The Lawyer by Charlotte E Hart
Chapter Seven
LANDON
An afternoon of yet more legal documentation to deal with and I’m about fit to blow.
I wait in the lift, eyes focused on the mirror reflecting my own image back. I’m not truly looking at it; I’m trying to calm my fury down into my normal mask of indifference. I’m not indifferent, and how this company has managed to keep its own ship tight enough before my return is anyone’s guess. Problem after problem, all of our own making. It’s not happening anymore. In fact, I might just sack the whole damn legal department if this crap is what I’m going to have to deal with on a daily basis.
And let’s not even begin with sales and profitability.
The eventual surprise on the head of the legal team’s—David Joiners—face isn’t warranted as I step into the offices. He should have known I’d be down here soon. Given his constant inability to get any damn contract or agreement correct, he’s fucking lucky I haven’t brought him up on some charges of my own yet.
“Mr Broderick.”
“Where is Tonya Averril?”
“She’s over in the corner office.”
I bypass him and head straight for her, intent on getting this done before I leave the building this evening. “David, follow me.”
The second I reach her office door, I walk straight on in. Her head pops up out of a stack of files not dissimilar to my own. She seems surprised as she stands. That probably is warranted.
“Mr Broderick, what can I do for you?” she asks, straightening her shirt.
“You can get all your things moved to the other larger corner office, formally David’s. You’ll be taking over here as of Monday next week.”
He’s around in front of my face before I can carry on. “You can’t do that!” he shouts.
“I can. And just have done.”
I brace my hands in my pockets to make sure I don’t punch him in the face.
“But I have a contract. You can’t just abandon that!”
I move around to the other side of Tonya’s desk, brow arched to ask her to move out of the fucking way so I can get to her keyboard. She does, quite efficiently, and gives me enough space to input my codes and bring up the employee contracts. I spin the screen the second I’ve found what I’m after, showing him the one piece of information that proves his contract absolutely obsolete because of his own stupidity. “You mean this contract?”
His eyes widen moments after he’s read the clause I’ve highlighted.
“Perhaps, as head of a huge legal team, you should have fucking read the damn thing before signing it.” Four strides and I’m in his face, my size backing him out of the room as I go. “Tonya, organise whatever you need. Come straight to my inbox should anything hinder that.”
He’s on my heels the entire way back through the offices, spits and curses flying out of his mouth as if that might make some difference to his situation. It won’t. “Please, David, take it to a tribunal if you’d like to. Believe me, I’ll relish the thought of what I can do to you if you try that option.”
“You’re a fucking arsehole, Broderick.” I nod, keep walking. I’m happy for him to think that, for all of them to think that, actually. It’s enough for me to turn around before reaching the end of the desks, my eyes focusing back on the crowd of legal clerks and lawyers looking at the commotion.
“If one more substandard fucking document comes to my office, I will terminate the person’s position immediately. Don’t think for one minute your contract will stop me because it won’t.” A hushed silence fills the air, giving me enough time to look at each one of them in the face. “I need better than this. Now. I did not come here to spend my life in court again because of your inadequacies. As of Monday, you report to Tonya.”
With that done, I ignore the noise still coming out of David’s mouth and head back to the lift. An hour more and I’m going home. Thankfully to an apartment that is properly set out now. After the day I’ve had, I might not even come in tomorrow as I had arranged to. The meeting with the next paper in line to be bought out can fuck off. As can everything else until Monday morning.
The sight of Willow's arse bent over her own desk as I get back to the area outside my office isn’t acceptable on any level. Although, it doesn’t stop my eyes drifting over it, and then her calves and heels, nor do I remember to stop myself stalling at the moment. Green suede today, with enough of a sharp edge to them that they remain somewhat professional.
“Willow?” Her head shoots up from whatever she’s doing, hands brushing her skirt back into place. “What did you need me for at six?”
“The ball. Final seating arrangement, given the changes," she says, straightening her jacket.
"Alright." I wave my hand at her. "Come in, we’ll do it now.”
She fishes about on her desk for a sheet of paper under another pile of papers and follows me in. “Did you want a coffee?” she asks.
“No.” I sigh and round my desk, sitting. “What I want is a large bottle of red wine, some cheese, and a night of nothing but relaxed talk and …” Thankfully, I don’t finish the last of the sentence and land myself in my own legal mess. Talking about fucking isn’t going to make this evening come any quicker, nor is it acceptable no matter how good her arse might be.
She smiles, probably knowing exactly what I was about to say. “Sounds nice. A date?”
My gaze goes to her as I roll my shirt sleeves up. “Not remotely.”
“Not the dating kind of guy, I guess.”
