Disclaimer: Labyrinth and associated characters aren't mine.
AN—hello, all it's been a while. Must practice a bit before delving into writing something complicated…say…a Dark Court chapter (which is coming up, I swears it by the preciousssssssssssssss). Plus, had to practice writing in first person for Dark Court…hence, this story is in first person.
A Devious Set Up: What happens when 34-year-old Sarah's half senile, half drunk, definitely devious grandmother decides to arrange her 'date' [Jane Austen style] to a very sharp featured male creature, with far more canines than necessary? Sharp dialogue and some…risqué situations.
A Mother's Day Wish, AKA Blackmail
Linda Levin, or as I call her 'mommie dearest' – okay, I only call her that when I want to annoy her – laughs, while I groan.
This isn't fair!
They're totally ganging up on me, but then again, it's nothing out of the ordinary when we're visiting Mimi. Otherwise known as Marcia Levin – matriarch of the Levin family, of which I happen to be the last remaining descendant, even though my last name is technically Williams.
"Give it a break, Mimi—I'm not letting mom set me up on a date," I say, cringing when I hear my voice.
Jesus – whiny much Williams? Not cool for a 34-year-old—not cool.
But I hold my ground. "You know what happened the last time? She set me up with this douche bag reporter with a martyr complex—he had an ego the size of Alaska."
That part's true. You know the type. 'I'm so amazing. Why don't you fall at my feet?' Very reminiscent of a certain childhood villain of mine, but I must digress.
Mommie dearest rolls her eyes heavenward—typical reaction when dealing with, what she calls, my tendency to over dramatize. She'd tried pushing me towards acting ever since I was a child. Never worked. Well…save for a very short lived phase during junior high—the death of that fledging career could be accredited to the same childhood villain.
I can still recall his exact image. The evil smirk—cool amusement—sharp features—tight, tight pants.
My mother huffs and puffs, showing her displeasure. "Stop whining Sarah, the man looks like Adonis—he traipses around every war zone in the world—his martyr complex is totally understandable. And from what I've heard, he has something else that's the size of Alaska. Sometimes, darling, you really shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth…especially if it's a gift horse with a very…talented…mouth."
Oh. Dear. God. Ew.
"Mother! Gross!"
"Oh, Sarah, don't be such a prude," Mimi chimes in, grinning mischievously as she takes in my scandalized expression. "I thought you young women were supposedly liberated. I certainly was…and that was more than 50 years ago."
Ugh. Curse them both. Why are Levin women so persistent?
"I am liberated, Mimi—that doesn't mean I want to exchange sex details with my mother."
"Oh dear, are you blushing? I blame your father's genes for this level of…prudeness," Mimi chuckles her trademark devious chuckle, "…if that's even a word."
It isn't, but I don't tell her that—it'll just give her a reason to call me little-miss-know-it-all.
She smiles and hands me a tumbler full of…I have no idea. Some drink she's made. I think it's a healthy dose of Hendricks mixed with soda, garnished with a cucumber slice. How British—ironic, because she isn't.
My eyebrows shoot up. "It's 11 in the morning!"
Mimi gives me a rather disappointed look and sighs deeply. "There you go again with your prudishness—that's the right word, isn't it?" She asks, refusing to withdraw the proffered drink. "It's mother's day brunch, you're allowed to drink."
"I think you're confusing mother's day with St. Patrick's Day," I grumble—relenting, I take a sip.
Good fucking God.
I cough violently as the damn thing burns a trail down my throat.
"What the fuck, Mimi," I say, in between a coughing fit, "—are you trying to send me into an alcohol induced coma?"
"Don't start again, Sarah," my mother steps into the conversation with a laugh, having had a few glasses of Mimi's concoction herself. "Must you be dramatic about everything? Enjoy a day with your mother and grandmother without grumbling like the crotchety 80-year-old that you are at heart."
Haha—funny joke. Mom's been comparing me to the elderly ever since I turned 16—when I lost my penchant for fantasy and acting, all at once.
