Maliciously Obedient (BBW Erotic Romance) (8 page)

Matt Jones had taken what was supposed to be a simple presentation today at two o’clock and turned it into a very,
very
complicated issue. In Lydia’s world, everything was typically quite simple. She knew what she wanted, she worked hard, she put her nose to the grindstone and she just did what she needed to do. She didn’t have Ivy League degrees, she didn’t have well-connected parents, she wasn’t some great beauty. In fact, her weight was a disadvantage.

She wasn’t quite fat and she
definitely
wasn’t close to thin. Stuck in between what people would call zaftig or voluptuous, she wore a medium/large at J. Jill and had a body type that could fit in sizes anywhere from a twelve to a sixteen (
OK, eighteen
). She didn’t have enormous breasts; they were quite fine and proportionate to her rib cage and to her nipped-in waist. But she had an hourglass figure that was the epitome of a pear with a “great big booty” as Krysta called it, and hips that screamed
peasant
.

Her mother had always said, “You’ve got hips for birthing, so you need to have four children or more.”

Lydia had looked at her in horror and said, “Four children! Who's crazy enough to have four children?”

The mother of six had replied,“I guess I’m fifty percent crazier than that.”

For all of her flaws, for all of her insecurities that popped up here and there about her body, she really was firmly centered within herself. At peace with her issues, at peace with her bountiful self, and through her studies, research, and analysis she had come to distinguish between what society said about a woman’s body and what a woman herself could believe. With deep, conscious effort Lydia had worked to carve out a space within that no one else could touch. That no one else could judge. That no one else could frame for her and impose on her and make her feel bad about anything.

Smoothing that blouse against the pooch of skin between her hips, she squared her shoulders, tightened her bra straps, and finger-combed her long, brown silky hair, observing the almond-shaped eyes that stared back at her, the slight pink on her cheekbones, the well-placed lipstick that made her face bright.

All of it said
Lydia
. And that was good enough.

As he watched Lydia set up her Powerpoint, checking the screen to make sure that the controllers all worked, lining up her notes, he realized just how nervous she was underneath it all. He was rooting for her, both as Matt Jones and as Michael Bournham because, although she had been touchy the other day when she came to him with this project and he hadn’t heard the entire story, he was pretty sure that whatever she was about to dump on his and Dave’s heads right now was smart, well thought out, carefully planned, and ready to be executed in a way that would help the bottom line here at the company.

It didn't hurt that she was so fine to watch, her shapely body bending and twisting, silk and wool and cloth clinging to the parts he loved most, her movements professional, skin so soft and approachable he could barely stand it, a hunger welling up in him that he needed to tame. Dating “toothpicks with boobs” – Jeremy's catch phrase – had become too much of a trend for him. The lush appeal of her body, with a bright mind and sharp tongue to match, was making it harder to control his runaway lust.

And that was something no Botoxed, surgically-enhanced, cantaloupes-under-chest-skinned women had provoked in him in a very long time.

If ever.

She looked at him as if he were a nemesis, sidelong glances from those topaz-speckled eyes, looks he wished were driven by a sultrier appeal and not by worry or competition. Each look came not with a guarded focus, but with a righteous anger, a chip on her shoulder the size, he imagined, of her student loan debt. The size of all the guys before him who had come and gone and taken the jobs that she wanted. Or of the grad school colleagues who had snatched up classes, plum assignments as research assistants, and well – he knew the drill. He had a sister. He had seen her struggle and knew that as much as he wanted to think that gender politics weren’t an issue in the workplace the past few days here – my God, had it really been a week? – had shown him just how out of touch he had become.

Being at the top of the building, literally and metaphorically, with the executive suite flying high over the city meant that he had his fingers in nothing that resembled average American daily life. He was driven wherever he needed to go. He ate food prepared by other people and generally of the finest quality. He wore bespoke suits tailored specifically to his body, to his tastes, to his needs. Women molded themselves to what they thought
he
wanted in an effort to please him, to snag him, to carry bragging rights. Mike wasn’t sure anymore. Real love hadn’t entered into the picture in years. He couldn't quite count his friend Jeremy's steadfast presence.

Not quite.

Daily life was all a churn. He met with other CEOs, with high-level investors, with fund managers and with federal regulators in an endless spiral of more of the same, all with the singular goal of generating more money for someone.

Preferably that someone was him.

Here sat – no, stood – no, sat – Lydia the fruitfly, hyped up on the meth of anxiety and possibility. The metaphor was apt; from his point of view she looked so nervous, impossibly anxious. Her hair down and flowing, her makeup perfectly applied, her face fresh and alert and closed off, the stakes were so high in her world that she couldn’t bear to let one sliver of her authentic self escape.

In his world this was nothing. He viewed it as an exercise in understanding more about Dave, about how his upper middle managers handled daily life at work. Was workplace mobility really that constricted? Had Lydia been right, that there really was a gender issue? He didn’t know, but he was about to find out.

