Switch

by Adriana Locke

“I don’t, usually,” Mr. Landry says, shaking his head. “He has his shit together more than any of you, which concerns me today when I see him like this. I—”

  He’s interrupted by a buzzing sound loud in the air. “Mallory, would you see me in my office, please?” Graham’s voice is clear and not without a brusqueness that’s impossible to miss.

  “Sure. I’ll be right there.” I stand, smoothing down my dress. The intercom disconnects with a thump. “I moved the creamer on him,” I joke. “I’ll be right back, gentlemen.”

  I feel their gazes on my back as I exit and weave through the people standing in the halls on their lunch break. Once I enter my office, I see his doors are open.

  A feeling of anticipation lingers in the air. I approach the doorway and find him standing next to his desk, his tie loose around his neck, his hair ruffled. His jaw is set as his gaze sweeps over me.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” he asks.

  “I was still taking notes. I was doing my job.”

  “You were fingering yourself.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  He storms towards me, grabbing the edge of the door and slamming it behind me, locking it with a flourish. “If I touch you now, will you be wet?”

  “Like that has anything to do with if I was touching myself or not,” I say. “Just looking at you—”

  I’m against the wall, the force causing the painting over the love seat to shake. His lips are all over mine, my jaw, down my neck to my chest.

  “Oh, God,” I moan, soaking in the way his hands roam my body—my arms, my cheeks, down my chest and then over to my sides. In a swift motion, his hands are palming my ass and lifting me.

  Instinctively, I wrap my legs around his waist as he picks me up, pinning me against the wall. He kisses me senseless and I go right back at him, working frantically at the buttons of his shirt.

  I’m whirled in a circle as he walks me backwards. I jerk his shirt free from his pants and fumble for the last button. Before I can get it undone, he drops me on the loveseat.

  Lying back, my breathing all over the place, I look up at him. His hair is sticking up everywhere, his jacket half off, his shirt completely askew like he was just mugged. It’s hot as hell.

  He gets on his knees, dragging my left leg and tossing it over his shoulder. A grin lifts the corner of his lips.

  “You need a release, baby?” he asks.

  My legs are spread, my pussy wide open for him. It seems like I should care, that I should feel some sort of self-consciousness, but I don’t. I just don’t.

  “Your dad and brother are in the conference room,” I say as clearly as I can.

  “You don’t think Ford knows what’s happening in here?” He drags a finger up the inside of my thigh. “He’ll keep Dad busy.” His finger drifts over my opening, touching it just lightly enough that I shiver. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  I can’t answer him. I can’t even look at him. All I can do is lie back, my dress straddling my waist, and wait for any touch he’ll give me.

  I don’t have to wait long. His palm lies flat along my stomach, his thumb finding my clit. The push, steady and firm, is enough to almost make me yelp.

  “Shhh . . .” he snickers. “It’s the middle of the day, Ms. Sims. You don’t want an audience, do you?”

  “I don’t care,” I say, bucking against his hand.

  “No, but I do,” he replies. “I don’t want some fuckhead making copies to hear you moan my name. And you will be moaning my name.”

  He swirls the pad of his thumb over me before grabbing my hips and planting his face between my legs.

  “Ah!” I moan as he sucks me into his mouth. “Oh, God, Graham.”

  “Told you.”

  I think I’m going to melt against his face, completely lose control from the contact of his tongue parting me. When I look down and see that he’s watching me, I nearly die.

  Grabbing his hair, I pop myself up as much as I can and watch this man’s face between my legs. “Do I taste good?”

  He hums against my opening before flicking his tongue against me. The sensation is incredible.

  He slides his hands under me, lifting my hips so my pussy is angled right at his mouth. I can hear him sucking me, lapping against me, stroking me with his tongue. Just when I think I can’t take it anymore, he inserts a finger, twisting it in a “come here” fashion.

  “Graham,” I groan, short of breath. My hands weave through his hair, pushing his face into me.

