What Love Breeds

Chapter 14

When Webber arrives and takes Amelia's place, Amelia and Tommy shuffle down the hall, grim expressions between them. They're not stopped, they're not bothered, as the hall remains unusually quiet when faced with the dark aura ghosting after the both of them. They make their way up to Jason's level, to his wing, to his receptionist.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Shaw is in a meeting," Hillary smiles.

"Get him on the line." Tommy bears down on her.

Hillary opens her mouth to argue. She tries to muster enough of herself to tell him no. She really, really tries.

But her manicured fingers press three digits, and her phone is to her ear. "Mr. Shaw, I'm so sorry to disturb you – yes, I know, I know, I'm sorry, but mister, um, Mr. Tommy Tighe is here to speak with you. Okay. Yes, Mr. Shaw, I'll let him know."

Her face is stricken as she forces herself back to Tommy. "I'm sorry, but he's been very specific. Mr. Shaw is not to be disturbed right now. You can leave a - a message, and he'll get back to you by the end of the day."

Tommy huffs, and before Hillary can babble anything else, he pushes past her desk and swings the heavy, wooden door open for Amelia. She shuffles through and squawks, Tommy hustling in behind her.

He hisses, "For the love of Christ."

Jason is pinned to his desk, his tongue dragging across the wood. A heavy thermos is on its side just next to his office phone as it dangles from its spiral cord and bounces against the desk's solid front, the remnants of white cream dripping from the thermos's metal rim and dotting the dark surface. He moans gutturally. His right arm is jack-hammering back and forth, undoubtedly pumping his cock at breakneck speeds.

He doesn't here the massive door's creak, or its soft close. He doesn't register Tommy and Amelia's disgust, their guilt, their second-hand shame. He's completely consumed by milk, and lapping up as much of it as possible.

It's only when he jerks his head back and grunts, unloading all over his carpet, that he catches Tommy and Amelia in their utter horror.

He freezes, but has the decency to look like he's been caught. His hands disappear as he stuffs himself back into his pants and shuffles to his feet, a dark patch blooming where the tip of his cock meets his slacks.

"Here," Tommy says, clearing his throat. "You might need this."

He tosses the belt to the ground.

Jason bends for it, grimacing, and slots it into place with a grumbled, "Thanks."

He's back in his chair, hazy and unraveling, when Amelia marches to his side and smacks him upside the head.

"What the fuck?" he cries.

"What do you fucking think?" Amelia asks. "You idiot, you absolute, complete moron. I can't believe you. Is this what you've been doing all day for the last four months? Jerking off in your big stupid office, milking our cow for your own sick kicks?"

Tommy lets out a frustrated breath, like steam from the kettle before it boils. He should be just as angry as Amelia is, and he is, somewhere, but in the moment he's sinking.

"What are you talking about?" Jason demands. "I don't know what you mean."

Amelia smacks the back of his head in a flurry of hands, over and over. Jason raises his arms and tries to huddle into himself, but Amelia's still going. "Liar! You know what I'm talking about! Is this all a fucking game to you?!"

"No! Okay, okay! Amelia, stop!"

"Amelia," Tommy says.

She hits him one last time, hardest of all, and her hands fall limply to her side. She gives a short, frustrated scream, and whacks the thermos clear across the room. Jason watches it go with desperate eyes, and Tommy can see the internal struggle. To get up and find that last drop, or to hold onto whatever dignity he has left. Whatever sanity might remain.