18. Georgia
Chapter eighteen
Georgia
M y alarm goes off, stirring me awake. I shut it off and roll over. “Noah, you gotta get up.”
“One more minute,” he mumbles, covering his head.
“No. Now. Get up.”
He grunts and throws his legs off the bed. “Yeah, yeah…” He gets up and opens my door. Guilt simmers in my chest as he saunters down the hall to his room.
For the last three weeks, this is how my days have started. My nights are spent having the most explosive, filthy sex before racing back to my room in time for Noah to sneak in and sleep with me. I told him he couldn’t, but the pain in his eyes when he begged didn’t sit well with me. He promised it was just to sleep. He needed sleep, and it only happened with me. I hated that I gave in. Jackson would have my ass if he knew. It was wrong. Fucked up. But I couldn’t say no. I was a colossal asshole; the least I could do was allow the poor guy to get some sleep.
So, I gave in—with one rule: he had to be gone before his dad woke up. I played it off that I didn’t want to break his rules. Even if Noah couldn’t give a shit, I was a guest. If he was so hard up to sleep in here, he would agree. He did. But every morning, I wake with my heart in my throat, scared my alarm won’t go off, or we’ll sleep late. What if Jackson, for some reason, gets up early?
If he caught Noah in my bed, I would be toast. And I can’t fathom being cut off from him.
The last month has been a mix of heaven and hell. Jackson has taken me to levels of euphoria I never knew existed. He’s pushed my limits in ways I could never have imagined. I’m so addicted there’s no way of getting him out of my system. The hellish part has been hiding it from Noah. It’s getting harder and harder to act normal when his father’s around. Sooner or later, Noah will figure it out. The sexual tension is impossible to hide when we’re around one another.
At work, Jackson moved Noah to a different department, not wanting to draw any attention as to why I spent so much time in his office behind closed doors. He’s insatiable. We fuck during the day, at night, and when he finds a reason to send Noah to work early, we fuck on every surface of the kitchen. It’s all I think about. His cock. His scent on my body. His ownership and the submission I allow. He’s embedding himself so deep I’m beginning to worry it’ll be impossible for me to walk away.
He’s forbidden. An enigma. A man with so much power over me, it’s only a matter of time before he ruins me.
I lay back down, pondering my fucked-up situation. Turning onto my side, I stare at the empty spot where Noah slept. Jackson has become obsessed with marking me like a wild animal claiming his prey. Every night, when I slip into bed, I pray Noah doesn’t smell him on me, wondering how he hasn’t already. “Fuck, I’m going to hell,” I huff, climbing out of bed. I shower, get ready for work, and head downstairs for my much-needed cup of coffee, as I’m averaging only four hours of sleep a night.
“Morning.” I smile at Noah, then steal a glance at Jackson. He’s at the counter sipping his coffee. I fight a smile at his choice of tie—the one he used to gag me a few days ago in his office while he fucked me from behind.
“Georgia.”
Chills race up my spine. “Morning, Mr. Blake.”
He sets his coffee down. “When are you going to call me Jackson? Mr. Blake makes me feel old.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Oh, you’re not old, Mr.—Jackson.” I fight the giggle that wants to escape my lips. Jackson hates being referred to as old. It’s a button I love pushing. It always ends with me tied up and his palm on my ass.
“Are you cold, Georgia?” he asks, eyeing the goosebumps on my arms.
“No. I’m just thinking about lunch. Hungry.” A fire lights in his eyes.
“Want me to make you something? We have time.”
I look over at Noah. “Um… yeah. Sure.” Smiling, he hops off his stool and heads into the oversized pantry, returning with a handful of ingredients.
“Sit down. I’ll get you coffee.”
Noah has been extra accommodating lately. So has Jackson. I’m starting to worry the sleepovers are causing old feelings to resurface. If they were ever buried in the first place. “It’s fine. I can get my own coffee.” I move to stand up when Noah puts his hand out.
“Sit. I’ve got you.”
