Chapter 4
“illicit affairs” - Taylor Swift
Maeve
I don’t think it’s possible for this day to get any worse, and I’m not even exaggerating.
After that atrocious meeting, I sent one of the interns to get me another coffee.
I even wrote out my entire order on a piece of stationery and told her to just give it to the barista, and yet somehow she still managed to screw it up.
It’s not even a complicated order. How hard is it to remember rose-cardamom syrup?
I forced the coffee down but missed that flavor profile the entire time.
I should have sent her back, but I didn’t want to come across as a bitch. People are so sensitive these days.
Then one of our high-priority donors threatened to pull funding after a miscommunication issue, and I spent two hours on the phone with different representatives before finally being able to talk to a decision-maker. Even my name didn’t grant me immediate access, and that definitely stung.
I’m not thinking about what Pierce said. Of course I’m not. The guy doesn’t deserve real estate in my head. Probably not in anyone’s, but definitely not in mine. His arrogance is completely astounding.
You haven’t been laid properly.
Damn him. Damn him for implying that my life is anything less than perfect.
I have a terrific boyfriend, one who certainly knows his way around the bedroom.
And yes, there’s the small issue of him still being stuck in his stupid marriage, but that certainly doesn’t affect his performance.
It may make seeing each other more difficult, but that just means we have to get creative.
In the women’s restroom, I inspect my reflection in the mirror.
The face that peers back at me is flawless.
Smooth, creamy skin in the perfect shade—not too pale and definitely not fried in the sun.
I’ve never understood the American fascination with skin that looks like chicken that’s been left in the broiler too long.
After touching up my lipstick, it looks perfect as well. Crimson, as always. I was just at the salon yesterday, so my hair looks fantastic. Soft black with brown undertones, the right amount of shine, and a good amount of volume, although after being stuck at work all day, that’s starting to wane.
I give my strands a fluff, but I can’t find a single thing about my appearance that would give Pierce the impression that I’m not getting enough sex.
It’s more than likely he made it up to mess with me, but what if he didn’t?
If there’s even the slightest possibility he’s right, I need to do something about it before he can use it against me.
I wave to Mrs. Rodriguez on my way to the lift while trying to remember when I last saw Preston. Obviously he was at the masquerade ball this weekend, but he was with his mousy wife, so it’s not like we could even talk.
The last time he came over must have been nearly a month ago, when he faked a business trip and spent two whole nights with me.
A month without sex isn’t that bad, right?
People go much longer than that in the military.
And what about astronauts? Heck, monks and nuns go their entire lives without sex.
Maybe it’s not ideal, but it works. Preston and I are good for each other, and he’s working on getting a divorce. Soon all of this will be behind us, and we can have sex once a week like normal people.
Still, on the off chance that my complexion has changed in response to a month of abstinence and Pierce somehow noticed it, I pull out my phone and text Preston. I can’t just call him, unfortunately, because I never know when he’s with her. But he has a second phone he keeps hidden just for me.
Can I see you later? xx
Even just sending the message and knowing that I’ve taken charge of the situation makes me feel better. Screw Pierce for thinking he could win this challenge by eroding my foundation. He’s going to have a much harder fight on his hands than that.
* * *
It takes Preston hours to respond and say he’s on his way.
I’m working on my plans for the HavenNet rebrand when my phone chimes.
There are still so many details to get sorted, and that’s if I can convince the rest of the team that this is the direction we should be heading in.
And if Pierce St. James stays the hell out of it.
Preston arrives twenty minutes later, wearing a gray cashmere sweater and dark slacks, his wavy brown hair pushed back from his forehead. He’s tall—not as tall as Pierce or Heath, but taller than me by quite a long shot. Although with me being five foot one, most people are.
“Sorry it took me so long,” he says, and leans down to peck me on the lips. “I had to wait for Janie to fall asleep.”
I fight the urge to frown and force a smile instead. I don’t love how often he brings her up—Janie—but whatever. I can deal with it. We’ve been together for nearly a year. What’s a few more months?
“I’ve missed you,” I say, then wonder if that’s even true. I hadn’t thought about seeing him until Pierce made me question my love life.