…and that, instinctively reminds me of another deviously sinister chuckle. A rich, dark, sinful chuckle that made my stomach flip.
Stop it, Williams!
Almost 20 years down the line and I'm still impacted by memories of the bastard. One of my therapists tells me I must have developed a fetish of sorts. So what? A fetish is supposed to be…unique…isn't it? Mine happens to be a very sexual, imaginary villain with Tina Turner's hair.
"Fine," I say through gritted teeth—taking in a huge sip of the extra strong drink—maybe it'll help me forget those sinful pants. "I drink enough at work events, I'd thought I could relax today. But sure—guilt me into drinking, unlike most other mothers in the world!"
"Oh, pshaw darling," mom responds with a wave of her elegant hand. "I'm one of a kind—so's your Mimi. Both of us are damned surprised at how seriously boring you've turned out to be."
"That is so unfair," I retort, my patience wearing thin. I hate it when they gang up on me—even if it is in good humor. All part of my crotchety, 80-year-old avatar, or so my mother says.
"I wish I could live the life of a peace loving socialite like Mimi, or a Hollywood diva like you—but I need to live in reality. I don't have the luxury of living my life one party at a time."
Mom grins wide, completely undeterred—dammit! "You mean one rock star at a time."
Mimi laughs while I hold my hands to my ears. "Leave me out of your sex life, mom—discuss your…antics…with Jeremy….whatever weird thing you guys have going on."
"Antics? Antics? You're 34, darling—you can say sex or sex gymnastics or epic, sex decathlon or—"
"Okay, I get it," I interrupt, my face turning a shade of cherry red. I can't help it if I'm not as fucking liberated as my actress mother, or my 'love and peace' loving grandmother.
"What Jeremy and I have, is something…unique," mom explains, deliberately oblivious to my growing discomfort. "Now if you'd just let me set you up with this gorgeous producer—"
"No," I cut in before she can continue, keeping my arms crossed assertively. "I don't want to date anyone who stands in front of a camera, behind a camera, or in a board room, funding a project that involves a camera."
And I'm not budging on that!
My mother relents. Her brows furrow just a little—as much as her extensive Botox injections will allow. "Well…that severely limits my options."
"Yes, it does!" I exclaim, downing Mimi's horrendous drink. "Can we move on to something else, please? Mimi, how's your bridge group doing at the club?"
Mimi snorts. "Damned if I know—I haven't played in months."
"What? I thought you enjoyed going to the club on Sundays."
"Meh," she says, completely disinterested. "Just because I'm old, doesn't mean I have to bore myself to death." Just as she says this, a mischievous gleam lights up my grandmother's jade eyes—ones she'd passed on to me.
Alarm bells go off in my head. Uh-oh. She's up to something—be wary Williams. The woman may be 88, but she's damn tricky.
Mimi, for her part, tries looking like a sweet old lady.
As if that'll fool me!
"What happened to that economist you were dating, Sarah? I never found his company particularly engaging, but there were times when I believed he would be the one…"
Jesus…not him again.
"He wasn't an economist, Mimi—there's no such profession. He taught economics at Yale…and well…" my voice drifts off as I ponder my former relationship.
Said 'economist' came with two settings—stoic and boring, and aggravatingly pompous. Terrible combination, but the sex had been good enough, and he knew all the right restaurants to go to. He had a sense of arrogance that drew me towards him.
Truth is, we barely spent any time together. It ended eventually, after we concluded that our 'relationship' would only be realized two weekends every month. And even then, most of that was sex. There's no point in entangling oneself in the emotional drama of a relationship for sex. You can get that without the relationship part.
"He's not the point, my dear," Mimi says innocently, once again, putting on the sweet old lady act. Her eyes are suddenly downcast, and she looks a little teary. "But the fact remains, that I am getting old, Sarah—who knows if I'll be around next mother's day."
I groan—so that's her power play. "Mimi—do you really think I'm that easily manipulated?"
