by Hannah Ford
“I decide when you need to come, Ms. Cavanaugh.”
Another moan from my lips, only this one is slightly strangled, almost like I’m in pain.
This seems to excite him.
“Stop touching yourself.”
My hand stops moving, but my fingers still brush against my clit.
“Ms. Cavanaugh.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Did you stop?”
“Sort of,” I admit, not wanting to lie to him, afraid that if I do, there will be consequences.
“Show me.”
“What?” His words send panic through me, intense enough to break through the desperation I feel. My fingers immediately stop moving at the same time my phone vibrates in my hand with a video call.
Holy hell.
His face fills the screen, his eyes dark gold and brooding, boring into me.
“Hello, Ms. Cavanaugh.” His voice is rough, ragged, and yet it drags over my skin like honey.
“Hi,” I say softly.
“Oh, now you’re shy?” he asks, sounding amused.
My cheeks flame.
“It’s different,” I say. “Now that you can see me.”
“Why? You can see me, too.”
I certainly can. He’s sitting at his desk, the window behind him casting light across his strong features, his shoulders so broad they disappear out of the frame.
I take in a shuddering breath and close my eyes. This would be way easier if he wasn’t so fucking hot, and if he wasn’t so self-possessed. It’s like nothing rattles him, nothing shakes his self-confidence. It’s not fair.
“Are you wet, Ms. Cavanaugh?” he asks again.
“Yes, sir.”
“Show me your finger.”
I take it from my pussy and show him the juices glistening on my skin.
“Very nice. Now put your finger in your mouth and suck it off.”
I hesitate for a second, my cheeks still flaming, and then do as I’m told.
“Good girl,” he says as he watches me suck on my finger. “You look sexy like that, Ms. Cavanaugh. You’ll look even sexier when it’s my cock in your mouth.”
I close my eyes again.
“Look at me,” he says. “I want to see your face while you touch yourself.”
I put my fingers back on my pussy, waiting for further instructions.
“Rub yourself. Softly and slowly, making circles on your clit.”
I moan softly, masturbating as he urges me on, guiding me through it, my pussy getting wetter and wetter until my fingers are sliding through my slit easily, my clit a hard nub covered with my own juices.
“Now I’m going to have you put a finger inside of your pussy,” he says.
I whimper.
“I know, baby, but you need to get yourself ready for my cock. Tonight I’m going to stretch that pussy open wide, push my hard dick inside of you, and I need to make sure you can handle it.”
I whimper again.
“Just a fingertip, baby,” he says. “You can do it.”
It slides in easily. He’s gotten me so turned on, my pussy so wet, that it feels good.
“How does it feel, Ms. Cavanaugh?”
“Good.”
“Show me.”
“Sir?”
“Put the phone down by your pussy. I want to see you finger fuck yourself.”
I shake my head, horrified. “I can’t.”
“You can and you will.”
I shake my head again. It’s one thing to listen to his voice on the phone, telling me to touch myself.
It’s another to be on a video call with him, where he can see my face.
And it’s quite another to actually put the phone down by my pussy, letting him see my fingers push inside myself.
He sighs and leans back in his chair, his face impassive, like we’re having a minor disagreement over a business matter, instead of him insisting that I have an X-rated phone call with him.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” he says. “And trust me, if you don’t like the easy way, you definitely won’t like the hard way. Now put the phone on speaker and show me your pussy.” His golden eyes glint as he says this, the promise of something dark now lurking in his expression and in the tone of his voice.
I close my eyes, gathering my nerve, and then I hit the speaker button and move the phone down between my legs, clamping my thighs together.
“Show me,” he commands.
I slowly spread my legs, giving him a view of my pussy.
“More.”
I spread further.
“Good girl,” he says. “Jesus, you are wet, aren’t you, baby?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Put your finger inside yourself.”
I do it, trying not to give into the urge to slam my thighs back together.
“Fucking Christ,” he breathes as I begin to fuck myself with my finger. “Yes, baby, just like that.”
I’m so wet that my finger is sliding in and out easily, but I know that anything even a little bigger – or a lot bigger, like his dick – is going to hurt.
“Gage,” I whisper. “Gage.”
“Yes, baby?”
“I want to come.”
“Keep finger fucking yourself, baby. Keep fucking yourself and think about how good it’s going to feel when I slam into that tight little cunt with my dick.”
I’m writhing now, totally out of control, a woman possessed, the only things that exist right now his voice and the ache between my legs.
“I want to see your face when you come,” he says. “Show me your face, baby.”
I take the phone and bring it back to my face.
“Look at me,” he commands. “Look at me when you come.”
The way he’s gazing at me, his golden eyes intense, even just through the screen, is enough to send me over the edge. Pleasure pulses through me, the waves of it so intense it’s impossible to keep quiet. I call out his name as I break, and when it’s over, my legs feel shaky and my head is swimming.
“Goodbye, Ms. Cavanaugh,” Gage says.