It doesn’t take us long to lose the clothes and get into bed.
The nice thing about sex with Preston is that he’s very predictable.
I’ve dated guys who wanted to mix things up, have sex in the living room—can you even imagine?
—or in positions other than missionary. Maybe that’s one of the reasons Preston and I get on so well.
We’re both content to keep things simple between us.
I don’t make demands of him he can’t deliver, and in exchange, he is happy to go along with whatever I want.
If only the rest of the world could be as obliging.
I think about that disaster of a meeting earlier today as Preston rolls my nipples between his fingers.
Why did my father choose this morning to show his face?
The man comes into the office roughly once a month, preferring to seclude himself in his home office or on the golf course instead.
I can only imagine how family dinner will go this week. God, stab me with a fork now.
Preston moves between my legs, eager to finish. You’re probably wondering why we’re even together if not for really hot affair sex. I’ll be the first to admit, I’m a bit of a pillow princess. I’ve never had much of a desire for sex. It just feels like a necessary part of life.
Preston and I met just over a year ago at one of the Wilson Foundation’s annual galas.
His wife was home sick that night, lest you think I preyed on a married man.
We found ourselves both catching some fresh air on the veranda and got started talking about Audrey Hepburn movies. He’s almost as big of a fan as I am.
One thing led to another. We didn’t do anything that night but talk—I’m not that easy—but by the time we said our goodbyes, I couldn’t believe I’d had such an invigorating conversation with a man.
Maybe it’s the fact that he’s nearly fifteen years my senior.
Males under the age of thirty seem to care about only a handful of things: sex, sports, and cars.
I don’t give a damn about any of them, so to find an attractive man willing to discuss films and culture and topics that actually matter was a refreshing change.
We started sleeping together several months later, after he told me his marriage was over.
He enters me slowly, watching my face for signs of discomfort.
I smile up at him to show him I’m fine, even though I’m not as ready down there as I could be.
He starts thrusting, slower than usual, and I wonder if he had sex with her earlier tonight.
I was definitely under the impression that things between them were over before the two of us got together, and by the time I learned the truth, we were already in too deep.
Don’t tell my friends that, though. They would use the opportunity to proclaim that they tried to warn me, that they knew all along Preston wasn’t actually going to leave his wife for me.
And that’s where they’d be wrong, because he will.
Do I wish he’d left her a year ago? Obviously. But that’s neither here nor there.
If I can’t find a way to annihilate Pierce in this challenge, none of us will even stay friends long enough for them to see that I was the one who was right about Preston.
I must find a way to take Pierce down. I cannot imagine life without our weekly poker nights or flying to Japan at a moment’s notice. Even Rhett’s bullshit would be missed.
Do you know the best way to take someone down? Discover their weakness, of course. The problem with Pierce is that he keeps his cards very close to his chest. It makes uncovering his Achilles’ heel hard, but not impossible. I already have a few possibilities in mind.
Preston’s grunts become more rapid as he nears his climax. That’s my cue. I meet each of his thrusts with a moan of my own, allowing them to grow longer and louder. I wait two seconds into his orgasm to fake my own.
I know what you’re thinking, and you shouldn’t.
I don’t always fake it. Preston has given me plenty of orgasms, okay?
All of them were quite nice. But do you know how much energy it takes to climax?
I just don’t have it in me tonight, and I don’t want Preston thinking he didn’t do a good job.
He’s quite good at it, really. So the best thing for everyone is for me to fake it on occasion.
He pulls out, a satisfied smile on his face—see? I did a good deed—then goes to the bathroom to dispose of the condom. I roll out of bed to put my pajamas on as my phone vibrates from the nightstand. Tugging on my underwear, I glance at the screen.
At the sight of Pierce’s name, my heart picks up speed.
What does he want? It’s already after midnight.
Maybe there’s been an emergency? As soon as the thought enters my mind, I dismiss it.
Pierce wouldn’t text me if something bad happened; he’d call.
I know him well enough to know that much.
The guy might be a jerk, but at least he’s a predictable jerk.
So then why is my heart racing through my chest like my dad’s horses on the track?