Mimi smiles. "If you won't allow your mother to set you up, give your old Mimi a chance…what've you got to lose?"
My fucking sanity?!
"Mimi," I say with a sigh. "I don't have time to date."
Mom laughs as she pours herself another drink. "Are you really going to deny the dying wish of your 88-year-old grandmother…on mother's day?"
Of all the diabolical bullshit.
But dammit! It works. Mimi has her fair share of health issues—she shouldn't even be drinking.
"One date—and it'll have to be after the Dobson case."
Mom scrunches her nose in disgust—very 'mommie dearest' indeed. "Sarah darling, I have no idea why you'd want to place your life on hold and get your kicks with the mundane reality of supply chain management."
Supply chain management! Of all the fucking insults!
"For the love of—" I exclaim exasperatedly, going to give her a piece of my mind…when I notice the twinkle in her brown eyes. She's riling me up on purpose.
I've been a business transformations consultant for six years, and my mother knows it's nothing like being stuck at some midlevel, SCM job. She just can't seem to comprehend why I'd let go of the chance of being adored at Hollywood, and choose the life I have. My therapist has a few ideas—none of which make sense to her.
"I work at decreasing supply chain management, mom—not wallowing in it."
"That sounds even worse," mom says with a shudder. "Do you really want to be the cause of some poor sap in Alabama losing his job? All that does is make him mad…and vote for the cause of universal stupidity."
I roll my eyes. "Manufacturing's far cheaper outsourced—the poor sap in Alabama should opt to develop more relevant skills. I've been working my ass off on a transformations strategy for Dobson, so yeah, the date will have to wait." I wince as the last word comes out rhyming.
"Sure, sure," Mimi interrupts our heated discussion—all smiles now that I'd agreed. "Whenever you want, Sarah. When do you wrap up this very important project of yours?"
"Next Tuesday."
Mimi's smile turns just a tad bit evil. Not 'oh my God, my grandmother's possessed by the devil' evil, but 'watch your step, Sarah, she's up to something' kind of evil.
"I'll set one up for Friday then."
Um.
What the fuck?!
"What do you mean set one up? Where?" I ask, bewildered.
"Oh…you know…" she says, waving off my concern.
"No, I don't know." I cross my arms, and glare at her…stare, more like. She is 88—can't stay mad at her too long. And by the look on her face, she knows it.
"I want you to meet this fellow without any distractions—so I figured you could come over to dinner here."
My jaw drops open.
Fellow?! Did she just say 'fellow'? And then insinuate that the 'date' take place at her house?
"Drinking Hendricks doesn't make you British, Mimi—since when do you use the word fellow?" Big picture, Williams—big picture! "You want to set up a date at your house? That's the weirdest thing I've ever heard you say."
Mimi only smiles innocently. "I thought we could do an old fashioned thing and make it very Jane Austen—it'll be charming. Without chaperones, of course. I'll visit your mother for the weekend, so you have the entire house to yourselves…should you need it."
Ew—did my grandmother just make a sex reference?
"No."
"Sarah—don't be so stubborn. I'll get dinner properly catered and everything—I'll even hire some cleaning staff."
"Let me rephrase myself. Fuck, no."
"Dying mother's day wish from your 88-year-old, Parkinson's afflicted grandmother."
Argh. So. Not. Fair.
"Fine." I mumble.
The somewhat evil smile is back on my grandmother's face. "Be here by 8—I know you city people don't have dinner till 10, but this is Long Island. You won't get a cleaning person after 9."
Fuckity, fuck.
The hell had I agreed to?
A Conference Table Used Thoroughly Well
…(The Dobson meeting)…
Alright, Williams—time to kill it! Carpe diem and all that.
I give myself a pep talk before standing up and addressing the small group of people in the conference room. One of my presentation techniques is to never look directly at the faces of most of the attendants. I keep my gaze steady on Caroline Scott—as head of the Dobson board, she has ultimate sway on any pending decisions.
