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As gorgeous as his dick was, it was her own fingers on either side of her sex that took her all the way. Grace hung her head back and squeezed her eyes shut. Her breath caught in a hiccup at the back of her throat and she rode that sensation of her pussy being stuffed as her clit pulsed.
‘I’m coming,’ she hissed and opened her eyes to his flushed and leering face. ‘Just hold off a few more … oh, fuck … just a little more …’
She bucked up as it hit her, riding fast through her explosive climax. He went deep one last time and her finger stilled over her clit as her sex squeezed around his length. This sensation of being utterly soaked with pleasure as his cock twitched inside held her suspended, heedless of the warning pangs from the muscles in her thighs and stomach that she had been contorted, nearly bent in half, in her lover’s climax.
With the ringing in her ears subsiding, Grace came back to life and shook herself until he released her and sagged back at his end of the sofa. One need sated, she was parched with the next immediate need and hobbled to her feet. From Caroway’s mini-fridge she pulled out a bottle of water and drank down half before offering it to the Breton-Craig man.
At first he looked at her like he didn’t know where he was or how he had gotten there, but, just as she had, he shook it off and took the bottle from her. His gaze never left her as he drained the bottle, and Grace delved into the credenza behind Caroway’s desk.
His expression was amused as she laid out her emergency kit – moist towelettes, a small hairbrush and a secondary stash of make-up in her day colours, and a plastic zipper bag with extra panties. Caroway never went into his credenza; he wasn’t the type to look for something when he could call Grace and get her to do it, and so her stash was safe.
He pulled off the condom and dropped it into the wastebasket on top of her discarded wipes. ‘I was just making dirty talk, but you weren’t kidding. You do this a lot.’
There wasn’t any judgement in his tone, and so she chuckled as she wiped herself clean. ‘I’ve probably fucked more men here than I have in my own bed, but it’s not like I do this every day. I have my moments, and I told you I work long hours. Some weeks I live at my desk. I have to get laid when the opportunity presents itself’
‘And your bed, is it nearby?’
Grace perched on the edge of the desk and opened her compact in front of her. The damage wasn’t too bad. She looked fucked, but it was fixable.
She glanced at him. Her clit was still sensitive, but she was already cooling with the end of their fun. ‘You’re leaving on the red-eye.’
‘I don’t have to.’
Her gaze on her reflection, she started to powder her face. ‘Yes, you do, and I’ll be here half the night with no time for a second round. This has been great, but I’m afraid it’s not meant to be.’
As she lined her lips, he zipped himself up and moved on to the mirror by the door. From the corner of her eye she saw him fussing to put his hair back in place.
She knew what was coming out of his mouth next. There was always an excited tension that filled the room in the moments before the words, before that inevitable question surfaced.
‘Have you ever seen him?’
She pursed her lips, blew herself a kiss, then snapped the compact shut. ‘Seen who?’
‘Taureau.’
‘He doesn’t work in the office.’
‘I just thought he might, since we’re so close to his compound.’
Grace chuckled and went to work on smoothing out her suit. No stains. Perfect. ‘I don’t think it’s a compound. I think it’s just a house, and it’s not close. It’s ten hours between Toronto and Saguenay. Saying he’s that close is like saying Newfoundland is just a few doors down.’
‘He’s supposed to be in on our call this afternoon. Will I see him?’
‘No, you won’t. He’s like the Wizard of Oz. You’ll hear his voice but that’s all you’ll get.’
‘Is it true that woman cut half his face off and he wears a mask?’
‘Seriously, do you think a man with his money would be hiding out in the wilds of Quebec with no face like some third-rate Phantom of the Opera? He’s probably had it fixed, and besides, if you’d read the story, you’d know she didn’t cut his face off. She just sliced him up.’
‘They say he had her killed.’
She was starting to get irritated with the direction the conversation was veering. She’d had it dozens of times: every newcomer to the office thought, given Caroway’s position as president and her proximity as Caroway’s assistant, that she had seen the legendary Jacques Alain Taureau. She had no details to give them, and yet they persisted in gleefully throwing all these myths at her for her to confirm or refute, even after she had explained her ignorance.
