Floor Time (12 page)

Jack pitched and walked the perimeter of the room with his slick brochures, describing the latest and greatest mixed-use residential/commercial/retail development that he'd nearly completed on a long-neglected downtown Ann Arbor corner. He'd pause occasionally to touch one or another colleague on the shoulder or bring up some amusing antidote or memory. The female who had his attention would inevitably blush, or smack his hand in mock anger. 

By the end of his spiel, the room belonged to him, although Sara remained stock-still and had not risen to receive his hand on her shoulder. She looked across the table at Val, one of her closest friends. Jack's wiles had no effect on her whatsoever, as her tastes ran more toward fellow females, but she certainly admired him as a salesman and Sara was convinced that she knew what was going on between them. Val raised an eyebrow at her. Sara sensed the entire room -- including the new guy -- observing her, aware of the pornographic movie running through her head that was her Open House from three Sundays before.

With a final flourish and promises of opening party invites to come, Jack headed towards the door, declaring himself on a mission to visit all five Stewart office meetings that morning. He turned at the last minute and locked eyes with her, winked slowly, and his smile morphed into something more than the shit-eating grin of the consummate salesman.

She glared at him. Pam cleared her throat, trying to air the room of the fogginess his little performance had induced and moved on with the meeting, none of which Sara remembered. She struggled to manage her roiling emotions which lurched between elation at his attention, thrill at the fact that her colleagues knew he had singled her out, and sheer, unadulterated arousal, aware of a dampness under her skirt and a hitch in her breath.
Jesus Christ but he was walking testosterone
. And, he knew it, which pissed her off and turned her on in equal measure.

Keeping her emotional distance was becoming tougher with every day that passed. Matching his aloofness took everything she had. She wanted him, needed his voice, touch, lips -- and she'd even be willing to cede some of her tightly held control, if he asked again.

She rushed out of the meeting a few minutes early, feigning an emergency phone call, ignoring everyone, including the dark gaze of the new guy. Her closing at noon went well; no last minutes surprises or random craziness from either buyer or seller. 

She grabbed a salad and iced tea afterward on the way back to her office. The suffocating heat and humidity seemed more in keeping with a sultry Southern summer than the usually mild and easygoing Michigan climate. Settling at her desk, she returned a call from her most high-maintenance seller:

"Yes, Martha, I agree, but I can't stand at the door of every showing and demand that the buyer's agent leave a card. No, it's not professional but I can't account for the behavior of agents not with my company. Of course, I tell everyone who schedules to leave some sort of card so you know they were there. That's right, we did have a second showing now that you have lowered your price. I'll keep you posted. And please, remember to vacuum the cat hair every day and make sure the air freshener is working. Bye now." She stuck her tongue out at the phone before hanging up.

"Nice save, chick," Val declared over the top of her cubicle wall. "And you must fill me in on that incredibly hot moment you shared this morning with our fine company cocksman," Her grin widened.

Sara rolled her eyes, but knew her skin betrayed her by flushing red.

 "Oh, he was just messing with me because I wasn't drooling. Guy can't stand it when he thinks there's a female in the room not completely ready to fall on her knees."

"Hmmm, maybe," Val said, turning to go. "I've known Mr. Gordon a while and I sense something else -- anyway, I'm here to listen, when you want to talk."

By three that afternoon, the office buzzed with activity and Sara let work consume her. She talked with prospective clients, provided info for current ones, and was generally sufficiently distracted enough to forget that morning's drama.

As she wrapped up a comparative market analysis for a potential seller, her phone buzzed. Jack. She decided to let him sit for a while. Within five minutes, he had called again. When he called yet again a few minutes later, the phone nearly fell off her desk, buzzing its way across the top.

She grabbed it and hit redial, wondering what was so urgent, and realized the moment he picked up that the appraisal must have hit his desk.

 "What the
fuck
is your lender up to?"

Sara winced and held the phone away from her head.

"I haven't seen it yet. Let me pull it up." She searched through her email inbox for the incriminating file.

"Don't bother. I can assure it won't stand. It's a complete bullshit hack job. We gotta come up with a report to justify a re-do so get your sweet ass over here and help me." He hung up.

Sara sighed, but her body began to betray her when she realized she would be working alongside Jack today, even though he was spitting mad. A low appraisal was every realtor's nightmare and then some. Her buyers needed to borrow a large percentage of the purchase price from the bank. If the bank is told the house isn't worth it, they won't lend.

She punched in a text to him:
"I'll be there in about forty-five minutes."

"FINE"
he yelled via return text.
"I'm on floor until eight anyway."

She spent about fifteen minutes sprucing up before leaving her office, her brain half-misty with desire and half terrified at the thought of yet another obstacle in the road towards a successful closing of this particular transaction. The drive would have normally taken ten minutes but side street construction gave her an extra twenty minutes to ponder what the evening held.

Sara had done a little online research, claiming to herself it was just to figure out what it all meant. What she found had been a surprising insight into the psychology of people who, like herself, needed to be in control of pretty much all aspects of life, except one. And how much pleasure could be gained from releasing that very control to someone you trusted.

Trust Jack? Yeah, as if.

But she had, once, and it had provided her with the most incredible sexually charged moment of her life.

