Flowers for Jill

Author's Note:

I apologize deeply for the long wait. I got promoted (yay me), but now I have a load of responsibilities and a bunch of idiots to reform (boo); so I've been busy, busy, busy with work.

This chapter was supposed to be one with the one before it, but as I mentioned before, it stretched out and I had to cut it in half. Well, it's still very long, and I had to cut a lot of scenes from it, but didn't want to butcher it more than I already did, so I stopped cutting.

I feel like I need to start posting the future chapters under the "Novels and Novellas" category since this story (which started out more or less as a dare) got longer, and somehow more personal. I wanted to get some opinions though, let me know. If I don't get any advice, I'll probably go ahead and change the category with the next chapters, so don't leave me hanging!

Again, thank you for reading, and I look forward to all your feedback!

Ginger :)

*****

Wednesday was supposed to be a mellow, promising day. It didn't have Monday's overload of work, nor Tuesday's after-party clean-up that followed horrendous Mondays. And while it wasn't as close to the weekend as the two days that followed it, Hump Day had never been associated with stress in Marc's world...up until Helga stormed into his office wagging her finger at him, "You bring her back,

today!

"

Knotting his eyebrows in confusion, he enquired, "What did I do now?" he let her get away with talking to him like that because of her age, and her closeness to his family, it's never really bothered him until he started working directly with her. Now he felt the need to lay down some rules about her speaking to him like he was a child in front of his employees.

"She called in again." her voice was strained, belaying her aging years that she hid very well. The gravity of her tone touched him, and alarmed him to where Jillian might be, or what she might be up to.

"What makes you so sure she's not sick?" he didn't tell her that he called the previous day, and got hung up on.

The woman shook her head vehemently, "I know that girl, there's nothing wrong with her health; it's something else." Then she glared at him in a way that made him want to check for a small red dot on his chest or forehead, "It's because of

you

. Why did I fool myself into thinking you can keep your hands off that girl? How could I have been so stupid?"

This was getting a tad too disrespectful, and his vexation with Helga's insubordinate attitude, and biasness in Jillian's favor was rising, "It's always my fault, isn't it?" he swallowed the stream of sordid facts that linked him to Jillian and threatened to flood out of his mouth, for the sake of Jill. Of all things, he took her side in his head at the same time he resented someone's favoring her over him. What did she do to his head to unscrew all the bolts and wires that made sure things functioned studiously?

Avoiding his remark, she declared, "I sent her flowers and put your name on the card."

There was a line; a clear, sacramental, inviolable line, and it has been crossed impertinently by that action. Marc felt a vein expand and start to throb on his forehead as he shot out of his chair, shaking with rage, "How da-" he took a deep breath and shook his head, he wasn't going to explode in anger like that. Taking another breath, he said very serenely, "You shouldn't have used my name."

"I took the liberty of doing what needed to be done."

His hands fisted and he tapped the knuckles nervously in a rhythmic pattern on the table top, "Helga -

Ms. Bloom

, I asked you specifically to stay out of this matter. If you wanted to go talk to her and check on her, fine, you can do that; she lives in your building after all, but acting as my spokesperson is..." he shook his head shooting her an indescribable look, "that was taking it too far, and breaking a direct order from your boss."

She crossed her arms defensively, "It was an order? I didn't know that."

He continued to stare at her in silence until she shrugged, "I'm trying to help. I don't know why you're so bent out of shape over it, to be honest."

Before he could think or filter his reaction, he heard his own voice roaring, "Because

I

wanted to do that, goddamn it!

I'm

the one who spends embarrassing amounts of time leafing through fucking flower catalogues like a fucking loser to get her something unique...like her." Well, the cat was definitely out of the bag, but it had scratched its way out, and the whole scene didn't look too pretty, "Jesus, Helga that's...I told you I'll fix it, why couldn't you for once, just once, trust my word on it? I'm not a kid anymore..." he pronounced more quietly, "I'm a grown man; I know what I'm doing. And when I don't, I know how to fix it."

"I'm sorry." The older woman croaked, flabbergasted at his display of furious emotion over something as insignificant as flowers.

