Like now, the both of you had an arm behind each other’s backs, smiling and leaning your heads towards one another. The picture of the perfect mother-daughter-duo. She’d post it to whatever social media she kept; you’d receive a printed copy to put in a frame forgotten on the windowsill of your breakfast nook of the apartment you didn’t pay for.  

Then after the mini-red carpet, you were roped into introductions.

It was like this every year; photos, introductions, speeches, mingling, mingling, mingling, home. It was rare you found someone you genuinely wanted to share your company with. The people closest in age were employees and they only wanted to kiss your feet at the chance of a promotion.

So, you usually made good friends with a wandering waiter and ogled the bachelors from afar through a prosecco-laced haze.

“Price, so glad you could make it tonight, the two of you look wonderful,” Susannah was saying, offering the man and his partner a polite hug each.

Always a hug for the CEOs.

His partner grinned, lifting a hand which twinkled brightly, “I’ll take any chance to show it off.”

“Oh, congratulations!” your mother cheered, as you gave Mr. Price a polite handshake and smile. He was always nice to you. “Looks like I need to add a toast to my speech, hm?”

Then came Mr. Riley and the woman you could’ve sworn was his secretary just the year before, also with a gently glittering finger, completely wrapped around his arm. The pair couldn’t hide their affection for one another if they tried, it was almost stifling. Your mother shook their hands, her greetings only a little less familiar on account of the man being generally averted to physical touch.

And then the loudest of the CEOs came in grinning from ear to ear as he pulled your mother in for a tight hug, “Susannah! The place looks amazing,” Mr. Garrick cheered, kissing her cheek, the man following him offering a similar compliment before moving to greet you.

“Don’t think we’ve met before,” he said, taking up your hand, “I’m John MacTavish, ye are…?”

“Oh of course, you must’ve missed each other last year,” your mother said, “Johnny, this is my daughter.”

He turned that grin back on you as you gave him your name, eyes quickly skimming the length of you, “lovely to meet ye, hen.” And he kissed your knuckles.

Your lips parted in breathless surprise, eyebrows raising just a hair, “y-you too.”

Taking in your waning composure, he flashed you a wink, eyes dropping back down to the dip of your neckline, before following Mr. Garrick in pursuit of their table. Swallowing, you dared a glance back at your mother, but she was none-the-wiser, busy greeting more people.

Twenty minutes into the speeches and you could still feel your knuckles burning where you’d been kissed. You ran a thumb over them beneath the table as you started to feel a creeping sensation burning the back of your neck. Turning slowly to figure out what was nagging at you—only to lock eyes with Johnny, sat at the table diagonally behind you.

He cocked his head, brow raised. You felt your face warm and turned away again, flagging down a waiter to bring another flute of champagne.

There was something about him, MacTavish, that sent your pulse skittering. Something leather-smooth about him, the dangerous gleam in his grin, how he always found your eyeline—the way he looked at you? It was undeniable. He’d been checking you out all night. You weren’t blind though you were wondering how no one else managed to see it. It felt so blatant,

so openly lustful.

Whenever you found your gaze drifting, caught at your mother’s side in dull conversation, he was there, across the room, swirling the liquor in his glass. Just watching you. His steady fixation.

You couldn’t take it— “I’m going to get some air,” you muttered to no one in particular, edging out of the conversation and ducking into the hallway just outside the hosting space.

Perfect, there was no one there, you could exhale—

“Are ye runnin’ away from me?”

You gasped, spinning around to find Johnny right behind you, “what?”

He took a step forward, you took one back, “are ye runnin’ away from me, hen?”

You shook your head. There was no one around, no one to catch you—to stop you… “No.”

His bottom lip jutted out a little as he dipped his head toward you, pouting, “so why haven’t ye come over to say hi?”

He took another step forward and your back met the wall. Throwing caution to the wind, a little smile trembled over your lips in the face of his scattered grey hairs and tanned, faint crows-feet, “hi.”

One more step and you were completely surrounded, one heavy palm came up to cradle the side of your face, thumb rubbing over your cheek, and he lowered his head to murmur right into your ear, “d’ye want to see my limo, sweetheart?”

Nerves had since taken hold of you during the short walk outside, now inside the back of his limo and already on your knees, you were scrambling for an excuse, “Johnny, I should—I should get back inside. My mother—”

“Is tryin’ to seal a deal with another company. Ye could be in the Artic an’ she won’t realise til tomorrow,” he grunted, his hand tugging on your hair, forcing you to look up at him, “c’mon, ye were doin’ so good.”

“You’re ruining my hair,” you whined, reaching up to pull his hand away, he only tightened his grip and you winced, “Johnny—”

He shifted in his seat, his ruddy, drooling cock glaring at you from between his legs, “ye can go back if yer cunt’s dry…is it?” A mortified whimper escaped you, because you knew without even having to rub your thighs together, that your body had betrayed you. He grinned, “ach, just out of luck t’night, aren’t ye, bonnie?” He ran his tongue over his teeth, eyes dark as he looked down at you, “say ‘ah’.”

Unsticking your tongue from the roof of your mouth, you let it roll out, tasting that salty spill blooming from his tip. With his hand twisted in your hair, you couldn’t move back to make any further pleas, just bracing a hand on his knee as he sank deep into your mouth, tears brimming quickly in your eyes as he hit the back of your throat. God, he was big—thick in a way you hadn’t experienced—your jaw ached, lipstick smudged around the base of him, nose pressed into his trimmed dark hair.

Your nails bit into his thigh, eyes squeezing as you repressed a gag and he groaned, head tipping back, “christ, ye’re well practiced huh? No wonder yer eyes kept wanderin’ all night long. Just—fuck—just beggin’ for it.”

“Mmph—” you spluttered, voice useless with your mouth stuffed full of him. You squeezed his thigh, needing to pull up for air, but he kept you in place, rolling his hips up and practically grinding into the back of your throat. With the edges of your vision turning to static, you swung your fist down on his thigh, finally getting him to pull you up for air, “fuck you—” you gasped out.

“What’s the matter? Bit off more’n ye could chew?” He laughed, dragging a thumb through the spit dribbled down your chin, “gorgeous wee thing. C’mon, get up here,” and he patted his thigh.

And God help you, you leaned into that little glimpse of softness he showed. Clambering into his lap, still teary eyed, thong covered pussy hovering over his wet cock.