I tug at my tie. “Certainly not tonight. How about you?” What the fuck was that?
“Excuse me?”
I carry on anyway, bemused at my actions. “Any date tonight?”
Her eyes widen. Quite rightly. “Did you just ask me about a personal matter?”
Yes. Fuck knows why. “No. You’re right. I shouldn’t have. I apologise.”
“And now you're apologising?”
“It doesn’t matter.” I look at the paper laid out neatly on her lap, chastising myself, and nod at it. “Right, hit me with these names. Let’s get this done.”
“Hit you with them?" She stares for a few seconds, brows raised and her mouth half open. "Landon, are you alright? You seem … different.”
My head tilts, a smile coming slowly and I rub my brow. I’m so fucking tired I’m talking like an imbecilic moron. And not only that, I appear to be getting comfortable with someone I absolutely should not be getting comfortable with. I was pissed at her just the other day and now we're talking dates? “Just read them out, Willow. I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to go home.”
She smiles with me and laughs lightly, eyes moving to the paper. “Okay.”
She spends the next fifteen minutes reading them out, one after another, and waiting for a yes or a no on where they should be sat. Or rather, who they should be sat next to. That’s all there is for that time. Professional, as it should be. The fact that my eyes keep wandering down to her fucking legs or looking at her mouth moving is fucking ridiculous.
How long is maternity leave?
I need Nina back.
When it’s finally finished, she gets up and leaves without much conversation other than goodbye and see you on Monday. Probably best considering my scandalous thoughts. I stand and leave ten minutes after her, getting to my car as quickly as I can. In reality, it’s undoubtedly not her that I’m thinking about; it’s the fact that I’ve got my dancer to get home to tonight. With any luck, I’ll get inside her and then it will be done. One fuck. Maybe two. Or maybe I’ll see her again if she’s good enough. I don’t know.
One thing’s for damn sure, I’m getting my money’s worth out of the night.
~
The rest of the evening passes by in a blur of food and good red wine. It was left in the kitchen, I guess part of the groceries Willow arranged. Perhaps I was hard on her, given it wasn’t actually her fault considering the apologetic email she forwarded to me from the delivery company. They fucked up, not her. I haven’t even thanked her for sorting it out. Not that I should have to.
I’ve found myself sipping the final glass of it out here on the terrace and watching the last of the evening light go by below, perhaps a little too absorbed in her mouth moving around words.
Idiotic. Ten p.m. That’s what I need.
Ten p.m. and something to amuse myself with.
I turn at the sound of the apartment buzzer eventually blaring and walk slowly for the door, rolling my sleeves up as I go with a smile on my face. I don’t know what I expected when I opened the door, but finding an elegant red mask partly hidden behind a long, black, hooded cloak wasn’t it.
“Good evening,” I murmur as I widen the door and wave my hand to invite her in.
She doesn’t answer, and my eyes remain glued to her as she walks into the hallway with the cloak billowing behind her. She seems smaller than I thought she was. Or maybe that's just my height now I'm standing near her. Narrower at the shoulder, more slender. It isn’t until she reaches the lounge area and casts her own gaze outside at the view that I realise I haven’t planned this out at all.
The bedroom would be befitting for a dance like she’s about to perform, but then, who am I to assume that’s what she’d allow. Given the lists of limitations that Jackson sent through earlier, I’m doubtful she’ll even speak let alone stay a minute longer than necessary.
“Would you like a drink?” I ask, coming up behind her. She spins at me skittishly and backs up a few paces, shaking her head in the next breath. “Alright. Where would you like to dance?”
She turns and moves out onto the terrace. “Rather open for the type of thing you’re about to do, isn't it?” I ask, following her. Not that anyone can really see us this high up under the shroud of darkness, but there’s an element of me being covetous about her body. Especially while she’s in my apartment.
Still she doesn’t speak. She opens a small bag and gets her phone out instead, red-gloved hands searching for something on it. Ah, music, of course. “Link it up to my system if you like,” I offer, moving to the large bank of soft seating. She holds the phone out to me, a run of music on show. “This would be a lot easier if you spoke.” But she just shakes her head.
I chuckle and link up to the system, then spin through the tracks myself. All classical, all moody rather than light and frivolous. I select a track at randomand pause it immediately, handing the phone back to her. It’s a good start. Low and mysterious. After that, she can choose which track she’d like to dance to. “Any chance that mask’s coming off?”
Again, another head shake.
I chuckle again and let my eyes wander over everything that is mine for the next half an hour, desperate for that cloak to come off. “Alright. Start whenever you’re ready.”
