13. Tarryn
Tarryn
I sit perfectly still at the breakfast table, my hands wrapped around my coffee mug to hide their trembling.
Christine's gaze hasn't left me since I walked into the hotel restaurant, her eyes cataloging every movement, every facial expression, every breath that might betray what happened between Jackson and me last night.
"Sleep well?" she asks, voice dripping with false concern. "These hotel beds can be so… uncomfortable."
I take a careful sip of coffee, using the moment to compose myself. "Fine, thank you. The Westfield presentation materials kept me busy until quite late."
Jackson slides into the seat across from me, his presence instantly shifting the air in the room.
I don't look up—can't look up—because I know what I'll see: his lips still slightly swollen from my kisses, perhaps a faint mark on his neck that my teeth left in a moment of abandoned control.
Worse, I'll see his eyes, and they'll carry the memory of how I came apart beneath him, around him, the sheets tangled at our feet and my cries muffled against his shoulder.
"Good morning," he says, voice perfectly calibrated, not giving anything away.
"Hayes," Christine purrs, "we were just discussing how restorative a good night's sleep can be before client meetings. Did you find your accommodations adequate?"
The double entendre hangs in the air like perfume, too subtle to call out but impossible to miss. I focus intently on buttering my toast, though my appetite has completely disappeared.
"More than adequate," Jackson replies smoothly. "I was able to complete my review of the subsidiary documentation before turning in."
Miguel joins us then, his rapid-fire questions about the day's agenda providing blessed relief from Christine's thinly veiled interrogation.
Throughout breakfast, I maintain perfect composure, contributing appropriately to discussions about presentation strategy and client expectations.
Not once do I allow my gaze to linger on Jackson for more than a professional second.
But I feel him. Every shift in his posture, every breath, every subtle movement registers on my skin like a physical touch.
My body remembers his in vivid, visceral detail—the weight of him pressing me into the mattress, the taste of his skin beneath my tongue, the way his hands knew exactly where to touch, to stroke, to claim.
"Your input on the liability restructuring was particularly insightful, Tarryn," Miguel says, jolting me back to the present. "The client specifically mentioned your attention to detail as a key differentiator."
"Thank you," I manage, cheeks warming under the praise. "Jackson's strategic approach created the perfect framework for those details."
Christine's eyes narrow fractionally at the exchange.
"Indeed. Your collaboration has been quite productive.
" She leans forward, perfectly manicured nails tapping against her coffee cup.
"Though I've noticed certain inconsistencies in your approach to team dynamics that might benefit from more senior oversight. "
The threat is so thinly veiled it's practically transparent.
"I see no inconsistencies," Miguel replies, mercifully oblivious to the subtext. "In fact, their complementary styles have produced our strongest client responses in months."
I don't dare look at Jackson, but I feel his gaze on me, steady and reassuring. Instead, I take another sip of coffee, using the mug to hide whatever emotions might be flickering across my face.
We're playing a dangerous game, and Christine is a far more experienced player.
The second night of the retreat descends with a heavy tension lingering from our daytime activities. I stand at the window of my hotel room, watching lightning flash across the distant sky over Lake Geneva, electricity in the air mirroring the current running beneath my skin.
Jackson's text appears on my screen.
Jackson: Still thinking about last night. Meet me for a drink?
I stare at the message, heart skipping before I reply.
Me: Too risky with Christine watching. Use the connecting door instead.
I barely hit send before I hear the gentle tap at the adjoining door between our rooms. My body responds immediately, pulse quickening as I cross the carpeted floor, barefoot and already changed into silk pajama shorts and a thin camisole.
When I open the door, Jackson stands there with two crystal tumblers of amber liquid, wearing only low-hanging sweatpants that leave little to the imagination. My mouth goes dry at the sight of him—broad shoulders illuminated by the soft glow of bedside lamps, hair still damp from a recent shower.
"Peace offering," he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through my chest. "I figured we could both use a drink after that disaster of a team-building exercise earlier today."
I accept the glass, our fingers brushing in a deliberate caress that sends heat spiraling through me. "Christine pairing us with different partners wasn't subtle."
"Nothing about Christine is subtle." His eyes drop to my lips as I take a sip, tracking the movement with hungry intensity. "Though I'd argue her attempts at separation are having the opposite effect."