As expected, none of the Dobson family is present. Figures. They're third generation owners—probably don't care much about the company, as long as they're paid dividends.
"Shall we start?" I ask rhetorically—eyes focused on Caroline.
She nods curtly—a telltale scowl on her otherwise stoic face. From what I gathered over previous meetings, she is against any drastic changes. Must have taken a major vote for them to seek a proposal with a firm like mine.
Time to make your kill, Williams—go for it.
Opening up a page with mostly numbers, I allow the information to skin in for a few moments before speaking.
"I don't believe in long winded presentations," I say—voice steady and firm. "The numbers speak for themselves. The industry has changed—the numbers don't add up. For Dobson to continue being a key player in the market, major innovation needs to take place, and costs need to be cut."
Caroline Scott doesn't seem impressed as she stares me down with slate gray eyes. "I presume you're extending a solution? We paid a king's ransom to your firm for this project, Ms. Williams—you need to give me more than two key words."
Burn.
I smile demurely. What comes next is an act—one I'm used to. I'm experienced enough to realize that hostility can only be countered with infinite politeness. I move on to the next slide, ignoring the few audible gasps that echo across the room.
"This is my proposal," I say slowly—letting them take in the numbers. "Outsource two units, and close the rest, automate your back end." The rest consists of four manufacturing plants and a back end office that is filled with a host of unnecessary administrative and accounting staff. "This will raise your bottom line by a significant margin."
Caroline's face turns icy. "Thank you, Ms. Williams…"
"You're very welcome," I reply, the smile glued to my face—I sense a 'but' coming up very soon. "Would you like me to clear up any details?"
"As I've said before, outsourcing is not an option we take lightly."
I nod and put on a sympathetic expression—at least, I hope I do. Directly contradicting a client is a no-no. The 'agreeing but actually disagreeing' technique works wonders instead.
"Nor should you. I understand the hardships and complications, not to mention the ethical dilemma that comes with outsourcing, or shutting down a plant…" I pause—my face hardens just a tad. "…But without a major increase in net revenue, Dobson Furnaces will go bankrupt. I'm sure shareholders don't want that."
I hear a murmur of agreement.
"Manufacturing units aside, why should we automate the backend office? That's hardly a major expense, and it's been around for more than 70 years."
Aha—the bitch is changing tactics!
…and so can I.
"I understand your perspective—but, at some point, you're going to have to come to terms with the fact that that particular unit isn't going anywhere. You can replace the entire backend office of a hundred and fifty people, with two qualified individuals and modern technology. Best thing to do with your backend office, is rip it off like a Band-Aid."
A raised brow. "Band-Aid?"
Ugh—bad word choice. Use human terms when describing people!
"We've done this with many companies in the past—as you know, you won't find a consulting firm that's better at handling close downs."
That's true enough—our ground team is pretty big on compassion. We don't just fly into somewheresville Indiana and tell 500 people they're fired—we have processes in place that makes their…transition in life…easier.
Caroline doesn't back down. "But why change something that's working well enough? Why disrupt a hundred and fifty lives?"
Oooh—I have a solid argument for this.
"The world changes every day, Caroline—if you're not on top, you're wiped out. We're all old enough here to remember Blockbuster and Blackberry—where are those companies now?"
I pause and look around the room—no one answers.
"What about Netflix? Started out by mailing DVDs—look at where they are now. Constant change and willingness to embrace technology and use it to one's advantage, is key to thriving in any industry. You need people who're willing to work harder every day—not mom and pop type people who clock in 9 to 5 and take hour long lunches. One of Netflix's policies is that they only keep star employees who excel at what they're doing—the ones who work adequately are let go with a decent severance package. The backend office is deadweight—cut it off, or let it drag you down."
I allow that to sink in—grinning to myself. I know I have everyone rapt, including the tenacious Ms. Scott. Businesses don't want to be Blockbuster or Blackberry—they want to be Netflix.
"Moving on," I say, going to the next slide. "These are the exact numbers. I know it's not going to be easy to digest, but based on our calculations, your staff numbers will decrease by 70%."
