Breach of Contract: Kavanagh Family Romance

By Elizabeth Miller

Bonafide bombshell Maisie Walker loves sex. The problem is she's never had it—not with a real live person anyway. Her vibrator, Vinnie, and pornbud.com keep Maisie's nights busy, but she's itching to lose her V-card—with her boss, Jayce Kavanagh.

 

As managing partner of the hottest legal firm in New York City, Jayce Kavanagh likes to win—in court and in the bedroom. With his mind set on legal perfection, he doesn't have time for the killer sway of his assistant's assets or her sinful mouth.

 

One late night in the office changes everything.

 

Spanking your associate after-hours is not ideal, but with proper boundaries, Jayce makes it happen. Enter in Exhibit A—the contract. General terms and conditions are set in place, satisfaction is guaranteed, and oral persuasion commences.

 

As they test their limits in and out of the office, feelings surface and amendments are made. But just when an extension is proposed, Jayce strays outside of the contracted lines and Maisie must decide if their flourishing relationship can survive a breach of contract.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elizabeth Miller
• Release date: Jan 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393011347

Elizabeth Miller

Spinning and Weaving’s Contributing Editor, Elizabeth Miller, is a Chicago feminist activist who runs the Chicago Feminist Salon and co-organized the Women in Media Conference, a radical feminist conference held in Chicago in 2018. In recent years, she worked on the successful campaigns to get the U.S. Equal Rights Amendment ratified in Illinois and to enact Illinois House Bill 40, which ensured that abortion will remain legal in Illinois even if the U.S. Supreme Court overturns Roe v. Wade. Among other projects, she is currently working with the U.S. radical feminist organization Feminists in Struggle to lobby Congress to pass legislation protecting women’s sex-based rights and the rights of lesbian, gay, bisexual, and gender non-conforming people, organizing two other radical feminist conferences in the United States, and running several large radical feminist social media pages and groups.

Book preview

BREACH of CONTRACT

––––––––

A Kavanagh Family Romance

––––––––

Elizabeth Miller

BREACH of CONTRACT

––––––––

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

––––––––

Text copyright 2020 by Elizabeth Miller

––––––––

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized additions.

Bona fide bombshell Maisie Walker loves sex. The problem is she’s never had it—not with a real live person anyway. Her vibrator, Vinnie, and pornbud.com keep Maisie’s nights busy, but she’s itching to lose her V-card—with her boss, Jayce Kavanagh.

––––––––

Managing partner of the hottest legal firm in New York City, Jayce Kavanagh likes to win—in court and in the bedroom. With his mind set on legal perfection, he doesn’t have time for the killer sway of his assistant’s assets or her sinful mouth.

––––––––

One late night in the office changes everything.

––––––––

Spanking your associate after-hours is not ideal, but with proper boundaries, Jayce makes it happen. Enter in Exhibit A—the contract. General terms and conditions are set in place, satisfaction is guaranteed, and oral persuasion commences.

––––––––

As they test their limits in and out of the office, feelings surface and amendments are made. But just when an extension is proposed, Jayce strays outside of the contracted lines and Maisie must decide if their flourishing relationship can survive a breach of contract.

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

Note from the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

Also by Elizabeth Miller

About Elizabeth Miller

Note from the Author

––––––––

A lot of thought and care went into the creation of this story. Into the creation of Maisie and shaping her personality—the confidence, the self-doubt, and ultimately her triumph. I’ve spent the majority of my life in the ‘plus-size’ section, and during my formative years faced the taunts and jeers that form a girl’s mind & heart—the kind of ridicule that changes life forever. Breach of Contract is my love letter to every individual who has ever felt that they’re not good enough. I promise – you are. A big thank you to Shawn Mendes whose music inspired each chapter. And so much gratitude to the beautiful, effervescent Ashley Graham who is my inspiration for Maisie.  Xoxo-EM

Click here to sign up for my newsletter and receive a free book! Along with access to bonus content, info on new releases and so much more!

