7. Ivy
IVY
H is hands are rough and sure, sliding up the insides of my thighs with a confidence that steals the breath from my lungs.
He touches me like my body belongs to him, like he’s memorized every inch in a thousand stolen fantasies.
Then his grip tightens at my hips, anchoring me with a possessive force that sends a shock of heat spiraling through my core.
It’s not a question. It’s a claim. And I’m already surrendering.
His mouth is hot and insistent at the base of my throat.
Each kiss is deliberate, a slow drag of tongue tracing the rapid beat of my pulse before his lips travel lower, lower still, until they find the soft curve of my breast. His tongue flicks against the sensitive skin, then he bites, gently, just enough to make me gasp and arch beneath him, aching for more.
My fingers curl into the sheets, twisting the fabric tight in my fists as he pushes into me, his erection hard and relentless, thrusting deep with an unyielding rhythm.
It’s not frantic. It’s purposeful. Every stroke feels calibrated to unravel me, angled like he’s memorized exactly what my body craves.
My lips part in a breathless cry as pleasure starts to fracture through me, sharp and sweet and impossible to contain.
His voice is rough and ragged against my skin, vibrating at the hollow of my neck as he groans my name like it’s the only word that’s ever mattered. Like he’s been dying to say it aloud and finally can.
“Say it,” he growls, voice thick with need. “Tell me you’re mine.”
I try to answer, but the words don’t make it past the rising moan in my throat.
All I can do is nod, frantic and helpless, hips lifting to meet him, chasing every wave of sensation he gives me.
Then he catches my wrists, his grip strong, unwavering, and pins them above my head, locking me beneath him.
The weight of his body, the restraint, the dominance, it’s intoxicating. I am bare. Exposed. Claimed.
And in that moment, I want it. I want all of it.
My body clenches around him, trembling and slick as the orgasm tears through me, uncontrollable. I scream his name, louder than I should, but I don’t care. I am lost in him. In the heat, the pleasure, the feeling of being completely consumed.
And then…
I wake up. Gasping.
The room is dark. My sheets are twisted in a tangled mess around my legs, soaked with sweat and clinging to my skin like a memory I can’t quite shake. My chest rises and falls in shallow bursts, as though I’ve run a marathon in my sleep.
I sit up slowly and drag my hands over my face, trying to come back to myself. My heart is racing, my pulse still thudding against my throat like it hasn’t caught on that none of it was real. But it felt real. Too real.
I can still feel him. Jack. Not in some vague, fleeting way, but vividly, his weight above me, his mouth hot and hungry on my skin, the way he said my name like a secret he’d been waiting years to tell. It wasn’t just a dream. It was a revelation.
I want him. Not abstractly. Not in some harmless, theoretical way.
I want him in a way that’s physical. Visceral.
Unavoidable. I always found Jack attractive.
Even when I tried not to. Even when I was with Derek and told myself it didn’t mean anything, the way Jack’s gaze lingered a beat too long, the way he always looked at me like he already knew something I hadn’t figured out yet.
I buried it. Let myself get swept up in the idea of safety, of certainty.
Derek was the right brother. Or at least, the one I was supposed to want. But maybe he never was.
And now, it’s not just attraction. It’s curiosity. Desire tangled with danger. How much do I really know Jack? Not the boss, not the brother, but the man beneath the sharp suits and unreadable silences. I’m not sure. And that’s what makes this so dangerous. I tell myself to be careful.
The realization presses in, not like a sudden flash, but like a quiet truth that’s been waiting patiently beneath the surface.
This thing between us, it didn’t begin in a boardroom or a bedroom.
It began the moment I walked out on Derek and Jack opened his door, no hesitation, no questions.
He gave me a job. A space to exhale while my life crumbled around me.
And maybe that wasn’t selfless. Maybe it was never meant to be.
Because in a world where everyone wants something, favor, leverage, control, Jack gave me something no one else thought to offer.
Silence. Space. Room to break without being broken.
That kind of freedom feels like a gift wrapped in warning paper.
It's not gentle. It's not safe. But it’s real and it terrifies me.
Because the kind of quiet he offers isn’t empty. It’s expectant. It’s a pause before something happens. And I can feel it coming. Whatever this is, it’s not imagined. It’s not one-sided. It’s a slow ignition that’s been waiting for a spark.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and let my bare feet find the cool floor, grounding myself in the present.
