#honestly there are a lot of similarities with mr jagger here - i think i have a type | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

anavoliselenu · 7 years

Text

Relaese me chapter 6

“No way. He wants you. Your snark. Your attitude. I mean, he flat out told you that you’re not like the usual women on his arm. I Googled him, you know.”

I blink at the non sequitur. “You did not. When?”

“After you told me he was bringing you home. He’s pretty private—I didn’t find a lot and to be honest I didn’t try very hard. But it doesn’t look like he dates that much. Lots of women, sure, but nobody serious except for this one socialite a few months ago, but she’s dead.”

“Dead? Shit. How?”

“I know. Sad, right? Some sort of accident. But that’s not the point.”

My head is spinning. “What is the point?”

“You,” she says. “I mean, even if you are just a notch on his bedpost, so what? You’re not a nun.”

I almost ask if she was listening when I described the whole phone-sex-in-the-limo thing, but I wisely keep my mouth shut.

“And honestly, I don’t think you’re just a notch. I think he really likes you.”

I raise a brow. “And you base this on your extensive knowledge of the man gleaned from five minutes on the Internet?”

“I gleaned it from what you told me,” she says. “He wanted your opinion on a painting. He got all alpha male on Ollie’s ass. He made you come, for Christ’s sake. And let’s not forget the foot massage. Holy crap, girl, I’d totally fuck a guy who gave me a foot massage. Hell, I’d probably marry him.”

I can’t help but smile. Sadly, Jamie probably isn’t exaggerating.

“Not every guy is an asshole like Kurt,” she says, and for Jamie her voice is surprisingly gentle. “You can’t keep pretending you’re wearing a damn chastity belt.”

I cringe. “Just drop it. Please.”

She looks at me, then bites out a sharp, “Dammit.” She draws in a breath. Her eyes are sad, and I can see that she knows she’s gone too far.

She stands up and moves to the fireplace. Since a fireplace in the San Fernando Valley is an absolutely idiotic concept, Jamie has converted it to a bar. Bottles instead of logs. Glasses on the mantel. She grabs the bottle of Knob Creek. “Want some?”

I do, but I shake my head. I’ve had enough of alcohol for the night. “I’m tired,” I say, pushing myself up off the sofa.

“I’m really sorry. You know I wouldn’t—”

“I know,” I say. “And it’s really okay. I just need sleep.”

A sly smile touches her mouth, and I know that we’re okay again. “I guess so. You have a meeting tomorrow, don’t you? And who’s that meeting with, exactly?”

“Give it a rest, Jamie,” I say, but I grin as I head toward my bedroom. She’s right. I do have a big meeting. With Stark. In his offices. With my boss standing right there with the two of us.

I think back over the events of the evening.

I dwell on the panties I left in the limo.

And as I collapse facedown on my bed, only one thought goes through my mind: What the hell have I done?

My arms are stretched above my head, my wrists bound by something smooth but firm. My naked body is stretched out on cool silk. I cannot move my legs.

My eyes are closed, and yet I know what binds me. A red ribbon twined around my wrists. Wrapped tight around my ankles. I struggle, but there’s nowhere to go, and I don’t really want to escape anyway.

Something cool brushes my erect nipple, and I arch up in surprise and pleasure.

“Hush.” His voice seems to brush over me like a caress.

“Please,” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer, but once again I’m sweetly assaulted by a burst of cold. This time, he doesn’t pull away. It’s an ice cube, and he traces it over my nipple, down the swell of my breasts. I feel the trickle of water down my cleavage as the ice melts. He traces patterns on me with the melting ice, his hands never touching me, just the cold hardness that’s melting against my skin.

“Please,” I whisper again. I arch up, wanting more, but am stopped by my bindings.

“You’re mine,” he says.

I open my eyes, needing to see his face, but everything around me is gray and out of focus. I am lost in an imagined world.

I am the girl in the painting. Aroused and on display for all the world to see.

“Mine,” he repeats, his body a blurred gray shape above me.

