His lap.
I swallow hard. No one is looking, but they will. Do I want to let them see me on their boss's lap? What am I giving up by submitting like this in public? In private is one thing. It's fun. It's hot. It's sexy. Only he sees me like that. But here?
"Jakob," I whisper. "I…"
He takes my hand. "Trust me, Brys."
I don't want to.
But…I also do.
I'm scared. It's stupid, I know. Scared to sit on Jakob's lap. It's innocent. It's simple. It's easy.
Then why is it so terrifying?
I swallow hard, feeling my eyes burn. To obey him like this, in public…to sit on his lap in front of his crew? It's a statement. For him, for me, and for us.
I stand up, heart hammering in my chest, pulse pounding, breath coming in shaky exhales and trembling inhales.
Hesitate.
Let out one more breath.
Everyone is watching.
Absurdly, horrifyingly, my eyes burn and sting, and I know everyone can tell. My mortification is complete.
It feels, for a moment or two, like I'm giving up some vital part of myself by acquiescing to this public display. I wouldn't balk in private. He could command me to my knees and come on my face without warning, and I would take it and like it.
But this?
Can he even begin to fathom what he's asking of me?
I deposit my bottom onto his knees and perch there, spine a ramrod from C1 to coccyx. Knees together. Hands on my thighs, shaking.
So, so stupid. I'm so stupid. This is stupid. Why am I sitting on his lap? Why am I acting like he's asked me to…I don't even know. Get naked and parade myself down the Las Vegas Strip.
My eyes meet Sophia's, and I see understanding and compassion there. She rises to her feet with lithe grace and floats down the aisle to the back of the cabin. Stands in front of me, smiling.
"Breathe, Brys," she murmurs, crouching and taking my hands. "I know what you're feeling."
"How?" I whisper. "How can you?"
"I was raised in a world where weakness of any kind was seized upon and exploited. There was no softness in my life. Ever. At all. No kindness. No affection. Do you have any idea how fucking hard and scary it was for me to soften for Lorenzo?To…to hold his hand in public. To let him kiss me in front of everyone. And forget about me showinghimthat stuff. That was totally off the table. I could barely tolerate his affection. Even his kind words, even him telling me he loved me was hard to hear."
Jakob's hands frame my waist just above my hips. "Talk to me, Brys."
I grit my jaw until my molars ache, wanting to leap up and flee. Instead, I forcibly pry my jaw open and focus on breathing.
"I wasn't raised in a drug cartel or by doomsday militia preppers or whatever," I say. "But I…I was twenty-six when Britt killed herself. Twenty-nine when I graduated with my MBA, and thirty-one when Dad died. I was thirty-one and CEO of a company worth eight billion, in charge of thousands of employees. I was—Iam—in a position of authority over men thirty and forty years my senior. All of them were waiting for me to fail. Every decision was second-guessed. What I wear is still scrutinized. Too much cleavage? I'm dressing slutty for attention. Wear too severe a powersuit? Sexless bitch. Jeans to work on a Friday like everyone else? I don't take my job seriously. Dress up on Fridays instead? I think I'm better than everyone; I'm inaccessible. Too fashion-forward. Have a bad day and snap at an employee for fucking up? On my period. Emotional. Hormonal. Just a bitch. Too friendly with a male employee? Probably letting him fuck me. I can't show any weakness. I can't…I can't ever relax into my job. I have to be perfect in what I wear, what I say, how I walk, who I talk to, and the tone of my voice. Everything I do, I'm held up against my father and found wanting, if only because I have a vagina."
I swallow hard. Blink harder.
"Sitting on your lap in front of your employees—yourfriends," I turn my head to one side, stiffly, turning my upper body as if I have a crick in my neck, and glance at Jakob. "It goes against literally everything I have trained myself to do and to bein public settings. I must always be in control. Don’t give away too much. Don’t say the wrong thing. Don't laugh too loud. Don't bend over too far and let a male employee see down my shirt, or bend over to pick up something off the floor and present my giant ass to some guy in his cubicle."
His lips brush my ear, his breath wafts hot on my neck. "Your ass isnotgiant. It's fucking perfect." He breathes this so quietly that I feel the words on my ear as much as hear them.
"It's gargantuan."