“Wait! What about –”
But the phone goes dead.
In what is now becoming routine for me, I duck into the bathroom back on the floor of the conference room to make sure I don’t look too disheveled. But of course I do. How can you not look a mess after masturbating in a storage room on video chat with your boss in the middle of the workday?
My cheeks are flushed, my skirt is wrinkled, and one side of my hair looks all smushed in.
I do the best I can to fix myself up, then head back to the conference room where Alanna and Poppy are waiting.
They’re sitting at the table, plastic containers of salad in front of them.
“You’re back,” Alanna says, her tone flat and unfriendly.
“Yup!” I say a little too brightly. I sit back down and grab an envelope, ripping it open immediately to show that I’m back and ready to work.
“I was just telling Alanna that I’ve been experimenting with different kinds of salads,” Poppy says. “You know, making them with things that you wouldn’t necessarily think of as salad ingredients?”
“Oh,” I say. “That sounds nice. Like what?” I don’t really care, but anything that keeps the attention off of me in this conversation is fine with me.
“Where were you?” Alanna asks me, dragging her plastic fork through her spinach salad. It looks ridiculously sparse – some spinach leaves and a few cranberries, all dry with no dressing.
“I had to step out for a second,” I say firmly, then frown down at the packet of papers I’ve just opened, as if I’ve noticed something extremely interesting.
“For what?” Alanna presses.
“Um…” My phone vibrates with a text, saving me.
Grace.
Hey! Sorry I was sleeping when you came in last night. Hope everything went well with Gage!
Ha. “Well” is pretty much the exact opposite of how I would descr
ibe it.
I take a second to reply, wondering if I should bring up the text I got last night from Kevin, Grace’s boss, asking me if I knew if she was okay. At first I thought maybe it would be better to talk to her about it in person, but now that feels like it might be too much of an ambush. Maybe it’s better to text her about it, to let her get used to the idea before confronting her in person.
I’ll tell you all about Gage later. But Grace, I got a text from Kevin last night asking me if you were okay. He mentioned going to your apartment and the landlord letting him in.
Three dots appear on my phone, letting me know that she’s typing something. But then they disappear.
“Hello!” Alanna says, snapping her fingers at me impatiently. “Are you even listening to me? Where were you?”
“Sorry,” I say, tearing my eyes away from my phone. “I, um, have a personal matter going on.”
“What kind of personal matter?” Alanna demands.
“Yeah, what kind of personal matter?” Poppy asks. Unlike Alanna, her tone sounds light, almost nosey, like she’s interested in it just for the gossip.
“My friend Grace. She’s having some problems at home.”
“Is that the girl that’s staying in your room?” Poppy asks. “Does she have any food allergies or restrictions? Because I’m working on these new white chocolate oat bars, and I need as many people as possible to try them.”
“Um, no,” I say. “She doesn’t have any food allergies.”
Poppy nods, satisfied.
But Alanna’s eyes bore into me. “When is she leaving?”
“What?”
“Your friend, Grace. When is she leaving?”
“Oh, um, I’m not sure.”
“Because it’s not really allowed, you know? Overnight guests need to be approved and they need to sign in. And there’s a maximum stay of three nights.” Suddenly she’s the freakin’ student handbook?
“I’ll look into it,” I say firmly, hoping my tone lets her know that the conversation is closed.
I glance down at my phone. Still no reply from Grace.
The door to the conference room opens, and Gage appears in the door. My stomach flips at the sight of him, his broad frame seemingly filling the room, his suit immaculate, his expression hard and sharp. “What’s all the noise in here?” he demands, as if we’ve been having a party instead of just talking.
His eyes flick over to where Alanna and Poppy are eating, and a slight look of pity or disgust flashes over his features as he takes in their lame salads.
“We were just discussing the recent move toward index funds in the broader stock market, wondering if it’s really a good hedge against lower interest rates. On one hand, there’s –” Alanna starts, obviously figuring a lie is the way to go. I admire it in spite of myself.
“You’re talking about two completely different things,” Gage interrupts, “and with the stock market at record highs, the answer should be obvious.”
Alanna’s eyes narrow just a tiny bit. “Of course,” she says. “That’s what I was saying.” Her voice sounds upbeat and professional, but I can tell she’s struggling to keep the smile on her face.
“Have the three of you found anything interesting in these submissions?” Gage asks.
“Oh,” Poppy says, frowning. “I didn’t know we were supposed to be actually looking at the companies.” She shakes her head and gives a little laugh.
“None of them are appropriate,” Alanna says, looking like she’s about one second away from kicking Poppy under the table for being so stupid. “All of them are overleveraged or are years and years away from being profitable.”
“Actually, there was one company,” I say, and reach for the submission package that was sent by that dog collar company, Doggone It.
“Which one?” Alanna asks, as if we’ve all been talking as a group and she’s in on it.