His hands on my breasts are calloused and strong, yet so tender I want to cry. He eases them down, touching every inch of me, tracing my breasts, my rib cage, my belly. I tense as he approaches my pubis, suddenly afraid, but his hands lift and settle again on the outside of my thighs. I am in heaven from his touch. Lost. Floating. Dancing in a haze of pleasure.

But then his hands shift. He takes my knees and gently forces my legs apart. And slowly, so slowly, he glides his palms up my inner thighs.

I tense, and it’s no longer a pleasurable dance but a frightening maelstrom. I try to pull away, but I’m trapped, and he’s coming closer to my secrets. To my scars.

I struggle more. I have to get away, and warning bells are ringing, echoing through the room like red-hot klaxons—

Away,

“—awake?”

I’m jolted out of my dream by the sound of Jamie’s voice. “What? I’m sorry, what?”

On the nightstand beside me, my phone is screeching. Outside my doorway, Jamie is shouting.

“I said, ‘Are you awake?’ Because if you are, you need to answer your damn phone.”

Frazzled, I reach for it, and see Carl’s name on the display. I snatch it up, but the call’s already rolled over to voice mail.

With a groan, I slide my legs off the bed and stretch, then glance at the phone again to check the time. Six-fucking-thirty.

Seriously? I mean, is the sun even up yet?

I’m about to call him back when the phone rings yet again, and Carl’s name flashes like neon.

“I’m here,” I say. “I was just about to call you back.”

“Jesus Christ, Fairchild. Where’ve you been?”

“It’s practically dawn. I was in bed.”

“Well, get down here. We’ve got a shitload of work to do. I can’t get the fucking PowerPoint to work right, and we need to print out PDFs of the specs and get the proposal packages bound for Stark and his staff. I need you on it, pronto. Unless you already signed him to the deal last night? Or was there a nonbusiness purpose for his late night phone call to you?” There’s a lascivious tone to the last that I really don’t appreciate, but at least now I know how Justin got my phone number and my address.

“He called to make sure I got home okay,” I lie. “But next time I’d appreciate it if you didn’t give out my cell number without asking me first.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Get dressed and get down here. We’ll go from our office to Stark’s at one-thirty.”

I frown, because C-Squared occupies one corner of the eighteenth floor of the Logan Bank Building, and Stark Tower is right next door. In fact, the two buildings share a courtyard and an underground parking garage. “Isn’t the meeting at two?” A snail could make the trek in thirty minutes. We should be able to manage it in five.

“I’m not leaving anything to chance,” Carl says.

I know better than to argue. “I’ll be there in an hour. Tops.”

Jamie looks up as I rush into the kitchen to pop a bagel into the toaster. “Boss on a rampage?”

“Big time.” I bend down and scratch Lady M, who’s making figure eights around my legs. “And he was being oh so snarky about Justin asking me to stay last night.”

“Um, hello? You did get off in the backseat of Mr. Moneybags’s limousine.”

I glare at her, then head for the shower while my bagel toasts. On the way, I pass the flower arrangement. I sigh. Jamie’s right, of course.

I let the water get so hot and steamy it makes my skin turn red. Then I step in, tensing as those first heated drops batter my body, then relaxing as the heat oozes through me. I close my eyes and let the water sluice over me. I feel like I should be angry at myself for letting it get so out of control last night, but I can’t quite work up the lather. It sure as hell wasn’t the most prudent thing I ever did, but I’m a grown-up and so is Stark and there was chemistry and free will and it’s none of Carl’s business anyway.

Which would be all good and well if I didn’t have to see the man today. Or, rather, the men. One who’s a lascivious jerk. And one who I’m afraid is going to distract me and throw me off my game.

And what if he surreptitiously shows me my panties?

Enough.

I can’t think about it anymore or I’ll go crazy, so I focus on finishing my shower and getting dressed. I choose a black skirt, white blouse, and matching jacket. Not a suit, because this is Saturday and because I’m working in the tech field and clean jeans are about as fashionable as we tend to get, but I just can’t do a meeting in jeans. The shoes are a bit of a problem because my feet ache, but I jam them into my favorite black pumps anyway. I go easy on the makeup, pull my hair back into a ponytail, and, voilà, dressed in fifteen minutes. I think that’s a personal best.

