“No testing rooms?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
She laughs out loud. “Hoping for rooms with two way mirrors to observe?”
“Did my research last night,” I say, seeing her cheeks turn pink.
Playfully, she elbows me, popping her head into an office to say hello and introduce me. I’m kind of surprised how many men she has working for her. But if I had to guess, I’d think most people in this industry are men. Wonder how that feels for Sterling? I work in a field comprised mostly of women. I guess in that way we have similar occupations, both surrounded by the opposite sex, but that might be the only thing our jobs have in common.
She leads me into an empty conference room to show me the latest European marketing campaigns. “We actually don’t do much in the way of direct advertising.”
“So how’d you get so successful?”
“A great product,” she says. “And luck. We’ve gotten great endorsements. Magazines run an article, we send them a device to try, and they rave about it. And just recently, we’ve gotten endorsements from some leading physicians in women’s health. That’s what sells.”
She points to a framed magazine article on the wall called The Science of Sex Toys, where her vibrator was featured. The article explores how the sex toy industry piggybacked on the technology age and surprised everyone by becoming a billion-dollar industry. What once was a business shadowed in the underground has grown into a high-tech business comparable to those in Silicon Valley, complete with apps and USB chargers. Mechanical satisfaction is big business.
“We have a whole team that works on the science behind the toy,” Sterling says. “Part of what I wanted to create was something that can be customized to the woman. Women are very different. What works for one, doesn’t work for another. It’s important for her to be in control. That’s why I chose the name Woman on Top.”
Suddenly, music starts to play through the entire office. James Brown, “It’s a Man’s Man’s Man’s World.” I hear voices singing. “What’s happening?”
Sterling looks up at me and giggles. “Afternoon pick me up,” she says. “You know how you start to lag in the afternoon? So everyday around this time, a song plays. It’s our little break time.”
How could I not love this woman? “So instead of coffee breaks, you have little karaoke breaks?”
“What were you expecting? Masturbation break time?”
I pull her hips to mine. “Judging by last night, that would be too quick.”
“Ms. Jamison,” Miles says, barging into the conference room.
Sterling quickly pulls back. “Yes, Miles?”
He glances at me, and I can’t tell if he’s apologizing or happy he interrupted. “I was wondering if you’ve given any more thought to guest lecturing. I’ve gotten several more phone calls with requests.”
If there was a brick wall to ram her head against, it looks like Sterling would. “Miles, I told you I’m not interested.”
“But they keep calling,” he says.
“What’s this about?” I ask.
“The Ivy League,” Miles says, grinning.
“It’s nothing,” Sterling says, giving him the side-eye, but I can tell she has a soft spot for him.
Miles steps closer. “Colleges all over keep asking Ms. Jamison to come guest lecture in their women’s studies departments. We’re up to ten schools asking now. And that’s only counting the upper crust.”
Turning to Sterling, I ask, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I’m not doing it,” she says.
“She’d be great. Don’t you think?” Miles says.
I hate to agree with this little suck-up, but he has a point. “You should think about it,” I say.
“You’re the teacher in this relationship,” Sterling says.
“You’re a teacher?” Miles asks. “Where do you teach? Harvard, Yale?”
“High school,” I say, without looking at him.
“Oh, which subject?”
Sterling exhales, taking my hand. “Thank you, Miles.”
“Tell me you’ll at least think about it,” I say. “You’d be fantastic.”
She nods as we walk down the hallway, but I don’t quite believe her. She likes to keep a low profile, and this would force her center stage. Still, she deserves to be recognized. But I know she needs to come to that decision on her own.
“What do you think of the place?” she asks, closing us in her office after giving me the grand tour. “Is it what you expected?”
“Not sure what I expected. But it seems like a good group of people.”
“They are.”
“Everyone except that Miles dude. He’s a little ass kisser.”
She busts out laughing. “He is not. He’s my assistant. He’s supposed to help me.”
Placing both my hands on her ass, I pull her into me. “Maybe you like having your ass kissed?” I lean in closer. “Is that what you like?”
“Rorke,” she whispers in the saddest excuse for a protest I’ve ever heard.
Reaching past her, I turn the lock on her door then go check the other door, making sure it’s secure. When I turn back to her, she’s slipped off her blazer. That’s all the go ahead I need.
Her green eyes hypnotize me. They can break a man’s will and make his dick hard all at the same time.
And I’m happy to be under her spell. Reaching out my hand to her, she slips hers into mine with no hesitation. I pull her to me, then turn her around, letting my fingers roam up the outside of her thighs, inching the fabric of her skirt up as I go.
Her neck rolls a little, granting me access to the spot that makes her quiver. Tracing a path down her spine with my finger, her body rolls, pushing her ass into me.
The smallest bit of ass cheek sticks out from her slightly lifted skirt. I really hate that she wears panties. A man’s underwear serves a purpose, helps to hold his balls in place. But what is the purpose of women’s underwear? I can understand it during that time of the month, but other than that, they should be banned. They just get in the way.
Forcing her skirt all the way up, I slip my hand under the sides of her black panties, forcing them to her ankles. I kneel, helping her step out of her heels and panties. Softly, I kiss the outside of her thigh, working my way up to her perfect ass.