I hear a loud screech as Caroline's chair drags across the floor when she stands abruptly—a clear indication that she's heard enough. Smiling faintly, I hold my ground and stare back.
"70%...that's a large proportion of our task force, Ms. Williams. Give us some time to discuss this internally. We'll get back to you by the end of the week."
"Of course," I pretend to acquiesce. I know she's trying to negotiate—but our rules are quite stringent on that.
No negotiations.
Still—I keep my mouth shut—contradicting her now would be of no use to me. She'd come around…eventually. Dobson has nowhere else to go.
I shake hands with the board members as they leave the conference room. When the last person leaves, I turn out the lights, and reach for my handbag…
…and that's when I feel it…
Heat…
…slow, prickly heat…
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I feel a hum of energy vibrate against my skin…and slide down my figure, lingering for just a few moments.
"Hello?" I call out—wondering if one of the Dobson team stayed behind to address an issue. "Anyone there?"
…and that's when I hear his voice…
"Hello Sa-rah."
Heat…
I shiver, even though the temperature rises a few degrees—my breathing quickens. His voice is a paradox—sharp and smooth. Hard and soft. Intense, yet mocking.
Fuck.
This is bad, Williams…really bad.
A dark chuckle reverberates around the room as I turn to see the Goblin King sitting at the other end. One long, booted leg propped up on the table. Head tilted back, resting on a gloved fist. Wisps of silvery gold strands sit atop his head like an angelic halo…but the cruel amusement in his strange eyes makes him look anything but angelic.
I open my mouth to say something, but my voice dies in my throat.
A million questions run through my mind. Is it him? Really him? After all these years? What the fuck could he want? I hadn't accidently wished Caroline Scott away—had I?
He smiles slowly, his feral teeth in full display as he drinks in my shock. There's a mocking lilt to his tone when he speaks. "That was a…riveting performance."
"Thank you for noticing," I reply—grateful that my voice comes out strong.
He inclines his kingly head ever so slightly. "I aim to please."
Clutching my bag, I take a step back—his smile makes me wary. It's those damned predatory teeth.
"If that's all…" I say, turning around. Trembling slightly, I force one foot in front of the other.
Get out—get out—get out.
…turn back before it's too late…
He laughs coldly—the menacing sound makes me stop in my tracks.
"You leave without saying hello…how cruel, precious thing."
Whirling around, I give him a hard look. "What—" I stop. That's not what I want to ask. "How—" I stop again. "Why are you even here?" I ask, finally saying my right words.
"Why am I even here…" he repeats, a sing-song quality to his deep voice "…because I wanted to see you."
My mouth falls open—hadn't expected that. "Why? Have a business that needs to be transformed?"
He laughs again—more amused and less threatening this time. My skin tingles in anticipation—I have no idea of what.
"In a manner of speaking," he replies with detached amusement, voice as smooth as velvet. "I would very much like the option of simply letting go of half my castle staff…and all of the Goblin City. But alas…some things aren't possible."
"Right. Good to know," I say with fake cheer, backing away slowly. "Now that this has been sufficiently awkward enough, I'm going to—"
He sits up straight—the booted leg remains propped on the table, but his eyes narrow. "We have some unfinished business, Sarah dearest," he lilts.
I have no idea how he manages to sound mocking yet menacing at the same time. The air around me crackles with energy and tension—his magic, perhaps.
I remain glued to the spot, my eyes widen in genuine surprise. "I don't know what you're talking about."
A slow, sharp toothed grin. "Perhaps you should come closer and demand an explanation."
Laughing nervously, I shake my head. "I'm not a frightened child anymore, Goblin King, you'll have to do better than—"
My voice dies when I hear murmured voices outside. Dammit. I'd forgotten that I was still at work. Although it's late in the night, I know there are plenty of people who're still working. I keep my eyes glued to the door until I hear the voices fade away.
Rich, throaty laughter. "Not a frightened child, you say..." His cold gaze runs up my body until he reaches my eyes. "How…disappointing."
