Chapter 5
CAROLINE
Icould swear that once I got home and had a good night’s sleep, everything would make sense. The chat, the proximity, the kiss. I could swear I would remember it correctly, or that the memory would disappear as if it all had been a dream.
There’s no way this happened, right? Right?
But then I wake up, and I shower and get dressed, and nothing changes.
Even as I take the subway, even as I balance myself on top of my heels across the marble floors of the building’s entrance.
Nothing changes. I still remember the way his hands felt around my hips, the possessiveness in his grip, the way he tastes.
The scent of him clings to the back of my memory, as if he had touched me all over, as I had bathed in his fragrance.
Mr. Ike Jackson kissed me. He actually kissed me.
My face burns by the time I ride the elevator up. I fan myself, trying to get rid of the warmth, of the blush. No one needs to see me like this. Some of my coworkers would ask questions and tease me. They’d make fun of the flush on my cheeks, joking about why I feel this way.
I can’t let them connect the redness on my cheeks to Mr. Jackson. They can’t know; they would never leave me alone. Balancing my purse on my shoulder, I make a quick bun with my hair as the elevator doors slide open. As I enter the office, I bid them good morning, mentioning how hot it is outside.
It’s not, and some of them glance at me with arched brows and snickers on their lips.
That’s alright; I’m used to it. I’m used to being the weird girl, the one who doesn’t go for happy hours, the one who pays attention and keeps her head down when everyone else is chilling and browsing their social media.
The face they made when I told them I don’t have personal social media, only the ones for my professional life. Some openly chortled.
I plop down on my desk, thankful the guy who sits across from me hasn’t arrived yet.
He’s a gym rat, only eats chicken and potatoes, and everything he drinks has two cups of whey protein mixed in.
And his choices in life shouldn’t be my business, but every time he eats (and he eats a lot), he offers me some and points out I should lose weight.
That I should go to the gym with him. That I should stop eating while I’m sitting or drinking so much coffee, etc. , etc.
He’s not only a gym rat but also a gym evangelist. Gym is his entire personality, and it’s so annoying he can’t keep it to himself.
It’s not like I never tried to lose weight.
Being a plus-size girl can be tiring when everyone says you’re ugly and lazy.
I tried slimming down. I tried starving myself until I passed out and ended up in a hospital, and I worked out a lot when I was in high school.
Never worked, and people blamed me either way.
When I see plus-size models and plus-size girls on the cover of magazines and books, I hope one day I’ll be like them. One day I’ll accept and love myself and enjoy living in this body. This day hasn’t arrived just yet.
Taking a deep breath, I open my purse and pick up my laptop. I slip a glance at Mr. Jackson’s office. He’s already in there, but he’s not working. His eyes are on me, wide and fierce, and his jaw clenches. The moment our gazes connect, he looks down at his computer. My cheeks burn hotter.
So he kissed me, and then he regretted it. He apologized even. The moment his lips touched mine, I thanked the stars he felt the same, that this crush wasn’t one-sided... And then he stepped away.
Is it because of my side job? He complimented it, but he also said I should do something about it. What does that mean? Does it mean I shouldn’t be working on it while I’m at the office? Does it mean I should stop, or I should continue?
Does it mean he would fire me for focusing on it? Maybe he thinks I’m lying. Maybe he thinks I am working on it during my work hours. Some of my coworkers do other things too; he has reason to think that. My stomach churns with too much coffee and worry. Would Mr. Jackson fire me because of it?
And if he would, how could I make this worth it?
I shake my head. What am I thinking of? Worth it? This is a job, and I should do my best to keep it. I shouldn’t think about making it worth it... And then I raise my eyes, searching for Mr. Jackson, and he’s gawking at me again, those bright eyes that burn straight into my soul.
My heart skips a beat, and that’s what does it. If Mr. Jackson is going to fire me, I’m at least doing something I want. Something that will carry me on through the upcoming days, something that will be a memory of him.
Turning to my computer, I focus on my work.
I pour my mind into it for the next four hours, doing my best to finish all the work I’m supposed to do for today and for the next couple of days.
In case Mr. Jackson fires me, so no one will have to pick up what I was supposed to do.
I adjust flyers, leaving color options ready so the client can choose from them.
Email saved on drafts, project files on the cloud; I leave everything ready for what’s ahead.
Noon strikes and passes. My coworkers, seeing it’s Friday, get to their feet, stretch, pick up their phones and leave for lunch together.
