Chapter 24 #3
My alarm has just gone off. It's 5:45 in the morning.
I'm alone in bed. I crack my eyes open, slap the alarm into blessed silence, and sit up, peering out my floor-to-ceiling windows at the Manhattan skyline.
After sitting and stretching, I roll out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom.
Pee, wash my hands, shuffle to the kitchen for a cup of coffee.
Jakob is already there, mug in hands, steam swirling up from the rim. He's shirtless in a pair of tight running shorts, sweat dripping down the cleft between his bulging, anvil-hard pecs. He's breathing hard, his powerful torso swelling and contracting with each breath.
Wait. How did he get there?
Try again.
At work. In my office, lights low, classical music playing softly, cruising through a pile of reports from various departments, sipping from a sweating bottle of Dasani from the vending machine in the breakroom.
It's after eight in the evening, and I’m the only one left on the floor, except for a janitor pushing a large gray rolling trash can from cubicle to cubicle.
Too bad all the temps went home—the new guy is pretty hot, in a fit-but-nerdy sort of way. I bet he'd be an eager beaver eater.
I hear a rustling from the doorway and assume it's the janitor coming to empty my wastebasket—I set mine on my desk without looking up.
"What am I meant to do with that?" His voice is low and amused and dark with erotic promise.
I look up at him. He's in a three-piece suit, or the remnants of one—he's removed his jacket and tie, vest buttoned, and top shirt button undone; the jacket and tie are folded and draped over one arm.
He's so fucking gorgeous I just want to eat him all up, devour him, crawl inside him and stay there—
Good lord.
I suppose that must be a sign of some sort, if he's showing up in my imagination.
I feel a prickling sensation and pull my gaze over to Jakob. He's staring at me, his dark eyes glittering and intense and full of arousal.
Nico is reclined in a seat with Tatiana beside him—she's holding his hand in hers, kissing his knuckles, murmuring to him.
Saxon has Terra on his lap with his hands under her shirt, playing with her tits. Just, like, in front of everyone. Cool, cool.
Annika is resting her head on Chance's shoulder; he has her cane in one hand with the butt on the floor, and he's spinning it idly, gazing out the window. His other arm is around her shoulders and slung over her waist.
Everywhere I look, it's the same. Cozy, affectionate couples stroking hands and murmuring sweet nothings to each other, silently enjoying each other’s company, and gazing at each other with saccharine adoration.
Part of me is irritated by this garish display of love everywhere I look, but I am self-aware enough to recognize that this feeling is most likely rooted in jealousy.
I'm uncomfortable with it because I have never felt about anyone the way these people feel about each other.
I have never gazed at anyone like he hung the fucking moon in the sky just for me.
No one has ever held my head on his lap and petted my hair while I doze like Maria with Solomon four rows forward.
Maria, the badass black ops bitch who crossed the Darién Gap on foot as a child, survived a brothel, escaped, and can murder a dozen men with a toothpick in less than sixty seconds. Cozied up on her man's lap.
It has never once occurred to me to rest my head on a man's lap. If it had been suggested, I'd likely have responded with a not-quite-a-joke about biting his dick off.
I've never whispered sweet nothings. Like, what do you say? What happens in those whispered conversations?
And PDA.
They're all so openly affectionate—openly sexual.
No one is outright fucking, but I'm pretty sure Saxon has Terra's bra unhooked, and from this angle, it sure does look like Maria's head is moving, so maybe it's less of a cute head-on-the-lap thing and more of a sucking-his-brains-out on-the-sly thing.
I feel the uneasy prickling of Jakob's stare again; I find his gaze.
He crooks a finger at me. Come here, he mouths. Now.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Okay.
I get to my feet and prowl toward him, putting extra sway in my hips. Stop in front of him.
"Yes, Jakob?" I pitch my voice low, just for his ears.
"Sit." It's a command. I sit in the seat beside him, glance sidelong at him. Wait for the next command. "Not there."
Oh.
His lap.
I swallow hard. No one is looking, but they will. Do I want to let them see me on their boss's lap? What am I giving up by submitting like this in public? In private is one thing. It's fun. It's hot. It's sexy. Only he sees me like that. But here?
"Jakob," I whisper. "I…"
He takes my hand. "Trust me, Brys."
I don't want to.
But…I also do.
I'm scared. It's stupid, I know. Scared to sit on Jakob's lap. It's innocent. It's simple. It's easy.
Then why is it so terrifying?