Then he pulled you down for a kiss and you were done-for.

He’s all tongue, messy and demanding, twisting inside your mouth and you mewled, feeling like your body’s been set alight. Reeling. You let your weight down onto him and felt him between your legs, hot, twitching against your heat like it knew how close he was. He bit your lower lip, hands gripping your hips and making you grind on his cock, pulling back just enough to say, “take off yer panties, go’an sit on my cock.”

“D’you have a condom?” You asked, panting to catch your breath as you reached down between your bodies, sliding your panties to the side, lips grazing the light stubble on his neck.

“More likely you’ll have a bug than me,” he grunted, brows furrowing over those icy eyes of his.

You scoffed, pulling away from him, “I don’t sleep around like that.”

He raised a brow, voice low as he studied your face, “but ye do sleep around.”

“I’m not a whore,” you insisted, moving to get off his lap but he tightened his grip on your hips, “I’m going back inside, Johnny—”

“Ach, I was just teasin’ lass, c’mon, don’t be like tha’,” he cooed, thumb rubbing a circle on your hip, “what’s it ye want? Need a little stretchin’ first? Scared I’ll hurt yer wee cunt?” You wanted to retort, to continue to pull away, but there was a jolt in your stomach that said he wasn’t entirely wrong—you felt rushed. Slowly, not meeting his eye, you nodded. He tutted, “just say tha’ next time if it’ll save me yer fuckin’ complainin’.” He delivered a swift smack to the side of your ass, “take off your dress and shoes, princess, ye don’t want me to mess ‘em up, do ye?”

A tendril of anxiety curled around your gut, “but—”

“D’ye want to walk back to yer mam with yer cum stained on yer pretty dress?”

You took it off.

“Shoes too.”

Your nose wrinkled, “I thought you businessman types liked to fuck a woman in heels.”

He rolled his eyes, reaching to undo the clasp on your heels for you since you were clearly taking too long, “ye won’t want to be walkin’ in these when I’m done with ye. Gonna have a hard enough time as it is.”

“What’s that supposed to—oh my god, at least give me a warni—oh!” He wrenched your thighs open and had his head between them sooner than you could process, a wad of spit sliding keenly down the seam of your cunt, caught with the drag of his tongue before it could melt over your hole.

Sucking your clit just to see how you squirmed, he pulled away with a wicked grin, “taste bloody good,” before he licked deep into you, the wet muscle making your toes curl behind his back, a high-pitched moan squeezing out of you as your grip tightened on the leather of the seat.

He held you in place with his arms around your thighs, hauled up close against his mouth, nose nuzzling your mound. His tongue curled around your clit, petting over it, and you calf tensed, hand flying into his hair, breath hitching, “oh fuck—”

Never in your life had you come so quickly it surprised even you. Thighs squeezing either side of Johnny’s head as your hips bucked off the seat. When you let him up, his face was flushed and wet but he didn’t seem to care, sitting up and pulling you down with a hand on the back of your neck to steal your breath with a nasty kiss, sure to have removed half the makeup around your mouth and chin, mascara already smudged beneath your eyes.

Somewhere in the middle of it, he hooked a finger—then two—inside you, stroking over that spot that made you whimper into his mouth, nipples tight and sensitive where they brushed against his shirt and tie. “God,” your grip on his shoulders weakened as that already hot coil in the bottom of your stomach trembled. It was a good thing you were sitting—you couldn’t trust your knees not to turn to jelly. Then there was a new stretch that made you gasp, a third finger prodding around the tight seal of your cunt, “fuck—” you pulled away, your forehead dropping to the crook of his neck, “I can’t Johnny—s’too much.”

“Ye can an’ ye will,” he grumbled against your temple, hot breath ruffling your baby hairs, “not gonna leave ye half done, sweetheart.”

You couldn’t fathom how he was making your ruin sound like a favour. “Really Johnny—s’not gonna f-fit—”

But it did. He made it work with another glob of warm spit and an “ach—just need’a take a deep breath an—” you cried out into his shoulder, what little was left of your lipstick smearing on the rich black fabric. “See? Knew ye could do it. If ye cum one more time, I’ll give ye my cock, alright?” He murmured against your skin, kisses turning softer, messier—drunk.

Then he gave you a low, “good girl,” and something fizzled in the back of your mind, molten lava spreading through your chest.

…oh.

Your purse had a new weight to it with Johnny’s number in your phone, clutching to his arm as you waited for his driver to bring the limo around to the front entrance outside. The excuse made all too much sense to your mother, who was always partial to a glass (or three) of rosé after business was done on nights like these. “Gonna call her a cab,” Johnny had said, “see she gets home alright—aye, had too much t’drink.”

All she said was, “hm, thought I told them to limit hers,” before she returned to her conversation, waving the two of you off.

He was on you in a different way in the cab home, all soft, lingering kisses as you fought your exhaustion, eyelids fluttering back awake as you felt his cum seep out into the squish of your thighs, ass tender when you sat the wrong way, toes wet.

—

J M | Yesterday, 11:56pm

] call me when you want your knickers back

[3 attachments]

] or if there’s a second line

“Hey, what lodge did you get assigned?”

“Oh,” you reached for your back pocket, where the accommodation contact card had been wedged the entire drive and flip it over, “um, it just says ‘New House’?”

“Ah, you’re with Liv. That’s perfect, I can take you.”

With little other choice as he carried your luggage away, you followed, “what branch is she from?”

“California—she might be the only one from the coast, it wasn’t a good year for them.”

“Has everyone arrived? The lot’s starting to look full.”

“I think we’re just waiting on Michigan.”

A rock dropped in your stomach, “do you know who?”

Don’t let it be John. Don’t let it be John. Don’t let it be John.

“I think it’s mostly the executive committee so John, Simon, Kyle, and Johnny.” He laughed, glancing at you over his shoulder, “they’re in charge of the alcohol, so I hope you like your spirits.”

You can hardly feign a laugh, “unfortunately, I’ve gone off them.”

As Daniel walked up to your lodge, the lady you assumed to be Liv swung open the door and greeted the both of you with a smile, “so I do have a roommate.”

You managed a genuine smile, hers being incredibly infectious as it was, and gave her your name, “it’s nice to meet you.”