I nod and retake my seat, stealing a glance at Jackson. His jaw is tight, and his knuckles are white as he grips his coffee mug. Shit. Why can’t he ease up on me when it comes to Noah? His patience is nonexistent. Whether it’s a ride home, a shared movie, or sitting next to him at lunch… every interaction ends with Jackson punishing me for crossing some invisible line. And while I don’t mind that kind of playtime, I can’t figure out how to meet his impossible demands.
Sighing, I mouth, “I’m sorry,” then turn back. I will definitely pay later. My phone vibrates on the counter, and I flip it over to see who’s calling. My mom. This is the third time this week. Every voicemail is the same. Please call her. She misses me. She wants to make amends.
She should have thought about that when she allowed her loser husband to take his fist to me.
I hit decline and flip my back phone over.
“Your mom again?” Noah asks.
“Yeah. She’s clearly not getting the hint.”
He sets a mug in front of me. “Maybe you should answer. Let her get out what she wants to say so she stops calling.”
I take a sip, needing the caffeine to jolt my senses. “Or I can continue not to answer.”
Noah offers a sympathetic smile. “That too. Hey, what do you think about going on my dad’s boat this weekend? Dad, you don’t care, right?”
I dare a look at him, assuming he’s going to really fucking care.
“Why don’t we all go?” Jackson says.
Noah shrugs. “Boat’s big enough. I don’t care. What do you say?”
I take another sip of coffee. “Sure, why not? Sounds fun.” Or my death sentence.
Jackson sets his mug in the sink with a dull clink, his focus shifting to Noah. “Don’t be late.” With that, he strides out of the kitchen. I hesitate, wanting to follow him, to demand an explanation. I never suggested these plans. And before I had the chance to answer, he invited himself.
So why does it feel like I’m the one who did something wrong?
“Here. Eat.” Noah slides a plate of pancakes in front of me. I thank him and force down a bite. They’re probably delicious, but they taste like regret. The moment he steps away to grab his work bag, I scrape the rest into the trash. “We should get moving,” I say casually. The sooner we get to work, the sooner I can track down his pissed-off father.
When we arrive, I wave Noah off before making a beeline straight for Jackson’s office.
“Hey. Is Mr. Blake available?”
“I believe so, but let me double-check.” Sarah clicks her buzzer and notifies Jackson I’m here. She nods and tells me to go in. I thank her and step into his office, quietly shutting the door behind me. “Hey. I wanted to talk about—”
“Not now, Georgia.”
The way he says my name is wrong. There’s no purr or lust in it.
“Are you mad at me? I didn’t do—”
“Fuckin’ Christ. Stop acting like a whiny child for one fucking second.” His voice raises, and I jerk at the way he speaks to me. Wiping his hands down his face, he says, “What do you want?”
“Nothing.” Not anymore.
“Stop acting like a child and spit it out,” he snaps.
“Screw you, Jackson.”
“It isn’t lunchtime yet, Peach.”
His words hit their mark. Seeing this side of him creates a whirlwind of regret. His tone cuts deep. Up until this moment, I didn’t realize how far gone I was with this man. But the way he dismisses me so easily as if I were nothing, reveals that he’s only in this for exactly what we agreed on. “Which you can cancel. I sure as hell won’t be eating shit with you.”
I twist away and don’t look back, even as he calls my name. Opening his door, I walk out, his silence following me.
Jackson
“Fuck.” I grab the back of my neck. “Goddammit,” I hiss, walking over to the mini bar in my office. It’s barely nine in the morning, but I pour myself a bourbon and down it. What the hell is wrong with me? I shouldn’t have spoken to her like that. I’m pissed at my son, not her. I debate going after her, but the damage is already done. And I don’t have the time to deal with her right now.
I pour another drink, the ice clinking against the glass as I sink back into my chair, gripping the letter of disbarment in my other hand.
The fallout from the system errors has officially hit. My biggest client—the backbone of our annual revenue—is demanding dissolution. If they pull out, we’re screwed. Not just financially but in reputation. The moment word gets out, panic will spread, and a domino effect will follow. Other clients will start second-guessing their trust in us, and once that is gone, it will be nearly impossible to rebuild.
We won’t go under, not yet—but this is how it starts.
