The Meeting
By: MajorSam

Author's Notes: Direct sequel to The Business Trip. Also exact references to "All's Fair." I suggest you give both a quick read/reread before proceeding so as to understand all the fine details and deceptions 😉

Lucy was excited. Truly, academically excited. Perhaps the most she'd been since returning to her career after so many years of time-travelling insanity.

She was about to teach a lecture on American military movements in Germany during World War 2. A subject she was intimately familiar with. Perhaps not any of the main battles themselves, but still. With the time she'd spent in 1944, visiting Das Steinhaus, Castle Varlar, collaborating with Ian Flemming himself… She had developed a singular passion for the subject.

It certainly helped that the whole affair was also punctuated with memories of her now-husband, (who speaks four languages, actually) blushing and stuttering and fanboying his way through the mission. And being what he would swear to heaven and back was not ragingly jealous of "James Bond". She'd never admit it, but when she'd first heard him casually spouting German in that tavern… never mind the advice he'd later tenderly offered her on "getting over the hump"… yeah. James Bond had never had a chance.

But anyways.

All she had to do was get through one final meeting. One single hour before her lecture would begin. She'd been rather put out when the brass had called the meeting right before her lecture, but such was the way of academia. The higher ups claimed every action was in pursuit of higher education, but more often than she'd like, it was for pursuit of funding. You just had to roll with the punches, smile and nod and agree more money was needed, before finally getting back to what was important. Knowledge. Teaching. Inspiring new minds to open themselves to new ideas and new perspectives. Lucy had been worried she'd never be able to adapt back into the world of higher education, but she had. The same frustrations were present; lazy students, entitled students, bureaucratic hierarchies. But the few students who listened, who learned, who were inspired… it was all worth it.

Stuck in her thoughts, Lucy didn't quite hear the department head's proclamation.

"Sorry, could you say that again?"

The old man rolled his eyes long-sufferingly but repeated his statement.

"As I said," he pointedly raised an eyebrow at Lucy. "We are incredibly lucky to welcome an expert on the subject. I'm sure you have your lecture planned to a tee, but, well." He primly adjusted his bow-tie. "Firsthand accounts are so valuable, and so very rare these days."

Lucy frowned. Wait, firsthand account? Had Professor Levin brought in a veteran at the last minute? Was he expecting her to change her entire lecture on the fly due to some dusty old man's stuttering account of The Old Days? Not that she didn't have the highest and utmost respect for veterans, but she'd literally been to 1944 herself, and-

"I'm honoured to be here," a voice rang out from the doorway.

What. The. HELL.

Her body turned woodenly to face the door, brain frozen in shock. It couldn't be. Couldn't possibly… How could he… he would have told her… Surely, he… It couldn't be…

It was.

It freaking was.

It was Master Sergeant Wyatt Logan, in all his Dress-Uniformed glory, standing proudly in the doorway of her freaking meeting room.

What the-

"I am very pleased to announce," Professor Levin beamed, "That we have Master Sergeant Wyatt Logan, Delta Force veteran, and now," he lowered his voice theatrically, "In the employ of Homeland Security."

There were murmurs of awe and appreciation from around the table. They probably thought he was a spy or something. Historians sure loved their intrigue. Lucy observed her husband take it in with humble and gracious acceptance. And a hint of that signature smirk of his. A smirk that made her cross her legs, despite the pencil skirt she wore. She silently observed him greeting her colleagues, shaking their hands. Before she knew it, he'd arrived beside her.

His large hand extended forward. A hand she, and her body, knew intimately.

"Wyatt Logan," he said. To anyone else in the room his smile was neutral.

She knew better.

His eyes were far bluer than normal and there was a spark in them.

The bastard.

She took his hand stiffly. "Doctor Preston."

"Just Preston?"

She was going to kill him.

"Lucy," she ground out.

"Lucy," he repeated with a smile, rolling her name around on his tongue like it was something sweet.

She was so going to kill him.

"Well, now that introductions are though," Levin clapped his hands together, breaking the moment, jovially oblivious of the tension flying between the two. "Let's hear what the soldier has to offer."

Everyone relaxed into their chairs.

Everyone except Lucy and Wyatt, that was.

Lucy was straight as a rod, posture stiff and unyielding.

Wyatt was neither relaxed, nor stiff. He was somehow perfectly poised, militarily rigid, hands folded pristinely on the conference table in front of him, the picture of disciplined perfection. Not a hair was out of place. His uniform was textbook, his tie was flawless, his medals gleamed. She knew his shoes, hidden beneath the long, wooden table were shining and bright.

Damn he looked good.


What the hell was he doing here? What was his angle, his game? Why had he not told her he was going to be there? How long had he known he was going to be there? Was this just a last second thing, a sudden order from his superiors that he had no say in?