Chapter One

––––––––

Imagination 3:38

––––––––

Maisie

––––––––

JAYCE KAVANAGH. HE’S perfection in a four-thousand-dollar three-piece suit. Stretched across the broad width of his shoulders, the finest black wool hugs his loaded biceps as he reaches for the contract that is passed from person to person until he holds it steady. Days of my life went into the preparation of this brief. Evenings, weekends, nights, all spent gathering legal jargon for his thirty-second review.

And the flick of his eyes in my direction makes every hour worth it.

Fuck.

Me.

God, if only I had a chance. I’d ride him reverse-cowgirl and back again into a face-off so I could stare into those molten lava, piercing hazel eyes that disintegrate my panties.

Three weeks. I’ve tortured myself for twenty-one days and I’ve yet to utter a word to the man of my dreams. Yet as much as I long for attention from the managing partner of Drake, Otter and Kavanagh, I fear it at the same time. Me. Maisie Walker. The girl whose hips are bigger than her vocabulary—so says my debutant mother.

Relegated to legal assistant because I couldn’t quite make the grade for Harvard Law, I’ve always fallen into the just-not-good-enough category. I’m not fooling myself for one of the seconds I spend slaving away on information that’s passed on to the brightest legal team in Manhattan—no way, no how will Jayce Kavanagh ever want to try doggie-style with me.

That’s what a good imagination is for. And by golly goodness, I’ve got a colorful mind. It’s active right now.

Heat crawls up my chest as I envision him lowering me onto the conference room table—where for once in my life, amongst one hundred square feet of mahogany, I’d appear small. His dark hair clipped close at the sides, the longer strands on top pushed back with precision, would fall loose to his forehead. Ms. Walker, I can almost hear him whisper in his grated gravelly tone. Ms. Walker, I’m going to eat you and make you come, he’d say. My heart races as he spreads my legs, and I lose sight of his eyes when he dips his head between my thighs.

Ms. Walker!

Yes? A pathetic squeak erupts from my mouth. It’s elongated by the jab to my kidney from Deidre Johnston, one third of our three-person paralegal team, as she tries to drag my mind from fantasy to reality. But this right here? This moment is my nightmare.

Jayce Kavanagh. His chest rises with the heaving breath he’s used to call my attention to the work at hand. Not his hand pulling my lace boy-shorts aside. But his fingers as they squeeze said contract until the binder buckles because I was lost in Never Going to Happen land. He must be furious at my delay.

Rule one, taught to every associate on their first day: Don’t make Mr. Kavanagh wait.

Ever.

My mouth opens for the apology that’s ready to spring forward. Nothing comes. He stares at my lips, the top just a touch fuller than the bottom. This imperfection is shared every Sunday when my sister critiques why I’m the only twenty-four-year-old in her circle who isn’t dating or racing toward the altar. My hair is next, a subtle scrutiny that lasts a second. I can only imagine what he thinks. My pins and curls are more suitable for the Mad Men office than the posh home to his genius mind.

Still, I can’t form words. I’m struck dumb even as he drags his eyes to the front of my H&M sweater, too snug because plus-size wasn’t available in-store.

His gaze narrows into sharp slits and his nostrils flare. Then he glances at Deidre. You’ve overlooked section 5.571, article four, the Rome Convention. If I wanted half-assed, I would have given the assignment to my dog.

Carla hiccups on a laugh. The third and least likable member of our three-person team sits across the table, smirking.

Fix it. The husky vibrato in Mr. Kavanagh’s tone slices through me as I imagine his breath on my cheek. Bent over me from behind, he’d tug my hair and whisper the dirtiest words in my ear. I want the completed copy before end-of-day, or you can clear your desk on the way out.

Yes, sir, Deidre mumbles.

Twenty pairs of eyes watch our tongue-lashing, but I’m drawn to just one. And I smile. The left corner of my mouth pulls up because, damn, the tight clench of his jaw is a turn-on. His controlled fury funneled into the possibility of his hand meeting my ass excites me.