Marc sat down again admitting to himself how ridiculous he made himself look over some nonsensical flowers, "No, you're not, you never are." He licked the front of his teeth with his lips closed making a rude face, "You do whatever you want to do, and I can't say anything to you because you're you. Why do you think I was so hesitant about working with dad and taking this position after him? I don't want to work with family and friends who think they can have it their way and ignore my authority

just 'cause

. It's too late now," he shook his head throwing his gaze around the office walls, feeling the delayed heaviness of his decision finally settle on his shoulders and chest weighing them down, "I agreed to break my rules and change everything in my life, moved across the country, and let a bunch of people go. I can't just change my mind, and I have to rely on my people here to help and back me up, not see me as a child who's expected to ruin things. Sure, I might've been a bit reckless when I first met Jillian, and didn't act like I should have, but that's

my

mess to deal with, not yours." He repeated for emphasis, "Not yours, Helga."

She finally seated herself, and maintained a contemplative silence that exacerbated his growing displeasure with her as he thought she must've been speculating about the extent of his

thing

with Jillian.

Ever the stubborn man, he held a staring contest with the magisterial woman, refusing to let her off the hook, intent on getting his authority acknowledged and heeded.

She caved, "If I'm ever meddlesome, if I ever interfere in your life, it's because you're like a son to me." her tone was gentle, "I can't have children, even if I wanted to, and I don't think I'd have made a good mother have I had kids full-time, but it was an honor for me to watch you grow, Marc. I don't think you're incapable of carrying your daddy's torch, because you are, no question about that. I just can't help but look after you, and get kind of grandmotherly with you when you do something I deem stupid."

He scratched between his eyes with the back of his thumbnail then rubbed his forefinger's second knuckle over the area he scratched, and ran it all the way up to his forehead smoothing the taut skin in silence and absorbing her words.

"I have my own speculations about what you and Jillian did, and I'm certain you weren't the only participant, but you're here and she's not. She refuses to come, which brings about the conclusion that you did something to anger her."

He didn't want to hand her that one, "Or that she did something that makes her not want to show her face around me."

Her eyes widened, obviously not expecting

that

, "Jillian?" then she frowned, "She's the model of perfect behavior, she wouldn't..."

"Stop thinking about it," he rose from his chair walking up to the door, "don't speculate, don't build scenarios, don't put together any stories in your head even if they're just for you to mull over. And yes, that is an order, Ms. Bloom." He opened the door ushering her out.

She nodded, getting up and smoothing her skirt stoically, "I respect your wish, Mr. Dussant."

"I appreciate it." he thanked her then clicked the door closed behind her.

*****

Hours later, he dialed Jillian's cell from the office line, and it went straight to voicemail, but he didn't expect an answer, hence he left a short message, "Pick up, Jillian, this is ridiculous, we need to talk. Call me or I won't stop calling until you pick up." He paused looking at the accordion-style folder containing her modeling pictures on his desk, and covered the mouth piece for no reason as he was alone, then removed his hand to add "Also, I didn't send those flowers; Helga did, I..."

why did he say that?

"I wouldn't do something silly like that when you're not talking to me."

Lame!

He concluded his work day with that, snatched her pictures and went to the gym, letting the folder -and his anxiousness- rest for a couple of hours as if to prove that he still had some self control.

He picked up a supper on the way home, and managed to shovel half of it into his mouth in a few quick bites before springing up and out of his chair to retrieve the folder. Poking another loaded bite with his fork, he dumped the contents of the folder on his kitchen table.

The first picture his eyes fell on was one of her wearing some large college football jersey which bottom she gathered in one hand lifting it up to reveal her midriff and dark blue lacey boy short panties. The sexy bottoms were completely made of lace and clung to her generous shapely hips that made her little waist seem even smaller in comparison. Her hair was a mess of curls, and she bit the tip of her thumb with a saucy half smirk as her dark eyes stared seductively at the camera.

The bite of seared marinated beef he was chewing lodged in his throat when he swallowed convulsively, and he coughed reaching for a glass of water cursing internally. Holy hell, but she was something!

