Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
I open the unmarked envelope and read the card.
A little taste of what's in store for the rest of your life. That's what you get dating a lawyer. They love rules in and out of the bedroom.
- Rip
My cheeks flame. My chest too. I fight the blush. I try to push my mental images aside.
They ignore my wishes. My head fills with visions of Jackson and I tangled in the white sheets, the cheap black lingerie barely covering my chest, his hand around my throat, the pink handcuffs around my wrists.
It's right there in his green eyes.
A hint of embarrassment, yes, and a hell of a lot of interest. He is into BDSM. It's as obvious in his eyes as it is in the plain text of the card.
He loves rules everywhere.
"This is for you." I push the card into his hands.
He glances at the text and lets out an annoyed sigh. "Fucking asshole."
Huh? Sure, this isn't the way I'd choose to celebrate a friend's relationship, but it is a nice gift set. Expensive. "Who?"
"A work rival," Jackson says. "The guy hates me."
"Why'd he buy you a bondage set then?"
"He overheard us once," he says.
Overheard what? A million questions form in my mind. Then mental images. Only Jackson isn't with a mystery woman in them. He's with me.
The two of us, alone in some big, fancy office. He's still fully dressed in his sharp suit. He pulls off my tank top, rolls my jeans to my ankles, bends me over his massive desk, and purrs take it like a good girl.
My sex clenches.
My body buzzes.
These mental images are far too vivid.
"Oh." Is the only thing I can manage to utter. "Were you…" I'm a sex researcher in training, but I still can't bring myself to describe the situation in clinical terms. I try a fun euphemism instead. "Getting busy at work?"
"No." He doesn't expand.
I don't ask. For a moment. Then I do. "How did he—"
"We were on the phone," he says. "I was talking her through a scenario. He overheard. Teased me about it. Got the wrong idea."
"What idea is that?" I know I shouldn't ask, but I do anyway.
"That we were together." His voice is matter-of-fact, as if this is a normal conversation for the two of us to have.
I try to match his tone. "But you weren't?"
"No." He takes the card and tosses it in the trash can by the door. "We only started after the breakup."
"A sort of breakup sex."
"You could say that," he says.
"So she comes and you don't—"
"Should we be talking about this?" His expression gets severe. The lawyer ready to cross-examine you. Or shut down questioning. How does it go in cop shows? The lawyer who chides the detective for questioning a client without their consent.
That's the look on his face.
It should bother me or at least encourage me to slow down, but it doesn't. "I'm not the right person to ask."
The severe stare fades into a semi-smile. "Fair."
"But if you don't want to talk about it, I will respect that."
"I don't mind." I just don't want you to get the wrong idea. He doesn't say it. He leaves it in the air.
I shrug as if I don't actually care. As if I'm not picturing Jackson in that big, beautiful office, growling orders into his phone as he strokes himself.
Only he doesn't.
Isn't that what he said?
He talks her off for the hell of it. Because he enjoys her pleasure. Or the act of issuing orders. Or the anticipation.
All of the above maybe.
"I hate to turn down a woman in need," he says. "But it's not always an opportune time to finish." The words hang in the air a moment too long. Enough, they make the room warm and electric.
Sometimes, he talks off his girlfriend, even though he doesn't have time to fuck himself. How am I supposed to think of anything else?
Jackson continues without noticing my daydreams, "Rip overheard me once. Teased me about it. He implied he'd tell our boss about it. Only it was with my girlfriend, so what would he tell the guy? Jackson cares about his partners' needs."
"If it's a random woman, you're a pervert, but if it's your girlfriend, you're a great boyfriend?"
"Something like that." His voice returns to that matter-of-fact tone. "We're competing for partnership. Five associates. Two spots. He plays dirty. He'd knock me out for perversion if he thought it would help."
"Are you sure?" I look at the gift basket again. It's not the nicest stuff, but it's arranged in a thoughtful, fun way. As if the person who sent it really wants Jackson and his girlfriend to have a good time. "This is… a weird move."
"Maybe I'm paranoid," he says. "Office politics does that."
"No. You're probably right. You're as observant as Cassie is."
That earns a full smile. A quick one, but still.