by Lulu Pratt
“Whoa there,” he said, grabbing my arm to steady me as I rocked back on my feet. “Somebody’s excited to golf.”
I stepped away, righting my tipping body and trying my hardest to look indignant, even though my privates had responded instantly to his touch. Stupid, betraying flesh.
Blowing at an errant piece of hair, I replied, “I hate golf. And you.”
Rather than look hurt, Jacob laughed. “Duly noted. Should I announce that in the company group chat?”
Damnit, he’d thrown it back at me so fast. I tried to think of some witty comeback, but the moment had already passed, because he was busy saying, “So, you ever golfed before?”
“Once,” I reluctantly replied, giving up my opportunity to clap back. “I was wretched.”
“Well, you’re in luck. I happen to be an excellent golfer.”
At this, I had to snort. “You? An excellent golfer? Bullshit.”
His strappy arms were straining inside his polo shirt, and I thought that if I just managed to spill a little Arnold Palmer on his torso, I could get the linen to stick to his abs, those sweet, juicy abs…
He interrupted my thoughts — thank God — replying, “I’m a man of hidden depths.”
I stared at him, unconvinced, until he relented. “Okay,” Jacob admitted. “I used to caddy as an after-school job. Got pretty good at it.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. So, prepare to dominate.”
“What’s that gotta do with me?” I asked, perplexed.
“We’re a team,” he said. “Didn’t you read the itinerary?”
Shoot. Normally, that would’ve been a fair assumption. I was an itinerary kind of girl, had ones in three different colors on my desk back home. But last night I’d been so flustered and tired that I’d just breezed right past the details, only reading the info that was in Helvetica Bold.
“All couples are golf pairs,” Jacob explained patiently. “So, howdy, partner.”
I groaned. “Seriously?”
He clapped a friendly hand on my back and nodded. “Yup. Sorry, you’re stuck with me, hon.”
His hand lingered above my bra band for a moment too long, and we both felt it. He pulled his fingers away and cleared his throat, but not before the temperature in the hallway had ticked up by a few degrees.
“Okay, let’s get out of here,” he said. He didn’t have to finish his thought — and get as far away from this awkward situation as possible.
No other words needed. I scrambled ahead of him and we walked down the stairs. At the bottom, we were greeted by Joe.
“Hey,” he said with an imperceptible nod of his head. “Sleep well?”
“Kinda,” I squawked out, as Jacob said, “Yeah, definitely, great sleep.”
I threw him a glance which he avoided with such purpose that I wondered if perhaps his dreams hadn’t been just a little similar to my own. The thought made my throat tighten, with either anxiety or delight, I couldn’t tell.
“Good enough,” Joe said, ignoring our weird responses. “Let’s get in the van.”
With that, we walked out the gigantic front doors and onto the gravel, where an idling van was waiting for us.
“Everybody’s taking separate vans,” Joe explained. “We’ll meet the rest of the team at the course.”
“Great,” I replied, eager to just be out of the house.
Joe got into the passenger seat, leaving me and Jacob to pile into the back. It was one of those nine-seater vans with rows instead of individual seats. I wanted to focus my anger on how strange it was that only three of us, plus a driver, were taking one, but I was pretty distracted by how my body seemed to slide against Jacob’s at every turn, no matter how hard I steeled my abs and attempted to keep well away. At one point, a large, sharp turn came, and he held up his hands to cushion my impact.
When we arrived at the golf course, I leapt from the van like a bat out of hell. Though I guess those technically fly… whatever, you take my point. No more confined spaces with Jacob, nu-uh, not for this girl. Sure, we’d have to play golf together all day, but that was with a group of people. Safety in numbers.
As a trio, we entered the lavish club house, an ode to all things East Coast and Old World — colonial-style wood, navy accents, the works. Clearly, this was a group of Floridians desperate to impersonate the stateliness of their cousins to the north. The clubhouse was attractive, but it would never rival the real preppy havens — money can’t buy age.
In the lounge off the foyer, we found part of our group.
