by Jamie Knight
For months before, when I was still living in Missouri, I had saved up almost half of everything I got from working odd jobs. Truth be told, I hadn’t put everything I’d done on the resume Caleb had read.
I didn’t put down on there that I had been a server at a strip club. Or washing cars for the creeps who paid extra to splash soapy water all over my scantily dressed body. Or my brief stint cashiering at an adult toy store.
Nah. Some things were better left unsaid. Although I suppose it’s possible he saw them anyway, I’m sure he ran a background check on me. Although maybe not, since he actually hired me.
Living and growing up were not easy with my kind of “blended” family. My dad had died when I was nine, from anaphylactic shock. My mother swore up and down that she hadn’t known about his nut allergy, but even as a kid, I’d just had this feeling that she was lying. But obviously I never had any proof.
She remarried, of course, and found her happiness with another man. He was a larger man than my dad, and I thought that was what she was after. Strength. Muscles. Hands that would pin her down and own her.
Hands that beat her nearly to death when he came back from his shift at the restaurant at midnight.
And those violent tendencies weren’t the only issues he brought with him. He had a son, and my new stepbrother was dangerous and exciting in a way that I envied. I wanted to be cool like him, so as a teenager, I’d followed in his footsteps, and he’d taken my life down a dark path.
I stole things. I robbed people. I almost went to jail. Shaken up and ashamed of who I had become, I’d turned over a new leaf. I’d changed my identity after that and ran. I bunked in cheap motels and switched forwarding addresses for my mail. It had been six years since I left, and life had never been better.
I never thought much of my past. It made me itchy, but the problem was that I liked that itch. I craved that itch, and it was dangerous. It was the kind of itch that made me want more, that made me reckless and stupid.
The kind of reckless and stupid that had me standing naked in front of my mirror while I mentally went over my wardrobe, trying to decide what to wear on the flight.
But while I was thinking, I was also appraising my body, trying to see it from an outside perspective instead of over-analyzing. Just because I was hyper-critical of every centimeter my waist gained didn’t mean that would be the first thing anyone else saw.
I cupped my breasts in my hands. I knew I had a nice chest, even my self-doubts couldn’t deny that. Full and round, with delicate pink nipples that perked up easily at touch or chill. Even the faint breeze in my room was enough to make them stand at attention.
My waist wasn’t what I would consider slender, but it was a nice balance to my stacked top half and the lush curves of my hips and ass.
Overall, I thought I had a nice body. And my blonde hair was cut in layers that framed my cheekbones nicely, making my doe-brown eyes look even wider in my lightly tanned face.
I wasn’t supermodel gorgeous, but I would dare to call myself “pretty,” at least.
Silently, as I explored my body before that mirror, I wondered how I would feel being under his touch. Would his hands be as coarse and firm on my breasts? How hard would he cup them when his warm and wet tongue slithered down my nape? How soft would his broad chest be, and how hard would his thick would his…
No.
I swallowed hard and fanned my heated face, trying to push those thoughts out of my head quickly. The man was the richest across the West Coast, and probably had had his fair share of supermodels from all around the globe. Deflated, I got myself dressed and made a few finishing touches before loading everything into the suitcase.
After a quick final walk through the house to make sure I wasn’t about to do something foolish like leave the stove or a curling iron on or something, I zipped up my bag and locked my door. The cab was right on time.
Chapter 5 - Harlee
If ever there was a course on elegance and opulence, Caleb took it and was class valedictorian. The exterior alone would get the Queen her self’s attention. Taking the five steps upward and inward, and watching the door behind us shut itself automatically was almost a dream, like being on some futuristic space craft or something.
Minutes towards 9 PM, we were up in the air.
The jet was stunning, albeit simple. It had six black seats designed to look like lounge chairs. There was a tailored rack at the far edge of the tube that made it look like a shelf of sorts. I could see a couple bottles of wine and a handful of liquor bottles, mostly fine scotch. There were a handful of varied glasses. The floor was black and carpeted.
Overall, it felt extravagant, but not in the way one might expect in a bachelor’s private jet. There was no party atmosphere, no flashing lights or stripper pole right above where Caleb sat. It was a normal beginning to our trip, and honestly I wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse.
Staring out the window wistfully, I wished I had left earlier in the day when I could see the clouds. I always loved the white and silver mashing together into a glorious but silent harmony. I know a lot of people hate flying, but I’ve never been one of them. I’ve always liked the thrill, watching the world spread out beneath me as I rose into the sky. I even kind of like the little thrill of fear when there’s turbulence. If I was as rich as Caleb was I would have lived in the jet.
He sat there glaring. I don’t know why; I was superbly dressed. I was in a tightly fitted black pencil skirt, matched evenly with a light-pressed white silky blouse hidden under a matching black blazer. My lengthy blonde hair, which I had flat-ironed to perfection, was tied behind my head in a simple yet elegant and professional ponytail. To top it all off, I had worn black pumps that really did pump up my height.
I was at the top of the world, and the man was just glaring. There was more to his simmering glare than met the eye. He was wearing one of the usual suits, but the tie was loosened and the top buttons on his shirt were undone, revealing his smooth chest below.
