by Maya Rose
“But it’s a Saturday.” The reason why I have no calls or meetings. Corporate office is closed today and Sunday. “You worked on weekends?”
“I worked all 7 days--didn’t that PI you people hired find that in his illegal investigation of me?!” She barges ahead, coming around the rounder to stand in front of me. “And if I’m bothering you so much, just go to your damn room!”
She’s right. He had written it up, I just forgot. But what 19 year old has a life like that? Always on the go? I saw no TV in her apartment. After how long yesterday did she just sit and watch movies? Fuck Warren. Fuck her mother. Fuck me for forgetting, and now caring.
“You go to your damn room!” I lash back like a petulant, confused idiot.
Expressly messing with my mind, she does just that. Storms off to her room and shuts the door so hard that I think the doorframe twinges. I don’t see her the rest of the day. She doesn’t come out for food or water. When Warren calls me, I lie and tell him she’s taking a nap. I force myself to work, and when I’m done forcing, all I want to do is drag her out of there. Wrap my tie around her eyes, push my cock past her soft pink lips and down her throat, then gorge on the sticky wetness between her legs till she screams my name.
I break down when darkness rolls outside and there’s still no sign of the stubborn minx. My legs carry me to her door, and it’s a toss up between breaking the damn wood down or being a gentleman and doing the knocking thing. That is when I hear it.
Unbelievable. I’m hearing things, right? Fuck, I have to be.
Because that, right there, should have shown up in the home inspection report. Thin walls. Totally not soundproof. I can hear her panting. Moaning. Whimpering God and shit and more in a honeyed voice, aroused and begging. She’s begging for an orgasm. And most definitely beating off to get one. Getting louder too. Move. Move, you fool. But I’m transfixed, wondering how she’s doing it. One finger or two inside her wet pussy? Or more? She liked mine up her ass. She fucking liked it. Is she trying that out? Or rubbing her soft palms over her perfect tits?
And there it is. A loud gasp. Then, ‘Shit, Eli, so big…so good...’ Before she sings a shaky moan, loud and clear, ‘Ah...Ah...oh hell!!’
I finally make my leg muscles work, walking to my room and bolting it close. I keep going until I’m inside the attached bathroom, and I fling the toilet seat cover open. Undressing and freeing my cock with one hand, I lean the other against the wall behind the toilet, my body fucking unbalanced with the weight of my cock. I stroke it from base to tip, without lube, without spit, groaning ferally, imagining Ariel writhing on her bed, so horny that she didn’t even wait to be inside her bathroom. What was she thinking about? What is her fantasy? Riding me? Sitting on my cock, her big honey eyes looking down at me, her tits bouncing as she finds a rhythm, dark flame colored hair shuffling in waves...a growl leaves me, and I pump my fist harder on my shaft, gritting my teeth, stopping more groans from releasing because if I can hear her, maybe she can too? But goddammit, that thought just makes my balls tighten painfully. If she walked in right this second, without cleaning her filthy pussy, to find me pants down, furiously jacking myself--
One last stroke, and then I’m coming with a grunt, jet after jet of thick semen spraying into the water below for what seems like days. Until I’m holding my flaccid cock, wondering just when I turned into this man I don’t even recognize. Rubbing one out solo over a specific woman like a desperado? Playing house with the said woman, whom I can’t stand but I can’t stop chasing?
And yet.
The self-loathing isn’t enough to curb the pain-pleasure throb that bodily claims me, when I find her in the kitchen early next morning. Same tank top as yesterday. Different pants. Red instead of black. Equally tight but shorter. She had to change because the moisture from her panties seeped through, didn’t it? How long was she wet yesterday? All for me. Such a dirty princess. Sullenly making sandwiches. Slamming knives and ketchup and jam bottles loudly on the marble countertop, spreading butter and something else on the bread like she’s trying to flay it. She whams one full plate of two sandwiches on the side of the counter that I’m facing, and starts to leave with her own plate.
Ego and good sense abdicate at that exact moment. I don’t want her pulling the vanishing act on me for another whole day.
