12. Jackson #2
She follows my directions with remarkable precision, each movement graceful despite her temporary blindness. We develop a rhythm almost instantly, her body responding to my voice.
"Small step up, about six inches," I continue, resisting the urge to touch her, to guide her physically rather than verbally. "Then two steps left."
We move through the course with remarkable speed, finishing in record time.
"Excellent teamwork," the facilitator enthuses as Tarryn removes her blindfold, blinking in the afternoon sunlight. "You two must work together often."
"Every day," Christine interjects, appearing beside us with clipboard in hand. "They've been inseparable at the office."
Tarryn's cheeks flush slightly, but her voice remains steady. "The Westfield account requires close collaboration."
Throughout the remaining exercises, I can’t take my focus off her. The way her head falls back slightly when she laughs. The way her throat moves when she swallows. The small bead of sweat at her temple finally trickling its way down her face to her neck.
I watch her swipe it away, wishing it was my tongue.
By the time we break for the afternoon strategy session, the tension between us has ratcheted up several notches, each fleeting touch and shared glance adding to the smoldering awareness that threatens to ignite with the slightest spark.
"The phased implementation allows for strategic adaptation," I explain, highlighting a section of the presentation displayed on the conference room screen.
Tarryn steps forward, building on my point. "This creates a liability shield."
We move through the Westfield expansion presentation, answering a few questions and getting feedback from the team on how we can improve and build upon what we’ve already established.
As the meeting concludes, I catch Tarryn watching me from across the room but of course, Christine's voice breaks the moment. "Cocktail reception at seven on the lakeside terrace," she announces, gathering her materials with precise movements. "Howard specifically requested everyone's attendance."
Tarryn nods, breaking eye contact as she collects her notes. "I'll see you both there."
As she exits the conference room, my gaze follows the confident sway of her full hips, remembering with visceral clarity how perfectly she fit against me in that conference room.
I only have to survive the next few hours of cocktails, dinner, and then the night in adjacent rooms with only a thin connecting door between us.
Professional restraint has never felt more like self-inflicted torture.
The lakeside terrace is beautiful. It’s a large glass-enclosed room out over the lake with a massive adjoining deck. I accept a glass of scotch from a passing server, scanning the gathering for the one person who's occupied my thoughts all day.
When Tarryn finally arrives, my jaw is on the fucking floor.
The burgundy dress she’s wearing hugs her curves like it’s molded over them, the fabric shimmering under the terrace lights. Her chestnut hair cascades in loose waves past her shoulders, and for a moment, I forget we're at a client cocktail party surrounded by colleagues.
"You're staring," she murmurs, approaching with a glass of champagne already in hand.
"Can you blame me?" My eyes track the gentle sway of her hips as she moves closer. "That dress should be fucking illegal."
A delicate flush spreads across her cheeks, but her eyes darken, a naughty little smirk on her lips. She leans in, pretending to adjust my tie, her breath warm against my ear.
"Wait until you see what's underneath it."
Before I can respond, she slips away to greet Howard Westfield, leaving me with an uncomfortable stiffy in my tailored pants and fifteen minutes of excruciating small talk to navigate.
I watch her from across the terrace—the elegant curve of her neck as she laughs at something someone says, the subtle shift of the silk over her ass when she reaches for a canapé. Every movement feels deliberate, calculated to drive me absolutely fucking insane.
When our paths cross again at the bar, I brush against her deliberately, my hand skimming the small of her back.
"Two more hours of this," I whisper, my lips barely grazing her ear, "and then I'm going to taste every fucking inch of you."
She attempts to hide it, but I see the sharp intake of breath.
Success.
"Promises, promises," she challenges, sipping her champagne with maddening composure.
The party becomes an elegant nightmare of patience and self-fucking-restraint. During a group discussion about international compliance, I stand behind her, close enough that she can feel my heat and the subtle brush of my knuckle against her spine as I lift my glass to take a drink.
She stiffens slightly but continues her explanation of regulatory frameworks without missing a beat. Only the slight tremor in her hand as she gestures betrays her.
"I can smell how wet you are," I breathe against her cheek once the conversation focus turns away from her. “And I can’t fucking wait to have you dripping from my tongue.”