She strode across the room to nudge him aside from the mirror, then went to work on her hair. ‘Unless he developed the power to give her breast cancer, I’m pretty sure he didn’t kill her.’
He leaned against the accent table beneath the mirror and grinned. ‘You’re defensive about him.’
‘I’m not defensive about anyone. I just hate repeating facts you can pluck off of the Internet.’ She pulled her blonde hair free of pins, and threw him an apologetic look as she ran a brush through the tangle. ‘Yes, Taureau is messed up. No, I’m not a part of his inner circle. When he’s involved in a call, I don’t even take minutes. If you want any more details from that, there’s a documentary online you can look at, but for now I suggest you stop thinking of him as a legend and start thinking of him as a colleague you need to impress. He doesn’t like stammering idiots, and I’ve seen a few walk out of the boardroom looking like they got a wedgie from the schoolyard bully.’
He said nothing as she stabbed and poked her hair back into the tight bun at the nape of her neck, but once she finished he reached out and ran a slender finger where her blouse split open just above her tits.
‘You could change your mind, you know. I just thought you might like me to finish what I started, and I have to say I’d love to see if your mouth sucks as good as your pussy.’
His words had the effect she was sure he intended. Just once she would have liked a little more than an hour or two. She would have liked to get to know one of these men who passed through the office. When the Breton-Craig team moved on, she’d go home and pour herself a glass of wine, have a long hot bath, spend a little quality time with the contents of her nightstand and wait until the next opportunity like this presented itself.
She stepped away from him and began collecting her things from Caroway’s desk. Once everything was in place and she had tied the garbage bag with the discarded condom in it, she glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Less than ten minutes. You’d better get going. Caroway will be coming back any second now and if you’re late you’ll miss the meeting. The doors are locked as soon as Taureau comes online.’
He went to the sofa and picked up his jacket. ‘Anything else I need to know about Taureau?’
Grace crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a wry smile. ‘Keep it short and don’t fuck up.’
She didn’t even know the name of the man from Philadelphia, she realised as she returned to her desk. Dan or Brent or something that clicked off the tongue during an introduction. Whatever his name was, he was smooth enough and he could talk. As long as he didn’t go long-winded, she had no doubt that the acquisition of Breton-Craig would be a done deal by the time the meeting was over, another financial notch on Taureau’s belt.
The clock read three minutes after two. She was tempted to take a stroll down the hall to see if anyone had taken too long to shake the piss off their dick and was locked out.
She’d long ago stopped questioning Taureau’s methods. From what Caroway and others had told her, the owner of Taureau-Werner Inc. came off as barely tolerant during every one of these meetings. If he was bored, he made it known. If he thought an idea or an opinion was stupid, he was quick to shred the offender.
Every so often in the office, there would be nostalgic talk about the days of the old man, Shane Werner, and his charm. Not many were alive who could remember the grandfather who had turned a small regional bus company into a conglomerate of airlines, hotels, restaurants and airport shops. Those who had worked for Werner, like Caroway, shook their heads and puzzled at how Shane had left the business to the grandson who was reportedly a mental case after his girlfriend tried to kill him.
Once the wild playboy, at the age of twenty-four Jacques had been attacked by his drug-addled lover. She slit his throat and carved up his face before turning the knife on herself. It was said that Jacques Alain Taureau wasn’t fit for the position of CEO. The torch should have been passed on to Jacques’s father, Dominic, who had earned himself a Senate seat after twenty years in politics, and was the polished type you would expect to excel in business.
And yet Taureau had done well in the decade since his grandfather’s death, in spite of the Howard Hughes mythology surrounding him. Since Grace had begun working for Taureau-Werner seven years ago, he’d acquired three smaller airlines and absorbed a chain of luxury hotels.
Breton-Craig didn’t own luxury hotels. They owned roadside motels across the Midwestern United States. The idea behind this merger was to revamp the brand and add a restaurant to each property. Breton-Craig would do the work while Taureau-Werner put in the capital and reaped the rewards.