The dream clings to me like a second skin as I move through my morning routine, hovering behind my eyes, under my skin.
I stand under the hot spray of the shower too long, letting the scalding water beat against my shoulders in the hope it’ll burn the memory from my body. But it doesn’t. It only reminds me.
My skin tingles with heat in all the places his hands touched me, in the dream, in my mind, and I can still feel the echo of him between my thighs.
When I step out, I wrap the towel tightly around myself.
I stare into the mirror and find my reflection flushed, eyes too bright.
I drag my palm across the fogged glass, smearing it with condensation, but it does nothing to erase the thoughts spiraling through my mind.
I go through my skincare routine with military precision, serum pressed into high points of my face, moisturizer gliding along my jaw, eye cream tapped gently beneath tired eyes.
Then makeup. Concealer to blur the shadows.
Brows brushed and filled, arched with quiet defiance.
A dusting of blush to fake calm. And crimson lipstick because today, I need the illusion of control.
At my closet, I skip the soft sweaters and go straight for the armor, black cigarette trousers, sharp and tailored, cinched perfectly at the waist. I pair them with an ivory silk blouse that floats over my skin like water, light and fluid, tucked just so.
I fasten gold hoops at my ears and a delicate bracelet at my wrist. Every movement is intentional.
Every choice is calculated. These aren’t just clothes.
They’re a message. The woman in the mirror doesn’t shrink.
She stands her ground. The car ride into the city is quiet.
Outside, the skyline blurs past in a rhythm that matches the uneven beat of my pulse.
I try to focus on the streetlights, the traffic, the familiar landmarks.
But all I can think about is that dream.
His mouth on my skin. His hands everywhere.
Jack. Jack. Jack. I shouldn’t want him. Not like this. Not now. But I do.
***
When I walk into the boardroom, it’s already humming with anticipation.
Executives in tailored suits sit around the polished table, murmuring in low tones.
Laptops are open. Coffee cups in hand. Eyes track me as I enter, some curious, some calculating.
And then there’s Jack. He’s seated at the head of the table, cool and composed in a dark navy suit that looks custom-made.
His jaw is set, eyes unreadable, but they lock on me the moment I step through the door.
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away. He watches me like I’m the answer to a question he hasn’t asked out loud yet.
I take a breath, square my shoulders, and begin.
“This brand doesn’t need a band-aid or a buzzword,” I say, clicking to the first slide.
“It needs a reset.” The room stills. I move through the visuals, consumer trends, brand audits, engagement stats, storytelling strategy.
I speak clearly, confidently, letting the work speak for itself.
“You don’t need to be louder,” I finish.
“You need to be real. Show the process. Show the mess. Show the people behind the product. That’s what makes the difference now. ”
Jack doesn’t interrupt once. He doesn’t jot down notes. He just watches. The weight of his gaze is enough to make my skin flush, even beneath silk and strategy. It’s too much, and not nearly enough. When I finish, silence stretches across the room like held breath.
Then Jack says, “Approved.” Just one word. No explanation. No hesitation. It ripples across the room in hushed reactions, nods, murmurs, papers being gathered.
The woman in navy seated nearest the screen gives a tight smile. The man beside her closes his laptop with a satisfied snap. Chairs scrape softly as people begin to rise. I unplug the remote, collect my notes, and walk toward the exit. I can feel Jack behind me even before I hear his footsteps.
He falls in step beside me, too close for it to be casual. “You owned that room,” he says, voice low.
“I know.” I glance at him, a small smile playing at my lips.
Then he stops. He steps in front of me and lifts a hand, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.
His fingers barely touch my skin, but the contact is enough to send a bolt of heat down my spine.
The gesture is intimate. Completely inappropriate and entirely intentional. It’s not a mistake.
A promise of everything he hasn’t said yet. The sensation lingers, his touch, his nearness, the way he looked at me like he could see all the things I was trying so hard to hide. And I feel it everywhere.
When I return to my desk, there’s a bouquet waiting.
Peonies. No note. I run my fingers over a petal, delicate and soft.
The scent is subtle, but it clings to me, sweet and haunting.
I stare at them for a long moment, trying to slow the quick thrum of my heart.
I don’t need a card to know who sent them.
I want him to touch me like that again. Only this time, I want it to be real.