I grab my purse and my bagel, but I don’t bother with cream cheese—with my luck I’d drop it and have to go the entire day with a creamy white smear on my black skirt. Then I shout goodbye to Jamie and head out the door.

I pause immediately, realizing that I’ve just stepped on a large yellow envelope that someone has left on the doormat. I pick it up. It’s light, with minimal bulk. A sheaf of papers or something similar. I turn it over and see that it has my name on it, along with the sticker from a local messenger service. I roll my eyes. Carl.

With the envelope tucked under my arm, I head to my car. If I’m going to be on time, I’ll have to read it at the stoplights.

My usual commute-time entertainment is the news, but I can’t stomach it today, so as I pull out onto Ventura Boulevard, I let the radio scan through static, evangelical stations, talk shows, and blaring rap music. I really need to get a new radio, the kind with a plug for an iPod. Finally the tuner lands on an oldies station, and by the time I enter the 101 freeway, I’m jamming with Mick as he and the Stones sing about not getting any satisfaction. I grin. At least last night I was one up on Jagger.

I pull into my assigned space in a remote corner of the underground parking lot exactly forty-seven minutes from the time Carl called, which probably breaks some Los Angeles speed record. I don’t leave the car immediately, though, because I still haven’t looked at the envelope, and if it’s about the presentation, Carl’s going to expect me to know the details cold.

I slide my finger under the flap and open it, then tilt the envelope sideways. A copy of Forbes falls into my lap, and I realize that I am grinning. There’s a note paper-clipped to the outside of the magazine. I told you I was tenacious. Read and learn. There’s no signature, but the From the Desk of Justin J. Stark stationery is a big clue.

I’m still smiling as I tuck the magazine in my oversized purse. So he’s tenacious, is he? Well, I can believe that. But my decision still stands. Just like I told Jamie, I can’t let this go any further.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not moved by his gesture. Not only did he remember a throwaway comment from our banter at the art show, but he actually sent the magazine all the way to my house.

“What are you grinning about?” Carl demands as I push through the glass doors into the aquarium-style conference room that is the focal point of the C-Squared offices. But he doesn’t really want my answer. He’s already looking me up and down, nodding, and saying, “Good. Good. You look professional, businesslike. Yeah. I’d give you money. So long as you don’t screw up the slideshow.”

“I won’t,” I say, grateful that he’s not mentioning last night or Justin or late night phone calls.

Carl preps with the intensity of a criminal defense attorney preparing for the trial of the century. His organizational system is a thing to be marveled at, and in the relatively short time since yesterday afternoon he’s completely revamped our presentation outline.

I ask a ton of questions and make at least as many suggestions, and instead of falling back on his asshat personality, Carl responds thoughtfully, answering my questions, considering my ideas, implementing them when they make sense, and taking the time to explain when he decides to pass on one of my proposals.

I’m in heaven. I’ve reviewed the specs of the 3-D modeling program enough to know that I could be a valuable member of the tech team, possibly even the team leader. But being a project leader or even a manager isn’t my goal. I want to be Carl. Hell, I want to be Justin Stark. And to get there, I need to know how to pull together a kick-ass presentation that will hook an underwriter for any one of the projects I’ve been toying with since my last year at UT.

Today I’m going to get to see two entrepreneurs in action. Carl, who rarely fails to get financing for any project he pitches. And Justin Stark, who has never said yes to a project that didn’t ultimately exceed expectations and make a fortune for both him and the underlying company.

The conference room table is littered with paper, electronic tablets, and notebook computers. While the rest of the team scurries about, Brian and Dave, the two lead programmers who had worked with Carl developing the software, bang away at the notebooks, fine-tuning the presentation slideshow and doing dry runs of the software with a staggering number of parameters.

Carl paces, his eagle eye on everyone. “We’re doing this right,” he says. “No fuck-ups. No slips. A well-oiled ship.” He narrows his eyes at Dave. “Go order up some sandwiches for lunch, but I swear to God, if anyone goes to that meeting with mustard on their shirt, I am firing his ass right then and there.”