I know, I know. I’m crazy: a deviant, sexual perv who spends too much time with my BOB, Vinnie, and not real human contact.

I should fear for my position. I like it. I’d like to keep it. I’m banking on a sparkling recommendation from the firm to pave my way into Columbia Law.

That straightens my spine and drags my thoughts out of the gutter and back to the binder Mr. Kavanagh slings on the table. It slides down, stopping when it meets my double Ds. I look at it. The cover page is type-faced in bold black: Blume v Spears.

I look at Mr. Kavanagh as he looks at it.

No. Them.

My double Ds.

Me.

Holy smokes. Give me the fire extinguisher to put out the intensity smoldering in those burning hazel eyes.

And they’re focused on me. Really focused on me. As if he can tell my insides are flowing lava, hot and explosive, and he wants to extinguish my flames. No one in the history of looking has ever looked at me like this. Ever.

My heart. Oh, my pitter-pattering heart. It stumbles on a beat. I sit taller, squaring my shoulders, which only serves to push my chest out. His gaze widens. And then narrows.

Even as my pulse races, my smirk falls. Shame washes through me. Not because the killer contract is a veritable arrow pointing at my rack, but because I failed him.

Rule two: Never produce anything but immaculate and detailed work.

Disappointment simmers in my stomach as our morning huddle lasts one more very uncomfortable minute, and I squirm in my seat. The dismissal comes as Mr. Kavanagh stands, towering above his staff. His eyes flick to mine. Black pupils swallow his irises as they drop to my breasts, and his nostrils flair before he storms from the room. Carla pops up, hot on his heels, and the apology hanging on the end of my tongue is wasted as his fine ass disappears out the door.

Uh. Keller, a first-year associate, clears his throat. You need help with the brief, Maisie? I have time this afternoon.

He’s cute if you like the boy next door. A light dusting of freckles covers his nose and cheekbones, and he has blue eyes. He’s sweet—the nicest guy in the office. And that’s probably why I only have friendly thoughts about him.

Thanks, but you have enough on your plate with the Lancaster case. Besides, I’d feel better if I handled the revisions myself. Rain check on lunch?

Of course. Come get me if you need anything.

As we stand and follow the remaining group out of the room, Dee sighs. What was that about?

Who? Keller?

She rolls her eyes. No, stupid. The boss.

I shrug. Did you expect a different reaction to our epic fail?

One where Mr. Kavanagh wasn’t eating you for dinner in front of the entire team? Honestly, yes.

Oh, that. I clutch the brief to my chest and swing my hips wider than necessary because, yeah. Mr. Kavanagh. Checking me out. I’d pump my fist but that seems unprofessional, and I am here for the firm’s recommendation. I need it to prove to my mother I’m good enough to make it into a top ten school.

That man should be illegal, I conclude. Have I told you he’s seriously hot?

Only every day since you started. And I warned you before your interview that the boss was hazardous to ovaries. One look at him and eggs drop left and right.

Quadruplets, I mumble.

What’s that?

I’m agreeing about eggs dropping. I’d have quadruplets if that man got near me.

Dee laughs as I bump her shoulder with my own. She’s a friend from the theater and, thanks to her referral, the reason I’m part of this team. She also advised me in advance that my panties would melt when I laid eyes on the boss. Truth—they smoldered into ashes the first second I spotted him.

For the record, she continues, you’re not the only one. I’d wager most of the population has the hots for him. But I can tell you, in the three years I’ve worked here he has never, not once, ever, lost his marbles over an associate.

Well, I can only hope it’s because I’m magically delicious. Which I am. But more likely he was distracted because of two things. One: I started three weeks ago, and I’ve never had a chance to actually speak to him. He was just putting a face to a name.

Memorizing yours for his spank bank, maybe.

Shut up. I push her forward while stifling my laugh. He has no idea I want to tie him up and ride him into the sunset. My stalking is done from afar and at night behind closed doors. That’s when my wicked, wicked dreams come true.

If you say so, but I think he has his own ideas.

