Chapter 37
Thirty-Seven
Blair
“We don’t have time.”
Damien’s scheduling concerns must not be too dire, because seconds later, his hands tighten in my hair, a groan issuing from deep in his chest as he guides my mouth over his cock.
I gaze up at him, and molten heat pools between my thighs as I take in the straining tendons in his neck and the tightness of his jaw. It’s like he’s doing everything in his power to stop himself from fucking my mouth, and honestly, how disrespectful.
I’m doing my best work here; the least he could do is make me gag.
Deciding to take matters into my own hands, I lower my head past the point of comfort until his tip hits the back of my throat and I’m forced to pull back, panting. Undeterred, I dive back in for more, licking and sucking eagerly, determined to see an end to his self-control.
He’s unbelievably hard, the veins raised in thin ridges up and down his shaft. They throb under my hand as I stroke what I can’t fit in my mouth, holding tight enough to make him curse. I gag again, and his hips lift slightly off his chair, a tremor wracking his body.
“Fuck,” comes the strangled snarl from above me. “That’s it. Just like that, princess.”
I would smile if my mouth wasn’t a little full at the moment. Recent experience has taught me I’m princess when we’re fucking, love when we’re living our lives, and Blair when he’s genuinely annoyed.
My clit throbs, begging for attention, as he drags me up and down, and I move from wet to fucking soaked.
I’d fantasized about this very scenario—before we learned more enjoyable methods to release our frustration with one another—and when I entered the security office to see him before my meeting, inspiration struck.
Without a single word, I’d rounded the desk and dropped to my knees, working his belt open as he rapidly tried to conclude the phone call with Thornhurst’s internet provider.
He’s right, we don’t have a lot of time, but I’m confident that won’t be an issue.
Redoubling my efforts, I moan, and a ribbon of heat ripples in my belly as his cock grows—somehow—even harder.
Above me, Damien curses, fisting my hair tighter than ever. “I’m close,” he rasps. “Swallow, do you hear me? Take it—Fuck—”
His words break off as he pulls me down, letting out a deep, masculine groan of satisfaction as his cock swells in my mouth, flooding the back of my tongue with his cum. It drips down my throat, and I do my best to breathe through my nose and not choke.
When Damien’s grip on my hair finally relaxes, I lift my head, grinning at his dazed expression. “That good, huh?” I ask brightly, rolling back to my feet and snatching a tissue from the corner of his desk to dab the saliva from the bottom half of my face.
Slumped in his chair with his half-hard cock out, Damien merely blinks at me, apparently still coming back to himself. “Sorry, what?”
“You’re adorable,” I beam, bracing my hands on the arms of his chair and leaning in for a quick kiss. “What time is it?”
Shaking himself, he leans over to check the computer. “You’ve got five minutes,” he tells me gruffly, as his hands move to tuck his cock away. “Definitely not complaining, but can I ask what prompted that?”
I shrug, already refocused on checking my makeup on my phone screen.
“I was nervous, and figured it would be distracting, and give me something to look forward to when it’s all over.
” Because, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about this man’s sexual preferences, it’s that unreciprocated orgasms are off the table.
There is no way in hell I won’t be generously paid back for this little stunt.
“Brilliant,” supplies Damien, sounding very amused. “Does this mean I get to eat your cunt when I need to take my mind off things?”
“Anything for you.” Satisfied my face and hair bear no evidence of what we just did, I shove my phone away, feeling the first prickle of returning anxiety.
He must see it, because Damien stands, taking his coat from the back of his chair. “I’ll drive you over there,” he offers casually, and wraps an arm around my shoulders, leading me out to the truck.
My knee starts bouncing in the time it takes him to close my door and round the front of the vehicle to his own. As the engine rumbles to life, his hand finds mine in my lap, giving it a little squeeze. “Hey, it’s going to be okay.”
“I know.” I don’t actually know anything of the sort, but I’m hoping that’s the case.
Upon realizing I wanted out of the Porter’s toxic generational trauma party, the next big thing to consider was how.
Learning who I am and growing up a little was the first step, but I have no idea what I want to do with myself when all this is over.