Oh. Fuck him.
Willing myself not to tremble, I make my way to the end of the table and stand next to him. I'm close enough that he has to look up at me. Good.
"I take my work very seriously, Goblin King—what the fuck do you want?"
"What I want is irrelevant," he says, the derisive lilt back in his voice. "Sit down, why don't you?"
I glare at him—the bastard and his riddles.
"You haven't changed much, have you?" I say derisively, choosing to sit on the table instead of the chair next to him—that he'll have to look up at me, gives me a thrill. "How…disappointing."
Throwing his head back, he laughs. "You precious, precious thing," he mock-admonishes, like one would a child, "…I come here to give you so much, and you treat me so poorly. What a wicked…woman…you've become." He says the word woman like it means something else entirely—his gaze turns predatory.
Heat.
…and that's when I feel it—consuming lust—a sudden rush of desire so strong, I gasp at the impact. My body tingles with anticipation, hyperaware of his presence. A low, aching pulse settles between my legs.
I swallow before speaking—hoping my voice turns out normal. "I don't want anything from you."
A laconic brow. "So sure," he laments sardonically. "You may think you've changed, Sarah dearest, yet we remain the same. A generous king and an ungrateful mortal."
What a freaking asshole.
"Fuck you Jareth," I say, angry enough that I use his actual name, something I've never allowed myself to say aloud. "Stop fucking with me at work. You should leave—there's nothing I want from you."
There's pin drop silence for a few, excruciating seconds.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I can't afford to make some powerful, magic thing mad—what if he creates a scene at work?
Just as I'm about to apologize for my outburst, I hear a rustle of wind. His movements are too quick for my eyes to follow—in a fraction of a second, he disappears from his seated position and somehow stands, towering over me. His arms are on either side of my body, effectively caging me to the conference table.
Fuck, he's close. He's close enough now that I can feel him. Close enough that I can see his eerie eyes glitter ominously.
Still—I refuse to be intimidated. "What the fuck is your problem?!"
"I have many Sarah dearest," he replies—voice tinged with cruel amusement, as if he's enjoying toying with me. "One of which happens to be you." With that, he comes closer, settling himself between my knees.
The pulsing between my legs intensifies, rendering me speechless for a few moments.
Get a hold of yourself, you idiot—you're at work!
"What do you want from me?" My voice comes out shaky—my breaths come out in gasps as my heart thunders in my chest.
A malicious laugh. "Shall I show you, precious?"
That's all he says before his gloved hands push my legs apart, and he pulls me towards him. My skirt rides up my legs as he thrusts his hips against mine. I feel him hot and hard…ready, and I moan.
"Sarah," he murmurs into my ear, his lips hovering dangerously close to the sensitive skin of my neck. "The question isn't what I want from you, precious thing—it's all the things I want to do to you."
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Is this really happening? The embodiment of sex—the product of my nightmares and sexual fantasies—wants to do filthy things to me? Did I just win the lottery—or did I descend into hell?
A wolfish glint lights his eyes. "As I stated previously, I'm going to give you everything, precious…and you're going to take it all."
His voice is a mélange of lust and violence—the combination only heightens my desire. The images that run through my mind would make a porn star blush.
Snap out of it, Williams! You're at work—anyone can walk in.
"Stop," I say weakly. "I can't do this at work."
"Oh?" He taunts, one eyebrow raised in question. "You can't?" His hands run up my thighs, massaging the insides—the texture of his gloves tickles my sensitive skin. Pushing my legs further apart, his fingers inch up my legs.
My breath comes out in shallow pants. "This is what you want…to fuck me at my work place?" I ask in between breaths. It'd be true literally and figuratively.
His lips glide against the column of my neck, before returning to my ear. The deep rumble of his voice makes me shiver when he speaks. "I want to fuck you anywhere and everywhere precious thing. But not tonight. Lean back on your elbows."
My eyebrows shoot up. "I'm not doing this at work. Are you insane?"