He didn’t know I was alive until five minutes ago. Drake hired me, and Mr. Kavanagh doesn’t exactly hang out in the office slums.

We stop at the door of the twelve-by-twelve cubicle we call the Hen House. It’s where the office keeps its chicks—the girls who put in hours of research to support all of the legal claims processed by a growing number of lawyers. But the firm grew faster than they had space. We barely have enough room for desks and a nameplate announcing the three of us.

What’s the second reason Mr. Kavanagh went all voodoo on your ass?

Oh. I exhale my disappointment. It sucks I half-assed my first impression.

She groans. This debacle is my fault. I got distracted. The baby’s been sick, and Mason? After falling into her chair, she leans back and looks at me with tears in her eyes. He’s suing for custody.

Oh, honey. I drop down next to her and take her hand. He’s a lying douche-canoe. No judge in his right mind will give him your baby. And don’t worry about work. I’ve got the revisions, no problem.

She shakes her head. You’ve already researched most of the content. The one section I was responsible for is a disaster. I never should have missed the Rome Convention. It was an obvious resource.

I smile, hoping it’ll reassure her I’m not mad. She’s got too much going on at home with an infant and a cheating bastard of a husband who apparently thinks he should raise their ten-month-old. What an asshole. The bags under her eyes are a testament to how much sleep she’s not getting. Dee needs this job and the health insurance that goes with it to show the judge she’s financially able to care for her son.

I’m so sorry, she whispers as her gaze glasses over.

No, none of that. I fan her face with the killer contract to stem the tears. I’ll dive into it now and finish before I leave. You can have the Whimbley account for Otter. It’s a piece-of-cake assignment. The baby will have you home by five.

Mais, you’d have to double-check all of our research. You’ll be here all night.

No worries. Vinnie will be awake when I get home. I wink and stand before stepping to my desk to get started. He’s an electrifying boyfriend who doesn’t give me a hard time about long hours at the office. He just stays hard.

Dee’s grin is frail, but she sits taller and takes a deep breath. You’re the best.

Tell that to my mother. She’s still seething because I turned down Willy Wonka.

She did spend weeks setting the two of you up. Damn, girl, you could have been the heiress to the largest chocolate factory in the world. Think of all the double dark bars you forfeited.

I scoff. Think of the size of my ass. It thanks me every day for my kind declination to Jeremy Cocoa’s offer of a second date. Besides, he was sooooo boring. Not to mention balding and exactly the kind of man I don’t want fumbling around my panties. You know. I tap my fingers along the wood grain of my desk. I need intrigue. Excitement. A big penis.

Dee tilts her head. Good idea. Prioritize getting your hands on a real live dick, and not the kind you see on TV.

I do happen to love me some pornbud.com. But this whole virgin thing? Hollywood is about to make a sad dramedy about me. The twenty-four-year-old virgin played by Ashley Graham.

You are her twin from another mother.

I nod my agreement. Except no one would believe Ashley is a virgin, because, I mean, look at her.

I’m looking.

She’s hot, and sexy, and that smile. She’s the shiznit. But me, the Ashley Graham wanna-be, has never had penile penetration.

Tell me again why that’s true?

My standards are high.

It’s not that I don’t want sex. I do. Really, I do. I have wanted it. For a long time. But I’ve also set my sights on a man who packs more than swagger. One who can get the job done with confidence and find my G-spot on the first try.

What I don’t want is disappointment, and my first few attempts were more bumbling than satisfying. Granted, I was in high school and then college, and the sex sessions were with boys, not men. When the foreplay was ho-hum, I gave up. Then I met Vinnie, a seven-speed magic wand with ultra-vibrations. And I mean ultra. Who needs a guy when I have James Deen and multiple orgasms?

I was self-sufficient until I met Mr. Kavanagh. What if he’s the one? The one to get the job done right? But sexing up my boss and getting my recommendation letter at the same time is probably not the best idea I’ve had. Still, there has to be a way.

