13. Tarryn #3
"That's exactly the kind of comment that would be prohibited in the office," I manage, trying to sound stern despite the flush creeping up my neck.
"Noted," he replies, the smirk evident in his voice. "Office Jackson and Personal Jackson will remain strictly segregated."
As Chicago's skyline appears on the horizon, I realize we've crafted a solution that appears to address my professional concerns while allowing us to explore the undeniable chemistry between us. It feels like having my cake and eating it too—a concept I've never fully trusted.
But as Jackson's thumb traces small circles against my skin, sending tendrils of desire curling through my body, I can't bring myself to care about the inevitable failure of our carefully constructed boundaries.
We're attempting to contain wildfire in a paper box, and deep down, I'm already anticipating the moment it all goes up in flames.
Three days later, I stand perfectly composed before the Westfield executive team, my presentation slides advancing as I explain the liability framework we've constructed. My voice remains steady, my arguments clear and compelling, not a hint of the chaos churning beneath my professional veneer.
"As you can see in Section 4.3," I explain, gesturing to the highlighted clause, "we've created a multilayered protection strategy that shields your parent company while maintaining operational flexibility for the subsidiaries."
Across the table, Jackson nods appreciatively, his expression one of professional respect without a trace of the heat that had blazed in his eyes last night when he'd pressed me against my apartment wall, his hands sliding beneath my skirt with desperate urgency.
We've maintained our arrangement with remarkable discipline.
Professional composure in team meetings, appropriate distance in the office, not a single lingering glance or unnecessary touch that might betray us.
Then, after hours, we come together with a passion that's all the more intense for being contained during working hours.
"If I may," Jackson says, rising to highlight a different section of the contract, "Ms. Wells' innovative approach to the liability structure creates an opportunity for accelerated implementation across all international markets."
His voice carries nothing but mundane legal jargon, yet my body responds to it with Pavlovian precision like I’m a damn dog. A subtle quickening of breath, a warmth spreading across my skin. I cross one leg over the other, pressing my thighs together against the sudden ache between them.
"Exactly right," I agree, voice steady despite the memories flashing behind my eyes—Jackson's voice, rough with desire, telling me exactly what he planned to do to me, his hands pinning my wrists above my head, his mouth leaving a trail of fire across my skin.
Christine watches us from the back of the room, her eyes narrow with calculation.
"While the structure is certainly creative," she says, her smile not reaching her eyes, "I wonder if a more traditional approach might offer greater precedential protection.
Perhaps separating these elements between different team members would provide a useful contrast? "
The suggestion is transparent—an attempt to physically separate us in the office, to remove the natural collaboration that's producing such compelling results.
God, could she be more obvious?
"Actually," Jackson counters smoothly, "our research indicates that the integrated approach has produced superior outcomes in similar regulatory environments. The client feedback has specifically praised the seamless coordination."
"I agree,” I add, not attempting to hide the frustration in my voice. “The Westfield team has indicated that our unified strategy is a key differentiator compared to previous legal counsel."
Christine's expression tightens fractionally, but she merely nods, retreating temporarily. I know better than to consider it a victory—she's merely regrouping, planning her next move, no doubt.
"Excellent work, both of you," Miguel says, joining us as the clients depart. "The Hanover team has specifically requested your combined approach for their upcoming acquisition."
"Happy to help," Jackson replies smoothly.
By the time my day has finished, the sun has long since set.
My phone screen illuminates the darkness of my office, the late hour evident in the silence beyond my door. Most of the firm has emptied, just a few lights visible in distant offices where other associates work against deadlines or ambition.
Jackson's text glows against the background.
Jackson: Contract revisions complete for Section 7. Would benefit from your precise legal assessment before submission.
I smile despite the stress of the day and send a text back. I know where this exchange is going already.
Me: Assessment complete on my end. Found several liability exposures that require immediate attention.
His response comes quickly. Jackson: Sounds serious. Perhaps in-person consultation would be most efficient?
