“It’s nothing. You can take a seat over there. The Wheatland project is out and needs to be categorized by date. Pictures sorted into regions and from there, work on the Stanton and Westchester properties. When you’re done, I have more.” He barely keeps his head up long enough to finish his list of demands before his nose is back in his computer.
I’m not sure what his problem is—minus the shiner he’s sporting—but I do as I’m told and take a seat at the opposite end. Flipping through the first couple pages of the Wheatland contract, I lift my head back up. “So, Todd?”
“What is it?”
“I wanted to talk about what happened on Thursday.”
“No need.”
Oookay. Since I don’t know when to shut up, I go on. “Yeah, but I just wanted to say that you’re really nice and all, but I just have a boyfriend back home.”
He raises his head, finally offering me his attention. “And you mistake me for being interested. As I said before, there’s no need to talk about it. Misunderstanding.” His head goes back down. Geez, since when did he turn into an asshole? And how is laying your hand on someone’s thigh a misunderstanding? I’m about to throw a good comeback, but as I raise my hand to counter argue, I realize it’s not worth it. Maybe he’s just insulted I turned him down. Guys get butt hurt over the smaller things. I shake it off, realizing I’m here to do a job, not worry about fulfilling his personal obligations. As long as I focus on my work.
I spend the entire morning filing and organizing contracts by date, geographic location, and client. By the time it hits lunchtime, I stand up to stretch, hoping it’s an indication that we’re taking a break.
“I have three more piles over here if you’re done. This needs to get done today,” he says, not even looking at me. What a jerk. I sit back down, ignoring the grumbling from my stomach and pick up another stack of papers. I picture the inside of my purse, trying to remember what I have in there that’s edible. I have three pieces of gum, some vitamins, and an old granola wrapper I can probably suck on—
My phone dings next to me, and I sneak a quick peek since I’m not sure looking at messages fits in my schedule either. My eyes pop at the name across my screen. I smile, thinking how he must have programmed his information into my phone before he left on Friday. I swipe my phone to read the text.
Creed: Meet me outside.
“Finding those contracts amusing, Ms. Bishop?”
I throw the contract over my phone, raising my head. “Nope. Nothing here.” I offer him a smile which he doesn’t keep eye contact long enough to return. Prick. I flip through a few pages, re-reading Creed’s message in my head. So bossy, telling me, and not asking me. A part of me wants to give him some lip for being so rude, but then I remember just the person he is. Bossy, dominating. I haven’t heard a peep from him since he left my place. I didn’t know if I would, either. There was a part of me that felt he got what he wanted and he would move on. His whole friendship speech was just a way to get me out of my panties. Not that he had to work hard to accomplish that.
I stick my head further into the contract, so Todd doesn’t notice my flushing cheeks. It’s hard not to get flustered when thinking about Creed though. I’ve thought about calling him a million times, but then talk myself out of it. For starters, I didn’t think I even had his number, but mostly because what exactly would I say? “Hey, wanna come over and watch Golden Girls then do the nasty all over my fancy apartment?” It just didn’t sound as sexy when I practiced it out loud. Plus, I suck at being vulgar. And when I stood in front of the mirror repeating, wanna fuck a million times, each time I looked constipated and just plain old pathetic looking.
So, I didn’t make any attempt at locating his number. I decided to use my time instead pretending he came over and touched me in the ways I couldn’t stop dreaming about. I’m assuming I don’t have to spell out what really went down.
And I know. Everyone scream “pathetic.” But if I can’t even ask my boss for a lunch break, then how was I going to ask my friend for sex? And who asks for sex? Not me! I’m a conservative girl who says, “yes please, and thank you.” I’m polite and I don’t go looking for trouble. Trouble sure came looking for you. Ain’t that the truth.
But Creed is a different kind of trouble. The kind that may not sit back and watch girly movies and eat cereal with me, but he’ll teach me things way beyond what Nicholas Sparks will. Like the art of what the body can handle.