Another picture had her in a soft lavender satin chemise, sitting on a kitchen counter with her legs spread wide, and the heel of her hand pinning the slip's embroidered hem to the countertop covering her naughty bits. Her other hand held a heart-shaped lollipop that she ran her tongue on the side of. There were more pictures of similar nature, all displayed sexy lingerie in a very openly erotic way, and he cursed again, this wasn't lingerie modeling; this was soft porn! She had something in her mouth in almost every picture, and posed in naughty positions that screamed "

Take me!

"

"God Almighty!" he ground out leafing through the personnel documents and found an old catalogue that indeed belonged to some clothing store that sold women's intimates and swimwear. Why did they make them so sexy when their target audience was straight women?

Marc shook his head and devoured the rest of the pictures with his eyes. Even her standard basic Polaroids were hot, she wore bland white underwear in the body-length shot, no makeup, and had her hair sleeked to the back, but it still managed to arouse him. That hypnotizing look in her dark eyes addled his brain that was already having trouble keeping track of everything with her in the metaphorical picture.

He read her file, and studied the pictures again. Her hair was longer,

a lot

longer, and her breasts seemed a little smaller, and so did her thighs and hips. She looked more on the thin side as opposed to her current toned, slender frame that still managed to curve and bloom in all the right places. He knew enough models to distinguish a sexy camera face from a real aroused expression, but it felt so weird to see

her

dolled up and posed like a bunch of others who didn't hold a candle to her. She had

so much

in her and it didn't feel right to see her in a magazine where all the girls were presumed to be airheads and got their pictures jacked-off to by lonely guys, or got their faces drawn on by jealous women. A magazine which papers got used to wrap china and glass in moving boxes, or line a birdcage.

This was

his Jill

, the woman that made a pants suit or a business skirt and blazer seem just as sexy as any of the fetish wear modeled in the catalogues on his table.

He was so absorbed in what he was doing, that he didn't remember to finish his meal which sat cold and neglected on the far side of the table, nor did he notice the time edging closer to midnight then passing it. Marc sat there tracing Jillian's body with his fingers on his favorite picture in the bunch. She posed in a ramshackle barn wearing a raspberry red and white set of peasant, gypsy looking underwear. A pair of bloomer panties which legs tied right under each of her round ass cheeks, soft cotton with sheer lace and lots of ribbons crisscrossed and tied in bows. Her bra was the same style; something between a top and a bra, sheer in some places, and ruched under her breasts, and around the higher part of her upper arms where the sleeves stopped. Her hair was a bit tousled with multiple small braids that had strands of small wild flowers woven into them. She was barefoot, her toenails painted a dark red, and looking like a blooming rose next to the old fashioned wagon she stood next to. Her photographer had posed in the least suggestive way as one long leg was pushed up on tiptoes and bent towards the front of the other one, while she held a long strand of some wild plant in both hands.

The smile on her face was the most arresting aspect of the picture, however. This is how he wanted her to look at him; with pure joy reflected on her face and a happy toothy beam that reached her eyes. He wanted her to be happy to see him. It was a strange wish. He didn't understand why it was so important to be liked by her all of a sudden. He wanted her to miss him, to think about him, and to worry about upsetting him like he was about her.

Dropping the picture on the table, he sat back in his chair and raked his fingers through his hair expelling a long sigh. Those pictures got him worked up, and he floated, daydreaming as he brushed his teeth then stripped and got into bed to sleep.

Hot and bothered, he had two options; he could either take his chances and go to her house in an attempt to seduce her and get her forgiveness, or take care of it himself. Since the first option would probably end up with him getting pissed off after she yelled at him, he conceded with the latter, and reached for his aching hard cock closing his eyes. Memories of her swam behind his eyelids as he wrapped his fingers around the thick shaft, and jerked roughly.

In his head, he heard her moans egging him on, begging him to fuck her...harder, deeper.

His -lately over active- imagination mixed actual memories of her with the Jillian he saw in the pictures. He saw her bent over that ridiculous beat-down wagon with her panties around her ankles, her ass and cunt put on display just for him...his hand squeezed harder o his cock when he imagined pushing into her tightness...his fingers were very dissimilar to her soft slick folds in their roughness, a poor substitute to the siren that seemed to haunt him.