“Hey, Tom,” Jacob called out, spotting his boss amidst the cluster of people.
Tom waved a ‘hello,’ and our groups enmeshed. For maybe twenty minutes, we all chatted amicably, killing time as we waited for Charles and his entourage to arrive.
When our would-be business partner did arrive, he was in another white and yellow outfit, though this one was even more off-kilter than the last, featuring white and yellow plaid golf pants, a white polo and a yellow golf cap.
“Hello, hello,” he boomed. “Let’s hit the links, I’m itching to get out there.” This last bit said as though he hadn’t been the one making us all wait.
“Pair off,” Charles added. “The caddies will bring the carts around.”
Sure enough, as we trickled out the back door of the club house and onto the green, a row of high-end golf carts were waiting to chauffeur us around the course. Jacob once again scooted in next to me, though this time, there wasn’t a large bench to provide us some distance — we were smooshed together on a tiny seat, my bare thigh touching his pant leg.
I crossed my legs, then seeing that that only seemed to make the situation worse, uncrossed them.
“Sorry,” Jacob said, noting my unease with a practiced eye. “My thighs weren’t built for a golf cart.”
Fair enough. He had large, tree trunk thighs, the kind that engaged in hard work all day long. At least he was ‘lifting with his legs,’ as all the pros advised. And how good those legs had felt when I’d straddled them, firm beneath my soft, pliable ones.
We pulled to a stop at the first hole and exited the golf cart, with a caddy following shortly behind us. Jacob, as if unable to help himself, carefully took one of the bags from the young caddy’s back, saying, “Lemme help you, dude.”
The caddy nodded gratefully. “Thanks, man. Nobody ever helps.”
My heart glowed just a little bit — men showing basic decency to people in the service industry always got me. Maybe it’s my Southern manners or maybe I’m just a sane human.
Jacob, bag still in hand, leaned in close to me, as if to strategize.
“Okay,” he breathed. “So here’s the plan. We’re gonna hit the balls.”
I laughed, then quickly caught myself, and adopted a more suitably stern tone. “Wow, very elaborate scheming.”
He pretended to flip a non-existent mane, and replied, “What can I say, I’ve read Sun Tzu.”
Holding back a snort, I said, “Very impressive.”
“I know. I’m a man about town, a raconteur.” He waggled his eyebrows at me. “A—”
“All right,” Charles said, climbing out of his own cart and unknowingly — but nevertheless mercifully — cutting off Jacob’s jokes. “First up is Jacob and Sierra. Step up to the plate, you two.”
“There’s a plate?!” I whispered low enough that only Jacob could hear.
He looked back at me with real concern. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Uh…”
“I thought you said you’d played.”
“Once,” I reminded him. “And I was kinda drunk on spiked lemonade.”
“Oh boy. Well, I’ll go first, show you how it’s done.”
He flicked his eyes over the available clubs, selected one quickly, and teed up for a shot. See? I know some lingo! He seemed to pause only for a moment before nimbly swinging the club, sending the ball flying over the course. His hand went to shade his eye so he could see through the glare as the ba
ll rolled only a few feet from its intended destination.
The company clapped appreciatively. It took me a moment to get over my surprise, and then I joined the chorus.
“Damn,” I said as Jacob stepped away from the tee and our caddy lined another shot up for me.
Jacob rolled his neck out and smiled. “You liked that?”
I blushed, and artfully dodged the question, saying, “I like winning.”
“So you want my help?” he asked.
I relented. Clearly, I was in dire need of it. “Okay,” I agreed. “But this doesn’t mean we’re friends.”
He rolled his eyes. “Yes, you’ve made that much abundantly clear.”
I gulped, and tried to ignore the hurt in his voice as we strode up to the tee together. Was I being too harsh? Or not harsh enough? After all, I was the one in the right here, I was the one who’d been screwed. Flo’s words came back to me — Being generous of spirit isn’t a crime.