“Come in, come in—thanks Danny, we’ve got it,” the second you were inside, she closed the door and let out an exasperated sigh, “please tell me you don’t like him.”

“You can rest assured,” you laughed, “working with him dulls his charm a little more everyday.”

She pulls a face, “bless your soul, this retreat is more than enough for me—oh, your stuff, I’ll let you take the master—”

“What? You were here first, I insist!”

She waved a dismissive hand, flashing you a wry smile, “well, my plan is to sleep here as little as possible, so you might as well take the nicer room.” Your brows raise at her forwardness, and she balks at herself, “wait, that sounds much sluttier than I meant it to. I’m doing the whole long-distance thing with Kyle—one of the execs from Michigan. The big boss knows of course, Susannah just doesn’t put us officially in the same lodge for the sake of avoiding any potential dramas.”

You give a soft laugh at her little ramble and that manages to seep the lingering awkwardness from her shoulders, her smile returning. “I’m just glad you didn’t say it was Daniel.”

Suddenly, she gasped, taking you by the shoulders, “you have to join me for yoga!”

It happened on the way back from the yoga session you found too difficult to refuse, Olivia was saying something about child’s pose when you saw him in a black quarter zip and dark blue jeans, familiarly shaking hands with Susannah’s husband and laughing over some inaudible joke. Smile and frown lines you recognized from too far a distance.

You hadn’t seen John in over a year and yet, there he was, looking painfully better than you remembered.

“Kyle!” Olivia shouted, taking off in her little slip-on Sketchers across the pavers.

Unfortunately, her shout attracted John’s attention too, you were moving for your lodge instantly—trying to appear as unhurried and careless as you physically could. The second you were inside you gunned for the showers and tried to let the steam purge all thoughts of John Price from your mind.

It didn’t work.

God, he was the hardest non-break-up you’d ever made it out of. He lived in your city, worked in the same building—albeit a few floors up—he knew your family. All that and he still left for Michigan, “I really can’t turn down the position, love, I need to put my career first for a while.” That was it, the end of the undefined thing between you.

Pitifully, you’d sent messages in the early months, stupid little things that were the perfect call backs to inside jokes the two of you shared. Met with stark silence. So, you gave up and poured your attention into your own career, on moving forward instead of the past with him.

You didn’t stop to think that he’d be at the retreat to. A major oversight on your part, you would admit.

As you moisturized and went through the trillion-step regimen your esthetician had sworn you to, you came to the simple decision that you’ll ignore him as he had done to you. Sure, the sight of him was a shock that made you run away immediately...but otherwise it won’t be so difficult. You had technically forgot about him in this last two-month sprint leading up to the latest promotions, if you could just find that headspace again, you’d be fine.

That evening, you and Olivia joined the early birds around the fire pit when you’d spotted ingredients for smores. It was technically a chance to meet people from other branches—or catch up for the majority—but you were searching for the perfect roasting stick the second you’d left the house.

You’d just pierced your second marshmallow after the first suffered a mysterious disappearance, when you looked up and found your mouth going dry at the sight that met you.

John had this innate ability to look like he was hewn from the woods, made to be out in nature like this instead of pacing at the head of an oval table and waiting for people to repeat themselves without mumbling. His jeans went taught around the muscle of his thigh when he dropped a load of firewood on top of the growing pile, his undershirt clinging to his chest and the thick of his waist.

It was cruel to watch him turn his back and still be met with a sight to behold, this time taking shape in his shoulders and ass. No man made you feel like such a goddamn pervert like he did, you had to force your eyes away from him and back to the marshmallow you began roasting.

However, the longer you thought about it, the more your aggravation built. Fuck him and his marvelous butt and chest hair, he’d wrecked you beyond the physical sense and left you high and dry for a year. Over a year, actually! He didn’t get to taunt you with his stupid muscles and the new, fuller beard he kept.

And the feeling kept building long past champagne toasts and playing introduction circle, in fact, half the circle had dispersed when you heard footsteps approaching. You resolutely watched the fire char the end of your roasting stick as you toyed with the outermost edge of the pit instead of turning to him. “So, we’ve forgotten our manners? You don’t know how to say hello anymore?” He asked.

Not above pettiness, you still don’t look at him, “sorry, I don’t entertain strangers.”

His laugh is unamused, “you don’t entertain strangers?” he was closer with the next line, voice lower, spiteful, “you just let ‘em fuck you raw, make you cream an’ cry an’ squirt?”

“Fuck you,” you spit out, tossing your stick on the fire and getting up to leave. You didn’t get far before he followed, catching your wrist and hauling you to a stop, “oh, you’d rather be a stalker than a stranger, is that it?”

“Wouldn’t have to stalk you if you just let me in,” the way he says your name, all low and soft is maddening. You can smell the smoke of the firepit on him, with a hint of something spiced. For a moment you could've sworn it was the cologne you’d bought him for Christmas a few years back—but you didn’t let that thought take root. “There’s no need to pretend like I don’t exist.”

You scoff in his face, taking back your wrist from the solid hold of his hand, “well you didn’t struggle to pretend like I didn’t exist.”

He grabs you by the arm, your bicep this time—you’re too far from the campfire or the nearest people to be overheard, for your behavior to be questioned, and he takes advantage of it—and moves you. So simply, one push of his hand and your unbalanced, one foot shifting back and slipping off a paver, making you reach for him on instinct. “What’s your fuckin’ problem?”

“My problem?! What’s your—”

“I told you I was busy, told you I was focusing on work—”

“You forgot about me!” you bit out, anger burning hot in your chest.

“I didn’t forget about you.”

Again, you scoff, your eyes flitting about his face, every faded freckle, the new crease above his brow, the burning in his eyes, it damn near makes you livid to be this close to him, “really? You didn’t forget? So you just pretended like I didn’t exist for a fucking year—”

“Who said that?” he asked, his free hand taking hold of your other bicep, stopping you from pulling away anymore, forcing the confrontation. “Who said you didn’t exist? I thought about you all the time,” now it was his turn to get a good look at you, his voice a silken husk, “every time I jerked off, every time I came in my fist, I was thinkin’ about you.”

Your breath catches, makes you stumble over your words, “well, I’m—I’m sure you didn’t need help to get there. I’m sure you had plenty of other little sluts that you could’ve fucked anytime you wanted, John.”