“Enough with this ridiculous nonsense.” I snipe her way, settling on the couch and ordering her, “Come here and sit down.”
I don’t like the hesitation on her. “What for?”
“Because I fucking said so.”
“Uh-uh.” She tuts. “Try again, Mr King.”
Fuck my life. I think fast. What can I ask her to stay for? What Warren said, my brain thinks. And also because she has a right to learn, my scruples add. “Can you kindly sit your ass down so I can tell you about your father’s business, Ms Walton?”
She starts scowling again. “Don’t—“
But I’m expecting it. “Get used to it. Fight it all you want, but Ariel Jenning doesn’t exist anymore. You are Ariel Walton. Say it in your head, practice calling yourself that in front of the mirror—do whatever you need to do to wrap your head around it.”
She swallows, her eyes fighting to stay on mine. “Why does the world get to pick my name?”
I really don’t get her aversion to it, considering the doors it will open for her. “Deal with it. It’s a minor adjustment for what you’ll get in return.”
I’ve clearly hit a nerve because she sticks me with a nasty look. “Minor? My birth certificate doesn’t have a father’s name listed on it. Neither do my school or medical records. You know what that’s like, Mr King? Having only one name to count on? Everywhere. Primary contact. Secondary contact. Emergency contact. Out of town contact. Tamara Jenning. That’s all I had. And now suddenly it’s not good enough?”
It tugs at me. All too familiar. All too painful. The memory of suddenly having no name to fill in. Then filling in Warren’s name everywhere. I think of the waiting empty space when he’s not there in some months. “I do know what that’s like.”
Her face withers, and eyes soften, tacit understanding flowing from their amber glaze. The moment stretches, and I don’t want to break it. Just for a second, I want to soak in her hurt and let her glimpse mine.
She’s the one to snap out of it first. “You don’t have to waste your time needlessly coaching me. I know enough about Walton hotels to pretend in front of Warren. So save your breath and let’s just make it through this crappy situation without biting each other’s heads off.”
That is exactly what I should do. Not marinate in injured pride over the fact that she doesn’t want to spend time with me. I don’t have to prove anything to her or myself. I don’t...
....Fucking fuck.
“Which is our most profitable location?” I question her, watching her expression satisfyingly morph to confusion.
“What—“
“Hawaii. London. Tokyo. Which one?”
“I...don’t know.” She says haltingly. “But why does that—“
“What’s special about our app compared to the desktop booking site?”
“I haven’t—“
“None of our restaurants have signature dishes. Why not?”
“How would I—“
“What’s the one thing apart from—“
“Alright--I get it! I don’t know enough!” She exclaims angrily, cutting into my question. “So what?!”
“So sit the fuck down or I’ll make you.”
I wonder if she had something handy, she would throw it at me. But she only purses her perfect lips, walking with her plate and sitting across from me, cross-legged, on the single-seater.
My phone buzzes. And because it’s connected to the smart speaker and the TV, it automatically loudly announces to the whole room who’s calling. Selena. It’s Sunday, but that has never stopped work for me or her. I do need to talk to her. I still haven’t told her the details of what happened, and I need to, so s
he can deal with it. I might have to ask her to hold the fort in the office while I figure out how to manage work from here for a few days. Maybe also beg her to give me a reason that requires me to be in office so I can end this madness. Fuck.
And had the girl sitting across from me seemed irritable or jealous, I would have answered the call and done all of that. But Ariel has a gated expression, fixed on the big screen that keeps showing and saying Selena’s name. Upright and stiff, she’s poised for flight, not a fight. If I take this call, she’s going to leave the room. So I continue the run of lunacy I’m on, my finger accurately hitting the red button with my gaze still on her.
Fazed amber eyes come racing at me. They stay there while a flurry of text dings follow on my phone. Then her gaze narrows softly when I switch off my phone without looking at any of the texts.
“Stop doing that.” She says tightly.
“Doing what?”
“Not letting me hate you.”
