You looked like you were ready to pitch a Series A to the kale salad, and honestly, I’ve never been more turned on.
7 min read·1,322 words·10 views
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From: Julianne Vane (j.vane@vanemedia.com)
Sent: Saturday, Oct 14, 6:12 AM
To: Leo Thorne (leo@thornecap.com)
Subject: Post-Mortem / Q3 Results
Leo,
I’m currently sitting in the 'Zen Den' at 6:00 AM, nursing a cup of what this retreat claims is herbal tea but tastes suspiciously like hot lawn clippings. My hamstrings are screaming, my pride is somewhere in a ditch near the trailhead, and I have a very specific bruise on my inner thigh that matches the shape of your thumb.
We need to discuss the ROI on last night. Because by my calculations, our brand strategy is currently a dumpster fire.
***
[iMessage Thread - Friday, 8:42 PM]
Julianne: If you say the word 'synergy' one more time during this dinner, I’m going to drown myself in the organic kombucha fountain.
Leo: It’s a fitness retreat, Jules. We’re supposed to be finding alignment. Why are you looking at me like you’re calculating my liquidation value?
Julianne: Because you’re wearing a Patagonia vest at a dinner table in 2023. You’re a walking stereotype. Also, you’re breathing too loudly. It’s distracting from my steamed broccoli.
Leo: My breathing is the only thing keeping this table alive. You’ve been vibrating with corporate rage since we checked in. Meet me at the fire pit in ten minutes. I have a flask of actual bourbon and zero interest in discussing 'holistic wellness.'
Julianne: I don't follow tech bros into the woods, Leo. It’s a safety risk.
Leo: You’ve lived in Hell’s Kitchen for a decade. I’m the least of your problems. Ten minutes. Don't be late. I know how much you hate being off-schedule.
***
From: Julianne Vane (j.vane@vanemedia.com)
Sent: Saturday, Oct 14, 6:14 AM
(Continued...)
You weren’t by the fire pit. You were behind the equipment shed, leaning against a pile of cedar logs like you were posing for a 'Disruptor of the Year' cover. The air up here is too thin, Leo. That’s my official excuse for why I didn’t turn around when you pulled that silver flask out.
You handed it to me, and the metal was cold, but your fingers brushed mine and it felt like a static shock I hadn't prepared for. You didn't say a word. You just watched me drink, your eyes tracing the line of my throat. I’ve sat across from you in boardrooms for three years, and I’ve never noticed how dark your eyes get when you aren't trying to out-negotiate me.
'You have dirt on your cheek,' you said. You didn't wait for me to wipe it. You did it yourself, your thumb dragging slow and heavy over my skin. You weren't cleaning anything. You were marking territory.
***
[iMessage Thread - Friday, 9:55 PM]
Leo: Your room or mine? The walls in the North Cabin are paper thin and I think the yoga instructor is currently meditating on the other side of my bed.
Julianne: This is a professional violation. I have a handbook on my nightstand.
Leo: I’ll read it to you while I take your leggings off. Room 402. The key is under the 'Live, Laugh, Love' rock because this place is a parody.
Julianne: If this ends up on LinkedIn as a 'lesson in networking,' I will kill you.
***
From: Julianne Vane (j.vane@vanemedia.com)
Sent: Saturday, Oct 14, 6:18 AM
(Continued...)
I didn’t knock. I just walked in, and you were already waiting, standing by that ridiculous floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the pines. You’d taken the vest off. Thank god. The black T-shirt you were wearing was tight enough that I could see the work you put into the gym—not for 'wellness,' but for the kind of raw, functional power that makes a woman forget her own zip code.
You didn't waste time with banter. You walked across the room, grabbed my waist, and hoisted me onto that heavy oak dresser. The wood was freezing against my bare thighs where my skirt had ridden up, but your hands were like branding irons. You kissed me like you were trying to settle a debt, hard and hungry, your tongue forcing my mouth open while your hands tangled in my hair, pulling my head back just enough to expose my neck.
'I’ve wanted to do that since the Q1 earnings call,' you muttered against my skin.
I reached for your belt, my fingers shaking just enough to be annoying. I hate losing composure. But when I got your pants open and my hand slid inside your boxers, finding you already hard and pulsing, I stopped caring about the optics. You were thick, smooth, and incredibly hot to the touch. I squeezed, a low, desperate sound catching in my throat as you groaned into the crook of my shoulder.
I pushed your shirt up, wanting to feel the friction. You were all muscle and heat, a stark contrast to the sterile, air-conditioned world we usually inhabit. You flipped me around, pressing my chest against the cool mirror of the dresser. I watched us in the glass—your dark hair messy, your face focused and feral as you pulled my lace thong aside.
You didn't use a condom right away. You rubbed the head of your cock against my wetness, teasing the opening of my vagina until I was arching my back, begging you to just get on with the merger. When you finally slid two fingers inside me instead, stretching me out, I nearly bit my lip through. You were relentless, your thumb finding my clit and circling it with a rhythmic, brutal precision that had me seeing stars against the dark mountain backdrop.
'Look at yourself, Jules,' you whispered, your breath hot on my ear. 'Look how much you want this.'
I looked. I looked at my own flushed face, my eyes wide, my body draped over the furniture while you worked me over. You reached for a condom then, the crinkle of the foil the only sound in the room besides our breathing. Then you stepped behind me, gripped my hips so hard I knew there’d be marks, and drove yourself into me in one long, devastating thrust.
It wasn't 'low-impact.' It was a full-scale acquisition. You hit my G-spot with every shove, your cock filling me so completely it felt like I was being redefined from the inside out. I was loud. I didn't care about the yoga instructor or the silent meditation. I wanted the whole floor to know that I was finally being handled by someone who could keep up.
I came hard, my muscles spasming around you, my forehead pressed against the glass as the reflection of the mountains blurred into streaks of grey and green. You followed me a second later, your grip on my hips tightening until your knuckles were white, your body shuddering as you came deep inside the latex, your face buried in my hair.
***
[iMessage Thread - Saturday, 12:15 AM]
Julianne: I can’t move. I hope you’re happy. My step count for tomorrow is going to be zero.
Leo: I’m currently looking at the ceiling and wondering why we spent three years arguing about market share when we could have been doing that.
Julianne: Because we’re both overachievers with pathological control issues.
Leo: True. Round two at 2:00 AM? I’ve recovered. The data suggests an upward trend.
Julianne: You’re insufferable. See you at 1:55.
***
From: Julianne Vane (j.vane@vanemedia.com)
Sent: Saturday, Oct 14, 6:25 AM
(Continued...)
So, here is the final report, Leo.
The 'wellness' part of this retreat is a total failure. I am dehydrated, exhausted, and I’m pretty sure I have rug burn on my knees. However, the 'inter-office relations' segment exceeded all projected benchmarks.
I’m going to go try to eat some kale now. If you mention this during the 9:00 AM 'Gratitude Circle,' I will personally ensure your firm’s next press release is written in Comic Sans.
See you at the juice bar. Bring the flask.
Best,
Julianne Vane
CEO, Vane Media