I sigh, thinking about what I’ve already learned when a grumble from down the table catches my attention. Got it. Less daydreaming. More contracts. I end up quickly sending Creed a text back, telling him I’m swamped at work and have to take a raincheck. I may have shed a tear pressing send because I was guilty of wanting to meet up with him.
When I finally get to the Wheatland project, for some reason, the notes catch my attention. Wheatland Summer Camp is a large warehouse that currently runs programs for underprivileged kids. From the collection of notes, it looks like it was owned by a private company at one point who was no longer able to fund the project, so the city took it over. They tried to invest a few bucks in it, thinking the townspeople would step in, but they fell flat, too. And now it’s in the process of being sold; the buyer being Roe Inc. Investments. Looking deeper into the file, it looks like the camp had filed a motion to stop the purchase of the warehouse unless it would continue to be used for the children’s camp. Reading further, it also looks like those claims were denied.
“How horrible,” I say softly to myself as I open my laptop and type in the camp URL address. The website is definitely outdated, but get past that, and there is blog after blog of parents and teachers fighting to stop the sale. Marianne Summers, who has three kids in the program, works two jobs just to put food on the table. Without the program, she would have nowhere for her kids to go. This would force her to quit her job, forcing them out of their home.
Another post goes on to say that kids flock to the camp as a safe place. Sometimes their home life is not good, and the teachers and aides help them.
Why would they want to take that away? Money of course. Everything always has a price on it. And further research shows that taking away the camp and adding in a high rise would make a gazillion more dollars and revenue for the city.
It makes me dislike the company I work for. I get the lust for making money, but to take away such a great thing for a community seems kind of heartless to me. I set a mental reminder to ask Todd about it when he’s not so grumpy.
Tuesday rolls around and it’s the same song and dance. Creed texted me in the morning, asking if I was going to be too busy again today. I felt like a jerk and annoyed with him for calling me out about yesterday, but I swore it wasn’t me. I texted him back, being honest that my boss was kind of a jerk and didn’t allow for lunch breaks. I told him I’d take another raincheck but he never replied back. I didn’t even get those three little dots, telling me he was even thinking about replying.
By the time lunch rolls around, I attempt another stand and stretch, when Todd’s grumpy voice comes echoing from down the table.
“Do you have the Wheatland Property done? I needed it yesterday.”
“I was actually wondering about that one. I was just doing some reading and are you sure this is the right flip for Roe Inc.? I know a lot of money is involved, but it would be taking away a great thing to the Wheatland community.” I wait for Todd to at least lift his head to acknowledge me, when he replies.
“Not your concern. I’m going to need that ASAP.”
And back down I go.
So no saving the kids of Wheatland today. I know I should just let it be. I wasn’t hired to be an advocate for children and the fight to keep camps alive, but I have a hard time letting it go. It’s obvious Todd won’t hear me out. I make another mental note to talk to Virginia about the owner. Maybe if I can just get a moment of his time to address it, he would second guess the sale.
I take a quick look at the time and watch
a normal employee lunch hour pass me by. Thank God I stuffed my purse with snacks this morning before I left home. I really want to grow a set and mention that there are workforce laws on not allowing a lunch when my phone vibrates. I dig for it under my contracts to see a text from Creed.
Creed: I’m hungry for your cunt.
Oh Jesus.
Way to just jump right in. I lift my head making sure Todd isn’t looking. God forbid he sees me beet red. I actually look down to see if my now perked nipples are noticeable through my dress. Trying to be incognito, I reply back.
Me: Man, that sounds hungry. But sorry. I can’t. Swamped with work. Another raincheck?
I’m disappointed as I click send, knowing that his romantic lunch invitation would have been lovely. Then I laugh to myself because there was nothing romantic about it. Raunchy maybe. Hot. Dirty. I could go on, when another text comes through.
Creed: Go to the bathroom. Take a picture of that cunt of yours. I want to see you.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“Problem?”
I throw my head up. Todd is staring at me. “Nope. Just wow. Great work on this one. Almost done.”
He is crazy. I’m at work. If he thinks I’m going to go and take a dirty photo of myself, he is soooo wrong.