My thoughts of forgiveness and fury were sent scampering for the hills when I felt Jacob’s arms wrap around me, his large chest muscles pressing into my back in an all too familiar way.
“What are you doing?” I hissed.
“Helping give you a hope in hell of hitting this shot,” he replied, adjusting the grip on my club and fixing my posture. “Rich people love a good golfer.”
I didn’t know enough about rich people to disagree with him, but it sounded accurate. “All right,” I replied. “Do what you must.”
In reality, I knew I was subconsciously sticking my ass out just a little bit, popping it just enough that it brushed against the crotch of his pants. I had the gratification of hearing Jacob sharply inhale, and quickly re-angle himself away from my ass, in what struck me as a desperate bid to avoid tenting his crisp trousers. Points to Sierra. Are there points in golf?
“Aren’t you two cute,” Charles chuckled.
My heart skipped a beat — for a moment there, I’d forgotten that our entire company was watching. I scooted my butt suitably away from Jacob — didn’t wanna people to think anything untoward was happening.
Jacob called back in Charles’ direction, “Sierra has many athletic talents, but golfing isn’t one of them. Hope you don’t mind if I help her.”
“Be my guest,” Charles said approvingly.
“What are my athletic talents?” I asked in a low voice as Jacob re-tensed his form around mine.
He paused before replying, “I think you know exactly what your athletic talents are.”
My pussy tightened in reflex, as though he’d just flicked a firm finger across my clit. His words sent sensations shooting to my very core. I tried — and failed — to get my mind out of the gutter.
“All right,” Jacob said, his breath warm in my ear. “I’m gonna guide your body, okay?”
“Okay,” I managed to reply, even as the words caught in my rapidly closing throat.
He kicked a foot between my legs, nudging my feet further out and widening my stance. Jacob pressed a hand on my shoulder blades, gently pushing my back closer to the ground. It was impossible, in this position, not to imagine myself on all fours, with Jacob doing something rather different behind me.
I wanted to shrug him off, to keep this professional and clean cut and smart… but then again, his touch stirred something inside me that had been dormant for too long. For the moment, at least — well, fuck being smart. I wanted to be turned on.
And besides, I rationalized, showing Charles I can pick up a skill will look good for Pillers.
I knew this argument didn’t really hold any water, but jeez, just let me live in denial, okay? If I can’t lie to myself, who can I lie to?
Jacob bent me further down, and whispered, “Time to take your shot.”
Time indeed…
Chapter 9
Jacob
I WON’T KEEP you on pins and needles — Sierra and I killed it. I’m not sure what came over her, beginner’s luck, although I prefer to think it was my excellent coaching, but all of a sudden, she was quite agile with the golf club, swinging smoothly and putting everyone on the course to shame. Okay, a slight exaggeration, but what can I say? I was proud. We had a stellar game, no question. Charles was whistling and whooping the whole time.
After the ninth hole, it was time to break for lunch — good thing, too, as I’d worked up an appetite in more ways than one. Though, of course, only one could be, er, sated.
Sierra and I high-fived over a game well played, and I tried my best not to let the limited physical contact, or the total lack of angry, pointed stares on her end, go to my head. Her body pivoted towards mine, as though all her focus in the world rested on me. It was a heady feeling.
“Good game,” she remarked, her eyebrows arching. She seemed… actually happy? “We—”
“Dominated.”
She grinned. “To put it mildly.”
Sierra had always been competitive. I knew she wasn’t just glowing from the mid-day sun, but from the sense of victory.
“Shall we celebrate over victory cocktails?” I asked.
“Why, that sounds lovely,” she agreed with a faux snooty tone. “Drinks at the clubhouse.”
I joined in her bit, replying, “Off we go to imbibe the nectar of the gods. It’ll taste so much better without any poor people around.”
The two of us burst out into laughter, and as I recovered from the laughter and the sense of relief that the entire day wasn’t going to be tension filled, I looked around us.
“Oh. Shit.”
Sierra, who’d been trailing a finger under her tear ducts to avoid mascara leakage, looked at me.
