Mr. Burnson, not surprisingly, had relocated himself to the golf course. Must be nice, I thought. To have so many billions of dollars that having an intern spend eight figures for an investment means nothing to you.
Just because I’d grown up in the Hunt household didn’t mean my outlook on money had changed. It was something to value and cherish, not something to just fitter away without thinking only because you had so much of it. Amusingly enough, it seemed each of our attitudes work for us.
I heard the “ding” of my inbox alerting me that I had new mail. I saw the name “Taylor, Craig,” and a single attachment with no text. It was all I needed to see. I clicked print, pulled out the printed file, and then headed to the copier, as my norm was, to make an additional copy on which I could scribble and make notes on.
Imagine my surprise, then, that waiting at the printer was a man I never expected to see in any situation talking to me, let alone at my work place.
Edwin Hunt.
“Chance, how are ya?” he said.
Notably, he still didn’t use his last name with me even though I had it, although that was the furthest question from my mind. Instead, I kept wondering “what the fuck?”
“I’m good, Mr. Hunt, and yourself?”
Perhaps he spoke to me distantly because I did the same to him. It was hard to remember who had requested the other to not speak like family to them. In either case, though, I doubted that Mr. Hunt had a heart beneath all the ice; suddenly calling him Dad would not magically bring him around.
“I am doing mighty fine as I always am, let me tell you, it is great to be a Hunt.”
I had to smile and force a laugh, even though I wanted to explain how being a Hunt was great financially but not in many other ways.
“What brings you down to these parts?” I said as casually as I could.
Because, frankly, there was zero chance that Edwin Hunt had come to Burnson Investments to see his adopted son for anything. I found it almost infinitely more likely, quite literally, that he had arrived not for me but to meet John Burnson, failing to realize their tee time was earlier.
“I came down here to discuss business with John,” Edwin said. “Yep, he just ain’t here yet. It’s nice seeing you here, though. I’m glad you finally got some work worthy of what you can do.”
I knew what he was doing. Being condescending without outright mocking me. Reminding me of his position by referring to the CEO of Burnson Investments on a first-name basis. Letting me know that I had been a failure for the last several years, or at least a disappointment.
But I refused to show it. In fact...
“Well, if you must know, I’m working on a high-profile investment right now. We might get ten million into a company for over nine percent, and... yeah, it’ll be nice.”
Something about Edwin’s eyes lit up when I spoke, and it made me feel uneasy. It looked like Mr. Hunt had spotted prey and was licking his chops, at least metaphorically. Before, his eyes had looked drab and dull, but now they looked far more curious. I clammed up, fearful that any other detail might somehow reveal what I was working on. I wasn’t going to give him anything else.
“Well, good for you, boy,” Mr. Hunt said. Somehow, it didn’t sound condescending at all. He pulled out his phone and saw he had a message, chuckled, and put it back. “Looks like John is back in his office. Listen, before I go, I’d like to offer you a position with my firm.”
Did Morgan tell him nothing?
No, I’ll bet Morgan told him exactly what I’m going to need to tell him. But Mr. Hunt never takes no from an answer, not even from his own family. Well, this is going to suck.
“I can make you a financial analyst with the snap of my fingers or the utterance of your name, Chance,” Mr. Hunt said. I realized part of my discomfort with this whole encounter was that Mr. Hunt had never spoken to me like this, or at least not in some time—it began to make me think I was being used somehow. Probably not a bad assumption. “I know they aren’t paying you here. My wife, bless her heart, is happy to help pay for your needs right now, but my firm will give you everything you need for your lifestyle.”
I had to bite down so hard. It was quite literally on the tip of my tongue.
“I appreciate it, Mr. Hunt, but I want to make my own name for myself here,” I said. “I—”
“Very well, then,” Edwin said with a chuckle. “Just remember, Chance, no one ever succeeded in business by kissing the ass of someone else. You won’t make a name for yourself whenever your name is different than the one on the wall.”
The irony, I felt, of what Mr. Hunt had just said was that it was even worse for those who shared the name with the company—they would be evaluated in a much harsher light compared to the founder. Morgan could be just as good as his dad, and everyone would criticize him. He had to be much, much better than his father—and if he did that, it would only set up his own son or daughter for grief and failure.
“Just remember that!” Mr. Hunt said as he disappeared from view.
With a sigh, I turned around.
Now a second near-heart attack came as Layla appeared.
“The hell are you doing here?” I said. “You haven’t said anything in days!”
“Being the daughter of a CEO makes me a busy woman, I figured you would know that.”
I shrugged. That was true. I knew that intellectually. But goddamnit, Layla made me dumb. Whenever I thought of her, my mind divided its age by half and acted at that level.
“I’m sorry, I actually overheard a lot of what you said. You aren’t getting paid here?”
Oh, fuck me. Oh, shit shit shit shit shit.
FUCK!
Why would the daughter of a CEO ever want to spend time with an intern? Why would someone as hot as Layla ever want to fuck me? Why would she ever want to be near me, to feel me, to share time with me, to...