Pouring a glass of brandy, I get comfortable and shift my weight around so I can ease the room in my trousers. I’m already hard at the thought of this, and the likelihood is I’m going to get off without much effort on my part. I’d like to see her do it, too. I’d like to see those fingers inside her rather than just skirting her skin. I’d also like to be the one helping her do it, but it was yet another fucking stipulation that I’ve agreed to.
No touching unless she instigates it.
Music begins to float in the air around us, soft notes letting the song begin. It’s been a while since I’ve heard it, years ago actually, and I watch as she begins getting herself into a poised stance. The cloak drops the moment she’s ready, and I snatch in a sharp breath. Perfect. Long, olive-toned body. Feminine musculature making her tight and firm. Light, near sheer excuse for lingerie covering barely anything at all. I look over the black netting, shifting again the moment I get a sight of her nipples taut because of the cooling night around us. Red flashes of satin on the bra straps, a deep V of it covering her pussy and keeping it from view.
I lick my lips as she moves her hips, circling to the rhythm she’s getting herself lost in. I’m so mesmerised by it that I barely notice the change of music into the next song. All I can see is her skin, her curves, the way she flows effortlessly into the next move she presents me with. And that tattoo on the side of her ribs. What does that mean? A stag, deer? It moves with her, the antlers almost beckoning me to her as she moves.
A light sheen of sweat starts forming after a while, both heightening the arousal in me and the breathy sounds that keep coming from her. I’m so close to grabbing for her I can't stand the tension. My cock’s rigid, my breath just as fucking laboured as hers—more so. And my fists are tight at my side, partly so I don’t snatch for her and break the rules, keeping her here for me and me alone.
On and on she goes, all of it filled with every inch of filth she can make of it. Gloved hands wander everywhere, including up her thighs and so close to the covering satin I can almost feel her in my hands. Soft fingers, skimming, kneading. And then they're so tight into her flesh that she'd damn near scratch herself if it wasn't for the gloves. It’s all too much, even for a seasoned voyeur like me. Years I’ve watched this kind of thing, and not once has a woman got me as close to coming as this one is doing now.
And then she dances closer to me.
She’s in between my thighs before I’ve caught up with the move. My head rears back, fists tighter than I can ever remember them being. “Fuck,” falls out of me. “Back up if you don’t want me to touch you.”
She doesn’t, not completely anyway. She hovers one leg there instead and then lifts it until the pointed tip of her shoe is mere inches from my balls. The hips still circle as her hands draw up and down the smooth lines of her thigh. One hand lands over her satin clad pussy, fingers spreading slightly to emulate slipping inside her. “You need to back the fuck up, woman,” grunts out of me.
She does. Thank God. Even I have limits I can’t stop myself under. This is about it.
A low chuckle falls from under her mask, her body turning and moving away until her arse is five feet away from my face and she’s bending over and spreading those legs wide. The red flash of the mask flits about, her shoulders and back arching high and strained, and then her hands are on her arse to spread that wide too. It’s near fucking impossible to keep the come from racing through my body as she moves and grinds, and my hand moves to my cock, the heel of it pressing down to bring on the last of it.
I don’t know if she knows or not but the groan that comes out of me when I finally let it go and the sight of her slowly spinning to watch me, her body stalling for a split second, makes the money I’ve paid for this irrelevant. I’d pay twice as much again, and at least four times as much if she’d lose every last piece of covering she has on—including that damn mask.
Panting, my head leans back on the couch, my own gaze lazy and languid, as she carries on until the end of the song eventually comes to its finale. The moves slow down. Her breath eases to more of a relaxed quiet. Even her limbs seem to shrink inwards somehow, as the flow of her eventually comes to a halt. No perfectly poised ending this time. There is only her and the way she fills the entirety of this terrace for me. The view behind her has gone. The millions spent on this penthouse are gone, too. Just her.
Wild hair gently moves in the light breeze as she looks at me. I wish I could see the smile on her face or the reality of her wanton eyes watching me. I can’t, though. She’s as much of a mask as I normally am. Hidden and shielded.
“How much more do you want to take the mask off? In fact, how much to fuck?”
She moves sideways and picks up her phone from the table, then reaches for her cloak. No answer. I stand, damn sure I have enough money to buy anything I want, including a look at her face while I get this out of my system. “How much?"
Her gloved hand goes up the second I’m close enough to touch her, head shaking. For all my frustration, I stop immediately and swallow, shoving my hands in my pockets to stop them again.
She nods and backs up a step, gently shrouding herself with the cloak once more, and then walks back into the apartment. I follow until we’re at the door, taking every last glimpse of her I can, and then open it for her. “At least tell me you’ll come back again.”
Her head crooks back to me as she passes under my arm, and she gives me that low chuckle of hers. That’s all I get before she strides out away from me.