Assuming he wanted me to refill his coffee, I went over to the desk and reached for the cup, but he shook his head. He wanted me on his side of the desk for some reason.
“Look, you can come up with a hundred excuses.” Jack was not pleased with Aaron. “Bottom line, Tokyo was yours, and you decided to send Ashley and Dan in your stead. Responsibility’s still yours, no matter how you spin it—and if you fuck up, it looks bad on all of us, including me.”
My gaze got stuck on the left laptop screen. Jesus, he was going through the footage library on the Mclean site. The videos members posted. The porn.
Jack reached for his little case where he kept his earbuds, and he uh-huh’d in response to whatever Aaron said. Next, he wheeled out the desk chair a bit, and I swallowed a ball of lust. He was hard in his pants.
“That’s fine. I’ll make an appointment for you to see him,” he said, switching to take the call through his earbuds. “Next topic. The candidates. How many in-house prospects do we have?”
To me, he just jerked his chin at the desk, a silent command for me to bend over.
Was he serious?
Yes. Yes, he was. He was fishing out a packet of lube from his wallet and everything.
Oh my God, it had to be my lucky day. First an invitation to Macklin’s rooftop—swimwear optional—and now this. I hurriedly undid my belt and pushed down my pants and boxer briefs, and then I bent over the desk for him.
“List them all,” Jack said. “I’m just heading into the gym.”
Oh, you filthy boy.
A shudder ran through me as I listened to him slicking up his cock behind me.
To make matters worse—by worse, I obviously meant better—he pushed play on a new video on the laptop.
I recognized that body. Those Japanese tattoos. No sound required. It was Shay. A beautiful young man, a hard-core masochist, getting flogged—on his poor cock—by one of his Owners. I didn’t know if it was River or Reese tormenting him. They were twins. Twin Sadists. They were two of the community’s founding members. In fact, the property outside Mclean was in their name.
I sucked in a sharp breath when Jack unceremoniously pressed his cock between my ass cheeks and started pushing inside. Zero warm-up, got it. I gnashed my teeth together and screwed my eyes shut.
“He’s not ready,” Jack grunted. For a second, I thought he was talking about me because, no, I wasn’t quite ready! “Nobody under thirty. Mr. Morgan won’t take them seriously.”
Oh, but then I was ready. I pressed my lips together to prevent from moaning as he sank all the way into me in a single thrust. Mother of God, I loved how he used me.
“What about Kate? She’s brilliant.”
Several minutes ticked by, and I got lost in the subtle objectification. Jack absent-mindedly pushed play on new videos, but I stopped watching. I closed my eyes instead, and I reveled in being nothing but a fuckhole for him. My breathing evened out, my cock stood at half-mast, and the sounds were almost lulling. In and out, in and out, his breath hitched rhythmically, the lube created a soft, sliding noise, in and out, in and out, my thighs bumped against the desk mutedly, in and out, in and out, and Jack kept talking to his coworker.
He chuckled, out of breath. “Because she’s on maternity leave, and I need someone to start shadowing me the minute I return. Let’s circle back to Kate. She’s been with us for six years, and Morgan likes her already. Bump her up for an interview on Monday afternoon.”
I took a deep breath and smelled the sex in the air.
I started picturing days when I came to his office to provide relief. Maybe he’d fuck me while he ate lunch. Or I could kneel for him and suck his cock while he was on the phone.
I would keep him happy.
He’d call me good Daddy and send me off with a pat on the ass.
Fuck.
7
“Honey, I don’t think we fit in.”
Oh good, we were on the same page. It wasn’t just me. We’d spent over half an hour deciding what to wear to a punk rock festival, and we hadn’t come close. As soon as we stepped out of the cab, we were surrounded by leather jackets, boots, brightly colored mohawks, and an abundance of dark eye makeup.
“I feel like we’re the definition of The Man here,” I said. “They’re genetically programmed to hate us.”
Jack laughed and pushed up the sleeves of his very nice pullover. It fit his body so well. And hey, it was black. That counted for something, surely? I was wearing something similar—with jeans, to boot. Jack wore charcoal chinos, in which his ass looked like it should belong to me indefinitely.