He flashes his canines in a ruthless smile—eyes gleaming with dark promise. "Indeed, precious thing. Unfortunately for you, I am very, very insane." With that he strokes the heated flesh of my center through my panties.
"Jareth," I whimper, voice hazy with lust. "At least lock—" I stop speaking when he pushes my panties aside and enters me with a leather clad finger. "Fuck."
A dark chuckle. "Do you dare accept my…generosity…precious thing?" Another slim finger enters me and he fucks me slowly, as if he has all the time in the world—my clit pulses wildly begging to be touched. Which, of course, he doesn't.
This is seriously fucking wrong. The Goblin King is finger fucking me in a conference room at work.
"Please," I say, fighting back a moan, "lock the door."
A flash of cruelty flickers in his eyes. "Take off your skirt and panties." His fingers continue their slow torture as he speaks.
"Someone can walk in," I plead.
He leans into me. "Then it's best you hurry….if you dare. Do you dare, Sarah dearest?"
I don't know whether it's the challenge in his voice, or the blaze of lust he's ignited in my core—but I do as he says. My hands tremble as I pull down the flimsy fabric of my panties.
Still—I hold my panties in my hand and look at him defiantly. "I dare, Goblin King."
"I was hoping you would," he replies, taking the panties. Instead of throwing it away or keeping it, he brings the fabric close. A gloved finger, one that had been inside me only a few seconds ago, tugs at my lower lip. "How about now?"
Oh fuck. He wants me to-?
"Open your mouth for me, Sarah dearest…if you dare."
The cold humor in his voice should have made me push him away…but I don't. Instead, I do as he says—unable to tear my eyes away from his heated gaze.
He circles the sensitive skin around my entrance with his fingers, but takes his time before penetrating me. A low moan escapes my throat when he finally slips a finger inside, chuckling as I rock into his touch. I know I should lock the fucking door—but I am too far gone.
Consumed.
"Something you want?" He teases, voice rough with desire—pale eyes uncharacteristically dark with lust and something else.
I let out a muffled response—he takes pity on me and takes my panties out of my mouth so I can speak.
"Stop teasing me and fuck me, Jareth," I reply.
A short, cruel laugh. "Very forward of you. How…refreshing." His thumb presses the skin just above my clit and I gasp at the rough caress.
"I'm 34, Goblin King—not a child you can intimidate. If you're going to disrupt my life at my workplace, you better make it worth my while. Fuck me, if you dare." I throw his words back at him biting back moans as his caresses become rougher with every word I speak. But that only makes me hotter.
"No."
Wait, what? No?
He holds my gaze for the longest time. His lips twist cruelly when I flinch as he pinches my throbbing clit. "I shall not fuck you tonight, precious." With those words, he shoves my panties back in my mouth and holds my legs apart forcefully—his movements far from gentle.
He kneels down, his eyes never leaving mine as he scorches me with his gaze. "How you beg me with your cruel eyes, Sarah dearest….it drives me to madness."
I try screaming out a muffled reply, but my eyes roll back when I feel his mouth on me. He pumps two fingers in and out in languid, measured strokes while his tongue encircles my clit.
Oh fuck.
He keeps his movements slow and steady as the pressure builds deep within me—he doesn't stop until he pushes me over the edge ruthlessly. Again…and again…and again…until the boundaries of pain and pleasure blur…until tears burn my eyes. Until I realize what's happening between us has more to do with humiliation than desire.
When he finally stops, my body is completely spent—I raise a shaky hand to ungag myself, but I find myself clothed, panties intact, in a flash of a second.
My face burns when I look at him—the bastard seems calm and collected, as if the experience did nothing for him.
Swallowing a shaky breath, I step off the table. "I suppose that was revenge."
"In a manner of speaking," he replies with cool detachment.
I grit my teeth. "Get out."
A malicious laugh. "Come now, precious thing. That's no way to speak to someone who spent so much time and effort pleasuring you."