“Long story,” I said, trying not to show my inner rage at myself. “But... well, basically, the Hunts wanted me to come here since John is a good friend. I’m being taken... I’m taking care of myself, I don’t worry about that.”
I could see the look in her eyes. It was one of a little bit of inquiring, but it wasn’t as harsh or judgmental as I had feared. She seemed more... evaluative, and not in the harsh, cruel way I had expected from her line of questioning.
“I know you take care of yourself,” she said with a smile. “I’ve felt you. I know what it’s like.”
And just like that, I’m hard and ready to go.
“Oh yeah?” I said, smirking. “How is it like?”
She began to blush. I could see where this was going. Call me bold, but I didn’t want to waste another second preventing something that I needed to have happen. I had waited too long for this to happen.
“Save your answer,” I said. “Come with me to my office. Walk casually.”
She knew what was about to happen. I could see it. And she liked it.
She moved as casually as she could, while I had to adjust myself to make sure my pants didn’t make it obvious what I was about to do. I hurried and kept my hands in my pocket so my dick would not spring forward. I let Layla in the door, shut it, and locked it. Then, just to be safe, I pushed my chair against the door.
Then, without a word, I grabbed her, pressed her against the far wall, and kissed her ravenously. Oh, how I had waited for a moment like this. How I had fucking waited for a moment like this.
Her soft moans only hardened me even further. I felt like I could break through both layers of clothing to get to her, and when I did, I would make her beg to never leave my company. I moved down to her neck.
“Chance, oh... god, please,” she moaned softly.
I didn’t give a shit anymore if anyone heard. Edwin Hunt and John Burnson could come and watch—hell, even Craig Taylor too—and I wouldn’t stop. I wouldn’t stop for a goddamn thing at this point.
I ripped—yes, ripped, her shirt and top off. Her breasts spilled out and I cupped them, kissed them,
caressed them, squeezed them, anything to draw a pleasurable groan from Layla. I could do anything and everything I wanted to, and I sure planned on it. No more saying she’d call later. No more handjobs and then teasing the promise of more.
No, this was all now. There would be no “later” and no “next time.”
I lifted her off of the wall and pushed her onto my desk, letting some pencils and calendars fall to the ground. I tugged down her pants and panties, and there awaited her wetness, just begging for me to head in there.
I went back up and kissed her, tugging my pants off as I did. She reached down and grabbed my cock and stroked it as moans escaped her. She was beginning to get a little too loud for my comfort—while I didn’t really care if other people started watching, I did care that she didn’t outright expose us to the world. I put a hand over her mouth and shushed her.
She got the picture, although she had to grab her own shirt and bite into it to avoid making more noise. Somehow, that made all of this even hotter—something about seeing her have to stuff a shirt in her mouth made me believe I was giving her something so powerful and so overwhelming she had no choice but to do it.
I thought of putting my dick in her right there and going until I finished, but what can I say? I wanted to be a gentleman—that, and I knew if I treated her right here, it would be far from the last time something like this happened.
I put my face between her legs, licking and fingering her to the rise and fall of her hips and the intensity of her moans. It only seemed poetic that for as aggressively as she had moved on me, making me come so quickly at the bar, that I could see by the blushing of her skin and the movement of her hips that she would not be for much longer either.
And when she did come, when she did let out that jolt, I held onto her ass as tightly as I could, the better so she wouldn’t roll off the table in extreme pleasure. It was like riding a bull in heat, but I held my own, pulling back only when she removed the shirt from her mouth as a means of telling me to stop.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” she said, gasping, as if she’d just run back to back marathons.
“Oh, we’re not done yet,” I said.
I let her stand on her own wobbly legs, but after giving her a second, I pushed her up against the wall.
“You don’t get out of here until I finish,” I said into her ear.
I inserted inside her from behind, pounding her into the wall and letting her suck my fingers as a way to prevent her from gasping out in pain. I had no intentions of letting her go now, not with everything that had happened. Not with all of the delays I’d encountered.
Perhaps I was never going to be ready to give my heart to a girl, but I knew when to give her something more pleasurable. I knew not to wait. I knew not to delay.
Unlike last time, when she had me pumping only for about a minute before I finished, this time, I was determined to enjoy the experience as long as I could. I had her against the wall both from behind and from the front. I fucked her against the office desk. I had her straddle me on the office chair. The entire place reeked of sex.
Good. Let it be a reminder to me for the next month what I had accomplished. It wasn’t like anyone came in here, either; if someone wanted me, I went to them.
Except, now, for Layla Taylor.
Only when I’d gotten her back against the wall, her face turned sideways, her eyes nearly rolling to the back of her head, did I finally finish. I bit into her back and neck as I did, straining to keep my voice controlled as best as I could. When I finished, I waited a few seconds before taking a step back, admiring the work I had just put in.
“Well,” I said. “That’s how you close a deal.”
Layla just laughed. She looked like she wanted to say something, but I had so ravaged her that she couldn’t speak anymore. That just wasn’t an option.
Instead, she came up to me and kissed me. It was a surprisingly tender moment, one I had certainly not expected, but one... I embraced?
“Next time, let’s go somewhere a little more private,” she said.
