Page 55 of Worth the Wait

Jackson: Contract revisions complete for Section 7. Would benefit from your precise legal assessment before submission.

I smile despite the stress of the day and send a text back. I know where this exchange is going already.

Me: Assessment complete on my end. Found several liability exposures that require immediate attention.

His response comes quickly. Jackson: Sounds serious. Perhaps in-person consultation would be most efficient?

The professional language barely masks the intent behind the words. Heat pools low in my belly as I type.

Me: Agreed. Complex matters benefit from face-to-face discussion.

Three dots appear, disappear, then reappear.

Jackson: My place, eight p.m.? I'll bring dinner.

His next message abandons the professional pretense entirely.

Jackson: And Tar, wear that black lace beneath your suit. I've been thinking about peeling it off you all day.

My breath catches, body responding immediately to the mental image—Jackson's hands sliding beneath my jacket, finding the delicate lace, his fingers tracing the edge where fabric meets skin.

I'm composing a response equally explicit when movement in my peripheral vision makes me glance up. Miguel stands in my doorway, one hand raised to knock on the already open door.

Panic surges through me, hot and instant. I fumble my phone, nearly dropping it before managing to place it down on my desk. My heart thunders against my ribs, pulse points throbbing with adrenaline.

"Miguel," I manage, voice unnaturally high. "I didn't hear you."

"Sorry to startle you," he says, stepping into my office. "I saw your light still on. Dedication to the Westfield account?"

I swallow, willing my face not to betray the explicit messages I'd been exchanging moments before. "Just finalizing some liability language for tomorrow's presentation."

He nods approvingly, then gestures to the contract pages spread across my desk. "I had a question about the subsidiary structure in Section 5. The holding company arrangement seems unusually complex."

For the next ten minutes, I explain the legal rationale behind our approach, my professional knowledge providing a shield against the panic still simmering beneath the surface. The entire time, my phone lies on the desk between us, a potential bomb that could detonate my career with a single illuminated notification.

"Excellent work," Miguel says finally, seemingly satisfied with my explanation. "This is precisely why you're on the shortlist for junior counsel. Your attention to structural details is unmatched Tarryn, truly."

The compliment would normally fill me with pride, but now I can only manage a tight smile, hyperaware of my phone and what it contains.

"Thank you," I say, walking with him toward the door, eager to have him leave before Jackson sends another message. "I appreciate your confidence."

"Well earned," he assures me. "Get some rest, Tarryn. Tomorrow's presentation is important."

The moment he's gone, I snatch up my phone, heart still racing. No new messages have arrived—a small mercy. I take a deep breath, hands trembling slightly as I type a single message that abandons all pretense.

Me: Leaving now.

Jackson's apartment door opens before I can knock, as if he's been waiting just on the other side, listening for my footsteps. The moment I cross the threshold, the professional distance we've maintained all week evaporates like morning dew under summer sun.

His hands frame my face, mouth claiming mine with a hunger that matches the ache that's been building inside me all day. I melt against him, briefcase and jacket dropping forgotten to the floor as my arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer.

"I've been thinking about this since yesterday," he murmurs against my lips, hands already working at the buttons of my blouse. "About you. About how you taste."

The confession sends heat spiraling through me. I push his suit jacket from his shoulders, fingers moving to his tie with practiced efficiency. "Show me," I breathe, already dizzy with want.

We leave a trail of clothing from his doorway to the bedroom, each discarded piece bringing us closer to skin against skin.By the time we reach his bed, I'm down to the black lace he requested, his eyes darkening as he takes in the sight.

"You wore it," he says, voice rough with appreciation. "All day?"

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