With cameras rolling. Jonah’s script be damned. He had actually looked through it before, briefly, when the email Jonah sent popped up. Mike had laughed, rolled his eyes, and snorted with disgust because Jonah had wanted him to “accidentally” spill a cup of coffee on Lydia’s front and then take a napkin and start to wipe it up.

Really? Not only was that one of the lamest – and oldest – tricks in the book, but it violated about seventeen sexual harassment policies, it humiliated her for the rest of the day with filthy clothes, and it was so tone deaf that it stretched Mike’s credulity. Were television tropes that well-worn?
Is that what the public wants?
he wondered.
Do they really want to see a woman debased by having coffee poured on her and then being patted down by a man who seems predatory? Was he feeding that by even participating in this show?

Lydia cleared her throat and he shook himself out of these deeper thoughts, realizing he hadn’t considered any of this in years, thoughts that connected to larger social concepts. Perhaps the strident feminist standing before him now, her knees practically knocking with nerves, had planted them there.

Dave looked bored. It unnerved her. As if he were just tolerating this as some sort of masturbatory exercise – in a way, though, that was true. As her eyes floated across Matt Jones’ face, trying very intently not to make eye contact, she realized that this was just bread and circus, Dave tolerating what she wanted to do. That’s
not
what she wanted.

The whole point of this was to prove herself. Resilient Lydia, the one who had been raised by Sandy and Pete, knew that this would be a success – but if it failed, she would just pick herself up, dust herself off, and move on to the next thing. That resilient self would be fine in the end.

She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, kept her head down and pretended to read her notes, but lowered her lids. The other part of her, the part that had broken so many rules that Pete and Sandy had instilled in her: like
family came first
, like
the family business was her future
, like
stay here and marry a Mainer –
that Lydia was the one perched on a precipice, a giant abyss rising up from the ground to suck her in.

And that Lydia needed this to work.

Apathetic Dave and attentive, friendly Matt were her audience. She had to make a choice. What kind of woman was she going to be? Was she going to be
resilient
Lydia or
fragile
Lydia?

Not even a question. She knew the answer already. She always did. She just let the insecurities creep in a little too much, right at the edge.

Resilient Lydia took one more deep breath, looked Dave right in the eye with a nice professional smile, held it for two seconds longer than was comfortable, and then did the same with Matt.

And began.

“Romance novels represent more than forty percent of all books sold in the United States,” she started, eliciting the first eyeroll from Dave. She knew there would be more, but continued. “In 2008, according to the Romance Writers of America, the largest romance writing organization in the United States, seventy five million people read at least one romance novel in 2008.”

“And all of them women,” Dave muttered. Matt frowned.

She kept going. “That’s not true Dave. Actually, nine percent of all readers are men.”

Matt chuckled. “Men secretly pining to read bodice rippers?” he asked. It was a friendly question, more a shared joke than a taunt. Not at all as closed off or derisive as Dave.

Lydia turned to him and smiled, a conspirator's grin, and told him, “No one knows exactly, but it seems that a lot of husbands grab their wives' romance novels and check them out. Although, there’s a whole other component of gay male readers reading romance novels that I’ll get into later.” She shot Dave a wink. Casting a sidelong look at Matt, Dave showed his first sign of emotion by cocking one eyebrow and making sure Matt knew he wasn't gay. Which he demonstrated by twirling one finger around his ear and pointing at Lydia, as if she'd been insinuating that.

Matt showed no emotion, instead ignoring Dave.

Thank you.

She forged on, undeterred. “The trend's on the rise and most of my statistics end in 2009, although the social media statistics are much more up to date. But, anywhere from twenty-four to twenty-nine percent of Americans regularly read at least one romance novel per year. And that trend is increasing.”

Matt leaned forward, his attention lasered in on her. Now she had him – she could tell, and it felt empowering, gaining his interest with her idea. Her vision. Hers and hers alone; she had carved out a niche for herself and damn if it wasn't finally being noticed.

Wait until she showed him where she could take them both. Umm...rather, the company's advertising division.
Oh, dear.
She could feel herself slipping, his face open and nurturing in a professional way. He
wanted
her to succeed; she could tell. It threw her off, because why should
he
want this? They were rivals, right?

Not really. He had the job already. She didn't. Was he patronizing her?

She didn’t think so, actually. There was something about the way that he was attuned, those bright green eyes taking inventory of her, of her words. The way that he leaned forward on his elbows, his forearms dotted with sandy hair, relaxed and composed all at once as if what she had to say really
mattered
. And she was glad.

Because it did.

“The distribution of people who read romance novels across the country is about what you’d expect. The majority, about fifty-three percent, are clustered in the midwest and the south. Although New Yorkers and Bostonians get their fill too. Older readers are spiking, too. In 2012, a survey done by Bowker Market Research shows that readers over the age of fifty are on the rise. The bulge of readers – ”

Dave snickered. Matt shot him a withering look, which carried more authority than it should have, leading Dave to glare back. She was watching a very real alpha match and knew who to lay odds on.

Her attention returned to Matt, as if he were the one she needed to woo.

Professionally, that is.