Her body jerks in surprise, but her moan lets me know it’s a good one. Coiling one arm around her, I pull her tighter, nibbling, sucking, and kissing the soft skin of her ass. A warm blush falls over her whole body. Feeling her legs wobble, I move to the sofa in her office, motioning with my finger for her to come to me. She starts to straddle me, but I stop her.
“Over my knee.” Her eyes widen, but she slowly crawls over me.
She looks over her shoulder at me. I take her hips, hiking her ass in the air a little and run my hands across her naked flesh. God, she looks so fucking hot. This time, when I lean over to kiss the soft skin of her ass, I let my fingers roam between her legs. She’s warm and wet and so ready to come.
“Oh, God,” she moans. “Please fuck me.”
Those might be the three greatest words in the English language. In one motion, I lift her hips, angling myself behind her—one foot on the floor, the other bent on the sofa—unzip and bury myself inside her.
For a second, her body relaxes, her desperation for my cock fulfilled, but as soon as I move, her starvation comes roaring back, meeting me thrust for thrust. “That’s it, baby, take it all.”
There’s nothing like watching your dick slip in and out of a woman, her glistening over you, her ass pounding against you. “I’m gonna come,” she pants out over and over again, almost like she’s willing it to happen. The power of positive suggestion at its finest.
That’s the thing about a woman’s orgasm, her head’s got to be in the game. A man, not so much. We could come while reading the dictionary, but women are different. I think that’s why dirty talk helps so much, keeps them focused on the task at hand—their pussy. Men
can stay pretty focused on their dicks, but that’s not the case for women. I’d bet most women could go days without giving their pussies a single thought. Horrifying, but true. So it’s our job to give women – and their pussies all the attention they deserve.
“I want to hear all of it. Don’t hold back,” I grunt.
Just as she starts to come, I slip my finger to her sweet spot, and her muscles tighten, pulling my orgasm from me. I’m still panting when she glances at me over her shoulder, teasing, “Who knew I liked having my ass kissed so much?”
*
Sterling’s been busy with work all afternoon, so I’ve been on my own. She thinks I’m off doing tourist things, but really, I’ve been looking at some schools. It’s summer, but I managed to snag a couple meetings. She doesn’t know about those, either. I don’t want to get her hopes up. Truth is, it doesn’t look good. Two principals agreed to meet with me, and neither had any openings, but said they’d keep my resume on file. That’s the kiss of death.
And if I’m being honest, I don’t see us living here. It’s not me. Hell, it’s not her. Her whole demeanor changed as soon as we stepped off that plane. She’s sad here. I can feel it. Even those button-up clothes say it. She’s free back at home, free to be who she is. Here, she’s created a life where no one except the doorman knows her. I know she’s done it to protect herself from criticism and judgment, but that’s no way to live.
Making my way back up to her offices, I see the doors are closed this time. It’s late, so I guess everyone has gone home for the night. But the doors are unlocked. I make my way through the back hallway. I don’t know another way, so rather than meander through her offices, I go the way Sterling showed me this morning.
I don’t make it far before hearing voices. The door is open, a man’s hand holding the side like he was about to exit, but turned back. I can’t see Sterling, but I can hear her voice. Turning to go wait in the lobby, I hear my name. It’s wrong to listen. And if it were business, I’d give her privacy. But since, I’m the topic of conversation, I stay put.
“He’s a teacher, for God’s sake,” the man says. “The only thing worse would be if he was a wannabe actor. Don’t be naive.”
“Rorke loves me,” Sterling says firmly.
“I’m not saying he doesn’t. In fact, I’m sure he does,” the man says, shifting his weight. “But what about in five or ten years? All I’m saying is, if you divorce, you need to be protected. I’ve seen people who once loved each other, do terrible things to hurt one another. Once he grows accustomed to the money, he may not want to live without it.”
“Money hasn’t changed me. And it won’t change him.”
“Then he won’t have a problem signing a prenup.”
There’s a minute of silence, and I’m not sure if they’re still talking, or I just can’t hear.
This asshole must be her lawyer. He breaks the silence. “I’ll draft a prenup and send it over in the morning.”
She doesn’t object.
I’ve heard enough, and turn and walk away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
STERLING
My assistant Miles and I walk out of the office together. I always hate keeping him late, but generally, he’s the one that locks up. We say goodbye on the sidewalk as my night security guard opens a car door for me. Glancing around, I expect to find Rorke waiting for me. Pulling out my phone, I send him a text, hoping he’s alright. Maybe he just went back to my place.
“Think I’d like to walk,” I say. I know I’ll regret that within three blocks because I’m still sporting my heels, but I need to clear my head, to think.
Things with the copycat company are moving in the right direction. It looks like we can avoid litigation. My attorneys think they’ll be shut down by the end of the month. The league of anti-masturbation zealots isn’t going away, but I’ve been learning to deal with them. I was prepared to deal with all that today, and I did. I wasn’t prepared for the prenup.