Next time. I dig it.
“Say no more,” I said.
Chapter Eleven
Four Years Before
There was only one person I ever could have envisioned having a conversation like this with.
And it wasn’t the person I was having it with.
In a private dining room in our mansion, I sat with a glass of water while my adopted mother, Melanie Hunt, patiently drank.
“She’s heartbroken, you know.”
The matter at hand could not have felt more awkward than right there. I had taken a girl upstairs while the Hunts were out of the house and we had had sex. But at the end, she asked if I loved her. It was too much too soon, and since I was going to college soon, I sure wouldn’t have let myself fallen in love anyways.
So I told her the truth.
Well, apparently, the truth wasn’t good enough, or it was too much at least for the girl, Christine. She ran out in tears... right as Mrs. Hunt had returned. And, unfortunately, I got to hear everything—which, namely, was everything we had just discussed. Christine spared no detail for Mrs. Hunt. I sat in my room, mortified at what was transpiring. My adopted mother, hearing the fact I had supposedly lied to this girl about how I felt for her.
I really did like Christine. But it was ridiculous to believe I had ever loved her. Maybe someday, if we stayed in touch for some time, we’d fall in love, but sure as hell not like this.
“I told her the truth,” I said, shaking my head.
At the beginning of our interaction, I had felt so uncomfortable, and Mrs. Hunt’s judgmental looks and stares did not help matters. I felt like I was being punished without being punished; I knew Mrs. Hunt wasn’t going to ground me because I had broken a girl’s heart, but the fact that I received her wrath all the same did not help matters. That, and how she kept saying she empathized with the girl.
“You swear that is the truth, Chance?” Mrs. Hunt said.
She didn’t speak sarcastically, but I knew she didn’t quite believe me. My reputation as a serial, casual dater had not gone unnoticed by the mother of the house.
“I swear to it,” I said. “I never told her I loved her. I told her I liked her a lot. But... I don’t know, I guess she misread it.”
Mrs. Hunt paused for a second and took another gulp of her wine.
“You have to be careful with women’s feelings, Chance,” she said. “You never know how a woman is going to take what you say. You have to be careful in your wording and make sure you communicate clearly. Especially for you. You’re a Hunt, you have all the opportunities in the world, you—”
“Not like Morgan. I’m not a real Hunt.”
I don’t know why I snapped there. Well, with a little thinking, I did—for nearly a decade and a half, I had not had the courage to lash out at my adopted parents. I had never told them what I had expressed to Morgan, that the name Hunt wasn’t a gift but a curse in my life beyond superficial access to certain things.
But it had built for nearly fifteen years, and finally, just a few months before I was set to move to Columbia for college, it had all exploded.
To my surprise, though, Mrs. Hunt did not react shocked or with horror. Instead, she put the glass of wine down on the table, got up, and kissed me on the forehead.
“I know you may not believe me, Chance, but you are going to someday be grateful that you are not Morgan.”
Of all the things I expected her to say, that was the absolute last thing that came to mind.
“Morgan has the expectation, probably the burden, of becoming like Edwin, and that is not a weight I wish upon anyone,” she continued. “You have the freedom to do whatever you want. Chance, your name is more appropriate than you can ever know. You can take whatever opportunity you want. You can do whatever you want. We love you and we support you, even if your father doesn’t always show it.”
He’s not my father. But I understand.
“You
need to remember, though, there are other people in life. What you say and what you do makes sense to you because you have thought it through before saying or doing it. But there will be people like that girl, Chance. She truly believes you broke her heart because she truly believed you loved her. I know, I know. But just remember—what you think they are feeling may not be the same as what they are actually thinking. OK?”
I understand rationally what she meant. But I still couldn’t wrap my head around Christine believing I actually loved her. We’d only been together a few months!
Nevertheless, partially to appease Mrs. Hunt and partially to get out of this still awkward conversation, I nodded.
“You’re a good man, Chance,” she said, and it was not lost on me that she used the word man. “But you’re still learning. And that’s OK. We’re all still learning.”
Present Day
I ADMIRED LAYLA TAYLOR.
I admired her body. I admired her conviction. And I admired how goddamn fucking good she felt for the last twenty minutes.
But there was one thing I did not admire, and that was her seemingly terrible habit of choosing to distance herself after all of our encounters. I could practically see it now. She would leave, say she would text or call me, and then I wouldn’t see her until the next business meeting with her father. We’d then sneak off somewhere, do the dirty, and the process would repeat.
I mean, I guess it would be nice to have dangerous and thrilling sex like that semi-regularly...
But...
Well, fuck, I was starting to develop feelings for her. That cursed word that I had put aside for so long, even as I liked girls, was starting to come back. This wasn’t like Tracy or Christine or even Sarah—this was very, very different.
And that said nothing about the stakes of our business relationship either.
I watched her get dressed, noticing that, not surprisingly, she was refusing to make eye contact. It made no sense. I’d made her come so hard she had to gag herself to avoid screaming so loud. I knew she had enjoyed it—I had felt her enjoy it as much as I had heard her enjoy it.
Flawed (Hunt Brothers Saga) Page 8