The corner of his mouth twisted, something wry and filthy lurking there. he did always love jealousy on you. “No, love, there’s only one little slut that could get me exactly what I need, every time,” you feel your heart thud dangerously in your chest, sure he could feel your pulse simmer in the few inches of space between you, “no point tryin’ anythin’ else.”

A sneer scrunches your nose, “and I’m supposed to find that…what—flattering?”

“I don’t care if you find it flatterin’, I think it’s fittin’,” you swallow, his eyes dip to the movement, lingering on the curve of your neck, your jaw, before he can look up again, “I miss the way you fit around me.”

“I hate you,” you mutter, forgetting to pull away as he skimmed the side of your nose with his own, “I hate you so much.”

“How much?”

“You left me—ignored me for over a year, John—”

“Say my name again, sweetheart.”

“Fuck you—” He tasted like bourbon and tobacco and chocolate, and you clung desperately to the fabric of his jersey, pulling him closer, needinghim closer. “I hate you,” you gasped, voice catching as he flattened his tongue on the curve of your neck where you liked it, scraping his teeth along your jugular in the way that forced a sound from you every damn time.

He hummed, kissing that same spot with an open mouth as your pulse stuttered between your thighs, “sure sounds like it.”

“John—”

“My cabin, move,” he spins you, marching up the path, “c’mon, you’re gonna show me how much you hate me.”

You barely had a second to look around at the deep tub in the center of the room or the large king bed across from it before the door was locked behind him and he was pulling his clothes off. You missed him—missed this—just enough to not think twice and take off your own sweater and jeans. He drops to his knees as you unhook your bra and the sight is damn near devastating, “what color?” he asks against the skin of your stomach, kissing the plush flesh there as he tugs your panties off.

It's mortifying how they peel off your cunt, already soaked through, his eyes lock on to the sight and your knees pull together, “green.”

“Yeah?” He looks up at you, “so why are yourself hiding from me?”

“I don’t know,” you sucked in a deep breath as his hands came up either side of your thighs, squeezing the flesh of your ass.

“I don’t know? I don’t know, what? Who are you talking to?”

Your head fell back against the wall, heat pooling in your lower stomach as you pressed your thighs together, feeling the slide between them already, fuck. “Talking to you…daddy.”

Approval hummed gruffly in his chest, “mhmm,” he mouthed at your thigh, “fuck, I’ve missed this cunt—she missed me too?”

There’s still spite lingering in your chest when you say, “no. Hates you.”

“Poor thing,” he muttered, kissing your inner thigh, listening to the schlick as you move your thighs apart.

“Hates that you left,” you continue, “no text,” your hand finds his hair as he licks and sucks at the arousal spread between your thighs, your breath faltering, “no call or visit home. I had a—a drawer in your room, John.”

“Not like I gave you a fuckin’ ring, love—”

“Fuck you!” you snap, tugging at his hair.

He groans at the sting, “yeah, fuck me,” his mouth falling open against your cunt, “fuck me, lovie, c’mon.”

So, you did, you held him there as you used his face, grinding your hips incessantly until you came to a shuddering halt, breathless, hot sparks shooting down your thighs and spreading up your body.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, sliding one thick finger into you with ease, starting to stretch you with two, a gasp shuddering out of you, “c’mon, breathe through—” your palm against his cheek cut him short. He was frozen for a moment there on his knees, a hair’s breadth from your pussy.

Something cracked in your chest, your next breath a little squeaky as you fought back the tears welling in your eyes, “you left.”

With a great deal of patience, you imagine, he turns his head to look up at you again and a little disgruntled breath escapes his nose, “I’m right here.”

“But you weren’t. You didn’t want to be. You didn’t want—oh!” He curled his fingers, grazing that soft spot inside you that made you instinctively grab onto his shoulders just to stay upright. “You can’t just—John!”

“Who do you think recommended you? Hm? Who do you think kept note of all that work you’ve been putting in this last year?” You couldn’t figure out a response with him mouthing at your clit like that, lazy and assured, knees turning weak the longer he stroked at your g-spot. “Me.” He sucked, grazing his teeth over your pearl and making you cry out before letting go with a wet pop. “Always me. I was busy, working, but now I’ve got time…and a house.”

You were struggling to keep up with his words, hips bucking, craving his mouth’s attention like a dog wants a treat. “What?” you panted, flushed and molten all over. So close you really could’ve cried as his fingers slowed, “wait—wait I’m so close, John,” he raised a brow as he stood back up, fingers slipping out of you, your nipples grazing his chest, you swallowed, correcting yourself, “daddy…please?”

“I said I’ve got a house. Paid off and all mine—ours. With a walk-in closet that’ll be all yours, a deep tub in the ensuite,” you squeaked out in surprise as he bent to lift you, your legs wrapping around his hips quickly, arms going around his neck, “an’ a hot tub out on the deck,” he kissed your collarbone, your neck and jaw, as he carried you over to the bed, laying you down on your back and hovering over you. He was all you could see, and he was saying damn near everything you’d always wanted to hear from him. “Spare room or two that could do with filling—”

“John,” you breathed, one hand moving to cup his cheek. You pinched him hard, “you had to leave me for that?!”

“You can be a real ungrateful brat sometimes,” he snapped, snatching both your wrists and pinning them to the bed, “to think I missed you,” he huffed a laugh, like he really couldn’t believe himself, “y’know I almost called the whole thing off. Wanted to turn around at the airport.”

A deep frown twisted the space between your brows, “why—”

“I could never have gotten you what you deserved if I stayed there, love. Christ, don’t you remember how unfocused I was? Would’ve taken me ten more years. All I could think about was you all the damn time. Waiting for you to message, waiting for you to ask me to come over—to say the heater was broken or you had a damn lightbulb that needed changing—anything! All I wanted—all I’ve been wanting—is you.”

Your expression crumples in the face of his admission. That clumsy wall around your heart that you built fell with a mighty crash. “You want me to move in with you?”

“Sweetheart, I want your name on the papers,” he corrected, lowering his head until your lips brushed. So chaste and yet you were reeling, “d’you want that too?”

A disbelieving laugh escaped you, all your emotions tugged at in little more that thirty minutes, “I hate you.”

He grinned, “how far did that get you, huh? Right back in my bed. What colour, my love?”