Like not gonna happen.
Ever.
Evvver.
I hate myself and my lack of self-control.
I stand up. “Just gonna take a bathroom break. Be right back.”
I have issues. I can’t believe I am actually willing to do this. Maybe I just actually need to pee? With your phone? Gah! I suck! I can’t even lie to myself. I’m totally going to do it.
I enter the bathroom and thank the gods above that no one’s in there. Last thing I need is for someone to hear me snapping pics while sitting on the toilet. I get situated, pulling my dress up, my thong’s down. I work my butt so my privates are out in clear view. God, what the ever loving fuck am I doing? My phone dings, almost causing me to drop it into the toilet. I take a look at the recent text.
Creed: I have my cock in my hand, waiting.
Okay, I have to admit. That kind of gave me a hot flash. The mental image of Creed holding his fabulous monster of a cock waiting for my photo so he can pleasure himself is hot. That gives me the courage I need, and as I position my phone just right, I snap a shot of my sex, looking pretty. Ew, can a vag really look pretty? Who knows. Let’s just hope.
I press send.
And I wait.
And wait.
When five minutes pass and I’m close to ten, I start to feel discouraged. I check again to make sure the photo went through, which it did. Thank God technology rats out the other user, allowing me to know he ‘read’ it. My fun, naughty side dies, when more time passes and he doesn’t respond. I know I have to get back unless I want my boss to think I’m going number two. I pull my skirt down and flush for theatrics. I make my way back to the boardroom and still no reply. What the fuck? Ugh. Maybe my vagina wasn’t as pretty as I thought it was.
I loved the movie Groundhog Day, but I seriously didn’t want to live it. But that’s what my job is starting to feel like. Hours of slaving over contracts while starving myself and taking minimal breaths and pee breaks. I never heard back from Creed, which is fine. Totally fine. Okay, lies. I went home last night to see if there was a way to retract a photo message. Once that search failed, I began to Google-search voodoo on how to erase one’s memory. I promise I will never show a man my vagina again.
When I came in this morning, I tried catching Virginia, but she was in a hurry with the newest hire. I just wanted to ask her about the owner before I ran out of time and was forced to submit the Wheatland project.
At the strike of noon, I stand up and do my normal stretch, with no shocker that I am told that something sooooo important is needed. I grunt and sit back down, pulling the homemade sandwich out of my purse.
“You know, Todd,” I start with a mouth full of salami. I think it’s about time to let him know about work ethics and employee rights. “The amendment of work…” I trail off as his phone chirps and watch as he picks it up, reading a message that’s come through. His face scrunches in anger and without replying, he slams his phone back onto the table.
I swallow my bite. “Everything okay?” I ask, being nosy.
“Fine. Take a lunch. Be back by two.”
Two? I look at my watch and it’s only twelve. “But that’s—”
“Is there a problem, Ms. Bishop?”
“Nope. Guess not.” I grab my purse, dumping the sandwich back in and before he changes his mind, I stand. I only need enough time to run to the deli around the corner and grab a fresh sandwich, and I can be back up and finish up my work and hopefully find Virginia, before having to submit the Wheatland project.
“So um, I’m gonna grab a sandwich, did you want me to grab you—”
“No.”
Okay then. Jerk.
I don’t bother saying goodbye and hurry out of the building. I step outside and lift my chin to allow the warm sun to hit my face before I start a slow jog to the deli café. Just as I bring my head back down, I spot Creed, standing outside, leaning against a shiny black car.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, excited to see him, nervous that I didn’t spot check myself in the bathroom first, and curious as to why he’s here.
“I’m feeding you. Get in.”
He pushes off his car and opens the door. I immediately recall him being hungry yesterday until he got what he wanted and blew me off. I want to refuse to get in and tell him what a jerk he is right where I’m standing. Or I can do it inside his car because I find myself climbing in. It smells expensive. Brand new leather, with the lingering spice of Creed. Once he’s in the driver’s seat, he pulls into traffic and speeds off.