  Another finger goes in, the rigidity of the digits such a contrast to the softness of his mouth. He strokes in and out of me, this powerful man in a suit kneeling under me.

  “You like that?” he asks, drawing his fingers out and shoving them back in. “Does that make you want my cock?”

  “Yes,” I moan, begging for more friction.

  “Too bad.”

  I want to argue, to beg him to undress and climb on top of me, but I can’t form words as his strokes bring me higher and higher.

  “The next time I tell you not to do something, fucking listen.”

  “I just . . . I didn’t. I . . .” My head falls back, my hands finding my breasts and cupping them together. “Oh. My. God.”

  “Be quiet or I’ll stop.”

  Biting down on my lip, my back arched, I feel myself start to near the edge of no return.

  “You drive me fucking crazy,” he says, his tone completely controlled. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

  “Do this to me,” I beg. “Please.”

  He smirks. “I’m going to make you come now. I’m going to watch you completely lose control on my hand. I want you to remember who controls this, got it?”

  He’s purposefully not getting me off, holding back just enough so I can’t come until he says so.

  “Graham,” I groan, my insides clenching, trying desperately to get enough friction to burst apart. “Please.”

  “Who is in control of this, Mallory?”

  “You,” I bite out.

  “Who says when you come?”

  “You fucking do,” I huff, spreading my legs farther. “Now do it.”

  “You take orders pitifully,” he says, but gives in, and within four strokes, has me coming all over him.

  Graham

  LINCOLN’S PRENUPTIAL AGREEMENT IS IN my hands. It takes all of three seconds to read it.

  A heavy, bold X strikes through each page with an arrow indicating I should turn the document over on the last one. I do and see this scratched out in Lincoln’s handwriting:

  I, Lincoln Fucking Landry, will not make my girl sign some stupid piece of paper letting her know if she leaves me, she can’t have my money. Truth is, if she goes, she may as well take all the cash I worked so hard for because who would give a shit at that point? (And I have you. You can make me more.)

  I know you’re making that face you make when you think I’m making a really bad choice (worse than the time I used duct tape to keep the braids Sienna put in the dog’s hair in place), but I got this. Relax. I mean, if I’m wrong, you will be right and we all know how much that makes you happy.

  Thanks for looking out for me, G. You’ll be my best man, right?

  I don’t know whether to laugh or call him and rip his ass. This is utterly stupid, to not protect your interests when combining your life with someone else’s. But it’s Lincoln, and as much as I hate to admit it, I’m not entirely surprised he’s going this route.

  Mallory’s voice trickles in through the door I left cracked open for that sole purpose. Having her out there is a godsend professionally. Sometimes I sit at my desk and listen to her make phone calls, take care of issues, deny people entry to my office in awe. Linda was good. Mallory is great.

  If that’s all it is, I’d be fine. But it’s not. I know it and I can’t fix it and it drives me absolutely mad.

  Hearing her a few feet away does the same thing for me that watching Vanessa teach Philosophy did in colleg
e. There’s nothing sexier than a woman with a brain, but it’s more. It’s an unraveling of my wits, a chipping away at my concentration, a veering into the dark, unchartered waters of a place in my life I’m not ready to go.

  I wasn’t ready with Vanessa. I had so much to do, so many balls to juggle, but I tried. As they fell to the ground and shattered, I knew things would never look the same to me again. I’d lose the ability to see things through rose-colored glasses. My naiveté was stripped the day her truths were told.

  As I sit, one leg resting on the knee of the other and feeling the warm sunlight shine on my face, I listen to Mallory and feel my walls crumble. They aren’t barriers to keep people out; I’ve let many women inside over the years, just in carefully timed, preconceived ways.

  I couldn’t do that with Vanessa. It was all or nothing, just like I fear it would be with Mallory. The loss of complete control, and I can never do “all” again.

  “Graham?” A knock at the door raps through the room and I glance that way. Mallory is standing there, her head resting on the doorframe, a soft smile touching her lips. “It’s five. I’m going to head out.”

