Page 21 of Vivacity
But I’m not out in the cold anymore. I’m forty-one years of age, and I despise the physical signs of weakness that wash over me every time we have an altercation. We’re both grown men, and he’s no longer my keeper, and even if he gives me the classic silent treatment, I shouldn’t care. I’m in control of my world and my relationships and this company, and that doesn’t change just because Dad chooses to blindside me with the occasional dick move.
He’ll be furious that I called him out in front of Sophia. Absolutely furious. The uglier his soul grows, the more intent he becomes on maintaining his pristine image of urbane, benignbusinessman—the gracious patriarch. He’s a walking, talking portrait of Dorian Gray.
A smiling assassin.
‘So your dad’s a piece of work, then,’ Sophia offers, tilting her head to one side as I shut the door behind me. If she notices me locking it, she doesn’t mention it.
‘My father can go fuck himself.’ I walk back to her and grab the iPad. I notice dispassionately that my hand is still shaking. ‘Now, I need you up to speed on the details of the transaction as soon as possible. Here’s a more detailed version of the deck we sent to the Montague board. Go sit at your desk and look it over.’
‘Of course.’ She takes the device and stands, and I catch a fleeting, quizzical look from her as we stand face to face.
She’s wondering, no doubt, why I don’t just bend her over my desk again and vent my obvious rage out on her. But we’re going to do this my way. My way will be better for her, and better for me, because I need something very particular in this moment.
If I have tried to forget, over the past few days, that Sophia is a beauty for the ages, then God help me, I’m under no illusions now. Her presence is enough to remind me that hiring her was greedy, greedy, greedy.
And greed is something I simply don’t do.
That’s firmly my father’s domain.
I indulge, certainly, but in carefully prescribed moderation, and hiring this woman is like ordering a foot-high stack of syrupy pancakes when I’m used to plain egg white and spinach omelettes. (It’s not a bad analogy, except that I do allow a single yolk in my breakfast omelette in acknowledgement of its nutritional value.)
She’s as lush as I remember, her eyes as dark and lips as pillowy and hair as silken as I knew them to be. And don’t get me started on this body of hers. She may have dressed it in some gratuitously colourful, high-fashion contraption today,but I know what it looks like naked, how golden and soft and sumptuous, a body a man as tightly wound as I am could find solace in for days and days.
Which is why I maintain that hiring her was greedy. I need a tight pussy and a wet mouth to chip away at my stress in a manageable fashion. On that particular front, my sleek, desirable, eager-to-please former assistants have done perfectly well. I do not need every single other enticement that Miss Petrakis has to offer, and I’m frankly disgusted with myself that I’ve been so weak-willed as to pursue this thing with her.
Still, the greater the temptation, the greater the self-control needed to withstand it. If nothing else, she’ll make for a fine test of my mettle, every fucking weekday.
I give her a few minutes to settle herself at her desk, watching her through the open interconnecting door between our offices.
Her glass-topped desk is new.
And far from accidental.
We’re about to test out its benefits.
She looksup as I enter her office, and I take a moment to appreciate how fine she looks at her new desk, a jolt of beauty and colour amid the stark backdrop of pale grey walls and huge windows. She has the iPad in front of her and a large notepad beside it upon which she’s making notes.
‘As you were,’ I say, crossing the room and making my way behind her chair. ‘Don’t let me disturb you.’
‘Okay.’ There’s a note of doubt in her voice, like she’s trying to figure out my game here, but she goes with it, casting her eyes back to the presentation. It’s a far more detailed version of the deck we sent to the Montague board, complete with page afterpage of data around cost-cutting opportunities as well as the top-line synergies we proposed to them.
I stand behind her and glance over her shoulder at the presentation. She’s looking at a page of pie charts detailing the market share the combined group would have by region and by category. It’s only after noting this that I allow myself to still, to gaze down at the top of her dark head and admire the thick, glossy waves cascading over her shoulders. Her dress features a modest V-neck, but the shadow of her cleavage is visible from this angle, as are her knees and the bottoms of her thighs through the glass desk. It looks like she’s wearing nude stockings.
This may just be my favourite thing: that heady moment of anticipation before I make a move. The certain knowledge that the shit-storms of work and life and fathers and sons can wait while I claw back the control I know I need to quiet my mind and restore my equilibrium.
I’d do well to remember that I need to submit to my own self-control just as much as I need this stunning woman to submit to me. Not for the first time, I wish I was one of those men capable of discarding that self-discipline and turning themselves over wholeheartedly to their basest urges. But I didn’t get where I am, and I haven’t survived where I am, by being weak-willed.
Finally,finally, I allow my hands to slide through Sophia’s dark tresses.
SOPHIA
Ethan’s fingers rake slowly, surely, through my hair, and I can’t stop the pleased, soft breath that leaves my mouth at thesensation. Fuck, I hope he’s come in here to pulverise me like the ultimate stress toy.
‘Don’t stop on my account.’ It’s less a request than an order, so I play along and keep reading, forcing myself to jot down the occasional figure on my pad. He rakes my hair back into a ponytail and winds it slowly around his wrist. When he pulls, the burn is delicious. And when he uses the rein he’s fashioned to tug my head to one side, my pulse picks up, because he’s leaning over, his mouth ghosting over my jaw, down my neck.
I try to turn my face so my mouth is closer to his. Surely, if I tempt him enough, he’ll give in and kiss me? Fuck knows, I want this man to kiss me. I want him to thrust so deep inside my mouth with his tongue that it makes me moan. I want him to know how good my mouth feels, to spell out for him how fantastic I could make him feel if he let me wrap my lips around his cock.
But he’s not having any of it.