Sara squirmed in her seat, remembering how she'd reacted to the pictures and stories. Somehow, the home page of one club in Detroit stuck in her head with its lush colors and vivid yet classy descriptions of the services they offered. One photo in particular of a tall man with dark hair dressed in a suit standing over a woman on her knees with her hands bound behind her, blindfolded, had set her off. She'd had to haul out her trusty vibe to take the edge off after seeing that.

Was that what she wanted from him? To be "topped?" Dominated? Sara had never considered any kink as part of her psyche. But her scary visceral reactions to Jack from the beginning may have an explanation if some of the material she read about this sort of relationship was true. She shook her head. No, that was just crazy. A passing obsession. Jack might be an amazingly dynamic and successful man, but he didn't feel connected to her beyond wanting to mess around, surely. She had to put a stop to it before she fell any deeper.

She entered the original Stewart Realty office with its more traditional perimeter offices, and smiled at the receptionist.

"Hey Sara," the young girl chirped. "Jack's been waiting for you."

She headed towards the back, following the sound of his voice as he argued with someone on the phone. Locating him at the far corner, in one of the few private rooms, Sara discovered him leaning back in his large chair a hand on his face. His voice didn't betray his body's frustration, as he smoothed over trouble.

She leaned in the doorway and observed him before he acknowledged her. The shockingly blue shirt was rumpled, eye-catching tie was off and hanging on the chair back. She found herself focused on his hands -- large, talented and the stuff of her dreams during the past few nights. She cleared her throat and he looked up at her. The moment sizzled. She gulped.

Work. She was here to work
.

His anger suffused the room. He ended the call, sat back, arms crossed. She remained in the door, keeping her face neutral.

"So, you read this piece of shit, I assume." He indicated the residential appraisal form that declared the value of the house he was selling. The same one he had stolen from her by sleeping with the woman who was selling it, she reminded herself. It stated a value of $220,000. Unfortunately, their contract stated a transfer price of $335,000 -- quite the discrepancy.

"Didn't you give the guy your comps?" Comparable sales figures determined the appraised value. Stewart's training demanded that they meet the appraiser at their listing and provide comps themselves, to ward off any laziness on the part of the appraisal company.

"No, Sara, I assumed these guys were professionals and could get that info on their own," His tight voice set her nerve endings on high alert. He leaned towards her, his amazing blue eyes bright. "Christ Almighty, he took the most useless sales nearby in spite of everything I gave him. Hell, I practically promised him three hookers and a hotel room." His voice trailed off and he ran his fingers through his hair. She curled her hands into fists against the urge to do the same thing to him. "Fuck. Okay, let's go through this thing and see if we can justify a do-over."

As they worked side-by-side for two hours, Sara's admiration grew as she watched him make calls and cajole honest info out of buyers' agents about various comparable sales. He'd even called homeowners about houses they had purchased from other owners. These "FIZBO's" or "For Sale By Owners," by-passed realtors and would not normally be accepted by appraisers because there was no record of the actual condition of the house in question.

She compiled the data into a ten-page report they would need to provide the lender in order to justify a second appraisal. So absorbed by her task, she had actually forgot the man working alongside her had brought her to repeated, shuddering orgasm not too long ago. She flinched when he touched her shoulder.

"Okay, Jack, I think we have a case." She pulled her hair up and kicked her shoes off under his desk. His extremely tidy and organized workspace gave her pause, and she acknowledged that they definitely did not have that in common. He reached out to touch the iPod in its docking station, filling the room with the sounds of The Foo Fighters.

Figures. He manages to remain hip even on his playlist.

Jack sighed deeply and stretched his arms over his head.

"I fucking hate all appraisers right now, you know?" He declared to the room. "I can't wait until this market reverses itself and they're back to begging us for whatever scraps of business we throw them."

He rubbed his neck. Her skin prickled when he focused back on her. In a heartbeat, he'd grabbed the arms of the chair she was sitting in and rolled her over so that they faced each other. She forced herself to remain calm. But damn if having him so near wasn't rattling every nerve ending she possessed.

"Sorry I went off, baby." He turned her chair around quickly before she could react, so that they sat like passengers on a bus. He rubbed her shoulders as her brain started its usual "resist Jack" mantra. She hated the game he had played with her this morning, hated his easy use of the word "baby" around her, and absolutely despised how much she wanted to hear it again.

She had to get this thing under control.

But maybe you shouldn't? Maybe he should have control.
New Sara crooned in her ear as her body relaxed under Jack's hands.
You read it yourself. Giving over control to another is the first step. Trusting him to take care of you.

She sighed. That was one thing she could never do. Not in a million years. She barely trusted her own brother and only because she'd had nearly thirty years to learn how to do so.

He leaned in closer to her, his breath on her neck, near her ear. She immediately wished there was no fabric barrier between her skin and his hands.

"You made this easier, no doubt. I think we can make it work." She knew he meant the appraisal but her chest constricted at the thought of making "this" work with him.

"Put those shoes back on." His low, firm voice made something in her give way. "I have been a walking hard on all day after seeing you this morning."

Sara's breath caught in her throat and her nipples contracted as she slipped her feet back into the expensive high leather heels. She tried not to think about the realtors still roaming around the office even though it was almost seven, when most managers and secretaries took off, locking up and leaving the offices available for whatever the workaholic salespeople might cook up.