  “Come in here for a second.” I sit up and watch her move across my office, a feeling of warmth drifting through my core that unsettles me. “Besides your little outburst, I’m really proud of how you did today with my father and Ford. You made me look good.”

  Her cheeks flush. “I just made sure all of your ideas and plans were in line. Today was all about you.” She sits on the edge of the chair across from me.

  “Today was about Ford.”

  “You should celebrate. Maybe with pancakes.”

  “You didn’t bring me any or I would.”

  “I didn’t have time,” she scoffs. “I’m not a super morning person, even though today was actually decent.”

  “I love mornings. Every day is a fresh start.”

  She shrugs. “I guess I’ve not always had a lot to look forward to.”

  “I’d venture to say,” I tell her, leaning against my desk, “that you have a lot to look forward to. Your whole life is in front of you.”

  “True.” She says it, but she doesn’t believe it.

  “Yes, it’s true,” I insist. “You can get up every day and decide what you are going to accomplish, what goals you’re going to work towards. Think about that. Every morning is an opportunity to change what you aren’t happy with.”

  “My head hurts,” she laughs. “Today was a long one.”

  “You have yoga tonight. Is that right?”

  She nods. “I do. I need it. I’m teaching an all-girls class. But if you want to come, I’ll make an exception.”

  “No yoga for me,” I grin. “Come on. I’ll walk you to your car. I know how much you hate being late.”

  I gather my things, listening to her ramble about essential oils and yoga, and we walk to the elevator. I don’t listen to the words, just hear the delight in her voice. This is what I’ve found myself craving, more than anything else, late at night when I’m home alone.

  The elevator is packed. We squeeze in and ride to the executive parking floor. When we exit, it’s empty.

  Her shoes tap against the concrete as we make our way to a small, four-door, red compact car.

  “This is it,” she says, unlocking it with a key. “Yeah, I know,” she sighs.

  “I didn’t even know car doors could be opened with keys anymore.”

  “This one can,” she laughs. “I had a newer car with Eric, but I couldn’t afford the payments so I left it with him. This beauty gets me where I’m going.”

  “Does she?” I give the vehicle a quick once-over as discreetly as I can. It’s probably more than ten years old and looks like something a greasy-haired used car salesman would sell you, only to have it break down a week later. “How long have you had this?”

  “A couple of weeks. It’s fine. Not fancy, but good.” She looks at the floor and I realize she’s embarrassed.

  “Hey,” I say, lifting her chin so she’s looking at me. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Get that look on your face.”

  “Don’t feel pity for me,” she says, brushing my hand away. “I’m driving this hunk of metal because I choose to. That alone, that I made the choice to do this, means a lot to me.”

  I look at her in disbelief. How many people do what she did? Realize they deserve more and leave behind everything they have for a life that’s harder, at least materially?

  “I respect that,” I say, my tone somber.

  “Yeah, well, I’ll remember how respectable it is when I’m trying to figure out how to add windshield wiper fluid.”

  Tossing her bag in her car, I hear a crunch. There are a host of take-out bags and Styrofoam cups littering her passenger seat and floorboard.

  “That bothers you, doesn’t it?” she giggles.

  “I know what you’re getting as a Christmas bonus.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your fucking car cleaned. Just . . .” I can’t take it. Stalking back to the elevator, I grab the plastic garbage can and haul it across the parking lot. It squeals as the bottom rips along the pavement.

  “Graham!” she shouts over the ruckus. “What are you doing?”

  Shaking my head, I nudge her out of the way. “My God, Mallory,” I groan. Bag after bag, cup after cup, napkin after pieces of plastic that are semi-damp, get swiped up and dumped into the can behind me.

  I’m leaned across her console, the crunch of the debris muddling the sound of her objections. The carpet is a mess and there’s a weird smell that reminds me of bacon, but at least you can see the carpet now.

