Page 27 of The Lawyer
I move the lacy fabric to the side and run my finger between my folds. My head tips back against the glass in relief as my body ignites at my touch. The sounds of my moans compete with the music I seem to have forgotten as my fingers rub back and forth, swirling around my clit.
The gentle hum builds in my body, and I stare right at Landon as I feel the build of my orgasm. His eyes are locked directly on my hand, on it pleasuring myself as his hand pumps his cock. My legs slip further apart, and I slide my finger inside, chasing my climax. Only as it rises, it’s not my own hand I’m imagining, it’s Landon’s. His body against mine, his fingers inside of me.
I'm so fixated on his hand, on it furiously taking him to orgasm, that it’s impossible to contain my cry as I fly apart. “Oh, yes … yes!”
My breathing is as ragged and as laboured as his, my legs quivering as they fight to keep me vertical. And as the seconds tick on, I know I’ve got to move before I give in to more. I can only hope that my voice was unrecognisable above Landon’s own shout of relief.
The music ends, and it shakes me back to consciousness. I straighten myself up and move to collect my phone, legs loose after the orgasm. He stands up in my eyeline, making me turn and watch as he glares at me.
“Stand the fuck still,” he snaps. I freeze, unsure where the aggravated tone has come from. And then I start questioning if he did recognise my voice somehow and what that might mean. “How much? I’m only going to keep asking, and after that performance, I know you want to go further than you have.”
I don’t answer him as I see him come closer to me, but he's right—I do. “Just let me touch you. Make a choice. Stay.”
I look around, then back at him, so tempted I can hardly bear the thought. There’s a voice at the back of my mind telling me it would be a mistake, though, because it would just be that. A fuck with a stranger for him.
How many others has he done this with?
The thought slithers unwanted into my mind, and I back away from him before he gets to me. I need to leave. I need to leave before he takes matters into his own hands and I have little choice. I know him well enough. Patience isn't a virtue he's endowed with.
My coat is where it dropped to the floor, and I collect it as soon as I’ve grabbed my phone from the small table he placed it on. Leave. Go. That's what I need to do.
And perhaps, reconsider if this was a good idea at all.
He doesn't follow me so closely this time; instead, he trails a ways back, giving me space. “Same time next week then,” he mutters.
I don’t know anymore, and I exit in a rush, refusing to turn around.
~
The next day all I can think about is how I crossed a line. He was right last night. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t actually break my own rules because, in my head, it was enough. As I sit at my desk, guilt eats away in my gut because I know that I’m now in an impossible situation with Landon. It's not like I wasn't already, but last night I joined in. I actively participated. And worse? I want more. It's been almost agonising to look at him without my thighs clenching, let alone the constant wondering what his mouth would feel like on mine.
Regardless of either thing, the fun I had flirting just a few days ago has vanished and is now replaced with dread. Dread that he’ll find out. Dread that he’ll feel tricked. And most importantly, that he'll fire me. I’m pretty sure there’s a moonlighting clause in my contract, and Landon certainly isn’t above exercising those. And then, in the next second, I'm scolding myself for thinking that anything apart from a one-night stand could happen between me and him anyway. He’s the CEO of Broderick Media. A millionaire. A handsome millionaire who has responsibilities and obligations and would never date a PA.
Irritated with everything, I shove some documents to the side. It’s stupid. I’ve never thought like this before. I’ve always been secure and confident in what I do. Because I love it. When my parents died, I needed that in my life, and perhaps now, it’s something I’m not prepared to give up. Although, can I really do it forever? I’m nearly thirty, which is still young, but do I want to be a forty-five-year-old dancing in a sleazy club?
It’s a hard thought to take and one that leaves a sour taste in my mouth the rest of the day. Everything becomes a blur of people coming and going. Most of them are for me, as Landon had me rearrange most of his appointments after the FT hit. I’d hoped that last night might have improved his mood, but if anything, it’s more raucous than it was before. I know why. He's not getting his way in more ways than one. If there's one thing my boss doesn't like, it's not getting his own way.
My dress and Landon’s tux arrive just before lunch in black velvet garment bags ready for the big day. I unzip mine for a quick peek to check it’s the right one, and of course, it is—my very own Fairy Godmother moment courtesy of Nuova Moda. The image of it makes me smile, as does the quick glimpse at his tux. My car is booked, and I’ll arrive at Tallington Hall at midday. Despite the messy confusion brought on by last night, I’m looking forward to it. Dressing up, having fun …
I hope it will be a night to remember.
Chapter Eleven
LANDON
Catching hold of another passing glass of champagne, I amble into the drawing room, about ready to leave before the rest of this evening has begun. Several guests and colleagues ambush me on the way through the crowds, all of them patting me on the back and wishing me well as the new head at the company. At least the dinner is over, and I'm not listening to my mother's constant diatribe.
A photographer stands over to the right of the entrance, busily snapping pictures of everyone in their gowns and tuxedos. I know the feeling well. My fake smile has been firmly in place since the limo dropped me here, as has this fucking bow tie. At the moment, and after this week’s debacle, I couldn’t give a fuck for any of this. That article in the FT, the same one I couldn’t do a thing about, has wound me up past sense. So much so that I duck through the hallways and head out onto the back terrace as soon as I’m able to disengage from small talk and cordial greetings.
My fingers ease into my shirt collar, pulling at the restriction that normally means nothing, and I lean on the stone balustrading to stare out at the view. A celebratory ball is the last thing I should be giving any time to. In fact, if it was up to me, this occasion would never have even happened. Father insisted, not me. A commemorative moment, he said. Something to show the world how far we’ve come. I’m not sure how far we have come in reality. Sharks? Yes. Manipulative? Yes. Brilliant at coercing whatever we need? Yes. Mostly. Apart from this FT crap. But whether that makes us something to be celebrated or not is questionable, to say the least. Especially considering our momentous inability to behave like a family unit.
Being here seems to be bringing all kinds of shit back into my thoughts. Not much of it is pleasant.
“Hi.”
I turn my head, looking at Willow as she crosses the terrace. It's the first time I've seen her tonight, and the whole fucking vision makes me stand up straight, unable to dislodge the imprint she’s making on me. Black lace and jewels encase her body, all of it proving that the curves I've been imagining are exactly what I thought they'd be. She looks good enough to eat, let alone admire from afar. “Good evening.”
“You look sad.” She takes a sip of her drink, looks over my tux. “Not much good for a party. Shouldn’t you be having fun?”