“How’s work today?”
“Ehh, it’s fine. My boss is crabby today, but he’s also been sporting a black eye all week, so I blame it on that and not that he doesn’t like me.”
Creed glances my way, then back to the road. “Did he say how he got the black eye?”
I shrug. “No, but I’m sure his attitude probably had something to do with it. I really pinged that guy wrong. I thought he was a nice guy, but I guess I was wrong.”
I don’t say anything more and he doesn’t either. We drive in silence for a few minutes until we stop at a luxury high-rise building and he proceeds to get out of his car. My curiosity gives in as he opens my door, offering his hand to me. I ask, “So where are you taking me anyway?”
“My place.”
Simple answer.
So many underlying questions!
“Um, I thought you were feeding me?” Oh God, what if he thinks I’m asking something sexual, like he did yesterday? My stomach takes that opportunity to let out an embarrassing loud grumble.
Creed chuckles, pulling me toward the entrance of the building. “I plan on feeding you, but I plan on feeding off you first.”
Well that shuts me up.
And my stomach.
I don’t say another word as he escorts me into his building, past the concierge, and into the elevator. I half expect him to attack me once the doors close—I know—too many romance movies, but he doesn’t. He stands there patiently while I stare at each floor we pass. Five, fifteen, twenty-seven, Jesus, where does this guy live? He’s clearly doing well on a real estate salary.
Finally, the doors open and he’s once again on the move, pulling me out and in front of his door. The only door on the floor. Key pad disarmed, door open, and I’m now standing in what may be the nicest condo I’ve ever been in. Even nicer than Steven’s.
“This is your place?” I ask, gawking at the floor to ceiling windows, the modern furniture, the lack of… color. I become curious at what the dark mood is all about, but he’s already on me. I stumble back, but his hands are around my hips, and my feet are in the air.
“Whoa,” I squeal, as he walks us further i
nto his luxurious condo. My dress, in this position, has no choice but to ride up my legs. I can feel the cool air on my butt cheeks as I wrap my legs around his waist. With the placement of his hands, he can easily figure out I’m wearing a thong. My skin prickles with desire as his warm palms brace around my cheeks, holding me tightly as he carries me into his kitchen. I squirm once my bare butt cheeks press against the cool counter.
“I told myself to stay away from you until my urges calmed. Sending that picture made me want to do horrible things to you. Things you aren’t ready for. But my hand wasn’t curbing my appetite.”
The hitch in my breathing doesn’t go unnoticed as Creed’s eyes fall into that darkness of want.
“I need you to unbutton your dress unless you want me to tear it off you.” His voice is deep. Thick with desire. My stomach clenches, now hungry with a different kind of appetite. With a slow intake of breath, I lift my hands behind my back and unclip the small latch on my dress. Praying he doesn’t notice my shaking hands, I pull the zipper down, just below my tailbone, allowing my straps to slide off my shoulders.
Eager to hear his next demand, I impatiently steal a glance at Creed, only to find his eyes dark. And just as hungry. “I’m starved for your pussy and plan on feasting on you until I’m nice and full.”
A ripple of excitement shoots down to my core. My lips part as the sharp intake of breath almost chokes me. Creed doesn’t respond to my reaction. His expression still neutral, he grips my ass, tugging me to the end of the counter. Palming my thighs, he uses his tight grip to push up my dress.
“Lay on your back,” he instructs. I do as I’m told, allowing my back to touch the cold surface, adding to the already built up layer of goosebumps covering my skin. Lifting my dress past my pale pink thong, I feel his thumbs pull at the material. “Always so wet and ready. Always confirming what a little liar you are about being so innocent.”
I lift my head to argue, just as he pinches my clit. I whimper at the sensation, bringing my head back down. “It’s only because no one has ever touched me the way you do,” I admit, feeling no shame in my honesty. His grip tightens, the pressure of his thumbs digging into the lining of my sex. I feel the tips of his fingers ready to break the barrier of my sex and I bite my lip at the awaiting intrusion.
Creed's Expectations Page 9