Because He Loves Me (Because He Owns Me, Book Ten)

by Hannah Ford

  “You don’t get to ignore me and spread rumors about me. Rumors, everyone. All lies,” I say, looking around the class. People had been staring at me, but now a few look away—the guilty. “The only thing I did to Brent was turn him down when he tried to get physical with me. Which, by the way, was pretty scary. I hope you ladies never have to experience having a guy shove himself on you. I should report you to Professor Stanwick,” I say, looking back to Brent. He doesn’t look pissed anyone—he looks scared. He should be.

  I think about storming out of class. There’s only ten minutes left. But in that moment I decide staying will make Brent more uncomfortable. So I don’t move, and watch as he clumsily tries to get back on track with his boring-ass lecture. He dismisses us five minutes early. No one looks at him as they shuffle out the door. With a gut-full of confidence and Natalie by my side, I stop by him on my way out.

  “I mean it,” I say to him. His eyes flash at me before continuing to shuffle papers into his canvas bag. “I will report you for mistreatment if you don’t stop harassing me,” That word seems to catch his attention—harassing. As it should. “You’re lucky I haven’t done it yet but I’m not afraid to.”

  As I walk out the door I hear Natalie say, “Yeah, you spineless jackhole.”

  Once we’re down the hall I turn to her and laugh. “What is a spineless jackhole?”

  “I don’t know,” she laughs. “It was the first thing of.”

  “I’m using it from now on,” I say. “Thanks for hanging around.”

  “Of course,” she says.

  I don’t know if it’s because I’m angry with the way things turned out with Jackson, or sad or surprised or what, but there’s something in me that says, No more messing around. If I want to get something done, I’m doing it. I can be professional, but I also don’t have the energy to deal with any nonsense.

  Later I’m sitting in a meeting at the office, listening as junior members of the development team talk about their frustration with not getting meetings with prospects.

  “They won’t respond,” says Amanda, who was recently promoted from administrative assistant. “I’ve sent two emails and gotten nothing back. I don’t want to be pushy about.”

  Amanda is smart but this is frustrating. I know I'm only part time but I do far more work than many of the full-time employees.

  “Who is this?” I ask.

  “The senior VP over at Chase,” she says.

  “Sonja Atkins?” I ask.

  I feel the room’s eyes turn on me—yeah, I know who our prospects are. Everyone here should. Amanda says yes, it’s Sonja.

  I lean forward. “What’s her number? Let’s call her now.”

  I look to Jules for approval. “No time like the present. Want me to talk, Emily, or do you want to take this?”

  “I’ll take it,” I say. I look to Amanda, who looks like she might vomit. “All she can say is no,” I tell her, repeating the old phrase from my dad.

  We get through to Sonja and I swear the call lasts three minutes. All Amanda had to do was agree to a meeting with her and Jules about possible partnerships. That’s the first step. Sonja quickly agrees, and it’s done. Just like that.

  “Well done, Emily,” Jules says. She looks to Amanda and the other junior staff and says, “Don’t be afraid of the phone, guys.”

  As the meeting breaks up, Jules says, “Way to show some leadership. I knew you had it with that first big donation, and I'm glad to see you haven’t lost it.”

  That first big donation is, of course, Jackson but she doesn’t say. Otherwise it’s a nice reminder that I’ve got this inside me, if I just let it out. I can be assertive. I took down that weasel Brent, after all.

  On my way out to my parent’s place for brunch one weekend, I start to realize that good enough doesn’t work anymore. I can always be better. Like at work. Amanda’s emails weren’t good enough. They were fine, and fine doesn't get the job done. No one ever made a difference by being fine. I realize it’s probably how Jackson feels every day at work. It’s why he works so hard—something inside him, whether he was born with it or his father instilled it in him—because he can’t let himself be satisfied with anything but greatness. Jackson works his ass off to get it. Despite everything else, I have to admire that. Maybe I picked up a little of it from him.

  “I can’t say that I’m surprised,” Dad says when I’m forced to tell them I’m not seeing Jackson anymore. “That was not exactly a match made in heaven.”

