Ruthless In A Suit: Book Three Part 22

"Yes," she says, and now the tears are really streaming down her face. "I'll marry you, Jackson."

Finally, I take her sweet face in my hands and kiss her lips as more tears-happy tears-stream down her face.

I don't want anyone to find me. I don't want to talk to or see anyone, so we head straight for Emily's little apartment.

When we kiss, it's as if we've been apart for a year. We need to make up for the time apart. I need to make up to her for the pain I caused her.

We crash into each other, Emily kicking the door shut with her foot, and begin tearing the clothes off each other. I kiss her more deeply than ever, taking as much of her in as I can. I never would have guessed that my need for her would grow but now that my heart is fully in Emily's hands, I feel like I could die if she left me again.

Her fingers deftly work the b.u.t.tons on my s.h.i.+rt as I pull the T-s.h.i.+rt up over her head. She pulls the band out of her hair and lets it fall around her shoulders. My lips cover her skin, lick and taste her all across her face, her neck, her shoulders, her chest. Soon we've kicked off our shoes and she's got my pants shoved down around my ankles.

We make it to the bed and I help her out of her jeans, so tight to her skin. Her panties don't get to stay on-off they come, as do my boxer briefs. When I cover her body with mine, she wraps her legs around my waist, every inch of our bodies touching. I run my hands over her thighs, tight around my waist, her hips pus.h.i.+ng into my raised d.i.c.k. Her p.u.s.s.y touches me, her wetness making me want to shove myself deep inside her. But I want to go slower, show Emily how precious she is to me.

I run my finger down her slit, Emily curving her back so that her hips push up into me. Her eyes stay on me, her mouth open, eager. I gently glide my finger across her p.u.s.s.y, so wet and pink and mine, mine to play with, mine to please. I dip my finger inside her and she lets out a moan. I pump inside her before slipping my finger out and giving her c.l.i.t some much-needed attention. Her face is flushed with pa.s.sion and I know she's going to start begging me soon for more. I love that she always needs more.

She reaches down between our bodies and takes me in her hand. G.o.d, her hand, so small but so a.s.sured on my d.i.c.k. I slip my finger back inside her p.u.s.s.y and she pumps me at the same tempo as I do her, matching me, showing me that she can take it if I can. I'm not sure my body can take it-I fall to the bed beside her, fingers and hands still in place. Facing each other we work each other, our breath mingling in the small s.p.a.ce between us.

"I love you, Jackson," she says. When she kisses me it fills me up with such love like I've never known. I have to make love to her.

"Emily," I say, moving above her. I put my finger, covered in her juices, in my mouth and suck it all off. She reaches out for me, but I take my d.i.c.k in my hand.

"Yes," she says.

I slide my c.o.c.k into her slowly, leaning down on my forearms so I can be close to her face, which I intend to cover in kisses. Warm inside her, our bodies combined, I whisper in her ear, "I love you."

I slowly move through her, never wanting to leave. Her p.u.s.s.y hugs my d.i.c.k so perfectly, and with every drive inside her I want to come. But I ride it out, looking into her eyes, moving so slowly it's a major tease for us both. I go harder, slamming my d.i.c.k in her, methodically as her face burns with desire.

"Tell me again," she says.

"I love you, Emily."

I pull her leg up, my arm wrapped under her knee and continue loving on that c.u.n.t, her gasps and moans taking me to the edge, but I don't fall over, not until she's ready. She pushes her hips back at me with equal force, and as her hands claw out for more of me I know she's ready and I let go, both of us jumping over the edge in an explosion of fireworks. When I collapse next to her I kiss her long and deep, holding her face in my hands and tell her again that I love her.

We spend long stretches of time in bed feeling each other's skin, running our hands over every inch of the other's body, memorizing curves and lines and angles. We make love again, we fall asleep. We somehow manage to order in some Thai food, which we engulf before turning back to each other once again. It's twenty-four hours of love and s.e.x and sleep, a little food and a lot of Emily. A lot of Emily naked.

Soon, I've hit my limit staying in a bas.e.m.e.nt studio apartment, even if Emily is naked most of the time. I suggest a change of scenery, and Emily is game. I have my driver drop off one of my cars outside Emily's apartment.

"What am I supposed to pack for?" she asks. "For how long?"

"I don't know," I say, because I don't. For once in my life I have nothing planned.

We get in the car and speed out of town.

"Are we going to the Cape?" she asks, noticing the direction I'm headed. Even I hadn't noticed where I was going, but I guess I'm on some sort of auto-pilot.

"No," I say. "Martha's Vineyard." It's perfect. It's a f.u.c.king island and I don't even know the phone number to the house. "I own a house there."

She throws her head back and laughs. "Of course you do."