The professional language barely masks the intent behind the words. Heat pools low in my belly as I type.
Me: Agreed. Complex matters benefit from face-to-face discussion.
Three dots appear, disappear, then reappear.
Jackson: My place, eight p.m.? I'll bring dinner.
His next message abandons the professional pretense entirely.
Jackson: And Tar, wear that black lace beneath your suit. I've been thinking about peeling it off you all day.
My breath catches, body responding immediately to the mental image—Jackson's hands sliding beneath my jacket, finding the delicate lace, his fingers tracing the edge where fabric meets skin.
I'm composing a response equally explicit when movement in my peripheral vision makes me glance up. Miguel stands in my doorway, one hand raised to knock on the already open door.
Panic surges through me, hot and instant. I fumble my phone, nearly dropping it before managing to place it down on my desk. My heart thunders against my ribs, pulse points throbbing with adrenaline.
"Miguel," I manage, voice unnaturally high. "I didn't hear you."
"Sorry to startle you," he says, stepping into my office. "I saw your light still on. Dedication to the Westfield account?"
I swallow, willing my face not to betray the explicit messages I'd been exchanging moments before. "Just finalizing some liability language for tomorrow's presentation."
He nods approvingly, then gestures to the contract pages spread across my desk. "I had a question about the subsidiary structure in Section 5. The holding company arrangement seems unusually complex."
For the next ten minutes, I explain the legal rationale behind our approach, my professional knowledge providing a shield against the panic still simmering beneath the surface.
The entire time, my phone lies on the desk between us, a potential bomb that could detonate my career with a single illuminated notification.
"Excellent work," Miguel says finally, seemingly satisfied with my explanation. "This is precisely why you're on the short list for junior counsel. Your attention to structural details is unmatched Tarryn, truly."
The compliment would normally fill me with pride, but now I can only manage a tight smile, hyperaware of my phone and what it contains.
"Thank you," I say, walking with him toward the door, eager to have him leave before Jackson sends another message. "I appreciate your confidence."
"Well earned," he assures me. "Get some rest, Tarryn. Tomorrow's presentation is important."
The moment he's gone, I snatch up my phone, heart still racing. No new messages have arrived—a small mercy. I take a deep breath, hands trembling slightly as I type a single message that abandons all pretense.
Me: Leaving now.
Jackson's apartment door opens before I can knock, as if he's been waiting just on the other side, listening for my footsteps. The moment I cross the threshold, the professional distance we've maintained all week evaporates like morning dew under summer sun.
His hands frame my face, mouth claiming mine with a hunger that matches the ache that's been building inside me all day. I melt against him, briefcase and jacket dropping forgotten to the floor as my arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer.
"I've been thinking about this since yesterday," he murmurs against my lips, hands already working at the buttons of my blouse. "About you. About how you taste."
The confession sends heat spiraling through me. I push his suit jacket from his shoulders, fingers moving to his tie with practiced efficiency. "Show me," I breathe, already dizzy with want.
We leave a trail of clothing from his doorway to the bedroom, each discarded piece bringing us closer to skin against skin. By the time we reach his bed, I'm down to the black lace he requested, his eyes darkening as he takes in the sight.
"You wore it," he says, voice rough with appreciation. "All day?"
"All day," I confirm, a smile curving my lips at the raw desire in his expression. "Thinking about this moment. About your hands on me."
"Christ, Tarryn." His voice breaks on my name, hands reverent as they trace the edge of lace across my breast. "Do you have any idea what that does to me? Knowing you were in that meeting, looking so professional, with this underneath?"
Instead of answering, I pull him down to me, our bodies colliding with delicious friction. His weight presses me into the mattress, solid and real after hours of careful distance. The heat of his skin against mine feels like coming home—a thought I immediately push away as dangerously sentimental.
This is an arrangement, not a relationship. A solution to the undeniable chemistry between us that won't jeopardize our professional standing.