  “Hardly,” Mom says.

  “At least he was hot,” Sabrina adds. I kick her under the table. “I was being nice!”

  “I see guys like him all the time,” Dax says. “They think giving money makes them charitable but it’s just a tax write-off. They actually save money come tax season if they’ve donated a little throughout the year. It’s a scam.”

  “It’s ridiculous you all made him seem like a bad guy for giving money away,” I say. “Even if it is for tax purposes. Who cares? Money from people like that is what helps us do what we love. And Jackson works really hard for his money. I don’t see what’s wrong with working hard. Didn’t you guys teach us that, along with doing good?”

  Mom looks at Dad a bit guiltily.

  Maybe they’re right about some things—even Sabrina—but I feel like they’ve missed something important in Jackson.

  “You guys were jerks to him. It was like giving money to a charity is as bad as slapping a baby. And you tried to slam him with that patriarchal crap,” I remind Dax. “He’s not a bad guy. So can we just lay off?”

  “Sweetie, we’re sorry,” Dad says. “We just want what’s best for you.”

  I know they all mean well, but they don’t have to try to destroy something before I even know what it is. Or was. And what was it?

  As I go back to the city, I think about that. What were Jackson and I? Stripped away, we were a guy and a girl who shouldn’t have liked each other but turned out to be crazy about each other. He was sweet to me. He seemed to take joy in spoiling me, not to show off his wealth but to make me happy. So why is that such a bad thing?

  I start to feel hopeful until I realize that, oh yeah, he was using me. I curse him for being an asshole and a good actor. Jackson may have liked me well enough to consider using me to get control of his company but that doesn’t mean he cared for me. That’s what matters. That’s what hurts the most.

  Jackson

  “And so as we head into the final stretch, this makes it our most successful quarter ever.”

  There’s clapping and few cheers around the boardroom table. Rachel Sullivan, one of several VPs, just delivered the news that should make me want to celebrate with a nice bottle of scotch. Instead I feel nothing.

  “Congratulations, Jackson,” several people say after the meeting. My shoulders are clapped, handshakes are offered, drinks are suggested. Everyone is quite pleased with how the company is progressing. I feel empty.

  I stay in the boardroom after everyone has left and look out the large window. I don’t see the other buildings or the people scurrying along below. All I see is Emily. She hasn’t left my mind for more than a moment since she left my house. I’ve tried texting and calling her but she rejects or ignores my every attempt. I can’t say that I blame her.

  I have to see her. I can’t keep moving along like this, desperate for her. She has to understand what happened, and in order for her to understand, I have to tell her everything about my family—including the details of my father’s will.

  “Sandra, could you send the car around?” I ask as I head back into my office. “And cancel the rest of my appointments.”

  I rip off my tie and toss it on my desk. I grab my jacket and head for the elevators.

  In the back of the car, we drive around areas of the city I think she might be. We go to the Children’s Education Fund offices and I run inside and ask if she’s working today.

  “She usually comes in after lunch,” the girl at reception says. “She alw
ays comes in carrying a coffee cup from Bonatelli’s Café. Maybe she’s there?”

  So we head through the streets for Bonatelli’s. I walk inside the café, my eyes scanning every face, most of which are staring down into laptops or cell phones. And then I land on Emily. Her sweet face that I want to hold in my hands again and cover in kisses, if only she’ll let me.

  “Emily,” I say. Her head jerks up, her face full of surprise at seeing me. I kneel next to her so that we can be close.

  “What are you doing here?” she says slowly. Her hair is pulled back into a sloppy bun and her skin is glowing and natural. She’s reading a book, a scarf wrapped tight around her neck and all I can think is how perfect she looks. And, I realize with some relief, she isn’t running away from me. Not yet.

  “Please hear me out,” I say. I want to take her hand but I don’t want to scare her off. She’s listening, though, so that’s a start. “Emily, I’ve been going crazy since you left. I can’t think straight. I’m completely obsessed with you. You’re just…crowding my every thought. I don’t want to lose you.”