I haven't been out here in years. I've literally forgotten I own the home. In fact, I can't remember the last vacation I took. My life has been consumed by work. That is, until Emily came around and reminded me that taking breaks can actually make you more productive-and result in the best quarter in the company's history. My father never told me that.

So we've moved our camp from Allston to Edgartown. It's a cla.s.sic Cape Codstyle home on the beach with plenty of land to keep the neighbors and other prying eyes at bay. My closet has clothes already in it, mostly summer beachwear but also some sweaters and wool pants because my staff is always prepared. There aren't many off-season stores out here to buy warm clothes for Emily so we scoop up what we can and put in a huge order online for the rest.

"I don't need all that," she says as I put in my credit card information.

"Your hands and feet are blocks of ice no matter how much I turn up the heat," I tell her. "You actually, literally need it."

"But we're not staying here forever."

I pull her close and say, "Why not?"

The fire is roaring and we're bundled under cashmere blankets. We have the essentials-a bunch of dry pasta and sauces, a cellar of wine, and each other. As corny as it may sound, it's all we need.

"There is one thing missing," I tell her, holding her hand. "If we're truly engaged, then you need a ring."

"G.o.d," she says, like I just suggested we go clean the toilets. "If we're truly engaged then you won't buy me some gaudy monstrosity."

"Hey, I take offense to that. I happen to have good taste."

"No, you hire people with good taste."

I nibble her neck, holding her tight as she squirms. "Whatever kind of ring you want, you can have," I tell her. "Tomorrow I'll call Samuel at Tiffany's. They can come out here and show you a variety of rings. You can pick out whatever you want."

"That's romantic," she says. It takes me a moment to realize she's being sarcastic.

In the end, she finds a ring in a vintage store just off Main Street that she absolutely falls in love with. It's a medium band of rose gold, art deco with an oval center of a peachy-pink morganite stone.

"Are you sure you don't want a diamond," I say. "I do have a reputation to uphold."

"No," she says, holding her hand out to inspect the ring on her finger. "It's perfect."

Emily.

Everything is perfect.

When Jackson appeared in that coffee shop, half of me wanted to run away (maybe slap him first) but the other half, the truer half, wanted to fall into his arms. Just by showing up, I knew he loved me.

I'm sitting at the kitchen island as he prepares us another gorgeous breakfast. I still haven't figured out how he makes his scrambled eggs so dang good. Since he had a crate of food delivered out here-the far reaches of the island-we have been eating well. And I love watching him cook.

"So what happens next?" I say. "We can't just hide out here forever." It's been a week and although it's heaven, I do have a life to get back to. I called in to work and told Jules I needed a little time off. As for school, Professor Stanwick found out what Brent had been doing to me and arranged for me to take time off from all my cla.s.ses. In fact he told me to take all the time I need. I think he's worried I might try to sue Brent-or the school-for hara.s.sment or something.

"That was my plan," Jackson says as he slices fruit. I swear, his hands are as deft with a kitchen knife as they are with my body. So smooth and a.s.sured.

"You are not the kind of man who can just walk away from work," I say. "I don't know how you've lasted this long without your phone."

He's checked it a few times but the Wi-Fi is spotty. There's a house phone we can call out of but Jackson doesn't know the number. We really are out here on our own.

It's been so easy being with him. We've spent our days bundling up for walks on the beach. In the evenings we cook-or rather, I sip wine while he cooks. Then we watch movies together-I never would have guessed he has a love for old westerns. And at night, we make love. His kisses on my skin make me float away, and his hands make me feel safe and s.e.xy, all at once. We sleep late because we stay up late; we have created our own schedule, eating when we please, drinking wine at lunch, napping, staying up until three in the morning. We have no responsibilities. We're like teenagers on summer vacation.

"I don't care about my phone," Jackson says. "I suppose I miss working, but not necessarily my work. How about you?"

I look into my gla.s.s full of orange juice. "I miss working. I mean, I know it's only been a week but I'm wondering what they're doing, what they decided on with some things we were talking about right before I left. I wish I could work full-time but there's no way I could keep it up with my school schedule."

"When you graduate, you'll be able to do anything you want," he tells me. He sets a plate of thick-cut bacon in front of me. I s.n.a.t.c.h a piece, biting into the perfectly crispy goodness that has a hint of maple syrup.

"Sometimes my mind races with all the work there is to do for kids," I say. "And here I sit in this mansion by the beach. Should I feel guilty?"

"No," Jackson says. "Never feel guilty about what you have. But you can give back even more. With your knowledge and a.s.sertiveness, and my money, we could make one h.e.l.l of a team."

"What are you saying? We should start our own charity?"

