Author's Note:
I enjoyed and appreciated all the feedback sent to me, and I bow in humility to everyone that took the time to shoot me an email about my work.
I take all critiques and suggestions in mind when I'm writing, and I encourage you to send me your opinions, and be as detailed as you'd like to be.
I had to cut this chapter in half, for it was threatening to be really long, and I worked it in a way so that you don't feel disconnected at the end, or overwhelmed where the next one starts. Chapter Five is currently in the works, and two more future chapters are being plotted and outlined in between breaks.
Again, thank you for reading, and lots of love!
Ginger :)
~~~~~
Being realistic was the backbone to Marc's thinking process. He didn't sugarcoat bitter facts, didn't waste time on pretty clichés and words when he could be
doing
something, and didn't play games...well, the last one was true until the night he dove head-first into that tryst with Jillian Zahra.
He knew going in, that it will be a short-lived affair, and assured himself repeatedly that -come next Monday- he was going to clear things out with her. Tell her who he was, how meeting her in that bar was no accident. It never did work that way, though. Maybe it was him, maybe it was the sex...the mind blowing, bone melting dirty sex, but he just couldn't bring himself to reveal his name and position knowing full well that Jillian would end their association on the spot, and never want anything to do with him on a personal level anymore. She was
that
kind of employee; slaving, by choice, in her quest for excellent output without relying on any handouts. He did his homework on everyone working for his father before agreeing to assume the old man's position. He also knew that their official introduction was imminent, and that she was going to be shocked, or pissed...or
both
. Well, she was
both
, and he told himself he was prepared for it all along, but it didn't feel that way after all.
The tangy taste of her pussy lingered under his tongue, and he could still smell her on his clothes, feel the smooth puffy lips of her cunt on his lips, chin, and cheeks.
"Fucking hell!" slamming his office door, he stared blindly at the panoramic view his windows provided of the city, and wondered for the hundred and fiftieth time why he was so agitated by her expected response. Was some part of him wishing she'd forgive his
little faux pas
and just say something like, "Water under the bridge! It's cool, but we can't do the nasty anymore" and they'd resume their lives? Or was he secretly hoping she'd carry on with their arrangement with added clause; keep the sex out of the office where they're both genial, professional colleagues, but still see each other after work? The latter presumption sounded better since he already knew that he didn't want the sex to end.
He heaved himself heavily in a chair, and booted the computer on the desk watching his scowling reflection on the crystal screen go from black, to blue with his operating system's logo greeting message, then finally settle on the computer background that held the company's name in loopy silver letters.
He'd dug his own grave, and wasn't proud to admit it, but took full blame for it. He also knew that he screwed himself royally because she could walk out on the company at that critical transitional point, turning things inside out, upside down, and ass backwards all at the same time. The thing that bothered and puzzled him the most however, had nothing to do with work, and everything to do with the fact that she might never forgive him. She was stubborn, and he was in purgatory. The way things escalated, taking over his self control, the fact that he found himself constantly thinking about her -not always in a sexual way, but with genuine interest in
her
as a person- indicated that his only option was to fry in his own hell over this.
Resolutely, he steered his thoughts in a professional direction again. Still frowning at his screen, he pulled up his email application, and hit
compose
, trying to come up with a short message that explained that her position with the company was intact, and she had nothing to worry about in that respect.
"This job is my life."
She had said, and he knew -based on the quality of her work, and everyone else's recommendations- that she meant that.
"Jesus!" he pinched the bridge of his nose briefly, before sliding his fingers up to rub his forehead irritably. He should've told her that very first time at the bar...
and sacrifice all that intoxicating, wild sex?
His brain questioned,
would she have said "yes" back then if she knew him? Maybe come up with an arrangement similar to their original one?
The answer was a resounding "No" and he knew it. Still, it didn't explain why he acted so irrationally; reckless, feckless, and untamed in his indulgence. He never had trouble getting women; his position, looks, and money made it almost too easy, yet he still took that nosedive and messed around with his own employee.
He tried to word together that email while trying to banish the niggling sense of guilt he felt by telling himself that she had overreacted. He argued that she should've expected an unpleasant issue to arise after her unaccountable decision to pick up a stranger and suck his dick for him.
She's an intelligent, grown woman who knew exactly what she was doing when she made a witless, wanton decision to have fun
, he told himself,
and was lucky it was
him
she propositioned and not some demented psycho who wanted to chop her u
—he couldn't complete the thought...the idea of someone getting their hands on her made his head and temples prickle with an angry, stinging ache, and he didn't even want to consider the possibility of her getting hurt by someone.