Your standards are impossible, Dee mumbles while gathering files from her drawer.

Not impossible, just specific.

Mr. Kavanagh specific?

Yes. I think he’s exactly right. Exactly what I’ve dreamed of. Now, I need to separate my employment from wanting his body. They’re two distinct issues. Tell me this is possible.

Office sexcapades always end in disaster. Remember that.

Good point. Let me make note of it. And I do, on a yellow sticky in my drawer that reads:

Reminder #1: Do NOT give your V-card to the boss.

––––––––

WELL AFTER MY PB&J on white is finished, Carla pops into the Hen House and stands by her desk until Dee and I look up. Gorgeous day isn’t it, ladies? she says, flushed and breathy as if she ran down the hall.

I glower when her smirk is lost behind her computer. She’s stunning. Dark hair brightens her turquoise eyes, but it’s her mocha skin that sets them off and marks her as more beautiful than any other woman I know.

You girls need to finish that brief and it better be perfect. Mr. Kavanagh only loosened up when I reminded him of our dinner plans at seven. She peeks around her monitor, still smiling. The Clocktower—it must have taken him a month to get a reservation. Or he pulled some strings because it’s my favorite.

The pink tint to her cheeks burns jealousy into mine. Thinking about the two of them together, in or out of the office, sends a sharp jab to my stomach.

I ignore the ache and focus on reminder #1: He’s my boss. And he’s also ten-thousand degrees out of my league. Ugh. I hate Carla. Not true, I don’t really hate Carla. I hate that she has the kind of access to Mr. Kavanagh I’d like to have. Dinner, drinks—the bedroom.

As Dee’s nails tap against her keyboard, my mind strays to the man I’d like to get my hands on. The same man I’d like to impress with my intellectual prowess. In the few weeks I’ve been with the firm, I’ve worked my butt off to prove myself worthy of this position. Now, I’ve stumbled at the goal line when the stakes are higher than ever. The biggest case in firm history is no easy win.

Marjorie Blume, a wildly popular Sunday-morning televangelist, filed suit against MoMo Penny, or, as his mother knows him, Milton Maurice Spears. The most controversial hip-hop artist of all time tested the limits of artistic autonomy, and she’s testing every legal precedent on freedom of speech. There is no room for error and yet I erred big time.

Trapped between the contract, Carla, and incessant sexual fantasies about my boss, I can’t concentrate. I close my eyes and take a quick breath. Work, I must focus on work, and to do that I need to jot down my priorities. Easy-peasy.

––––––––

Don’t think about Mr. Kavanagh in a suit. Or how his slacks dip and lick every solid inch of his thick thighs and the oh-so-noticeable bulge tucked in between.

Whew, good start. I can’t think about that bulge.

––––––––

Do concentrate on a powerhouse recommendation for law school. Excellent work will pay off. Research, research, research.

Definitely, number two. The key to success is diligence.

––––––––

Don’t accidentally on purpose corner Mr. Kavanagh in the break room, library, or any space where there may be opportunity to lick his neck. Bite . . .

Oh, for the love of Moses. I toss my pen aside and tuck this ridiculous note in my drawer. Without a word to Dee, I push away from my desk and head for the library. The smell of leather and aging paper had better be enough of a distraction to get my head out of the gutter.

Lord only knows where my face will plant if it’s not.

Chapter Two

––––––––

Why 3:58

––––––––

Jayce

––––––––

EVERYTHING OKAY, SIR? Keller leans over to whisper behind his closed fist.

Fine, I snarl through my teeth. I’m fucking fine. I have not thought of Maisie Walker’s luscious ass as it rocks from side to side when she walks. Not once have I envisioned the exaggerated sway of those succulent, round, I’m-going-to-spank-your-ass hips. My focus has not been lost on a play-by-play of her full lips wrapped around my dick as I pump into her hot, wet mouth until I lose my load down her throat.

Fuck.

Me.

Goddamn that woman and her tits squeezed into a too-tight pink sweater. I’m so screwed.