Well, that answered my hairy question.
I watched as he passed a quick glance from me to the open window, and the lights from the wing reflected against his smooth, clean-shaven face. I wanted to know what ailed his mind, and just seeing him like this, so relaxed yet so turbulent, made my mouth water, and my skin hot.
So I decided to peel off my blazer. Just to cool down, of course.
I wriggled out of it and folded it over the back of one of the other seats before giving a long, luxurious stretch, arching my back.
Ok, I was taunting him, and it was immature and unprofessional, but I couldn’t help myself around him. And the blouse I wore beneath the blazer, like most of my clothes, had been purchased a few pounds ago and now strains at the chest. I definitely noticed him looking, and I hoped that maybe, just maybe, he’d make a move.
But while he definitely looked, he quickly looked back out the window.
The tension in the jet was too thick, and I started to feel a little suffocated, almost wishing I could strip down more. We were at least half an hour to our destination, and so I put my bare foot down and kicked off my heels. He turned to look at me again.
“So, where in New York are we going?” I asked, trying to break the tension.
And also, I genuinely wanted to know. He hadn’t said for sure, and I was picturing skyscrapers and streets packed with taxis. But New York is a whole state, not just the bustling city.
He cleared his throat and pushed aside the thick locks of dark hair disturbing the peace across his forehead. I loved them there. I loved it even more when he subconsciously tucked them away.
“My ranch,” he replied flatly and reclined in his seat.
Surprised, I pressed on. “What kind of ranch?”
He snorted and raised an eyebrow. “How many kinds do you know of?”
I gritted my teeth, annoyed with the condescending tone, but I answered calmly anyway.
“I mean, I imagine just the normal kind. Growing c
rops, raising livestock, cows, horses, chickens, pigs, all that,” I said with a nervous little shrug.
“That’s a farm.”
I have to resist the urge to sigh out loud this time. “Then teach me the difference.”
My snarky tone finally seemed to rouse his interest and he lifted an eyebrow once more, this time with a mildly amused expression.
“Well, if you must know Miss Sawyer, the kind of ranch I own deals with all of that livestock, but primarily cattle.” He paused.
I had quickly come to realize Caleb was not the kind of man you interrupt in his pauses, rather you wait. And I did. ‘There are horses too. And buffalo. And on some parts, I have ducks. I started off with my father and his brothers on a small acreage down by the Mississippi. We dealt with cows and chickens, and it was enough.’
I sensed that it was where he wanted to end his story. I stubbornly pushed on.
“So the difference is the plants, is what you’re saying? Farms do crops, ranches don’t?”
“Essentially, yes,” he nods, “And while it’s not a general rule or anything, as a general rule, ranches tend to be larger and more commercial, whereas farms can range from a guy with two cows and a garden to huge-scale operations.”
“Well, I mean, it’s not exactly a secret you grew up on a ranch, that’s all over the internet” I say, adding under my breath: “Even though every single article I read online referred to it as a farm.”
“Of course it is. So what else do you want to know? What do you want to hear straight from the horse’s mouth instead of Google?’ he asked with a smile.
I liked that smile. I tilted my head side to side and then paused while I shifted a little in my seat, getting more comfortable. “I want to hear the stories of the legendary Caleb Johnson as a young man growing up on a farm, and why he chose that as his business goal.’
The gates opened.
“My dad always told me to get into business that would never die; the land. And from an early age I took that to heart. See, when I started with the land he left me, things were hard. I struggled to put our business on the map and sell top dollar quality to the highest bidder. Before I was in a suit I was in a jumpsuit, tractor levers in my hand and sweat on my brow. It was all I could do to avoid the office or the investors or the...’
The man did not ramble. He spoke from his heart. And I listened with rapt attention, and laughed and smiled and got surprised at just the right moments. I saw him for who he truly was; a man with a burning flame deeply rooted in his principles. But I saw another thing. I saw love.
Love that would never die, that would constantly drive him and keep the fire burning behind him when he got tired or toiled with nothing in return or became a success. I saw the man behind the dark gray eyes. I saw him.
And I wanted that. I wanted to be loved by someone as much as Caleb Johnson loved his land.
Chapter 6 - Caleb
I am in awe at how much restraint I have shown. The more she asks me, the more she nears my core, to my amazement. Does she really not see how hungry I am for her body? Does she really not realize that I choose brevity for my own sanity?
The more I talked to her, the more I liked her, and the more I liked her, the more I wanted her.
She is asking questions now. I try my best not to bite her head off with my answers. Restraining myself, maintaining my composure, is taking all I’ve got. But then I saw the softness in her tone, the eagerness to learn. She wanted to know me. But why?
I’d had my fair share of pussy and soft skin. And the one thing society gets wrong about the fairer sex is that they’re some delicate, shrinking blossoms. In my experience I have not met any man whose power comes close to that of even the meekest woman.
A woman can bring a man to his knees with nothing but the flutter of eyelashes. And while my presence certainly seems to have its own effect on women, I know it doesn’t compare.