At one-thirty sharp, Carl, Brian, Dave, and I gather our things and march mustard-free to the elevator. Carl fidgets during the entire eighteen-story descent. He looks at himself so often in the mirrored wall panels that I am tempted to tell him he makes a beautiful bride. Wisely, I keep my mouth shut.

Of course, once we cross the courtyard and enter the ultra-modern Stark Tower, I’m the one who fidgets. My nervousness exists on so many levels that I can’t even rally and organize my thoughts. There’s the basic flutter of nerves simply from the thought of seeing Stark again. Then there’s the fear that he’s going to say something during the meeting—not necessarily even something suggestive. But God forbid he should say the word “phone.” Or “ice.” It’ll throw me off my game completely.

I stop worrying long enough to sign in at the security desk, which is really more of a console, sleek and efficient. Two guards sit behind it, one typing something and the other efficiently taking and scanning our drivers’ licenses.

“All checked in,” the guard, whose nametag reads Joe, says. “You’re cleared to the penthouse,” he adds, handing us each a guest badge.

“The penthouse?” Carl repeats. “Our meeting’s at Stark Applied Technology.” The company is one of many owned by Stark and housed in this building. Tech companies, charitable foundations, companies that do things I probably haven’t even thought about. I glance down at the list of business names on the backlit console. All of them, I realize, are somehow related to Stark International. In other words, all of them are related to Justin Stark. Whatever I thought I knew was wrong; I have no concept of the wealth and power that Mr. Justin Stark commands.

“Yup, all the way up,” Joe is saying to Carl. “On Saturdays, Mr. Stark takes meetings in the penthouse conference room. Use the last elevator bank on the end. Here’s your card key to access the penthouse.”

My nervousness returns in the elevator. And this time it’s not just about seeing Justin. It’s about the presentation, too. I latch onto that. Work nerves are much better than sex nerves.

As Joe had said, we arrive at the penthouse quickly and smoothly. Carl and I are standing near the elevator doors when they open, with Brian and Dave behind us guiding the rolling cases that house all of our presentation materials. At first, I can only stand and gape. I’m staring at a stunning, yet comfortable, reception area.

One wall is made entirely of glass and presents a magnificent vista of the hills of Pasadena. At least a dozen Impressionist paintings line the other walls, each simply framed so as to keep the focus on the art and not the package. Each is individually lit and together they present an array of nature scenes. Verdant fields. Sparkling lakes. Vibrant sunsets. Impressive mountain ranges.

The art gives a soft, welcoming quality to the polished reception area, as does the coffee bar that stands off to one side, silently inviting guests to help themselves, and then take a seat on the black leather sofa. A smattering of magazines covers a coffee table, the topics ranging from finance to science to sports to celebrity. Off to the side, a foosball table adds a bit of whimsy.

A reception desk dominates the room, its surface cleared of everything except an appointment calendar and a phone. At the moment, it is unmanned. I’m wondering if Justin doesn’t keep a receptionist working on Saturdays when a tall, lithe brunette appears in the hallway leading off to the left. She smiles at us, revealing perfect teeth. “Mr. Rosenfeld,” she says, holding out her hand. “I’m Ms. Peters, Mr. Stark’s weekend assistant. I’d like to welcome you and your team to the penthouse. Mr. Stark is very much looking forward to your presentation.”

“Thank you,” Carl says. He looks a little intimidated. Behind me, Brian and Dave are a cacophony of shifting feet and rustling clothes. They are definitely a little intimidated.

Ms. Peters leads us down a wide hallway to the right and into a conference room so huge that NFL teams could practice there. It’s then that I realize that the penthouse office takes up a full half of the top story. The elevator rose in the center of the building, and the side we’re on is roughly shaped like a rectangle, with the reception area in the middle, the conference room on one side, and Stark’s office on the other.

But that means that there is an entire half a story behind us. Does Stark’s office flow into that space as well? Is some other CEO subletting from Stark?

I’m not sure why I’m so curious, but I am, and so I ask Ms. Peters about the building’s layout.

“You’re right,” she says. “The office area of the penthouse takes up only half the square footage. The rest of the space constitutes one of Mr. Stark’s private residences. We call it the Tower Apartment.”