I swallow hard, feeling my eyes burn. To obey him like this, in public…to sit on his lap in front of his crew? It's a statement. For him, for me, and for us.
I stand up, heart hammering in my chest, pulse pounding, breath coming in shaky exhales and trembling inhales.
Hesitate.
Let out one more breath.
Everyone is watching.
Absurdly, horrifyingly, my eyes burn and sting, and I know everyone can tell. My mortification is complete.
It feels, for a moment or two, like I'm giving up some vital part of myself by acquiescing to this public display. I wouldn't balk in private. He could command me to my knees and come on my face without warning, and I would take it and like it.
But this?
Can he even begin to fathom what he's asking of me?
I deposit my bottom onto his knees and perch there, spine a ramrod from C1 to coccyx. Knees together. Hands on my thighs, shaking.
So, so stupid. I'm so stupid. This is stupid. Why am I sitting on his lap? Why am I acting like he's asked me to…I don't even know. Get naked and parade myself down the Las Vegas Strip.
My eyes meet Sophia's, and I see understanding and compassion there. She rises to her feet with lithe grace and floats down the aisle to the back of the cabin. Stands in front of me, smiling.
"Breathe, Brys," she murmurs, crouching and taking my hands. "I know what you're feeling."
"How?" I whisper. "How can you?"
"I was raised in a world where weakness of any kind was seized upon and exploited.
There was no softness in my life. Ever. At all.
No kindness. No affection. Do you have any idea how fucking hard and scary it was for me to soften for Lorenzo?
To…to hold his hand in public. To let him kiss me in front of everyone.
And forget about me showing him that stuff.
That was totally off the table. I could barely tolerate his affection.
Even his kind words, even him telling me he loved me was hard to hear. "
Jakob's hands frame my waist just above my hips. "Talk to me, Brys."
I grit my jaw until my molars ache, wanting to leap up and flee. Instead, I forcibly pry my jaw open and focus on breathing.
"I wasn't raised in a drug cartel or by doomsday militia preppers or whatever," I say.
"But I…I was twenty-six when Britt killed herself.
Twenty-nine when I graduated with my MBA, and thirty-one when Dad died.
I was thirty-one and CEO of a company worth eight billion, in charge of thousands of employees.
I was—I am—in a position of authority over men thirty and forty years my senior.
All of them were waiting for me to fail.
Every decision was second-guessed. What I wear is still scrutinized.
Too much cleavage? I'm dressing slutty for attention.
Wear too severe a powersuit? Sexless bitch.
Jeans to work on a Friday like everyone else?
I don't take my job seriously. Dress up on Fridays instead?
I think I'm better than everyone; I'm inaccessible.
Too fashion-forward. Have a bad day and snap at an employee for fucking up?
On my period. Emotional. Hormonal. Just a bitch.
Too friendly with a male employee? Probably letting him fuck me.
I can't show any weakness. I can't…I can't ever relax into my job.
I have to be perfect in what I wear, what I say, how I walk, who I talk to, and the tone of my voice.
Everything I do, I'm held up against my father and found wanting, if only because I have a vagina. "
I swallow hard. Blink harder.
"Sitting on your lap in front of your employees—your friends," I turn my head to one side, stiffly, turning my upper body as if I have a crick in my neck, and glance at Jakob. "It goes against literally everything I have trained myself to do and to be in public settings. I must always be in control. Don’t give away too much. Don’t say the wrong thing.
Don't laugh too loud. Don't bend over too far and let a male employee see down my shirt, or bend over to pick up something off the floor and present my giant ass to some guy in his cubicle. "
His lips brush my ear, his breath wafts hot on my neck. "Your ass is not giant. It's fucking perfect." He breathes this so quietly that I feel the words on my ear as much as hear them.
"It's gargantuan."
"Stand up."
"After all I went through to force myself to sit down, now you want me to stand back up?" I huff. "Fine. Whatever. Fickle jackass."
I stand up, tense all over.
I flinch violently when his hands palm my ass, squeezing each cheek in a hand. "Jakob!" I dance out of reach
"You can sit back down," he says. "Just checking."
I sit back down on his thighs; this time, it's easier. I'm less tense and rigid, and a little farther back on his lap. Still shaking all over, though. "Checking?" I ask. "Groping my ass is not checking anything."
"Sure it is. I groped your ass to check how giant it is. My determination is that your ass is just right."
"Did I hear someone say giant ass?" This is Terra, half an airplane away.