I’ve met some shrewd women, some truly brutal, cunning, deceitful women, and to be honest, it’s that experience, that power imbalance, that has long steered me away from relationships.
But I didn’t see any trace of any of those qualities in Harlee’s eyes. I saw someone. I saw a person. I saw curiosity. One who has… is that.. I saw it.
For a moment. I saw her eyelids flutter and a shadow passed over her face when I mentioned my father’s death. Do we relate? Do we have some form of grounds, from both our worlds, that we can link to?
Her dark eyes hid something, a past she never talks about. I bet, if I prodded hard and deep enough, I would find some a singular story with so many threads attached to it I might think it a web. A web of secrets, of a past and parts of a present she chooses to hide. I will tread carefully across these threads, and strangely enough, I wondered if at the center of it all, I’d find myself the spider or the fly.
My blood is up and coursing, hotter than before. I focus now, beyond my words, and on her body. The language has just flipped into another, and she was using the subtleties.
Her neck was exposed on purpose. She had tugged a few buttons loose, leaving it barely covered and her fingers absently fiddling with a necklace.
She knew what she was doing. I stopped talking and also leaned back in.
While she was speaking, I gazed at those pretty pink lips of hers and wondered how well she’d take my cock between them. I wondered if she’d ever been fucked this high up. Based on the awestruck expression on her face when she’d stepped onto the plane, I had the distinct impression this was her first private jet.
But that’s not to say she might not have joined the mile-high club another way. Had she ever tasted the high of an orgasm while cruising at altitudes only eagles can bear?
With our conversation having hit a lull, she opened some of her folders and started thumbing through the work, and the focus in her expression while she was taking notes was oddly sexy.
The ache in my cock was just begging me to make a move. I needed to make her scream. Now. Losing control, I got a grip on the leather and rose to my feet.
Harlee looked up at me with a puzzled expression, but before I could take another step or say a word, the PA system lit up.
“Mr. Jackson, we seem to have an issue,” the pilot cuts in.
I heaved a puff of hot air and exasperation, plopping back my seat and picking the phone fixed inside the wall; our one communication with Alfred.
“What is it?” I asked.
“There has been a nationwide quarantine lockdown in effect, orders from the White House.”
“Fuck,” I sighed, wondering how long this stupid thing would last.
I mentally looked over my schedule and thought of all the things I would have to rearrange. Hopefully this lockdown wouldn’t last and I’d be able to get back and back to business soon, but for the time being, there wasn’t much I could do but wait it out and do my best to work around it.
“The ranch, sir? We’re only about ten minutes out.”
Her right leg is crossed over the other and her eyes are back on the folder. Like nothing ever happened. For a brief moment, I wondered if we could make it back, avoid getting stuck out here, but then it hit me.
I could have Harlee all to myself, and not just for three measly days. This could be a while, and I can think of plenty of ways she could…assist me.
“Yeah,” I answered finally, “The ranch is as good a place as any right now. Radio in and let them know we’re almost home.”
“Done.”
I clicked the phone back in its place and sighed. She looked up at me with interest.
“What is it?”
“We are going to have a little detour,” I chuckled. “It seems fate has something more in store for our trip.”
Chapter 7 - Harlee
The door unhinged and the engines whirred down. Caleb buttoned up; just enough to hide his glorious chest from me, sadly, and asked me to walk with him down. It had been a few hours up in the air, and the gust of fresh wind hitting my face got my knees
wobbly.
His sweat and cologne struck my nose as he walked by to the cabin door and knocked twice before talking in hushed tone through the small intercom in the wall. He turned to me, all smiles, and honestly, the most glad blink I had seen on his eyes, and smirked.
“Welcome to your temporary home, Miss Sawyer. I hope you like it as much as I do.”
With that, he disappeared into the mansion. I realized my bag was at my feet, and I didn’t remember hauling it in. Had he grabbed it for me?
While I’m standing there puzzling that out, Jillian, his housekeeper, a middle aged wine enthusiast and an absolutely masterful hand in the kitchen, with the gentlest most unassuming smile, had taken me, most surprisingly, by the hand, and led me, alone, towards Caleb Johnson’s mansion and away from the cooling plane and the mildly mannered Mr. Johnson.
The walk was filled with laughs and small talk that I actually enjoyed. Jill, as she wanted me to call her, told me of how deep the farm’s heritage went, and that despite it all, even with the current quarantine lockdown, how she always felt completely and utterly at home with the Johnson family, ever since Caleb grew his first goatee.
I, by virtue of finding out the most dirt on my boss and the object of my every filthy fantasy, of course, needed to know more.
She just smiled when I asked, however, and I took it as a line not to cross.
The mansion was mostly made of thick wood. On time, she told me that most of the logs had been homegrown, but that the ones that made up the barns and the chicken coups were trucked and ferried here from the Congo forest. She said that Caleb loved exotic bark, and that he was the one, with enough help from his men, who built his house. She poured us each a glass of dry wine when she told me this, and as she talked, she cooked, and made sure I had something in my stomach.