“Oh,” I say, wondering how many residences Justin Stark has. I don’t ask, though. I’ve already pushed the bounds of nosiness.

Ms. Peters points out the hidden wet bar built into one wall. “It’s fully stocked. Help yourself to orange juice, coffee, water, soda. Or if you need it to calm your nerves, you’re more than welcome to have something stronger.” She says the last with a smile, her voice full of humor. But honestly, at the moment I’m thinking that a double shot of bourbon might be just the ticket.

“I’ll leave you to set up,” Ms. Peters says. “If you need anything, just buzz me. Mr. Stark is finishing a call. I expect he’ll join you in ten minutes.”

It turns out to be twelve. Twelve long minutes during which I alternate between working feverishly to set up our showcase and worrying nervously about how I’ll react when I see him again.

And then the twelve minutes are over and Justin is striding into the conference area. The moment he enters the space, the air shifts. This is his territory, and though he doesn’t say a word, power and authority seem to cling to him, and the two men who enter behind him are little more than afterthoughts. Every movement is controlled, every glance has purpose. There can be no doubt that Justin Stark is the one in charge, and I feel a strange little surge of pride that this exceptional man not only wanted me, but has touched me so intimately.

He’s wearing jeans and a tan sport coat over a pale blue shirt. The top button is undone, and the ensemble gives him a casual, approachable quality. I wonder if he dressed that way on purpose in an attempt to make his guests more at ease. Just as quickly, I realize that of course he did. I can’t imagine that Justin Stark does anything without fully understanding the impact his actions will have.

“Thank you all for meeting here. On the weekends I like to work out of the penthouse. The change of pace reminds me that it’s time to kick back a little.” He turns to his two companions and introduces them as Preston Rhodes, the new head of acquisitions, and Mac Talbot, a new member of the product acquisition team. Then Stark shakes Brian’s and Dave’s hands, taking the time to chat briefly with each. They still look nervous, but I think that he’s soothed them enough that neither of the boys will botch the presentation by pushing a wrong button with a shaky finger.

He greets me next. Acceptable, polite, professional. But when he pulls his hand away, there’s the slightest curve of his finger, so that he gently strokes my palm. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I choose to take it as an acknowledgment that last night happened, but that today is only about the presentation.

All that in one little touch. I smile, and as I take my seat at the table, I realize that I’m much calmer. Whether he intended it to or not, Stark’s touch has soothed me.

Finally, he shakes Carl’s hand and greets him as if they’re the best of friends. They chat about vintage LPs—apparently Carl collects them—and the weather and the traffic on the 405. His intent is clear—he’s putting Carl at ease, and he’s done it so skillfully I can’t help but admire his technique. Finally, Stark takes a seat at the conference table, but not at the head. Instead, he sits opposite me, his long legs stretched out. He gestures to the head of the table and tells Carl to begin whenever he’s ready.

I’ve seen the presentation so many times that I mostly tune it out, focusing instead on Stark’s reaction. The technology really is amazing. Video footage of athletes is analyzed using a series of proprietary algorithms that translate anatomical movement into spatial data sets. Stats from each player are mapped against the data. Then, taking into account the player’s particular body structure and metrics, the software provides concrete suggestions for improving performance. But what is truly revolutionary is that those suggestions are demonstrated in holographic form so that the athletes and their coaches can see the actual position adjustments necessary for improvement.

Every article I’ve read about Stark mentions how brilliant he is, but today I get to see that intellect in action. He asks all the right questions from theoretical to applied to marketing and sales. When Carl raves and crows instead of letting the product speak for itself, Stark shuts that down so skillfully that I don’t think Carl even notices. He’s direct and to the point, efficient without being rude, firm without being patronizing. The man may have made his original fortune on a tennis court, but as I watch him, I have no doubt that business and science are in his blood.

Stark asks questions of all of us, including Brian and Dave, who gape and mumble but manage to articulate responses under Stark’s easy but firm control of the conversation.