I raise an eyebrow, taking another slow sip. "How so?"
"Being forced apart all day…" He steps closer, invading my personal space with confident ease. "Just makes me want you more."
The whiskey burns a path down my throat, nowhere near as intense as the heat igniting under my skin at his proximity. I back up slowly, maintaining eye contact as he follows, like a delicious predator-prey dance.
"We shouldn't," I whisper, as my body betrays me. "Christine could?—"
"Christine is at the bar with the Westfield executives," he interrupts, taking the glass from my hand and setting it beside his on the nightstand. "I checked."
His fingers trace the hem of my camisole, barely touching skin but leaving fire in their wake. "Besides," he continues, voice dropping to that register that liquefies my insides, "I'm very good at being quiet when necessary."
The promise in his words sends a rush of heat pooling low in my belly. "Is that so, Counselor?"
His answer comes in the form of a kiss that obliterates rational thought. His mouth claims mine with possessive intensity, hands sliding into my hair to angle my face upward. I melt against him, arms winding around his neck as his tongue traces the seam of my lips, seeking entrance I eagerly grant.
The taste of whiskey mingles between us as the kiss deepens, his body backing mine toward the bed with clear intent.
My hands explore the broad expanse of his chest, nails scraping lightly across skin that burns beneath my touch.
When my legs hit the mattress edge, he breaks the kiss, eyes dark with desire as he stares down at me.
"Last night was too quick," he murmurs, fingers tracing my collarbone with devastating precision. "Tonight, I want to take my time with you."
His palm slides up my ribs, thumb brushing the underside of my breast in a teasing caress that draws a soft gasp from my throat. "What if someone hears?" I whisper, though I'm already arching into his touch, seeking more.
The smile that curves his lips carries wicked promise. "Then you'll have to be very, very quiet."
His mouth captures mine again as he lowers me to the mattress, weight pressing me into the plush bedding.
I hook one leg around his hips, drawing him closer, feeling the hard evidence of his desire against my center.
His groan vibrates against my mouth, hands sliding beneath my camisole to find bare skin.
"You're not wearing a bra," he observes, voice rough with approval as his palm cups my breast.
"I was preparing for bed," I lie, knowing I've been half hoping for this since we parted after breakfast.
"Were you?" His thumb circles my nipple, drawing it to a tight peak that sends lightning racing through my nerve endings. "Alone?"
The possessive edge in his question sends another pulse of heat between my thighs. "Not anymore."
He tugs the thin fabric upward, exposing my breasts to his hungry gaze. The cool air makes me shiver, or perhaps it's the intensity in his eyes as he drinks me in. When his mouth replaces his hand, hot and wet around my nipple, I have to bite my lip to stifle a moan.
His tongue swirls in deliberate patterns, teeth grazing sensitive flesh with just enough pressure to ride the edge between pleasure and pain.
My back arches involuntarily, fingers tangling in his hair to hold him closer.
The scrape of stubble against my skin creates delicious friction as he moves to my other breast, lavishing it with equal attention.
His hand slides down my stomach, fingers teasing the waistband of my shorts. "These need to go," he murmurs against my skin, already tugging them down my hips.
I lift to help him, suddenly desperate to feel him against me with nothing between us.
He stands to shove his sweatpants down, revealing his impressive cock that makes my mouth water with anticipation.
His body is even more magnificent than I remembered—defined muscles shifting beneath tanned skin as he kneels between my spread thighs.
"Beautiful," he whispers, hands sliding up my legs in a reverent caress. "Absolutely perfect."
Three sharp knocks at the door freeze us both.
"Tarryn?" Christine's voice, precise and penetrating, cuts through our passion-induced haze like ice water. "Are you awake?"
"Shit," I hiss, panic replacing desire in an instant. Jackson's eyes widen, mirroring my alarm as I shove him away, scrambling for clothing.
"One moment!" I call, grabbing my discarded shorts and yanking them up while gesturing frantically toward the connecting door. Jackson doesn't move, seemingly torn between amusement and frustration.
"Go!" I mouth silently, pulling my camisole down as I reach for the hotel robe hanging on the bathroom door.