"We were so glad to receive your message," Professor Levin gushed. "It's not often we get the descendants of true heroes reaching out to us."

Reaching out to us.

So much for an order.

The bastard had volunteered. He'd purposely infiltrated her briefing. But why? What was his goal? What was he trying to do to her? Why would he sabotage her so when he knew how important this lecture was to her?

"Well," Wyatt smiled charmingly, "I'm always honoured to have an audience willing to hear about my Grandpa Sherwin's contributions to our history."

Oh… Okay now she felt bad. She of all people knew how important Wyatt's grandfather was to him. His savior, his hero, his inspiration. This could very well be just about that. She knew how fickle and last second the military could be. How many times, at the beginning of her engagement with Mason Industries, had she been called away at the drop of a hat? Someone in the army who knew of his family's military history could have heard about her lecture with not that much difficulty, and 'voluntold' Wyatt to attend. The US Military was always looking for opportunities for any good press they could get.

Lucy felt bad for all of thirty seconds.

Because within the thirty seconds she hds had remorseful thoughts, Wyatt had sat down next to her.

Right next to her.


Yes, it was the only available seat at the table. But somehow she knew. She knew. This was all a ploy. A masquerade. A deranged plot to get to her. Her hackles raised, she listened to his words with a high degree of suspicion.

"My grandfather, Sherwin Logan, was a member of the 101st," he began, pride underlaying his words.

As he started a narrative of his grandfather's exploits, which he knew by heart and treasured dearly, she felt herself relaxing again. Entranced by his words, ordered and factual, to the outside observer, but brimming with emotion to her.

Until he brought up a certain tavern.

"That's right," he declared. "My grandpa met James Bond himself."

What the…! He was telling their story. Their story! Sherwin wasn't there and he knew it! He should know better than to give her colleagues a false account, to change the history they believed in, to-

"Well," he laughed, shaking his head. "At least that's what I've always liked to believe."

The professors around the table laughed, charmed and under his spell.

Bastard! She repeated in her mind. He was playing her. Playing the crowd, who were totally unaware of his grandpa's, or their true history.

Then he took it to the next level. Over the boundaries of acceptable and beyond.

Hidden from view under the massive oak conference table, he put his hand on her leg. Her actual leg, the smooth expanse exposed beneath the skirt which had naturally ridden up as she'd sat down then crossed her legs. Because of him. And his damn uniform.


He was gonna get it. He was so gonna get it. After he stopped blathering on about his heroic young grandfather, and the 101st, and their noble sacrifices, and damnit she was conflicted again. She had to give it to him. He was playing his part flawlessly. All those missions to the past, all the on the fly, pretending to be someone else; they had paid off. Give the man an Oscar. Well, as she always realised when she thought hard enough about it, he'd been well trained in deception since long before she'd met him. He was literally a master at infiltration. And he'd infiltrated his dress-uniformed way right into her meeting. She was starting to ponder how long he had been planning this for when her thoughts were interrupted.

By his hand on her leg.

Moving higher.

How dare he!

And how dare his voice be so sexy; the confident, deep timbre mesmerizing, intoxicating.

She spluttered through her next question. Actually spluttered. What had he reduced her to?

"What was that, Professor Preston?"

She clapped her mouth shut. Crap. Had she just said that out loud?

"Well," she cleared her throat, Wyatt smirking beside her. "I just meant to say… that is I wanted to ask…"

"Yes?" the soldier asked, a look of rapt, innocent interest on his face.

"What about the female spy?" she blurted.

Wyatt's face transformed. Joy and amusement lit up his gorgeous blue eyes. "Ah yes, my grandfather definitely mentioned her. A woman of great beauty, wits, and bravery." His eyes softened as he continued. "She overcame her fears in the face of the gravest of dangers. She was the reason the mission succeeded. He trusted her above all else, and she didn't let him down."

The hand on her leg softened, thumb stroking softly instead of teasing. She allowed herself one moment of soft heartedness before a glint of triumph appeared in her eye.

"Ha," she crowed, "Got you."

He frowned.

She addressed the whole table as she laughed. "I had this soldier pegged as a Bond fan from the start. He even already admitted it! He's just exactly described the heroine from Weapon of Choice. I mean, I know her name was Lucy, but surely you can't imagine she was an actual person."

The table had a good chuckle as Wyatt almost, nearly, blushed. His lips pressed together in that controlled way of his and she knew she'd gotten one over on him.

Professor Levin chortled. "It's okay, Master Sergeant. We all have our flights of fancy about certain historical events. And people." The old man gave him a wink and Lucy had to choke back her laugh. Okay, maybe in a roundabout way her boss was implying he'd had fantasies about a character that was based on her, but the look on Wyatt's face at such as he realized the same was funny enough to overcome any discomfort. Oh, was she gonna get him for this.