"Green," you whispered, tipping your head up to finally catch his lips.

A few months later

Rekindled at last, John was more than happy to indulge you in an old favorite treat of yours. Where he’d turn a blind eye to his bank account and let you take over his apartment once a month—maybe twice if you were good. Now that he’d given you the house of your dreams however…your grandiose desires dwindled down to something a little more carnal.

He was out of the house until late that night, returning from some conference, so in the meantime you poured yourself a large glass of wine, soaked at length in the tub as you started reading a book—then traded that in for your favorite vibrator—lavender scented bubbles popping just under your chin as you gasped out your orgasm. Eventually moving to your bed, dressed in your favorite nightdress, but now watching the video John had taken of the two of you just last weekend—

“Now this is why I bought this damn place,” came John’s voice suddenly from the doorway to your bedroom, almost scaring you out from under the duvet.

“John! I thought your flight didn’t get in till late tonight?!” you swallowed, quickly thumbing the power button on your little vibrator as if that was enough to hide what you’d been doing.

The twist to his lips said you were all but in cuffs, his eyes dragging from the empty wine glass on your nightstand, to the falling strap of your night dress, to your phone that you firmly held face down on the blanket, the volume dropped to zero. “Was gonna surprise you…self-care night?” he asked, his grin turned teasing.

You felt your face heat up under her watchful gaze, as if you’d been caught committing a crime, you tugged your bottom lip between your teeth, the wine not helping in the slightest to smother your bashful smile, “mhm,” you nodded.

A slow exhale came through, “I told you to stop picking up for Andrew’s calls.”

You struggled to suppress your laugh, “he wants your phone number now, shall I pass it on?”

He didn’t even give you a reaction, “I’ve got a delivery arriving soon, I’d like you to wait for it at the door.”

“Yes sir,” you hummed, clicking onto your screensaver, “do I have time to pick up your lunch before it arrives?” You asked, slipping your heels back on under your desk.

“Not today, just get the delivery.”

You frowned, “are you—”

“You’ll see,” he said and the line cut.

Shaking your head, you got in the elevator and pressed the button for the ground floor. He wasn’t the first person you’d been a secretary for, but he was certainly the strangest and most hard working.

He had a few rules you’d come to recognize over the past three years you’d worked for him:

All emails get directed to your office address. You skim them and only forward ones that are necessary. No mailers, no company newsletter, nothing you can’t handle yourself.  

All phone calls get filtered through you. He doesn’t allow personal calls through his work phone unless they are an outright emergency and he can’t be reached through his mobile. 

His direct contact details are only for the big boss Susannah, his fellow execs, and yourself, and they are not to be shared. Period.

He also has a very rigid schedule which he adheres to with an almost frightening strictness.

He jogs to the office building, rain or shine, every morning at 6am sharp, uses the company gym until 7:30am while listening to an audiobook (which will sometimes correspond with your lunchtime read), washes, gets dressed for work, gets breakfast from the café downstairs, and is in his office no later than 7:50am, finishing his coffee. Black, one sugar, in a navy mug.

Lunch was always from 12:30pm until 1:30pm during which you usually brought him his order from across the street (either a steak or chicken salad, you’d know which when you arrived at 8am by the sticky-note on your keyboard, and maybe the occasional pastry. Though that was rare, he didn’t often like the mess.)

He’ll tell you to go home if you haven’t by 5:15pm, and then he’ll work until 6pm before changing out of his work clothes, stretching, and jogging home.

Additionally, he doesn’t like anyone on his floor other than you. Maintenance and delivery people unfortunately get a cold eye through the sidelight window. So your days are typically very quiet. You’ll play some music from your computer and wear your slippers to and from the printer.

In short, you loved your job. 

Leaving Simon’s floor was like taking off noise cancelling headphones in the city square. People were everywhere shouting over cubicles, delivering, printing, eating. It was a shock to the system. Pandemonium in comparison. The longer you spent upstairs, the more you felt like Simon was subconsciously turning you into a hermit. 

“What a surprise,” you looked up as the elevator doors opened on Kyle Garrick’s smiling face, “I’m starting to think you’re only allowed out of your cage to keep appearances.”

You rolled your eyes, heels clicking sharply against the marble floors, “I am a free woman, Garrick— and I like my job. How many times do I have to say that?”

He snorted, swapping places with you and leaning against the inner wall of the elevator, a few other people around you stepping on as well, “at least until it becomes believable.”

Everyone here was like that. They all knew you were Simon’s secretary. And they couldn’t understand why you never complained. 

Simon was cold, calloused, and tedious to work with. You were too much his opposite for your partnership to work. Talkative, and teasing, most rolled over in your palm. (Excluding Mr. Davis of course, both you and Simon liked to toy with the man). Though you knew they were only as nice as they were to get to Simon. 

Not that it worked. You kept him under lock and key, and he was happy there. 

You waited by reception, for the delivery, making small talk with the clerk until you heard, “delivery for Simon Riley?” You intercepted and signed. There was a very obvious bouquet of flowers, orange and pink and white flowers all gathered in a pink bow. Then there was a box—the exact size of a shoe box—wrapped in a plastic shopping bag which you also signed for. “And one more,” the delivery man said, stacking a second box on top, not wrapped in plastic. With a distinct label from your favorite bakery downtown. You couldn’t help your grin anymore, murmuring a thank you as you juggled everything in your arms. “Have a nice day, ma’am!”

With a huff, you made it back to your desk and found Simon in your seat. You raised a brow at him, “what is all this?”

“Anniversary gift. You’ve been here four years today,” he shrugged, scrolling on your computer screen, “hard at work,” he muttered, clicking on a Sephora email. 

A guilty flush rose up your neck as you set the bouquet on the corner of your desk, “thank you, Mr. Riley.”

“Open it,” he said, nodding to the plastic wrapped box, already opening the baking to steal a danish for himself. 

You did and promptly squealed when you saw the shoes inside, “oh my god! Are you insane?!” But you were already taking off your heels and swapping them out for the new red bottoms. “Oh my god oh my god oh my god,” you were practically prancing around the room, trying to see them in the reflection of the pristine windows, taking a picture on your phone. Only then did you see a tiny detail at the heel of each shoe.

Your initials were finely pressed into the black patent leather. You gawked, looking up at Simon with wide eyes, “are you insane?! This is too much!”