“The one you said was stupid because it was just a dog collar,” I remind her. It’s probably not the best idea to antagonize her when she pretty much knows I’ve been hooking up with Gage and could, you know, ruin my life if she wanted to, but I can’t help it.
“A dog collar?” Gage sounds unimpressed, but he takes the folder I hand him.
“Yes, but it utilizes GPS technology so that you can track your dog’s movements,” I say. “If your dog goes missing, you don’t have to wait for them to be taken to a vet to get his or her microchip scanned. You can see where they are in real time. And all the materials are responsibly harvested and hypoallergenic. They also donate ten percent of their profits to animal shelters.”
Gage raises his eyebrows, his eyes scanning the information I’ve given him.
“They have an initial purchase order from one of the biggest pet store chains in the country,” I say. “But they need capital to fund it.”
He snaps the folder shut. “Good work, Ms. Cavanaugh. Call them and set up a provisional meeting. Provide me with a summary and we’ll go from there.”
He disappears in a cloud of cologne and power.
I can’t hide the smile on my face.
Alanna’s glaring at me, though.
My phone buzzes.
Reply from Grace.
It’s complicated.
Yeah. Tell me about it.
Chapter 3
CHLOE
When I get home from work, there’s a note on my bed.
Chloe,
I’m sorry about not telling you about the stuff that’s going on with me. I just… I guess I’m embarrassed. Anyway, I do want to talk to you, I just need some time. But I’m going to tell you everything, I swear, and I don’t want you to worry.
Tonight I’m going to spend the night with Holly VanGorder -- remember that girl we hung out with freshman year who transferred to Columbia? She lives in the city.
I’m not avoiding you, I promise. I already had this plan. We’ll talk tomorrow when I get home.
I love you,
Grace
I sigh and read the note again.
I tell myself that there’s nothing to worry about. That this is just how Grace processes and deals with things – she’s always been this way.
But still. I can’t help but being worried.
I take in a deep breath and throw myself down on my bed. I want to text Gage, to ask him what’s going on for tonight. Like he’s reading my mind, I get a text from him.
A car will pick you up at eight. Be ready.
Be ready. A shiver slides up my spine. Be ready to lose my virginity. I close my eyes and take in another deep breath, trying to calm my heart, which is now beating so fast I can hear it.
Every time there’s a new level to.. whatever this thing is that Gage and I are doing, I have the same conversation with myself.
I tell myself that it’s not too late to change my mind, that as long as I stop before I do x, it will be okay.
Sure enough, I have the same conversation with myself now, telling myself that if I stop this now, before I actually sleep with him, it will be okay.
But there are two problems with this argument.
One, it’s not really true. I mean, I might not have technically had sex with him, but the things we’ve done so far are totally inappropriate.
The second problem is that I want to have sex with Gage. I know it’s bad, I know it’s wrong, I know it could get me into all kinds of trouble, and yet I want him.
I open my email to try and distract myself, which doesn’t work at all, because my only new email is from my academic advisor.
Hi Chloe --
Please confirm our end-of-week phone call, tomorrow at 10 am, to go over the progress of your internship at Stratford Investments.
I look forward to speaking with you.
Sincerely,
Dr. Kianna Truett
Head of Internship Placement, MBA Program, Syracuse College
Shit. I almost laugh out loud at the absurdity of having a check-in call with my advisor the day after I potentially
lose my virginity to my boss.
Oh, yes, Dr. Truett, I’ve been having a great time at my internship. Did you know that Gage Stratford has a penchant for spanking his interns, and that I have a penchant for liking it? Hahahahaha!
Is this how Cassidy felt, I wonder? That she wanted to stop so badly but she just couldn’t? My heart clenches the way it does every time I think about my sister, and I get up and walk to my dresser, open my jewelry box so I can pull out the bracelet Cassidy gave me, the one with the C and the sapphire.
But the bracelet isn’t there.
I rummage around the rest of my jewelry – cheap gold hoops, a tiny pair of fake diamond studs, a long chain necklace that looks good with anything – but still not bracelet.
How the hell could I have lost it? I only wear it on special occasions, too paranoid to --
Suddenly, anger pulses through me, fast and hard, and before I can figure out if it’s a good idea or not, I’m marching down the hall toward Alanna’s room.
I rap on the door. Hard.
“It’s about time,” I hear her mumble from the other side of the door. But disappointment crosses her seemingly poreless face when she actually opens the door and sees that it’s me. “Oh. I thought you were the Postmates guy.” She glances past me down the hallway, like her food delivery is way more than important than I am.
“Give it back,” I say.
“What?”
“You heard me. Give it back.” I hold my hand out.
“Give what back? Your integrity?” She bites the inside of her cheek, pretending like she’s trying to hold back a laugh, obviously amused with herself.
“I’m really not in the mood to get into a back and forth with you,” I say. “One where you deny everything and we fight and I threaten to call the police and it’s drama and blah blah blah. So just give me my bracelet back.”