“What’s up?” she asked.
I took her by the shoulders and spun her away from me so that she could take in the scene.
“Oh shit,” she murmured.
“Yup,” I replied. “We got ditched.”
While we’d been busy high-fiving and celebrating, the entire company had packed up and cleared out. Even our loyal caddy had apparently hitched a ride somewhere else. No surprise there — in my caddy days, I distinctly recall not giving a fuck about doing my job well, or even doing it at all. We were alone in a secluded section of the golf course.
“Well, at least they left us a cart,” I said, pointing to a tan and white machine stationed beneath a nearby oak.
Sierra exhaled. “Okay, phew. It’ll be some trouble navigating back without any help, but I’m sure we can just find someone on the course. Shouldn’t be too big of a problem.”
I nodded, and together we trotted across a grassy knoll, both of us anxious to reunite with the group — for, as you can imagine, a variety of reasons.
“Okay,” she said, as we came upon the cart. “You know how to work these things. You drive.”
Fair enough. I hopped in the driver’s seat and found the key sitting nearby. I plugged it in, cranked the engine and—
Nothing.
I tried again.
Nothing.
I gulped. “Uh, Sierra, you’re not gonna like this.”
“What is it?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”
“The engine.”
“And? Fix it!”
I could hear the desperation leaking out of her like a punctured balloon. “I’ll try, but I gotta be honest, engines aren’t my strong suit.”
Perhaps she didn’t know I could hear her when she muttered, “How convenient.”
And I wanted to reply, to say ‘it’s true,’ but I also knew that a part of her was right.
I’d feared being left alone out here with Sierra not because I hated her and worried that, left to our own devices, we’d tear each other’s throats out, but because I feared my attraction to her. Even in the enormous mansion, we hadn’t been completely alone. But now, with most of the golf course on break for lunch and in the middle of nowhere… well, we might as well have been in the Sahara.
As I reckoned privately with our solitude, I always wrestled with my rapidly engorging dick. Me, Sierra, al
one in the woods… it was enough to give me some wood of my own. She just looked so sexy in that little golfing get-up, her tan legs going on for miles beneath that white skirt, her tits pert. I knew instinctively that if I so much as rubbed against her breast, her nipple would go hard beneath that thin cotton polo. Keeping this professional wasn’t going to be easy.
I was jolted out of my fantasizing by Sierra’s low and angry grunt. I looked at her expectantly, unable to imagine what could’ve pissed her off more than the golf cart being broken.
“Our phones,” she explained to me, using the tone one would use with a slow dog.
“Crap.”
See, Charles had made us leave our phones in lockers at the clubhouse. This wasn’t so much a billionaire eccentricity as it was an old person thing — he hated cell phones, thought they distracted from ‘team bonding.’ It was in line with his whole ‘everyone in their own rooms’ assertion — stupid, and kind of a violation, but a necessary evil anyways. I briefly wondered what would happen if we didn’t get the deal. Would I throttle that old bastard in his sleep? Maybe. Even just a good slap to his erratic, bearded face would suffice.
“Jacob,” she said, and by her expression I could see it wasn’t the first time she’d said it.
“Sorry, what were you telling me?”
Her hands were fidgeting at her sides. “I was saying, you try to repair the golf cart, I’ll go look for help.”
“Sounds good,” I replied, already knowing this was a lost cause but knowing she needed to exhaust all possible options.
Without further ado, she tromped off in the direction of the nearest hole, and I set to work tinkering with the golf cart. I ruled out the approximately two things I knew to check for on the cart, which were both fine, and then hopped into the cart, sticking my legs up on the dash and crossing my hands behind my head. If I was going to be stuck in the middle of nowhere, I was at least going to be comfortable.
“Hard at work, I see,” Sierra called from across a small hill, slowly trudging into my sightline.
“Sorry,” I replied. “Cart’s broken. Figured I might as well get some shade.”
She sighed, and appeared to vacillate before at last giving in to the reality of the situation and marching over to the cart.