Page 54 of Worth the Wait

Each word feels like a caress, his analytical breakdown of our potential arrangement somehow more seductive than any flowery declaration could be. This is the language we both speak—contracts, terms, precisely worded agreements, twisted into something illicit, forbidden.

"And termination clauses?" I ask, my voice barely audible over the hum of the car engine. "If one party wishes to end the arrangement?"

His hand covers mine, warm and steady. "Full disclosure. Mutual respect. No professional repercussions."

The technical discussion of our arrangement feels like foreplay—each term negotiated, each parameter established building a tension that coils tighter with every word. We're creating a framework to contain something that feels fundamentally uncontainable, attempting to impose structure on pure chemistry.

"Okay," I say finally, the single word carrying the weight of a much more complex agreement. "Professional at work, personal outside. No mixed signals, no blurred lines."

His hand squeezes mine. "I believe we established the other night that I'm very good at following explicit instructions," he says, voice dropping again.

The memory floods back instantly, me whispering exactly what I wanted, where I needed his touch, how hard, how fast, and him complying with devastating precision, bringing me to the edge again and again until I begged for release.

"That's exactly the kind of comment that would be prohibited in the office," I manage, trying to sound stern despite the flush creeping up my neck.

"Noted," he replies, the smirk evident in his voice. "Office Jackson and Personal Jackson will remain strictly segregated."

As Chicago's skyline appears on the horizon, I realize we've crafted a solution that appears to address my professional concerns while allowing us to explore the undeniable chemistry between us. It feels like having my cake and eating it too—a concept I've never fully trusted.

But as Jackson's thumb traces small circles against my skin, sending tendrils of desire curling through my body, I can't bring myself to care about the inevitable failure of our carefully constructed boundaries.

We're attempting to contain wildfire in a paper box, and deep down, I'm already anticipating the moment it all goes up in flames.

Three days later,I stand perfectly composed before the Westfield executive team, my presentation slides advancing as I explain the liability framework we've constructed. My voice remains steady, my arguments clear and compelling, not a hint of the chaos churning beneath my professional veneer.

"As you can see in Section 4.3," I explain, gesturing to the highlighted clause, "we've created a multilayered protection strategy that shields your parent company while maintaining operational flexibility for the subsidiaries."

Across the table, Jackson nods appreciatively, his expression one of professional respect without a trace of the heat that had blazed in his eyes last night when he'd pressed me against my apartment wall, his hands sliding beneath my skirt with desperate urgency.

We've maintained our arrangement with remarkable discipline. Professional composure in team meetings, appropriate distance in the office, not a single lingering glanceor unnecessary touch that might betray us. Then, after hours, we come together with a passion that's all the more intense for being contained during working hours.

"If I may," Jackson says, rising to highlight a different section of the contract, "Ms. Wells' innovative approach to the liability structure creates an opportunity for accelerated implementation across all international markets."

His voice carries nothing but mundane legal jargon, yet my body responds to it with Pavlovian precision like I’m a damn dog. A subtle quickening of breath, a warmth spreading across my skin. I cross one leg over the other, pressing my thighs together against the sudden ache between them.

"Exactly right," I agree, voice steady despite the memories flashing behind my eyes—Jackson's voice, rough with desire, telling me exactly what he planned to do to me, his hands pinning my wrists above my head, his mouth leaving a trail of fire across my skin.

Christine watches us from the back of the room, her eyes narrow with calculation. "While the structure is certainly creative," she says, her smile not reaching her eyes, "I wonder if a more traditional approach might offer greater precedential protection. Perhaps separating these elements between different team members would provide a useful contrast?"

The suggestion is transparent—an attempt to physically separate us in the office, to remove the natural collaboration that's producing such compelling results.

God, could she be more obvious?

"Actually," Jackson counters smoothly, "our research indicates that the integrated approach has produced superior outcomes in similar regulatory environments. The client feedback has specifically praised the seamless coordination."

"I agree,” I add, not attempting to hide the frustration in my voice. “The Westfield team has indicated that our unifiedstrategy is a key differentiator compared to previous legal counsel."

Christine's expression tightens fractionally, but she merely nods, retreating temporarily. I know better than to consider it a victory—she's merely regrouping, planning her next move, no doubt.

"Excellent work, both of you," Miguel says, joining us as the clients depart. "The Hanover team has specifically requested your combined approach for their upcoming acquisition."

"Happy to help," Jackson replies smoothly.

By the time my day has finished, the sun has long since set.

My phone screen illuminates the darkness of my office, the late hour evident in the silence beyond my door. Most of the firm has emptied, just a few lights visible in distant offices where other associates work against deadlines or ambition.

Jackson's text glows against the background.

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