  Making a face, I climb out of the driver’s seat and dispose of the last items in my hands. “That is a fucking disaster. Park in the front tomorrow morning and I’ll have someone shampoo it out.”

  “You will not!”

  “Oh, I will. I’ll consider it a gift to humanity.”

  “You’re such an ass,” she says, smacking my chest. I catch her hand and pull her to me. It’s automatic, such a natural move that it catches us both off-guard. “There are probably cameras out here, Mr. Landry.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That means I know that look in your eye.”

  “You’re safe,” I sigh. “I can’t throw you on the console of your car. I’m afraid your face would get stuck in syrup or something.”

  She rolls her eyes and climbs inside. “I’m going to be late to class. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  I close the door behind her and step away so she can pull out. She gives me a little wave and a beep of the horn as she drives, entirely too fast, out of the garage.

  As her taillights get farther away, a sense of loneliness begins to filter my way. There’s no longer the smell of lavender, the sound of her making fun of me, or the twinkle in her eye that makes me want to ask her a question so she’ll talk to me.

  Tension stretches across my shoulders, tugging my muscles tight. With the stiffness comes a pulsing sensation behind my left eye, indicating that I’m on the cusp of one hell of a headache.

  Everything is out of order. The pieces of my life are strewn around worse than the contents on her floorboard, and I can’t shuffle them back in place fast enough. My desk is still loaded with papers, Lincoln’s refusal to be sane, and Ford’s security company to deal with. Typically, I wait for this moment—everyone gone, everything quiet, and I can really dig in. Now I can’t because I have another, potentially worse issue at hand: I need Mallory around as badly as I need to put distance between us.

  The pull coming harder in my temple, I head to the elevator and press the button. While I wait, I type out a text.

  Me: Thank you for asking me to be your best man in such a brotherly way.

  Lincoln: Don’t kid either of us. You love that I picked you over Barrett and Ford.

  Me: Well, it only makes sense to pick me.

  Lincoln: How do you
figure?

  Me: I’m the one settling in to spend the evening getting a plan together to save your ass in case everything goes south.

  Lincoln: Do me a favor?

  Me: What, Linc?

  Lincoln: Get a drink. Because as wound up as you get, you’ll be dead before I’d need you to implement that plan and then I’d really be fucked.

  Me: Always about you, isn’t it?

  Lincoln: Hell, yeah. Oh—Ford said you got it on in the middle of a meeting today. Can I say I’m super proud of you?

  Me: Talk to you later.

  Lincoln: Wait! You can’t jump my ass and then ignore me. This is the day Graham proves he’s human. Let’s discuss. Should I grab some pizza and meet you at the office?

  Laughing, I turn my phone off and slip it in my jacket. I step in the elevator and head to my office, hopefully to work and not to think about Mallory.

  Mallory

  “There you are!” Joy chirps.

  I hurry inside the yoga studio and toss my things against the wall. Tonight’s class, thankfully, is one of the smaller ones and no one is early.

  “I was thinking you weren’t coming,” Joy remarks. “You said you were on your way forty minutes ago.”

  “I . . .” I plop on the mat and look at my friend. “Does it really matter what made me late?”

  “Nope. It’s how you roll. I take that back,” she snickers, “it’s unless you were getting all hot and sweaty with Bossman. In that case, I want every detail. Do not leave anything out.”

  Rolling onto my mat face-first, I pretend to stretch out my lower back. It does feel good, but it actually gives me time to figure out how to keep my face blank around Joy.

  I could tell her about Graham. If it were anyone else, no doubt I would. I always have. But this time, I want to keep it for me. This time, it feels . . . different.

  I’m not sure what it is, although it certainly doesn’t feel like just sex. Not quite. Sex is insertion. An act and then it’s done. It’s not walks to my car. He could have me without the little looks during the day, without taking the trash out of my floorboard. But what does that mean? I have no idea.

  “How did things go today?” she asks. She’s prodding for information, the tone in her voice giving her away. “Anything new with Graham?”