She knew Caroway wasn’t entirely on board with this deal. He liked the shine of Taureau-Werner. He thought adding motor inns would tarnish the company’s reputation. Grace suspected that he had either kept his mouth shut about that or been put in his place by Taureau, and that once the money started coming in he’d shut his mouth for good.
Though Grace had put on a good front for the man from Breton-Craig, she had been left exhausted by their bout of fucking. It had burned off the tension that kept her alert, and the thought of having to stick around until after dark made her want to slip back into Caroway’s office and take a nap.
She settled for a half-hour coffee run and sent the phone to voicemail. One large coffee and something sugary would keep her going until she was able to head home.
* * *
‘It’s crazy,’ her mother said, and Grace leaned over the speaker and mouthed along to the next words. ‘Worse than crazy.’
With every call to her mother, Grace heard that expression at least four times. She couldn’t remember that phrase ever passing over Edwina’s lips when these conversations were face to face.
In fact, she didn’t recall, when her mother lived in town, talking this much about the weather, her cousin Martha’s hospital visits, her stepfather’s diabetes or people she’d never met. Before the move to Florida, they’d meet for tea and sandwiches on Sunday, or Grace would pop out for a long lunch so they could browse for nail polish at the mall. The conversation was light and Grace enjoyed the company.
Now the weekly conversation was just another obligation, and Grace spent the entire call looking for those cues that it was coming to an end. She called from her desk these days, knowing that Edwina wouldn’t delay her if she knew Grace hadn’t eaten or was at the end of a thirteen-hour day. When she hung up, the guilt would be heavy in her gut and she’d commit herself to showing more enthusiasm the next time she talked to Edwina. But she would still be glad it was over.
‘The next time you come down, I’ll get you to bring me some of those caramel cakes I used to get,’ Edwina said, and Grace closed her eyes to suppress a moan. She knew what was coming next.
‘I can mail them to you,’ she replied, and pushed her shoulders into the back of her seat. ‘They’ll be there in a week.’
‘No, I don’t want you to waste your money on postage.’
‘It’s fine. I’ll pick them up the next time I get groceries.’
‘I didn’t think you went grocery shopping anymore. The last time we were up your fridge was bare.’
‘Mom, stop.’
Grace didn’t need the reminder. Her fridge was bare most of the time. Her diet consisted of whatever could be found on the worn takeout menus from the break room and her fruit intake came entirely from the waxy pickings that collected dust at the café in the lobby. Every so often she’d get ambitious enough to have a cooking day, but whatever she made would be forgotten until she discovered some frost-caked plastic container in her fridge freezer.
‘You’re not drinking too much, are you?’
‘Mom, stop talking like I’m an alcoholic.’ She’d never be allowed to forget the presence of that quart of raspberry vodka in a fridge without milk or bread. ‘I don’t have time to be a drunk.’
‘Life isn’t all work, Gracie. You should get yourself a slow cooker –’
‘And I’d have to get up an hour early to cook.’
‘I’m just worried about you, that’s all.’ Edwina sounded defeated, and Grace got to her feet, trying to banish the thought that she was a horrible daughter.
‘I know you are, but I’m fine.’
‘Fine is what you tell people when you feel like shit.’
‘Mom –’
‘You should at least try and meet someone. It makes a huge difference when you have a warm body waiting for you when you get home.’
‘I really don’t want to discuss warm bodies with you,’ Grace said, and thought about shutting her mother up with details of the warm body she’d enjoyed earlier that day. ‘When did you develop such an interest in my social life, anyway? When you lived here you used to growl at me about having too big a social life.’
‘There’s a difference between being twenty years old and partying every night, and being thirty and spending all hours of the day at your desk. Have you tried that online dating?’
‘All right, I’m hanging up now.’ She couldn’t help laughing at her mother. It was like she was reading for the part of meddling mother in a romantic comedy. Maybe that’s what you became as you got older: a stock character.
‘I’ll give you a call next week?’ Grace asked. ‘I’ll mail you the caramel cakes next week, and I don’t want to hear anything about the postage.’
She disconnected but stayed sitting at her desk, turning her can of diet soda back and forth, until the guilt passed. Then she headed towards the boardroom.