  People around us are watching—I can see them out of the corner of my eye—but I don’t pay them any attention and neither does Emily. She’s thankfully focused on me.

  “I can’t stop thinking about you either. But I won’t be used.” Her eyes well with tears. Her chin quivers when she says, “You crushed me, Jackson. I was falling in love with you and you killed that. How could you use me like that? I thought…I thought you actually felt the same way about me. Maybe not love but something close.”

  “Emily,” I say, and this time I do reach for her hand. Her soft delicate little hand—I covered it with both my hands, wanting to hold her tight. “I do feel the same way about you. I’ve told you some of the ugly parts of my family and that email—or my father’s will, which is what the email was about—is the worst part of it all. It’s the ugly ending to a lifetime of forced competition. He raised my brothers and I to be the gladiators to his emperor, fighting to the death for his entertainment. And I shamefully admit that, for a moment I did think you could solve the issue of taking over the company by marrying me. But what I realize now—what I just realized today, sitting in a boardroom, is that I don’t care. If I don’t have you, nothing matters. Certainly not the company.” I almost laugh. “The company is the least of my concerns right now. I left work today. I don’t even know if I’ll go back.” I don’t realize it’s true until I say the words. Work means nothing to me anymore. There’s no joy in it.

  Emily is listening, letting me hold her hand. Tears spill down her cheeks and I wipe them away, running my thumb across her cheek.

  “I don’t want you to ever cry again because of me,” I say.

  “So, you do feel the same way about me?”

  I almost laugh. “After all I just said that’s what you heard?”

  “I heard it all,” she says, sniffling. “I’ve always known your family was a mess. I didn’t realize how bad it was until I saw that email. But if you’ve felt the same way about me as I feel about you, then that would mean you weren’t using me. Right?”

  “Logical as always,” I say. My heart races with love and anticipation and hope for this woman. “Emily, I love you. I’m walking away from the company.”

  “Really? You’re leaving Croft International?”

  “I don’t care about it. The only thing that matters is being together. Forever. Emily, will you marry me?”

  It takes her a moment to realize what I’ve said. Maybe it’s because no truer words have ever come out of my mouth. I watch as the slow realization crosses her face.

  “Seriously?” she asks.

  “Seriously,” I say. I kiss her hand. “I don’t have a ring but—”

  “Yes,” she says, and now the tears are really streaming down her face. “I’ll marry you, Jackson.”

  Finally, I take her sweet face in my hands and kiss her lips as more tears—happy tears—stream down her face.

  I don’t want anyone to find me. I don’t want to talk to or see anyone, so we head straight for Emily’s little apartment.

  When we kiss, it’s as if we’ve been apart for a year. We need to make up for the time apart. I need to make up to her for the pain I caused her.

  We crash into each other, Emily kicking the door shut with her foot, and begin tearing the clothes off each other. I kiss her more deeply than ever, taking as much of her in as I can. I never would have guessed that my need for her would grow but now that my heart is fully in Emily’s hands, I feel like I could die if she left me again.

  Her fingers deftly work the buttons on my shirt as I pull the T-shirt up over her head. She pulls the band out of her hair and lets it fall around her shoulders. My lips cover her skin, lick and taste her all across her face, her neck, her shoulders, her chest. Soon we’ve kicked off our shoes and she’s got my pants shoved down around my ankles.

  We make it to the bed and I help her out of her jeans, so tight to her skin. Her panties don’t get to stay on—off they come, as do my boxer briefs. When I cover her body with mine, she wraps her legs around my waist, every inch of our bodies touching. I run my hands over her thighs, tight around my waist, her hips pushing into my raised dick. Her pussy touches me, her wetness making me want to shove myself deep inside her. But I want to go slower, show Emily how precious she is to me.