“You don’t want them? I can take them back—”

“No!” You squawked, putting your hands out defensively as if he were about to take them right off your feet. He huffed out something similar to a laugh. “I love them, thank you so much!”

“Good,” he grunted, “they’re well deserved. Eat something.”

You couldn’t stop smiling, “can I at least have my seat back?”

“No, I want to look at you in your new shoes,” he said, eyes trailing you from your head to your toes. “You’ll wear them to the company dinner this weekend, yes?”

“Yes!”

You couldn’t stop throwing up, “I can’t go tonight, Mr. Riley, I’m so sorry. I think I got—” you paused, a wave of nausea threatening you, “I think I got food poisoning or something.”

“Jesus, you sound like shit,” he said through the phone with all the compassion of a rock. “Alright…I’ll be over in five.”

“What?” You asked, but when you pulled your phone from your ear, he’d already hung up. 

True to his word, five minutes later you could hear him unlocking your front door. For the life of you, you couldn’t recall when you’d given him a copy of your key, nor why. But you didn’t care, “Mr. Riley?”

He found you on the floor by your toilet, pale and clammy in your sweaty singlet and loose pajama pants. He wasn’t awfully good at hiding his grimace, “you look…bad.”

“Thanks, I tried,” you sighed, weakly pushing yourself up into a better sitting position. “Why aren’t you at the party?”

He shook his head, helping you up himself with two large hands lifting you just under your arms, “wasn’t going to that alone. You weren’t supposed to be sick, remember?”

“I know,” you pouted, leaning all your weight into him, “I ruined your night,” you sighed, rubbing weakly at your face, the energy sapped out of you, “m’sorry.”

He gently sat you on the edge of your bed, nudging your chin up with a thick knuckle, “you’re really crying’ over this?” He huffed, thumb away the tear, dragging at the soft skin of your cheek. “Christ, it’s alright. Just worry about sleepin’.”

You groaned a big sigh, fumbling your way into your bed, just as he set a bucket on the floor by your side of the bed, you looked up at him, “did you jog here?”

“I have a car,” he says, frowning at you like you were stupid. 

“Oh,” your eyebrows rose, “huh.”

“Just go to sleep,” he sighed, turning off your lamp, “text me when you wake up, alright?”

“You hate texts,” you mumbled, nuzzling into your pillow. 

“I know.”

A few months later

Mr. Bossman, 10:07pm

] Are you driving yourself to the retreat tomorrow?

] We could do a car pool if you’d like instead, since it’s a long drive.

Me, 10:07pm

Carpool is just one word, Mr. Riley :) [

I would like that, yes please! [

Mr. Bossman, 10:08pm

] OK.

] I will collect you at 0700. Good night. 

You had forgotten about packing until Simon messaged you last night and then spent the hour frantically shoving everything into your smallest suitcase and then falling asleep. Waking up well before 7am was a real struggle, you tried to placate yourself by thinking of the next four nights you’d spend beachside, but it didn’t help the fact that you had woken up before the sun. 

“You’re late,” he grumbled when you finally sat in the passenger seat after staring far too long at Simon’s car. It was the last thing you expected him to be picking you up in. 

Fumbling for words you spluttered out, “what the hell are you driving?!”

“1970 Ford Torino Cobra. Fixed her up myself over the past year and a half,” he said, his thumb rubbing over the leather on the steering wheel, a little frown furrowed between his eyebrows when he looked at you, unsure of how to decipher your expression, “you don’t like it?”

“No! No, that’s not what I meant! It’s really cool, I just…wasn’t expecting this,” your laugh is soft and still fairly disbelieving as you looked around the inside of the car. 

He must’ve done a great job because it was the smoothest car ride you’d been on in recent history—including your own driving. So smooth, in fact, that you fell asleep not long into it, waking up only when Simon pulled into a gas station and you got out to use the restroom. After that, you managed some small conversation for the rest of the drive, your mood tipping up the more you could see the beach from your window. 

“Okay, first mission is locating a mimosa,” you declared as Simon grabbed both yours and his luggage from the back. 

He raised a brow, “it’s not even lunch time.”

You raised a brow right back, “excuse you, I’m on vacation. It is officially five o’clock until I return to my apartment.” He couldn’t hide his amusement fast enough, a chuckle lifting his cheeks, carving handsome smile lines. You hadn’t seen him smile like that as far back as you could remember, you gasped, “you think I’m funny!”

His smile was gone as soon as it appeared, sealed under a tight lid, “do not.”

“Do too!”

“Do not.”

“Do too!” You laughed, bumping into him as you walked side by side. 

But he was distracted, “bloody hell.”

You followed his gaze and found your jaw similarly dropped, “wow.” You’d been told it was a resort but you hadn’t really thought too hard about the price point—palm trees, an immaculate lawn, and just across the road was the beach. All private. “Is this the right place?” You asked, voice dropped to a whisper. 

But Simon didn’t need to answer as his fellow executive, John MacTavish, emerged shirtless from the balcony with a bottle of champagne in hand, “steamin’ jesus, the bird actually managed to get ye outside!”

Simon scoffed, snapped out of his awe in a second, “I was the one driving, you bloody cunt. You comin’?” He called out and you realized he was already a few steps ahead. You’d just been standing there with your mouth open like an idiot, you hurried to catch up, dipping your head with a guilty smile. 

The foyer was grandiose, marble and white walls with lots of natural light. It looked like you and Simon were the last to arrive. You noticed an informational board set up on the center table with brochures and maps for the area—even a map for the resort itself, and bounded over to it, Simon following with the luggage and a sigh, “did you pack your entire apartment in this thing or what?”

Rolling your eyes you flitted through one of the brochures, “only the essentials—oh look! There’s even a spa!”

“Where’s your room? I’ll take your bag up.”

“Oh, um…” you spun around and squinted at the information board, picking up the remaining two keycards for your and Simon’s rooms, “I’ll be between you and Mr. MacTavish upstairs.”

“I thought this was a work event,” someone commented, a man with sharp eyes and a smile that reeked of arrogance, “didn’t realize this place had that kind of staff.”

You frowned up at him, “what do you—”

“Who are you?” Simon asked from behind you, his voice gone all hard.

“Mr. Riley,” the man straightened up a little, “I’m Daniel Reed, from the—”

Your sudden gasp or realization cut him off, “that’s such a rude assumption! I’m your superior!”