He swiped his fingertips, nevertheless, over the flared head collecting fat drops of precome that leaked from the slit and dotted around it. Rubbing his fingers in to the slick moisture, he spread it messily over the helmet, down the long shaft, and rubbed it on the inside of his palm before going back for more...she'd be incredibly wet for him, sopping, dripping. The pouting folds of her labia glistening with her honey...Marc's fingers compressed his thick hot meat slipping lower to wrap around the base...she'd push back against him, impatient and starving for his dick.

"Fuck!" he exhaled a long curse tracing the throbbing thick vein that ran the length of his penis.

"Yes, fuck me, Marc." Her voice answered in his fantasy, "Mr. Dussant, please, I want you inside me."

"Balls deep." He breathed totally losing himself into the illusion of her, his hand sliding up then down, pumping his hardness. His big hand was warm, heating up his precome that lubricated his strokes, and he ran it over all the sensitive parts of his tool taking his time, lengthening his fantasy, his delicious sexual daydream.

Jillian would want him to go roughly, she liked his ribald manhandling.

Good Girl

Jillian was his own little cum slut behind closed doors, letting him delight in everything she had to offer, every little secret that she maintained behind her serious, businesswoman façade. She let him use her, but she returned the favor. Their constant table turning on each other excited him, just when he thought he was on top, she did something utterly raunchy and out there that wrapped him around her elegant little finger, and he loved it...craved it, that back and forth tossing of power.

His loud sighs filled his ears, legs bucked and jerked on the sheets as he felt his pinnacle boiling, seething, rising. With his left hand, he cupped his balls and caressed them just like she did for him, feeling their heaviness on his fingers, warm, swollen, and full of cum...in his mind's eye, he saw her ass pushing against him, slapping wetly against his groin...his hand moved quicker still, up and down, the slick sounds of his stroking were lewd, loud, and perfect. His hips pumped up involuntarily as he felt the culmination start at his prostate and pool up towards his balls, through his shaft, and erupt in thick jets flying into the air then landing on his taut stomach muscles.

He milked it out with his thumb and forefinger pressed under the head of his dick, his thumb oscillating against the magical spot of his frenulum despite his oversensitivity during his orgasm...her pussy muscles would squeeze him torturously like that when she came at the same time as he. And Marc stuck with the illusion until his tired hands slackened and released his cock and testicles.

His eyes stared into the darkness for countless minutes as he hung in his exhaustion between slumber and wakefulness. Thoughts driving fast and crashing into each other in his head that pounded delightfully as his body still struggled to come down from the heights of that climax. He wanted to call her so badly, itched to grab the phone and be rewarded by the sound of her voice and an admission of her forgiveness, but that was farfetched. Even if she

did

forgive him for playing her, she would be enraged at having someone wake her up in the middle of the night just to say hello.

She didn't show up the next day, not that he expected her to. He couldn't, however, staunch the sense of disappointment that stained his day.

Helga didn't approach him about the subject again, and Jillian's spunky secretary volunteered to help his since Mrs. Kirchhoff was new to Élsi Dussant.

"I have nothing left to do," she confessed handing him a report. Her hazel eyes exotically light compared to the cocoa-hue of her skin, "Ms. Zahra emailed me this, she said it's complete, but didn't assign me anything to do."

"She's working at home?" he enquired of the young woman that was eyeing him with a touch of accusation as she replied with a question, putting him on the spot, "Was it a management decision to get her to leave her office?"

He raised a disciplinary eyebrow, "What are you talking about? No, Ms. Zahra's position is still the same."

"And the boxes on her desk? A bunch of her stuff is packed like she's moving out of there." She insisted.

Temper rising, he reiterated, "Ms. Zahra's position is still the same. Maybe she's planning to redecorate her office or something. Stay out of it until she comes back." He felt complied to add, "That's an order." Since everyone seemed to view him as the evil ogre who made Jillian stay away from work.