If it hadn’t been Friday, Grace would have left the boardroom mess until the morning and been on the road with drive-thru and sleep on the agenda. Because the hard work was over for now, and because she was alone on the thirteenth floor, she took a moment to herself.
The acquisition was successful. Breton-Craig was now a part of Taureau-Werner.
She slipped off her shoes and wriggled her toes into the expensive carpet, popped the top two buttons of her blouse, then sank back into the leather chair at the head of the conference table. All that was missing was a bottle of wine.
No doubt there were a few stragglers somewhere in the building trying to make a deadline, but aside from the cleaning crew and security she was alone. Especially on the thirteenth floor, the executive floor, where there was no one.
The view of the city skyline was ethereal, bringing to mind Zeus and his kin looking down on earth from Olympus. It was easy to imagine that the small world below could be so easily manipulated by a whim from above, that she could reach out and nudge a building out of the way to enhance her view.
She remained there overlooking creation for what seemed like hours, until something as common as the water cooler gurgling brought her back. It was a hateful intrusion, a reminder that she was no goddess and there was no real peace to be found in the Taureau-Werner building.
Grace didn’t dwell on it. She’d heard enough whining from the rest of the staff during the day; she didn’t want to hear it in her head when she had all this before her at the end of the day.
You’re tired. You’re cranky. You need sleep. Tomorrow, everything will look less grey.
She rose and stretched. Joints popped, and a yawn crawled up her throat. She went around the table and collected empty coffee cups and soiled napkins, wiped crumbs away and set all the chairs in perfect formation.
As she reached for the OFF button on the projector at the centre of the table, the room lit up. Reflected on the screen at the end of the table, the laptop had come out of sleep mode. The text on the screen informed her that a call was coming in from JAT: Jacques Alain Taureau.
For a moment, she was unsure whether to answer. There was no reason for him to be calling now. It had been Taureau who had adjourned the meeting.
Just the thought of Taureau made her nervous. She’d been telling the Breton-Craig man the truth: she never had any personal contact with him, and to her knowledge he never left his house in rural Quebec.
Though she wasn’t one for sharing gossip, Grace couldn’t help but absorb it when in earshot. There were so many stories out there. She’d heard from some that his face was like Frankenstein’s monster’s, while others said that he had had extensive plastic surgery to fix the damage.
He’d called in to the afternoon meeting with voice only. He was calling her now with full video.
After a moment, he disconnected and Grace exhaled.
It had just been a mistake, maybe a slip of a finger. Yet as she moved to the conference console the screen lit up with the words JAT INCOMING VIDEO CALL.
She quickly turned the lights back on, and then pressed the receiver button.
It took a moment to make out shape from shadow. A man was in near-darkness, sitting partially off-camera. All that was revealed to her was a broad arm and shoulder, an ear surrounded by dark hair that curled around a wide neck, the corner of a mouth, and one heavy-lidded dark eye.
Grace straightened and smiled. ‘Good evening, Mr Taureau.’
He said nothing, and a prickle ran across her neck. Taureau’s one-eyed gaze was so intense she didn’t feel the need to speak again. She knew that he heard her.
‘Miss Neely, isn’t it?’
Grace nodded. ‘Mr Caroway’s assistant. I’m afraid everyone’s gone home.’
‘Everyone but you.’
She couldn’t tell whether he was being sarcastic or was merely amused. Taureau rarely spoke, but when he did it was a startling experience. She’d seen video clips of him in his youth. He’d had a silky voice with that fluid French-Canadian accent. Now, with apparent damage to his vocal cords, his voice was like the kind of smoke found in an anonymous bar, equal parts seductive and menacing.
Tucking her hands behind her back, she offered him a bright smile. ‘I’m just finishing up.’
‘Don’t you have somewhere else to be?’
Without the benefit of his expression, Grace couldn’t tell whether he was being sarcastic. She didn’t care for the question. She’d already had her weekly reminder of the lack of social intercourse in her life. Still, she didn’t falter. ‘It’s been a month of long nights. I was just about to be on my way.’
He moved slightly, enough to reveal the scar beneath this eye. Of all the rumours she’d heard, this was a fact: he had been left with scars as a gruesome memorial of what had happened to him.