“It was a joke. Besides,” Daniel raised a brow, “aren’t you, like, a secretary?”

“She’s my secretary,” Simon grunted, “you’re not even allowed on my floor—in fact, go get ‘er a drink. She wants a mimosa.”

“…Sir?” he scoffed.

“Oh, I’d like a tequila sunrise mimosa, with a straw!” you made sure to call out as Simon herded you towards the stairs. When you were out of earshot, you turned to Simon with your eyebrows almost near your hairline, “did you hear what he said?!”

He nodded, looking grumpy as ever.

You shook your head, “asshole! What about me makes him think I’m a prostitute?! Ugh,” you grumbled, “asshole.” Simon set your bag down just inside your door once you unlocked it, but then he lingered in the doorway, you cast him a look, “Mr. Riley?”

“I’m going to…go down to the beach…” he said, rather aimlessly, rubbing the back of his neck, his shirt pulling taught across his chest.

Your eyebrows furrowed only slightly as you waited for him to continue, but he never did, a little smile pulled at your lips, “shall I…joinyou?”

He nodded, a little relief relaxing his shoulders and letting them drop from around his ears, “okay. Five minutes?”

“Sure,” you nodded, finally closing your door. Your smile only grew, vacation at last. Who cares if Daniel’s ass lived where his brain was meant to be. You were going to lie on the sand, maybe read your book, and then hit up the spa for a massage before dinner. It sounded damn-near idyllic.

Hauling your suitcase onto your bed, your unzipped it and were glad to see your bikini’s sprawled right on top. You grabbed the first one, a strappy black set with beads on the strings, and quickly changed, pulling on a loose dress overtop, your sunglasses and swiping on some more sunscreen. You’d grabbed your towel and book when Simon knocked on your door again and you joined him in the hallway.

He was still in his loose shirt but had changed his pants for a pair of shorts, his rolled-up towel clutched in his hand. Daniel found you downstairs as you were beelining for the patio doors, an icy drink in hand that he extended your way, “sorry about the joke I made, ma’am.”

You gave him a once over, taking the glass, lip curled in irritation, “you’re not as funny as you think you are, Daniel.”

As you set up on the sand, spreading out your towel and shedding your dress, Simon went straight to the water to dip his toes in, standing there and looking out across the water with his hand on his hips. You snorted a laugh softly to yourself, wondering when was the last time the man had been on a beach?

Hell, when was the last time the man did something relaxing?

Then he took off his shirt. You blinked, once, twice, nothing computing quite right. Mr. Riley has tattoos? All down his left arm, a large skull taking up the majority of his back. You had to double check that you were still looking at the right person, but he still had his blond hair, height, and frankly rather impressive build. 

Very impressive build, in fact. Those muscles looked heavy—how much could he lift? You forced yourself to look away, reaching for your book instead. But your eyes kept straying, darting up over the rim of your glasses, watching him crouch by the shoreline, picking and turning over pebbles, then looking back down at your book when you realized he was coming back your way.

He unfurled his towel that he’d left by you and sat down, setting his shirt down as well, opening up a tube of sunscreen he must’ve kept in his pocket, rubbing it over his arms and legs, skin turning all shiny under the sun. “Could you get my back, please?”

“Hm?” you cleared your throat, pretending like you hadn’t just been staring at him the whole time.

He held out the sunscreen, “my back?”

“Oh, sure,” you breathed, putting down your book and taking the sunscreen, pouring some out into your palm, moving to kneel behind him. His skin was soft, only a little raised over the lines of ink. He must’ve had these tattoos for years, if the fading was anything to go by. Your mouth went dry, and you had to lick your lips as you smoothed some of the cream across his lower back, hands dragging up over his shoulder blades, and up to the nape of his neck.

Something twisted in your stomach as you felt him lean slightly into your touch, “and my shoulders, too?” he asked. You’d never heard his voice like that, a soft rasp, as he hung his head.

“Mr. Riley,” you swallowed, feeling warm for reasons other than the sun beaming down on you, “you already did your shoulders.”

He turned a little to look over his shoulder, eyes catching yours, “you were watching?”

“I—”

“Then you’d know I already did my lower back too.” You froze, eyes going wide, but he looked away again, tugging his shirt into his lap, “it’s okay. It felt nice.”

You rubbed the rest of the sunscreen off on your thighs, “Mr. Riley, I shouldn’t have over—”

“Call me Simon,” he said, cutting you off. “It’s five o’clock until we get back, right? Then we’re out-of-office. No need for the formalities,” he continued, almost to himself as he fiddled with something in his lap. Peering over, you saw he had a little collection of stones in his shirt, all different colors and textures. He lifted one up and squinted at it against the sunlight, then held it up next to your face for a breathless second before nodded, “here.”

He dropped it in your palm. It was the color of your eyes. 

It seemed that the sun and massage had rendered you a lightweight, all giggly and loose-limbed at dinner as you chatted MacTavish’s ear off. Simon was across the table, a little closer to Susannah as she spoke with him and John. Kyle was at the other end entirely, looking like he was about to eat Oliva whole (though that’s not to say Olivia looked off put at the notion).

“Right,” Johnny nodded, fully turned towards you, arm resting across the back of your chair, “an’ how’d ye get this?” he asked, thumb brushing the tiny scar in front of your ear so gently it tickled. 

Shrugging you swatted haphazardly at his hand, “I was really little, apparently I’d cut myself on a rock after falling over.” You tucked a leg up on your seat, turning towards him too, “what about you? Any swashbuckling scars to rival my own?”

He snorted a laugh, knocking his knee into yours, “ach, nothin’ so darin’ as yers, hen.”

“Really?” you hummed, leaning closer, “what about your chin?”

“What about it?” he asked, rubbing an oblivious hand over the stubble along his jawline.

You giggled, reaching out to trace the pale line just under his lip, “right there’s a scar.”

Quickly, he nipped at your fingers, grinning like a fox all the while you pulled your hand back, “played rough as a kid, cannae tell ye what tha’ one’s from honestly.”

“How rough?”

“Oh, I’m much worse now,” he murmured, hooking a finger in the chain of your necklace, pulling you breathlessly forward, “an’ a whole lot more fun—”

A large hand clapped down on Johnny’s shoulder, pulling him back out of your space and breaking the spell, “she’s drunk, Johnny. Try it elsewhere.”