Every lead has been a dead end. The temp agency? A complete waste of time. No records, no answers, just layers of incompetence so staggering it makes my head spin.
The bigger issue—the one I can’t shake—is who planted that asshole in my warehouse to sabotage us. I have enemies. That comes with the territory. But is someone going to these lengths, risking exposure, financial loss, and legal consequences just to take me down?
Which is why I brought in Craig Stone.
Technically, he’s my lawyer. But more importantly, he’s my longtime private investigator, on retainer for both business and personal matters. Craig’s the guy you call when you want the truth and don’t care how dirty he has to get to find it. He’s sharp, relentless, and has a talent for unearthing secrets most people don’t even know they’re hiding.
I tasked him with digging into my competitors, expecting at least a few breadcrumbs. But he came up empty. Everything’s running like clockwork. No red flags. No clear motive. Nothing that makes sense. Which leaves me with nothing. No explanation. No logical reason for how or why this happened.
All I know is my company is on the line, and if I don’t get ahead of this, everything I’ve built will start to unravel.
I grab the phone and hit Wayne’s speed dial. “Blake Industries—”
“Wayne, it’s Jackson. I know we’ve reviewed the tapes and logs, but I need to know if there was anything unusual before the system went down.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tracing back months prior, even years, does anything stand out as strange, any red flags? Maybe it wouldn’t have raised suspicion at the time, but now it would?”
He takes a moment to think. “That I can recall off the top of my head, I don’t think so. Give me some time to think about it.”
“Thanks.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Blake.”
I hang up and lean back in my chair, rubbing a hand over my jaw. There has to be something I’m missing. Some detail, some overlooked connection that would tie this whole damn mess together. I just wish I knew what it was.
Frustration gnaws at me, but I shove it down and bury myself in work, running through reports, cross-checking system logs, and scanning emails for anything that might set off alarm bells.
The chime of my calendar pulls me from my thoughts. Lunch appointment.
I glance at the time. Georgia is set to return in fifteen minutes. Ignoring the reminder, I dive back into work, firing off emails and following up with vendors. By the time I look at the clock again, almost an hour has passed.
And Georgia isn’t here.
I buzz my assistant.
“Yes, Mr. Blake?”
“Was my lunch meeting canceled?”
“Yes, sir.” That little brat.
“Thanks.” She’s pissed. She should be. But she doesn’t understand the weight I carry. She can’t. She’s too young to understand the stress of running a company and juggling a kid. I rest back in my chair and scrub my hands down my face. Fuck, she’s less than half my age. She’s the same age as your son. What the hell am I doing? Pussy isn’t worth everything at risk if we get caught. What would the public, my clients, do if they got wind that I was in bed with a nineteen-year-old college student? My son’s ex. Every answer screams break it off.
Maybe this is my chance. A sign from the universe telling me to walk away before I ruin three people’s lives. But the thought of never touching her again, tasting her again, having her close to me… my chest tightens. I wish I could blame it on heartburn or old age, but I know exactly what it is: I need her as much as I need my next fucking breath.
She’s not mine. When the summer ends, she’ll leave. We have an agreement, and I intend to stick to it. It’ll be an adjustment. I’ve grown accustomed to her presence. The way she makes me feel young. Alive. In control and completely out of control at the same time. And before I know it, I’ll be alone and back to my old ways. The club. A place I haven’t thought about since Georgia fell into my lap. And my cock.
Fuck, I swipe my hands back down my face, imagining her lips around me. Her cheeky smile. How innocent she looks—a stark contrast to the dirty little girl she is. I grab my cell and shoot off a text.
Me: I’m an asshole. Forgive me.
I watch three dots appear and then disappear.
A strange feeling settles in my chest. Worry. Remorse. I should’ve never spoken to her the way I did. Called her a child. She’s held herself like a more mature adult than half the women I’ve dated. I’m a real fucking asshole.
Me: Let’s talk when we get home. Missed you today, Peach.
The text won’t fix anything, and I sound like a fucking pussy, but there’s also nothing I can do about it right now. My focus needs to be on work and saving this client.