It’s stupid. I pay my lawyer well. It’s his job to protect me, my assets. Of course he’d bring it up, push for it. It’s the smart thing to do, but how on Earth would I even bring it up to Rorke? Do I even want to? The business side of me knows I should. But my heart doesn’t want to think about a day when he’s not in my life.
I stop as Beyoncé’s Dangerously in Love album goes through my head. I was a young teenager when that came out. My hairbrush can attest that I knew every word of that album.
Stopping in the middle of the sidewalk in New York City is pretty risky. Depending on the time of the day, you could get mowed down. Everyone here seems busy all the time. It’s so different than Alabama.
I’m standing outside a lingerie store. Smiling, I remember my momma telling me she gives Daddy bad news while wearing some kinky little number. Maybe a prenup conversation will go better if I adopt my momma’s philosophy.
I’m not a lingerie girl, so I’ve got no idea where to start. People might assume that I’m a thong expert given my profession, but I’m a comfort girl. Bustiers and corsets are anything but. And I certainly don’t want the salesgirl’s help. Time to ask myself some serious questions. What would Rorke like? What will cover my ass? What will my boobs fill out? Am I waxed enough to wear that?
And here’s the thing. I feel weird about trying stuff on. How many women have tried this stuff on? I know they say to leave your panties on, but can I trust that everyone abides by the proper rules of lingerie etiquette? A good half-hour later, I settle on a black lace teddy with a plunging neckline. It’s a halter and has no back to it. After insisting they bring me a fresh one from the back, I pay and head home, hoping Momma’s wisdom about men is correct.
I swing my bag a little as the doorman ushers me inside. It’s not Walker tonight, so I don’t ask if Rorke has returned. I head upstairs, opening the door and calling out his name.
Silence.
Pulling out my phone, I send him another text, telling him I just got home and asking if he’s okay, surprised that he hasn’t been in touch. He probably just got caught up in all the city has to offer. Still, he responds quickly this time.
Rorke: Just been walking around. Heading back to your place.
It’s unlike him not to end a text with an “I love you.” Hope the city isn’t making him hard already. Kicking off my shoes, I hurry to my bathroom to take a quick shower and change. I don’t wash my hair, not sure how much time I have. Instead, I pull it out of its bun and let it flow loosely around my shoulders, then I slip into my new little lacy black number.
“Stay just like that,” Rorke says from behind me.
I catch his eyes in the mirror, seeing him lift his shirt over his head, the tan muscles of his chest and arms coming into view. Watching him in the mirror, he walks to me, his hands finding my hips, and places a gentle kiss on my shoulder. It’s like we’re frozen in time as he lets his lips linger on my skin.
“Is this part of the ‘New York City Sterling’?” he asks.
I raise an eyebrow. “What’s that mean?”
“Just that you’re different here,” he says, running his finger under the edge of the lace, outlining my breast. “Don’t get me wrong, I like this, but usually you sleep in old t-shirts.”
I flip around. “How am I different? Because of my clothes? I have to dress for work.”
Releasing a deep breath, he steps back. “You said yourself that you’ve been lonely living here. I can feel that.”
“But I’m not alone anymore,” I whisper sweetly.
“And you won’t ever be,” he says, taking my hand and leading me into my bedroom, a small, rectangular present waiting on my bed.
“What’s that?” I ask, reaching for it. “What did you do?”
“Open it.”
I slip the tiny ribbon off and lift the lid. A blue disposable ink pen sits inside. I pull it out. I’ve heard of giving graduates pens for gifts, but usually those are expensive Montblanc pens, not something from The Dollar Store. Confused doesn’t
begin to describe my state. Do I thank him?
“You won’t ever be alone, Sterling. So I’ll sign the prenup.”
I raise both eyebrows now. “How do you know about that?”
“I was in the hallway,” he says. “I left because I didn’t know what to think. I needed some time, so I took a long walk.”
“It wasn’t my idea,” I say.
“I know that.” He takes me by my waist. “But I have a couple conditions to signing.”
“Rorke, I’m not even sure whether I want that.”
“You mean this little get-up wasn’t to convince me?”
“No, this was so we could have a discussion about it. Thought it might help you focus, you know, on the end goal. Me.”
“Don’t you know you’re my focus? You have been most of my life.”
My heart aches a little. All those nights I was so lonely. All those times I thought I’d never find someone to share my life with. And he was always out there somewhere, waiting the whole time. “So what are these conditions?”
“What’s mine is mine, and what’s yours is yours. No payout. No alimony. No compensation at all.”
“What?”
“No money. I want the prenup to say that I won’t take a dime from you, and you won’t take a dime from me.”
“It’s not that easy. You have to consider gifts. Things we buy together as a married couple.”
“If you ever leave me,” he says gruffly, pausing. “I’ll walk away with what’s in my bank account the day we get married, not a penny more. That and the farm. That’s it.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Why? I’m not marrying you for money. Why would I want to earn money from the demise of our relationship?”
I pull at my hair. “I hate talking about this, the end of us.”
“The only thing that will end us is you walking away. Handing me a big fat check on your way out the door would just stick the knife in deeper, seal the deal. If you leave me, let me walk away with at least my pride. That’s the only thing I’d want you to give me.”
“What if I don’t want a prenup?” I ask.
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