I slam my hand on the table hard enough to draw Lancaster away from his assistant and their sidebar discussion.

Keller clears his throat and stands, tucking his tie neatly under his jacket. Gentlemen, thank you for coming. Lisa will schedule our next appointment on the way out. He motions them to the door. We’ll be in touch.

Losing my mind during a hard-fought for meeting to represent Brent Lancaster in a multimillion-dollar copyright infringement suit is not like me. The loss of control is unsettling and sits rancid in my stomach. Yet I manage to make it to my feet, grumbling my thanks before they exit.

My gaze falls to the conference room table. This morning, my hand clutched a contract Ms. Walker was charged with completing. I should have been livid at her failure to produce a comprehensive assignment, but instead my dick tested the seam of my hand-tailored slacks. I wanted her then. Even as I seethed with frustration, her flashy smile and bright blue eyes doused my heart with an intensity I haven’t felt since Olivia Bertrand. Thinking of my onetime fiancée and the dentist she ran off with should have been enough to stamp down my need. A goddamn dentist.

But somehow, the flawless ivory landscape of my legal assistant’s skin erases the void in my chest. For the first time in ten years, my pulse races when I just think of a woman—when I think of her.

Maisie Walker.

I’d like to bend her over this table and bite that peach of an ass until it blossoms pink under my teeth and palm. Her whispered sir would grow louder with each crack of my hand. She’d beg me to let her come. Sir, please, she’d say, and I wouldn’t let up. Not until her scream bounced off the walls and saw me balls-deep in her pussy.

Sir! A flushed Keller stares at me with wide eyes, raking his fingers through his too-long hair. Can I get you something?

Fuck. I heave out a sigh and let my sexual frustration boil up and out in a bark. Get it cut. You look like a goddamned mutt at the pound. And buy a new suit while you’re at it.

He appears more relieved than offended as I push past him, mumbling about the homeless man on the corner who dresses nicer than this little shit. Take care of my next appointment. I’ll be in my office.

I stalk into my refuge and allow myself five minutes to pace. In front of the picture-perfect view of the Manhattan skyline, I walk and strip off my jacket, then my tie. Each step fuels my anger. I can’t want anything to do with a legal assistant in my firm. My subordinate. I’ve worked too hard to build this empire. I won’t see it crumble around me because I can’t stay away from a pinup goddess who happens to be under me—works on me—for my cock.

Jesus H. Christ. I stop, grip my neck and hang my head while I clarify the facts.

She works for me—my employee.

A member of my team.

An associate . . . whose low, breathy voice gets me hard.

I groan and then start walking—again. Back and forth until a knock on the door interrupts what’s become a 5K in front of my desk.

Jayce. Carla Coolidge slides into my office as if it’s a runway she’s walked a million times before. I hope you don’t mind. Lisa let me in.

Lisa. I need to have a conversation with her about this, and the tuna salad on rye I had for lunch. Neither is satisfying. My fists clench by my thighs. The sickly-sweet burst of Carla’s jasmine-scented perfume invades my space, just as she does.

I’ve got reservations at The Clocktower. Why don’t we take a few hours to talk about your preferred position for me? She stops inches away and smirks. With the firm, of course.

Her hand meets my arm. I glance at her fingers and then drag my gaze over her chest and to her face. Tall, lithe, and a smile that could seduce the Pope. Her cool come-on should make my dick hard, but it deflates because her hair is straight, and her ass fits the line of her skirt rather than flaring into a decadent curve.

Couple that with the fact she fucked my brother and then fucked him over, and I have little patience for her antics.

I step away, unbuttoning and then rolling my sleeve as I do. Her eyes track the movement, lids lowering as the cuff settles over one elbow, then the next.

Interested in comparing Kavanagh brothers, Ms. Coolidge?

She wets her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue and glances up. The better brother, she says as she saunters forward, her shoulder brushing my arm. As she sinks in the chair sitting opposite my desk, her skirt slides up. Crossing her legs exposes her taut thigh and she does nothing