“Excuse me,” she says softly to the group with a lifted hand before slipping away.
I watch as she disappears down the corridor where the bathrooms are located.
I turn my gaze back to the conversation but I’m not listening.
I’m focused on watching, waiting for her to come back, hoping I didn’t scare her off.
A minute later, my phone vibrates in my pocket with a text from her.
Tarryn: Your room or mine?
Me: Mine. Five minutes.
I make my excuses to Miguel, watching from the corner of my eye as Tarryn does the same with Christine. The elevator ride is silent agony, both of us maintaining distance until the doors close on our floor.
The moment we're inside my suite, she's on me.
Her mouth claims mine with stunning force, hands already working at my tie, my belt.
There's nothing hesitant in her movements—this isn't that timid young girl from before.
This is a sexually confident and very fucking turned-on woman.
This is pure, undiluted lust, taking exactly what she wants.
"I've been thinking about this all fucking night," she growls against my lips, shoving my jacket off my shoulders.
Her aggression ignites something primal in me, but I let her lead, fascinated by this unleashed version of the woman who maintains such tight control in the boardroom.
She backs me toward the bed until my knees hit the edge, then pushes me down with surprising strength. The burgundy dress pools at her feet in one fluid motion, revealing black lace that makes my mouth go desert-dry.
"Christ, Tarryn."
"Eyes up here, Hayes," she commands, though her smile is pure sin as she straddles me. "Though I do love watching you look at me like you're starving."
Her hips roll against my still-clothed erection, creating maddening friction. My hands find her waist, fingers digging into soft flesh as I try to guide her movements, but she captures my wrists, pinning them above my head.
"Not yet." Her voice is husky with desire but unmistakably in charge. "First, I want to hear you say it."
"Say what?" My voice sounds wrecked already, strained with the effort of restraint.
"That you're mine." She rocks against me again, the damp heat of her evident even through layers of fabric. "That no one else gets to see you like this."
"Yours," I groan as she releases my wrists to unbutton my shirt with methodical precision. "Completely and utterly yours, Tarryn."
Satisfaction flashes in her eyes before she claims my mouth again, her tongue demanding entrance I eagerly grant. She tastes like champagne and sex, intoxicating in her assertiveness.
My shirt joins her dress on the floor, followed quickly by her bra. The sight of her above me—half-naked, flushed with desire, eyes glittering with determination—nearly undoes me.
"I need to taste you," I manage, reaching for her.
She considers for a moment, then shifts forward on her knees, bringing her breasts level with my mouth.
I waste no time, capturing one pebbled nipple between my lips, drawing a gasp from deep in her throat.
My tongue circles the sensitive peak while my hand attends to its twin, reveling in her increasingly desperate sounds.
"Jackson," she moans, fingers tangling in my hair, holding me to her.
The power dynamic shifts subtly—she's directing my attention, but I'm wringing these reactions from her, learning the secret language of her body all over again. For every bit of control she exerts, I find ways to make her unravel.
She pulls back eventually, breathing hard. She reaches between us, her hand sliding down beneath my boxers to grip me fully.
“Fuck,” I hiss, my eyes closing, head lulling back as she strokes me. A second later, she’s sliding off me, tugging at my pants. I get the message loud and clear, helping her pull them down my body and kicking them to the side, leaving my cock rigid, springing free.
"Look at you," she murmurs, wrapping her hand around my length with confident pressure. "So hard for me already."
I hiss through clenched teeth as she strokes me, her thumb gathering the moisture at the tip and spreading it downward. There's nothing tentative in her touch—she knows exactly what she's doing, precisely how to push me toward the edge without tipping me over.
"Condom," I somehow manage.
"Unnecessary," she counters, shimmying out of her lace panties. "I'm on the pill, and I'm clean. You?"
"Clean," I confirm, entranced by the sight of her completely naked above me. "Last test was three months ago."
"Good." She positions herself over me, the tip of my cock brushing against her entrance. "Because I want to feel all of you."
She sinks down in one agonizingly slow movement, taking me to the hilt. We both freeze at the sensation—her tight heat enveloping me completely, the connection almost overwhelming after weeks of denied attraction.