  I run my finger down her slit, Emily curving her back so that her hips push up into me. Her eyes stay on me, her mouth open, eager. I gently glide my finger across her pussy, so wet and pink and mine, mine to play with, mine to please. I dip my finger inside her and she lets out a moan. I pump inside her before slipping my finger out and giving her clit some much-needed attention. Her face is flushed with passion and I know she’s going to start begging me soon for more. I love that she always needs more.

  She reaches down between our bodies and takes me in her hand. God, her hand, so small but so assured on my dick. I slip my finger back inside her pussy and she pumps me at the same tempo as I do her, matching me, showing me that she can take it if I can. I’m not sure my body can take it—I fall to the bed beside her, fingers and hands still in place. Facing each other we work each other, our breath mingling in the small space between us.

  “I love you, Jackson,” she says. When she kisses me it fills me up with such love like I’ve never known. I have to make love to her.

  “Emily,” I say, moving above her. I put my finger, covered in her juices, in my mouth and suck it all off. She reaches out for me, but I take my dick in my hand.

  “Yes,” she says.

  I slide my cock into her slowly, leaning down on my forearms so I can be close to her face, which I intend to cover in kisses. Warm inside her, our bodies combined, I whisper in her ear, “I love you.”

  I slowly move through her, never wanting to leave. Her pussy hugs my dick so perfectly, and with every drive inside her I want to come. But I ride it out, looking into her eyes, moving so slowly it’s a major tease for us both. I go harder, slamming my dick in her, methodically as her face burns with desire.

  “Tell me again,” she says.

  “I love you, Emily.”

  I pull her leg up, my arm wrapped under her knee and continue loving on that cunt, her gasps and moans taking me to the edge, but I don’t fall over, not until she’s ready. She pushes her hips back at me with equal force, and as her hands claw out for more of me I know she’s ready and I let go, both of us jumping over the edge in an explosion of fireworks. When I collapse next to her I kiss her long and deep, holding her face in my hands and tell her again that I love her.

  We spend long stretches of time in bed feeling each other’s skin, running our hands over every inch of the other’s body, memorizing curves and lines and angles. We make love again, we fall asleep. We somehow manage to order in some Thai food, which we engulf before turning back to each other once again. It’s twenty-four hours of love and sex and sleep, a little food and a lot of Emily. A lot of Emily naked.r />
  Soon, I’ve hit my limit staying in a basement studio apartment, even if Emily is naked most of the time. I suggest a change of scenery, and Emily is game. I have my driver drop off one of my cars outside Emily’s apartment.

  “What am I supposed to pack for?” she asks. “For how long?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, because I don’t. For once in my life I have nothing planned.

  We get in the car and speed out of town.

  “Are we going to the Cape?” she asks, noticing the direction I’m headed. Even I hadn’t noticed where I was going, but I guess I’m on some sort of auto-pilot.

  “No,” I say. “Martha’s Vineyard.” It’s perfect. It’s a fucking island and I don’t even know the phone number to the house. “I own a house there.”

  She throws her head back and laughs. “Of course you do.”

  I haven’t been out here in years. I’ve literally forgotten I own the home. In fact, I can’t remember the last vacation I took. My life has been consumed by work. That is, until Emily came around and reminded me that taking breaks can actually make you more productive—and result in the best quarter in the company’s history. My father never told me that.

  So we’ve moved our camp from Allston to Edgartown. It’s a classic Cape Cod–style home on the beach with plenty of land to keep the neighbors and other prying eyes at bay. My closet has clothes already in it, mostly summer beachwear but also some sweaters and wool pants because my staff is always prepared. There aren’t many off-season stores out here to buy warm clothes for Emily so we scoop up what we can and put in a huge order online for the rest.

  “I don’t need all that,” she says as I put in my credit card information.

  “Your hands and feet are blocks of ice no matter how much I turn up the heat,” I tell her. “You actually, literally need it.”

  “But we’re not staying here forever.”

  I pull her close and say, “Why not?”

  The fire is roaring and we’re bundled under cashmere blankets. We have the essentials—a bunch of dry pasta and sauces, a cellar of wine, and each other. As corny as it may sound, it’s all we need.