Jesus. Fuck...Jesus. “Maybe you’re just not trying hard enough, baby—“
“Ariel. Just...Ariel. Got it?” She stops me, almost in panic, and throws her arms across her tits. But I can see it. Her hand squeezing that luscious mound from the side, her eyes half hooding.
Just give it to her, man. She wants it. She wants you in that slick heat. I can’t. Christ, I can’t. Regardless of anything and everything, she deserves a first time with someone special, whatever that means. Look at me all fucking chivalrous.
“Fine. Ariel. Let’s start with the basics. What do you know about Walton Hotels Inc?”
She’s thoughtful for a few moments. “That there are 3 brands across different market segments…” She starts, then stops, giving me a tentative look for my approval to continue.
“You’re asking me or telling me?” I lean forward, resting my arms over my knees, clasping my palms together.
She looks annoyed, then goes on. “Telling you. Walton Resorts and Spas for luxury and upscale full services. Walton Economy Suites for business and budget travelers. And Walton Boutique Hotels for midscale, middle class travelers. You went public six years ago. The annual revenue for last year was around 11.5 billion with a gross profit of 2 billion. 2987 hotels in 89 countries. About 98k employees. It’s been in the top ten on the list of ‘best multinational companies to work for’ for eight consecutive years. You offer one of the best corporate benefits packages to full time and part time employees and the work culture is supposed to have an emphasis on work-life balance.” She pauses.
I’m impressed. “Not bad.” I tell her, and goddamn hell, the corner of her lips curves to produce the edges of that dimple I never stopped thinking about. It’s not fully there, but it’s there. “Tell me what you know about the senior management team.” I snap, relieved and irritated when her cheek flattens again.
This time she sounds more sure of herself. “There’s you. Chief Operating Officer. Sally Roberts who heads the legal and compliance team.”
“Selena.” I rectify her--didn’t we just see her name when she called?
“Whatever.” She retorts sharply, stroking the rich auburn hair that lies over her breast, and I battle to keep my face serious in the face of her fake act of getting the name wrong.
“Let’s keep this professional, shall we?” I say grimly.
She glares and uncrosses her arms. “Ethan Carter. Chief of marketing. The youngest of you lot. 28, graduated from Berkeley, came up with the ‘there’s a room for everyone’ campaign. He’s an avid skier and he broke up with his last serious girlfriend two months ago.”
What is with that dreamy glaze on her as she talks about Ethan?
“Oh. And he likes pastries.” She looks pleased that she remembered.
She has a crush on that fucking shrimp? “He didn’t break up with his girlfriend. She dumped him because he was fucking his assistant.”
Her eyes widen. “And that’s keeping it professional?”
It’s not. I don’t care. “She threatened to go to the press and he had to pay her off.”
“The girlfriend or the assistant?”
“Assistant.”
“How’s yours?” She asks with bothered curiosity.
“I don’t have one.”
She seems to be in shock. “You’re the COO and you don’t have an assistant?”
I shrug. “I can make my own coffee and get or order my own meals. I can run and plan my own meetings, and follow-up with people on projects myself. I schedule my own travel plans and maintain my own calendar. If people have questions, they email me directly and I answer.”
She looks on aghast for a second or two. “Why do you have to do everything yourself?”
“I don’t have to. I prefer to.” Why am I entertaining this line of questioning? “And let’s get back to you. Keep going. Who else do you know?”
Her head tips to one side with a thoughtful glint in her brown eyes, like she’s debating something in her head. “Steve Columbaris. Your Chief Technology and Data Officer.” She pauses. “What about when you’re sick?”
Of course she’s not letting it go. “I work through it.” I answer dismissively, then forget the question when she reaches into her yoga pants pocket—they have a pocket in that tight space?—taking out a scrunchie. She gathers her hair in one hand and raises it at the back of her head and my mouth can’t stay shut. “Leave it down.”
Don’t listen to me, princess, I plead in my head. Don’t show me that my words matter.
