mine."
"Yours," I agreed. "I'm yours."
He picked up the pace. Two fingers slipped inside me, stretching me, while his thumb worked magic on the outside.
The pressure built. It was a tidal wave, dark and heavy and inevitable.
"Let go, Cherry," he commanded. "Come for me."
And I did.
I screamed his name into his mouth as my body clenched around his fingers. The orgasm ripped through me, blinding and all-consuming. I shook apart in his arms, sobbing, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing in a spinning world.
He held me through it. He didn't stop until the last tremor faded.
Then, slowly, he withdrew his hand.
He kissed my forehead. Gentle. Tender. A stark contrast to the violence of his passion moments ago.
He pulled back, straightening up. He adjusted my sweater, pulling it down to cover my legs.
The room was silent again, save for our ragged breathing.
Reality crashed back in.
I sat on the desk, disheveled, my lips swollen, my body humming.
Jerry stood between my legs, looking... conflicted. The lust was fading, replaced by the familiar mask of control. But there was a crack in it now. A big one.
"That," he said, his voice raspy, "was..."
"Against the rules?" I suggested weakly.
He looked at me. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His hand was shaking slightly.
"We need new rules," he said.
He stepped back.
"Dinner is in an hour," he said, turning toward the door. "I'll be in my room."
He walked out.
I sat there on the desk, staring at the empty doorway, my heart still racing a million miles an hour.
I touched my lips. They felt bruised.
We need new rules.
I had a feeling the new rules were going to be a lot more dangerous than the old ones.
And God help me, I couldn't wait to break them.