"Fuck you." Terrible come back, but in my defense, I'm too angry to come up with a better one.
In a matter of seconds, his demeanor shifts from coldly malicious to predatory. His dual eyes gleam with promise. "Patience, precious thing."
That's all he says before disappearing into thin air—leaving me alone in the darkened conference room.
A Spa Day Meant for Plotting
"This is what I get for believing you," I complain to my mother—we're at a super high end spa—one she lives in while she's in NY. She'd gotten me here under the lieu of an 'emergency.' Should have known it wasn't.
"Relax, Sarah dear," Mimi says—the foils on her head making her look ridiculous. She'd gone white early on in her life, and hadn't really believed in coloring her hair. She's really into the natural look—all the more hilarious that her daughter is the exact opposite.
"I feel ridiculous," I grumble—and I do. I have four attendants working on me simultaneously, two on my hands and two on my feet. I know people think spas are meant for relaxation, but I hate sitting down and waiting for someone to be done filing my nails. I find the wait excruciatingly boring.
"About Friday night—be on time, Sarah," Mimi says, oblivious to my irritation.
I groan—I'd forgotten about that. "I don't think that's a good idea," I mumble.
"Why not?" My mother asks, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Something's up—what is it?"
Rolling my eyes, I decide to respond with the truth. Partial truth, anyway. "I ran into someone from my past at work…and things got complicated."
My mother squeals like a 15-year-old who just got asked to prom. "You had sex didn't you? Please tell me you had hot monkey sex last night—that's why you're less uptight today!"
Oh my God. Somebody shoot me.
"Mother!"
Thankfully, it seems as if the spa attendants have been trained to appear oblivious to ongoing conversations between clients. They don't bat an eye and stick to filing my nails.
"Going by your mortification, the hot monkey sex took place at work," Mimi joins in.
"Mimi!"
My mother pays no attention to my glares. "So will you bring him to dinner tonight?"
This isn't happening!
"Mom, let it go," I say with a sigh. "He's not the type. I don't even know what he wants." I frown as contemplate Jareth's game. While he'd left me utterly spent, he'd also left me aching for him. The bastard knew it, too.
Fight back, Williams. Beat him at his own game.
"Sarah darling," my mother asks, a touch concerned. "Why are you grinning like a maniac?"
"I'm going to see how far I can push him," I say gleefully—completely oblivious to the fact that neither my grandmother nor my mother ask who I'm talking about.
Part two comping up. Already written, needs some editing. What is Jareth up to? What's Sarah up to?
AN: bear with me peeps—work is killing me. But I'm loving it.
Anyone have whimsical parents? My parents (who live in la la land) just went on a trip to London, Paris, and Edinburgh—and they were all 'come join us' and I was all 'dudes, my work is nuts right now' and they were all 'but one must balance life and work blah blah' and I was all 'reality, people, reality.'
I've been working so much, I focused a ton on Sarah's work place in this fic, haha. Something I find hilarious in most billionaire romances or NA fiction in general is the stupidity with which people describe 'businesses.' The billionaires have these multi-billion 'businesses' – no description on how they work b/c they're fucking insecure moronic women 24 hours a day – and they're all 'ruthless businessmen' but also 'sooooooo sympathetic' that they employ some mom and pop type people who would be totally useless in any industry.
It's like that one scene in Pretty Woman where Richard Gere's character acquires another company, but he works with the old guy and fires no one and is all goody goody because the hooker with a heart of gold made him a better man. What a joke. That scene is even less believable than the shopping spree scene. [But I still love that movie, go figure].
Also, Sarah's mother—I loved turning her into this wild, whimsical actress, while Sarah remains staunchly practical. Imagine someone working at McKinsey's with a Hollywood parent? It'd be two worlds colliding.
The mani/pedis bit—haha that's my own take on manicures and pedicures. I get them once or twice every month and it drives me crazy sitting in that chair. I'm all 'I'll pay you extra if you'll just get this over with as quickly as possible.' Do you guys like mani/pedis?