Her eyes go distant, but heated, and she releases a slow-moving breath, then her hair. It falls around her shoulders and over her back again in a soft cloud, and she swallows and says, “Leave your jacket off. And the vest.” She gestures with her eyes at my ensemble.
When she asked me to kiss her that day in the bathroom, her naked pussy was inches away from my lips. I was drunk on her taste and scent. It turned me inside out. The demand in her tone. But we’re not touching now. And it still makes me hard. I’ll deny it with my last breath out loud, but I fucking love her telling me what to do. I love that the weight of every decision isn’t somehow on me. I love it so much, that I haven’t touched soda even though she was inside all day and would never have known if I had cheated on our deal. I love it so much that I take my jacket and vest off now without even a token protest. Fair’s fair. She listened to me too.
“Charlie Wayne. Chief of Security.” She adds without prompting, eyes meandering over my shirt and tie, her posture eased into one of comfort. So comfortable that her next words are, “Were you close to your father?”
My mood sours. Why do women have to do this? Probe. Find ammunition to bond through some deeper shit. “What do you think this is--sharing hour?”
“I think this can be whatever we want it to be.” She says slowly, looking at me like I’m fucking interesting to her. “Scott said your parents didn’t have a happy marriage?”
“They were miserable. And I wasn’t close to either of them.” Goddammit, stop telling her shit. “And I’ll be the one asking qu--”
“What about college? You must have had friends?”
Is she even hearing me? “Ariel, we’re not going to talk about me.”
“You said we.” She says in a flat tone.
I’m losing my shit here. And I want to grin. I actually feel my fucking face fighting a fucking grin. “Don’t act smart with me.” I nip at her.
But her expression is more studious than anything else. Persistent and open. “Why are you so serious all the time? Some girl cheat on you? Friends turned on you after your dad died? Did your mom ever reach out all these years?”
The answers are all there, straightforward but ugly, bottled up firmly in the recesses of my mind. And she’s swirling, turning everything upside down, one tiny nudge likely to snap the lid open and get the nauseating details out in a messy burst. “Stop it.” I warn her.
She leans ahead, one elbow on one knee, bringing her chin to rest on a curled fist. Her eyes stay on me in sweltering scrutiny. “
Make me.”
Oh she wants to play? Fine, I’ll fucking play. “How long have you been having your attacks?”
Her face falls like I’ve slapped it, and her eyes dull. That was the goddamn point, so man the fuck up. When she doesn’t answer after what seems like a reasonable allowance of time I’ve given her, I straighten and fold one leg over the other thigh. “Yeah. I didn’t think—“
“They started in foster care.”
My body freezes.
“Senior year of high school...the third family I was placed with...the husband Darryl...he was mixed up with some kind of gangsters or something.”
Fuck. Fuck. I don’t want to know. “Ariel--”
“Two months in, he told me he was in trouble and needed help with these people. He gave me options. Run drugs. Or go to these creepy parties late at night wearing…” She frowns. “...costumes. At first he made it sound like it was still up to me whether I chose to help him or not. Then he started getting more aggressive. Took off the lock on my bedroom door. Used to put all my clothes in the laundry so I wouldn’t have any underwear to wear. Then he put a lock on the refrigerator door and straight out told me if I wanted to eat their food, I had to…” She shivers, wrapping her arms around herself. “...contribute my share.”
I think there’s a special place in hell for me. Right alongside this fucker Darryl. “Ariel.” I interrupt her more forcefully. “Forget I asked. You don’t have to tell me.”
She looks up at me, drained of color. “I’ve never told anyone. Can I tell you?”
I’ve never had this overpowering urge to reach out and feel another human being before. Just bury them in my chest so the world can’t see or touch them before going through me first. “Anything.” I whisper firmly. “You can tell me anything.”
“I used to feel so guilty.” Eyes on me but seeing something else, her face twists in pain. “I was stealing their stuff. Just like petty cash and watches and shoes and stuff. I had to pay for mom’s treatment and housing.” She looks frenzied now as she searches my eyes. “I just...there was no one else for her except me. I had to make sure she was taken care of.”