“Mr. Simon!” you cheered, half asleep against your seat, yawning. 

“Alright, I’m taking you up to sleep,” he grumbled, mostly to himself as he gave you a little shake to wake back up. You managed to get to your feet, looping your arm through his for balance as you attempted the stairs, “d’you like Johnny?” He asked when you were halfway up, looking down at you as you teetered on your feet. 

“Hm? Oh, Johnny, sure! He’s nice,” you hummed, taking another step forward. 

He was quiet for a moment, his hand finding the small of your back before you toppled right back down the stairs, “okay.”

“Okay?” You echoed, looking up at him with a little frown, “what were you saying?”

But Simon shook his head, “nothing, you have your room key?” You nodded, pulling it out of your bra and sliding it in the door, wedging yourself in it before it closed. “Goodnight then.”

“Night, Simon.”

Worse than your headache, Simon was in a peculiar mood the next morning. He even brought his laptop down to breakfast, “You do realise the point of a vacation is to take time off?” You tried to tease, sitting down next to him with a bowl of cereal you’d wrangled up in the kitchen. He didn’t respond, didn’t even glance your way, “…Simon?”

He broke for a second, eyes darting up over the rim of his reading glasses to yours and back down again, “don’t want a big backlog when we get back.”

Sighing, you stirred your cereal, “I’ll go get my laptop then.”

“No, enjoy your vacation. I don’t mind.”

You frowned, “is something the matter, Simon?”

He inhaled sharply, “perhaps I was a little too relaxed yesterday,” he closed his laptop, standing from the table, clearly with the intention of going anywhere else, “I think we should keep the formalities.”

“Oh,” you muttered, “yes, of course.”

With his leaving came Johnny, grinning as he sat himself beside you, “got a headache?”

You narrowed your eyes, faux scowling, “maybe.”

“Ach, I know a few remedies ye could try,” he offered, but by the look of his grin you’d be better off with just a few ibuprofen and lots of water. 

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

He huffed a laugh, eyes creasing and catching the early morning light, “probably a good call.”

A moment passed, some more people came downstairs or went outside, sleep still clinging to their eyes. Seems like you weren’t the only one who’d had more than a few last night. Then Johnny spoke, “somethin’ going on between ye and Simon?”

You frowned, “what do you mean?”

He gave you a droll look, “I mean, are ye seein’ each other? Knockin’ boots?”

You baulked, voice going high with shock, “what?! No!”

“Really?” He looked markedly surprised, “are ye sure?”

Spluttering, you almost laughed, “am I sure I’m not sleeping with my boss? Yes! My god Johnny. We’re colleagues,” you said, then tacked on, “friends.”

“Right,” he gave you a long look, then shook his head, evidently the topic was somewhat baffling to him, “he knows this too?”

You gave him an equally baffled look, if not more so, “Johnny, I’m not sleeping with him. What is with you?”

He shrugged, prodding at his cereal, then he turned to look at you again, the gleam in his eye renewed, “ye’re not seein’ anyone at all then?”

“Just because you’re not my boss, doesn’t mean that I’ll sleep with you—god, what is with this weekend? Do I look like a prostitute?!”

His eyes went wide, “steamin’ jesus, bonnie, I was teasin’.”

Then Daniel came downstairs. Just the sight of him was enough to piss you clean off. “This is all your fault!” He looked at you like you’d grown a second head. 

“I literally just woke up.”

With your appetite lost, you took your bowl to the kitchen, emptied it out and stormed back upstairs to your room. 

The sound of the waves ebbed away your anger as you slept off the worst of your hangover, now just hungry and a little hurt, you decided to go back downstairs for some fruit, bag packed to spend a couple hours on the beach—this time without the mimosa, which seemed to have been the precursor to last nights drunkenness. 

But Simon calling out your name behind you made you stop just as you’d closed your room door, “are you going to the beach?”

Still feeling petulantly bitter, you turned on him with something akin to a pout on your face, “oh, so now you want to talk to me? Aren’t I a pariah? Apparently sleeping with the whole damn building!”

Simon grimaced, “last night—”

“I was drunk! Weren’t you there?”

He frowned, “but you and Johnny—”

“What about him?” you sighed, refraining from the urge to rub at your temples.

“You said you liked him.”

You blinked, looking up at him, “…as a friend. What is this—” you paused, watching the way his shoulders dropped an inch. Realisation bloomed in your gut, a fresh coat of snow over your anger, “you were jealous.”

He looked away, shoving his hands into his pockets, mumbling out a small, “wasn’t.”

Not sure whether you should laugh or cry, you shook your head and turned for the stairs, “fine. I’m going to the beach.”

Maybe twenty minutes after you’d laid yourself down under the sun, sunhat pulled low over your eyes, a new shadow settled beside you. You cracked open an eye and found Simon sitting shirtless on his own beach towel, staring at his tube of sunscreen. Sighing, you dragged up the last of your patience from deep within you and asked, “do you need help with your back again?”

He nodded, eyes darting to your bare legs for a moment before he held out the tube to you. 

You took it, squeezing some out into your palm, but you paused right as you were about to touch his skin, “nothing should happen between us, Mr. Riley. I work for you. It would be…” the word evaded you as you rubbed the sunscreen over the muscles in his shoulders, voice going softer, “problematic.”

He was quiet for a while, sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees, hands clasped loosely together s you worked your way down his back. But eventually he did speak, “why?”

“Why what?”

Turning around to look at you, you were forced to stop, “why would it be problematic?”

You scoffed, looking out at the water to avoid his eyes, “because…we work in such close quarters Mr. Riley, and—” you made the mistake of sparing him a glance and felt your breath catch in your chest at how earnest his expression was. The little crease between his brow speaking of honest longing. How could you have missed that look? “And when things go wrong? I’d have to quit my job.”

“But why do they have to go wrong?”

For that, you couldn’t think of an answer. Locked in a stalemate with one another, the waves crashing into each other in the distance. You don’t think you’d ever allowed yourself to look at him this long and the longer you did, the less you could reconcile the man before you with the one who kindled so much fear with the rest of the staff. He was just Simon. Your Mr. Riley. 

Finally, you shrugged, “maybe they don’t.”