Even if I’ve been working on my literacy and learning better ways to support my dyslexia, the prospect of actually going through with my father’s college plan was daunting.
When I told Damien I was thinking of finding an attorney to learn more about the actual legal specifics for my trust fund, he’d promised to help. This help translated into him shamelessly exploiting his relationship with the King of Stelland to get me not just any lawyer, but a really good one.
After sending Mr. Allister every intimidating legal document I have, he called, asking if he could “stop by” for a “quick chat.”
As we pull up to Thornhurst’s kitchen door, Damien takes out his phone, frowning at the screen. “He’s here.”
My stomach churns. “Will you come in with me?” I ask, a little hysterically, as I watch him remotely open the gates, allowing my new attorney into the grounds.
With a gentle smile, Damien shakes his head. “No, love. Whatever he has to say, whatever options he gives you on how to proceed, it needs to be your decision. I don’t want to influence this choice, one way or the other.”
A panicked little giggle bubbles from between my lips, and I gaze back at him, pleading. “I appreciate the vote of confidence in my decision-making abilities, but my track record isn’t exactly stellar. Come on, you love bossing me around.”
“Not this time.” He leans over the center console to kiss me and uses my temporary distraction to open the door.
Resigned to my fate, I screw up my face in a halfhearted glare. “Well done, sir.”
“On your way, love. I’ll be waiting.”
Stomach in knots, I get out of the truck and go inside. As is often the case when I’m dreading something, time seems to be moving much faster than usual, and in what feels like about ten seconds, I’m opening Thornhurst’s massive front doors.
Mr. Allister, who is a tall, reedy man with very little hair, greets me with a handshake and a nod. He follows me into the dining room, and upon setting down his bag, immediately begins pulling out paperwork.
Nauseous now, I slip into the chair across from him. “Thank you for coming all this way,” I offer, simply to break the silence.
Glancing up at me, he offers me a tight, professional smile, shuffling the papers before him. “Of course. This is rather a complicated case, and if you decide to hire me as your counsel, I’ll need your signature on some things.”
“I’m dyslexic,” I confess, ignoring the familiar prickle of embarrassment that comes with voicing that aloud.
“There’s an app I use to read through things like this for me, but when it’s really complicated…
” Trailing off, I wince, despite myself.
“I haven’t been as informed about the actual legal technicalities as I should have been. ”
Beneath the table, I twist my hands together in my lap, but to my relief, Mr. Allister doesn’t look surprised.
“Even for someone without a learning disability, this is not a simple matter. It took me several days to get my arms around the way your parents and late grandparents have structured things.” Clearing his throat, he sits up a little straighter. “Well, I suppose we’ll get into it, then.”
Just as he said, it’s complicated. Really complicated.
Even giving me the simplified version, there are so many legal loopholes and protections in place that nearly every explanation Mr. Allister gives me comes with a “but if” attached. By the end of an hour, however, I think I’m getting the gist of it.
“So, basically,” I clarify, rubbing my temples and gazing blearily across the table at my new attorney.
“When I was young, and my grandparents died, my parents used my inheritance to buy a portion of Porter Capital, and the profits from that portion go into my trust fund, from which they are reinvested into Porter Capital.”
“Basically,” Mr. Allister agrees, looking extremely relieved we’re finally getting somewhere. “The majority of your financial holdings are directly tied to the family company.”
My shoulders weigh about ten times more than they did an hour ago, and I slump back in my chair, gazing at him helplessly. “So, I’m stuck, then. I don’t have access to my trust fund, so I can’t sell my shares or whatever.”
“You are not stuck,” Mr. Allister counters, and there’s an enthusiastic gleam in his eye, which is pretty unfathomable to me, considering we’re talking about the most boring stuff ever.
“When your father initially ran for Parliament, he was required by law to divest himself of his controlling interest in the firm. To do this, he used—pardon me—some very questionable legal work.”
While not surprised—given what Damien told me about his blackmail suspicions, and my experience being raised by the man—this definitely has my attention. “What do you mean?” I ask, as, picking up on whatever thrill Mr. Allister seems to be getting from this, my heart lifts.