6. Jack
JACK
H er legs tighten around my waist as I sink my dick into her, the stretch of her body molding perfectly around it.
Each thrust is slow, controlled, fueled by a hunger that’s been coiled beneath my skin for years.
Her blouse hangs open, her breath catching as my hands trace the lines of her hips.
Her lips find mine, greedy and urgent, her loud moan breaking the silence like a promise I’m desperate to keep.
I push deeper and harder, the friction of our bodies electric, her nails biting into my back, pulling me closer as if she can feel how much I want her.
Her name spills from my lips. “Ohhhh, Jack…” Her reply…
my name, whispered like a secret, makes my chest clench.
I kiss down the column of her throat, tasting the salt of her skin, memorizing the sound she makes when I hit just the right angle.
She wraps her arms around my neck, and for a moment, nothing else exists…
Then my phone buzzes…
I blink, breath caught in my throat. The illusion shatters.
I’m still in my office, alone. Ivy isn’t here.
The only thing in front of me is a quarterly report I haven’t read and a mind that won’t stop conjuring her, every detail, every curve I’ve never touched, every moment I’ve never lived but can’t stop craving.
I try to tell myself this is about strategy.
That I’m being smart. One of my portfolio companies, an eco-luxe skincare startup with a branding problem, needs a full rework.
The pitch is simple: new logo, new site, refined messaging, a complete identity overhaul to match their growing market share.
Ivy is the perfect candidate. She’s creative, sharp, and carries a kind of natural elegance that the brand is missing.
That’s why I offered her the job. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
The truth is, I want her close. I want to know what she’s thinking before she says it.
I want to see her walk into my building every morning.
I want her in my orbit, where I can watch the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s focused, or how her mouth curls slightly when she’s amused.
I want her to look at me like I’m not Derek’s brother, like I’m not part of the mess she’s trying to escape, but the one she can trust.
When she arrives at the office, the world narrows to her silhouette through the glass.
Her heels strike the marble floor in a rhythm that cuts through the low hum of conversations and muted footsteps.
I glance up as the elevator doors part, and for a moment, I swear time forgets how to move forward.
Backlit and breathtaking, and I can see her reflection in every pane of glass that surrounds me.
It's like she's already inside, already in my space, before she even crosses the threshold.
She steps out in a high-waisted pencil skirt the color of ink, tailored to perfection and hugging her hips with an elegance that borders on lethal.
Her silk blouse is ivory, almost translucent when it catches the light, tucked neatly and unbuttoned just enough to hint at collarbone and skin.
A structured camel coat is folded over her arm like an afterthought, and her heels, sleek, pointed, unapologetic, announce her presence with every step.
Her hair is twisted into a soft, deliberate chignon, but a few strands have escaped, brushing her cheeks like they have permission.
She looks like a vision pulled from a dream I didn’t know I had.
Feminine authority distilled into movement.
My throat tightens, and I feel the burn of it low and hard in my chest.
My assistant buzzes. "Ivy Stone is here."
"Send her in," I say, already rising from my chair.
She walks in with easy poise, the sway of her hips unhurried and devastatingly precise.
Light glints across the floor as she moves, catching on the gleam of her hair and the subtle sheen of her lips.
The glass walls reflect her from every angle, multiplying the effect.
She doesn’t just brighten the room, she claims it.
My breath catches, and I feel it everywhere, low and hot and reckless.
"Hi," she says, a little breathless but smiling. There’s warmth in her voice, a flicker of something close to trust.
"Hi," I echo, clearing my throat and trying not to look too long at the way her blouse shifts when she moves.
She slides into the chair across from my desk. Her eyes scan the space, glass walls, matte black fixtures, a minimalist bar cart in the corner.
"This place looks exactly like you," she says.
"Is that a compliment?"
She tilts her head, eyes flicking toward the built-in shelving. "It’s just so... deliberate. Everything’s curated. It feels like you’re trying to project something you’re not. Like this office is wearing a suit and tie, but the man behind the desk would rather be in worn boots and rolled sleeves."
I lean forward, elbows on the desk. "You’re not wrong."
She smirks, flipping her hair back behind one ear. "So what’s the job?"
I hand her the folder I’ve been holding onto for two days.
"It’s a rebrand. Full campaign direction.
Product identity, digital overhaul, brand tone, and messaging realignment.
The company’s expanding overseas and needs to get serious about its image.
You’d lead the creative direction from inception to execution.
Shape the entire visual language, set the emotional tone, and define the brand voice that carries across every platform, print, digital, experiential,” I explain.
She opens it and starts flipping through the pitch deck.
Her fingers brush the pages with care, but her expression is focused, measured.
Before I can say more, a few members from the startup team knock and enter the room.
Introductions are made. Ivy’s professional, poised, instantly magnetic.
One of the junior execs, a marketing VP in an ill-fitted blazer, leans in too close as he thanks her for considering the role.
Ivy politely smiles, but I catch the tilt of her head, the shift in her body language.
She doesn’t move away, but she doesn't lean in either. Still, the sight makes my pulse spike.
My jaw clenches. I rise, taking a step closer than necessary.
"Ivy’s going to elevate your entire campaign," I say coolly. "Let’s not waste her time."
The guy steps back. Ivy glances at me, surprised and amused. I don’t look away.
"What’s the budget? The timeline?" she asks, pivoting.
"Aggressive. Launch in six months. High six figures. You’d have full creative authority. I’ll handle the exec side."
She lifts a brow. "You trust me that much?"
"I trust you more than I trust most of the people I pay seven figures."
Her mouth twitches. "I’ll want to bring in my own team."
"Done." I say.
She studies me again, searching my face. I can feel her scrutiny like a touch, intimate and quiet. "You’re not doing this out of guilt, are you?"
"No. I’m doing it because I want to. Because you deserve a chance to build something real. Even if you already have your own firm, this is different. This is personal."
She nods slowly, lips parting with a tentative but unmistakable smile. "Okay. I’ll do it."
The energy between us warms, stretching taut across the space like silk drawn over skin. She rises in one smooth motion, straightening her blouse as she reaches for the folder with her fingertips. I rise too, heart pounding, and walk her toward the door, matching her pace.
"Thank you, for trusting me," she says, pausing just before crossing the threshold, her voice low but sure.
"You earned it," I reply, the words slipping out more tender than I intend.
She walks toward the elevator. Her hand brushes mine when I hand her the folder. It’s the lightest touch, but it scorches.
Just before she steps inside, I call out. "Ivy."
She turns, one brow raised.
"If it ever gets to be too much, the press, the noise, you can come here. This office is yours too."
Her gaze lingers. "That sounds dangerously close to sweet."
"Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin me."
She laughs, soft and real. Then the doors slide shut. Back at my desk, I sit down and open a blank message window.
I type: I sent the envelope. You were never supposed to get hurt.
The cursor blinks on the empty message. I rest my fingers on the keyboard, but they won’t move. No instinct leads me toward truth, no impulse toward confession. Then I hit delete, and the message disappears.
Through the glass, I watch Ivy walk away, shoulders squared, folder tucked against her chest, sunlight skating across the lines of her skirt.
I’m in love with her. With the way she moves through a room like she’s unknowingly carrying all my gravity.
And she still doesn’t know what I’ve done.
Even now, I don’t know if telling her the truth would bring us closer, or destroy whatever this is.