They don’t even bother to ask me to go with them.
By one in the afternoon, I’m usually off to college.
As I should do now. I wait for them to disappear, close my laptop, shove it into my purse, and get to my feet.
But I’m not leaving. No, there’s something else on my mind.
Someone else.
The office is empty but for me and Mr. Jackson. He doesn’t raise his eyes from his work, typing away from behind the glass walls of his office. Gathering all the courage I can, I reach for the doorknob and turn it, entering the small place before I give up.
He lifts his gaze then. And maybe he reads what’s in my eyes, because Mr. Jackson gets to his feet, unfolding his unusual height.
God, he’s so tall. He must be around six-five, and he’s not even one of those tall and skinny types.
No, he’s huge. Barrel-body, immense man, and he makes me feel so tiny next to him.
I’m still amazed at how he finds clothes that fit him.
They struggle, of course, almost ripping around his thick arms and his broad chest, but still.
The sight of him makes my body grow warm.
All over. It’s something I’ve never felt before, alien and amazing, new and enticing.
It’s like my blood is boiling or fizzing in my veins, like champagne, like the bubbles tickling my nose.
I stay there, frozen, glued to the spot, gaping at Mr. Jackson.
He asks nothing, says nothing, but he moves ever closer, eating up the space between the two of us with certainty.
I shudder with anticipation. Mr. Jackson combs the office space behind me with a quick glance. “Did the others leave?” he asks, a sound that’s almost a growl, and I’m not even sure the question was made for me or for himself.
I lick my lips. His gaze snaps back to me. “Yes. For lunch.”
“Lunch,” he replies, his mind elsewhere but his eyes on me. It’s like he’s hypnotized. He moves, fingers curling around my shoulders, racing down my arms. “Why are you here?” And even if the words may sound rude, his voice isn’t. It’s like he’s struggling to stop himself, to control himself.
Is this because of me? Am I affecting him as much as he affects me?
“You,” I say, I whisper, my voice almost unintelligible. “I’m here because of you.”
My heart beats in my ears, deafening me to everything else.
Mr. Jackson mutters something that sounds like a curse, and my head goes foggy as his hands curl around mine.
I look at them, at how my fingers disappear between his, at the size difference.
I’m so mesmerized I almost miss how he’s moving me around, sitting me up on his desk, shoving his things out of the way.
Paper sheets and pens topple to the ground.
His keyboard makes a clattering sound. Then his lips devour mine.
My body goes up in flames as it collides with his, hands in my hair, legs forcing mine open, his tongue claiming mine.
Every stroke is a sensual calling, igniting every nerve ending in my body.
I throw my arms around his neck, clinging to his body as he presses against me, every inch of his hard chest, the thick muscles of his thighs, the twitching hardness of his...
Oh, shit. Is that because of me?
Warmth takes my face, but I keep kissing him.
Our teeth clink, but I love how his hands explore my neck and my shoulders.
The edges of his thumbs race down the sides of my breasts, and I moan against his lips.
I need more. I need him to touch me everywhere.
My body has never reacted like this to anyone.
Not that I have loads of experience, but no one ever made me feel like this. Like I’m burning and loving it.
Mr. Jackson fists my hair in his meaty fingers, craning my neck sideways so he kisses down my throat. The open-mouthed, warm kisses make me shiver against the air conditioner. My nipples harden against my thin shirt. Mr. Jackson pulls back, giving me one long once-over.
“You’re so fucking beautiful.” And his words are violent, vivid. They make me feel exposed, vulnerable, but gorgeous. Powerful. I tilt my chin up and arch my back to show my body off, even as my cheeks burn with embarrassment, even when I’ve never done something like this before.
Would he think I’m silly? A man like him, much older, so much more experienced? Would he laugh at me?
Instead of laughing, he buries his face in my neck, roaring as his teeth nibble on my flesh. “I need to have you,” he roars against my flesh, his warm breath making me shiver with goosebumps. “God, I need to have you.”
Digging my nails into his broad back, I touch his body with mine, soaking up the feeling of having him so close to me. His scent makes me drunk, and I can only think of having more. Of tasting him, seeing him, feeling him.
“Then claim me,” I say, and my cheeks go up in flames. But Mr. Jackson pulls back, and he looks so deeply into my eyes I’m sure he sees through me, straight into my soul. And I know he wants me. He wants me more than he can put into words.