"Why not?" he says, like it's that easy-you have an idea, and you do it. "It could focus on mentoring at-risk kids like you keep talking about. I bet there are some people in the office who would be happy to do it. One of my senior vice presidents, Rachel Sullivan, would be a great female role model. It could really work, Em."

"Our own foundation," I say, testing the words out.

"You just tell me what to do," Jackson says, "and I'll do it."

"Oh, really?" I say. "Just like that, huh?"

"Whatever you want."

"Then I want a kiss, and stat."

"That's an easy one," he says, coming around to me. He wraps me in his arms, one hand still holding a spatula, and kisses me. He tastes of coffee and pineapple. He tastes of love and home and security.

"So what do you want to do today?" I say when he goes back to the stove.

"What do you think about taking a walk?"

I look out the window. "It's pretty windy out there. Looks like it's going to rain."

"Not on the beach," Jackson says. "Down the aisle."

My heart is bursting. I've never felt so much love in my life. I am filled to the brim with everything Jackson is giving me.

"We don't have to," he says quickly, coming back to me. "If you want to wait, or do something more traditional, we can. I'll wait. However long you want."

"That's not it," I say, crying. He holds me to his chest, so strong and comforting. "I think it'd be perfect, just the two of us. Can we have a party back in Boston for my family and friends, though?"

"Of course," he says. "I told you-anything you want."

This is everything I never knew I wanted. I never imagined a life like this. I know that no matter what happens, Jackson and I can take it on because we're a team.

"I can just see the write-up in the society pages," I say. "'The bride wore a white wool sweater and Huntington boots and the groom sported denim pants and a Patagonia jacket.'"

"Just like I always imagined," Jackson says.

We drive into town, fill out the paperwork and are married in the judge's private chambers. Our witness is a woman named Betty who is there to pick up a permit for the gazebo she's building for her granddaughter's wedding next summer.

When Jackson looks into my eyes, holding my hands, there is no one else in the world. "I will honor and protect you in good times and in bad," he says. "I'll be your strength when you feel you have none, and your light when you find only darkness. I will work every day to prove my worthiness of your love. I promise to laugh with you, to listen to you and to love you until the last breath leaves my body."

It's a good thing I'm not wearing much makeup because I am a s...o...b..ring mess by the time our little ceremony is over and the judge has declared us husband and wife. When we kiss, Betty lets out a little whoop of joy.

Jackson carries me across the threshold, even though I tell him it is not necessary.

"I'm not even wearing a wedding gown," I say.

"All the more reason to go through with the tradition," he says.

He takes me upstairs to the bedroom and lays me on the bed. He pulls my sweater and boots from my body. He runs his hands down my arms and across my belly.

"My wife," he whispers.

Jackson makes love to me slowly, like we have all the time in the world. And we do-we have a lifetime together.

Afterward, we are lazing in an afternoon post-coital haze of tangled sheets and sweat drying to our naked bodies. We both jump when the phone rings.

"G.o.d, I can't remember the last time I heard a land line ring," I say.

Jackson hops into a pair of flannel pants and walks across the room to a little table, on which sits a black old-fas.h.i.+oned phone.

"h.e.l.lo?" Jackson says. I figure it must either be a wrong number or maybe Sandra calling from the office, checking to see when-if-he's coming back. "Is that totally necessary?" he says. His face has changed-his features are pinched, no longer relaxed. "It has nothing to do with me.... When would I have to be there? That soon? Alright...fine, I'll call for the jet.... I'll be there."

When he hangs up he runs his fingers through his hair.

"Everything okay?" I ask. When he looks back at me the old familiar heaviness is creeping into his eyes. It's the heaviness he wears with his business, and when he talks about his family. "Jackson? What is it?"

He comes back to bed, sitting on the edge. "It was the family attorney. I have to go to Los Angeles to meet with him and my brothers."

"Did something happen?" I ask.

"He said they're going to decide the fate of the company."

"It doesn't have anything to do with us, does it?" I ask. "I mean, we just got married." I know rich powerful people have long arms into some shady stuff, but there's no way anyone would know we just got married today, out in a little town on a little island.

"No, no one knows about us," Jackson says. "Which means it's something else. But I have no idea what."

I reach across and take his hand. "Hey, listen. We're a team now. No matter what happens, I'm here with you. Okay?"

He looks at me, and the comfort is immediate. He squeezes my hand back. "Okay," he says, nodding.

But it's something more. Something isn't right. I don't know what will happen at that meeting in Los Angeles, but I know one thing is sure-nothing will ever get between Jackson and me ever again. We're too strong together, both of us too determined to make our own happiness.

"Now get back in these covers and make love to me," I say, hoping to get his mind off that phone call, if only for a little while.