He turns to me next and asks a technical question about one of the key equations at the heart of the primary algorithm. I can see Carl out of the corner of my eye, and I’m pretty sure he’s about to have a heart attack. This question is very firmly outside of my job description. But I’ve done my homework, and I use the virtual whiteboard to show Stark the mathematical underpinnings of the equation. I even go so far as to address the anticipated consequences of a few hypothetical adjustments that Stark suggests. At the head of the table, Carl sags in relief.

I’ve obviously impressed my boss. But what’s more satisfying is that I’ve impressed Stark. I can’t say the satisfaction rises to the same level as last night, but it comes pretty damn close.

When the meeting finally wraps up, I can tell that Carl is having a hell of a time playing the cool, calm professional. He knows too well that the whole thing went over fabulously. Stark’s interested in the product and impressed by the team. In this business, it doesn’t get much better than that.

We’re just about to start the round of goodbyes and handshakes when Ms. Peters steps in, her expression tightly efficient. “I apologize for interrupting, Mr. Stark, but you asked me to inform you if Mr. Padgett returned to the building.”

“He’s here now?” I watch as Stark’s expression shifts from casual and calm to hard and dangerous.

“Security just called up. I assume you’d like to speak to them?”

Stark nods, then turns to face us. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. There’s a situation that demands my attention. I’ll be in touch next week.” He glances at Ms. Peters. “If you could see our guests out?”

“Of course, sir.”

His eyes meet mine, but they are unreadable. And then he steps out of the conference room and disappears down the hall. The sense of loss from his departure surprises me, but I say my goodbyes to his colleagues, then turn my attention to helping Brian pack one of the cases, all the while afraid that everyone in the room can read my expression.

After Ms. Peters has put us on the elevator and the door has firmly closed, Carl does such a funky little jig that I can’t help but laugh. “That was great,” I say. “Thank you so much for letting me be here for this.”

Carl spreads his arms in a magnanimous gesture. “Hey, we’re a team. And we all kicked some ass.” The elevator doors open onto the lobby, and Carl swings his arms jovially around Brian’s and Dave’s shoulders. They valiantly try to move with their boss and still drag the rolling cases. I’m about to take pity on them when I hear my name.

I look up and see Joe the security guard gesturing toward me. “Ms. Fairchild? If you have a moment?” He’s holding a phone to his ear.

“Yes?” I say, hurrying to the guard desk.

Joe holds up a finger in a just a moment gesture. I glance sideways at Carl, who’s looking at me with an unmistakable what the fuck? expression. I shrug, just as clueless as my boss.

Joe says something I can’t hear, then hangs up the phone. “You’re wanted upstairs, ma’am.”

“Upstairs?”

“Back in the penthouse,” he says. “Mr. Stark would like to see you.”

Behind me, I see Dave and Brian nudge each other. Great. Apparently Carl shared his suspicions with the staff. Maybe by tomorrow there’ll be an interoffice memo.

“Now’s not a good time,” I tell the guard. “I’m on my way to a team meeting.”

“Mr. Stark was very insistent.”

I bet he was. An unpleasant heaviness starts to settle over me. I spent most of my life being told exactly where to be, where to stand, what to do, and when to do it. I squeeze my right hand into a tight fist and force myself to smile at Joe. “I’m sure he’ll find something else to occupy his time this afternoon. But if he calls my office, I’ll be happy to work him into my schedule next week.”

Joe’s eyes are wide, and his mouth hangs open a little, as if his jaw is made of rubber. I have the feeling nothing like this has happened before. People don’t say no to Justin Stark.

I toss my shoulders back a little, liking the new Selena. “Shall we?” I say to Carl and the boys.

Carl frowns. “Maybe you—”

“No,” I say. “If he wants to talk about the project, we can all go back up.” In the distance, I hear the ding of an elevator, the sound punctuating my resolve.

“And if it’s not the project he wants to see you about?” Carl asks, looking at me hard.

I stare back, just as coolly. “Then he doesn’t need to see me, does he?” I stand firm, daring Carl to send me up there. He did it once at the party. If he does it again in the lobby of Stark’s building, it really isn’t going to be pretty.

After a moment, he nods. “Come on. Champagne’s waiting.”

0 notes