She relished in her victory for a good ten minutes, but just when she thought she'd survived the meeting intact he upped his game. His shiny, booted foot bumped against her heeled one. Then again. The Master Sergeant was playing goddamn footsie with her under the table. She could feel the heat emanating from his broad thigh against her leg.

For about another ten minutes, the hand on her leg that had retreated after the James Bond slight offered several well-timed and appropriate gesticulations during conversation. But then he lowered it once more. Onto her leg.

And right up her skirt.

Her body tensed and jerked involuntarily, her right leg kicking up and hitting the table. Pain shot through her knee and she yelped.

The collective heads of the table swung towards her. Wyatt smothered a laugh, pretending it was a cough.

"Sorry. I, uh… just realized what time it was," she hastily covered. "I'd love a few minutes to digest all that the Master Sergeant has offered up, so I can give it due justice in my lecture."

The professors around her all nodded sagely. Murmurs of agreement and assent were made. She tried to acknowledge them all as they filed out of the room but in truth she didn't actually see or hear a single second of their departures. All she knew was the hand on her thigh, moving up and up till it encountered a barrier that was decidedly wet. She could feel the smug laughter reverberate through his very fingers as the final academic left the room, the door falling shut behind them.

"What the fuck," she hissed the second they were alone, batting his hand away from her.

He laughed brazenly.

"What's the matter, Doctor," he taunted. "Can't take a little distraction at work?"

"What are you-"

"So you're allowed to send me filthy messages all day at work, but I can't come and give honest, truthful recount of some family history? To benefit your department?"

"Oh give me a break," she rolled her eyes. "This had nothing to do with the great Sherwin Logan. This was all a ploy and you know it."

"Do I?" he challenged.

"What is this really-"

"You were in New York, sitting at one of those long, executive tables with a dozen other people but your mind was here, with me." He recited. "Or maybe, you imagined me there with you. Bent over that desk the second everyone left, tight skirt rucked up around my waist."

He was quoting her. The exact words she'd driven him mad with that time he'd arrived home early from his first business trip, their first extended time apart since becoming a couple. He'd found her in their bed, missing him, touching herself to the thought of him. After several rounds of frenzied lovemaking she'd painted a picture that had never left his mind.

And he'd apparently been planning his revenge ever since. He'd taken her words, her threat, and flipped them right around.

"You drawled at me," he reminded her. "You described the whole damn deception. You said "Maybe I'm a part of the meeting. Sitting beside you. You put your hand on my knee and realize my skirt has ridden up. You find the hem, then slip under, trailing up and up until you realize I'm not wearing any underwear."

He boldly stuck his hand up her skirt once more, shaking his head disapprovingly at the barrier he discovered. "Not part of the plan, Professor."

"Neither was you dive-bombing my meeting," she growled. "You realize I have to teach in about 15 minutes."

His smirk became pure sin. Feral. Predatory.

"Then I guess we better make this quick."

Before she knew what was happening he'd pulled her out of her chair and, sweeping aside any paper or pens in their way, bent her over the long, executive table. Her skirt was rucked up around her waist in seconds. She moaned as she heard his shiny belt buckle unlocking, his pants unzipping. He hadn't even properly touched her yet and she was somehow already halfway there. She was pissed as hell, yes, but…

Wyatt. In his full-dress uniform. Being all goddamn haughty and knowledgeable and yet humbly proud. How could a man flip between arrogant and genuine so fast? And how could the same man be so infuriatingly good at following through with his teasing?

She knew the moment he ripped her underwear off that she wouldn't last long. She could vaguely hear the sounds of him stuffing the garment into his pocket but tried not to dwell. Tried to not dwell either on the sensation of her torso pressed against the solid wooden surface, chest heaving and straining within the confines of her white blouse. He wasted no time with her, positioning himself and ramming straight home, knowing inherently that she was ready for him. Because he did know her, inside and out. He knew she would always be ready for him.

It didn't last long for either of them, the secret foreplay in a crowded room leading them both to near madness. The time constraint of her lecture added further to the frenzied nature of their coupling. The door to the conference room was also unlocked and the potential for someone to walk in at any second weighed heavily over them both.

But not as heavily as the feel of Wyatt's body pushing her down. Lucy felt his hand glance over her hair and was opening her mouth to warn him off when she felt it move over to grasp her hand instead. They were both gripping the edge of the table but he grabbed one wrist and firmly planted it on the polished oak above her head. He followed immediately with the other. Both hands in place he enveloped her slim wrists with a single, broad hand, locking them firmly down. Her cheek pressed against the cool surface of the wood, doing nothing to temper the flames that licked her skin. He kept his other hand on her hip, holding her in place as he pounded in and out of her sweet embrace.

No more words, or teasing, or warnings were needed. When she couldn't hold back a choked moan his hand slid from her hands to her mouth, clamping down to muffle her as he twisted his hips and his that spot. She bit down on the meat of his hand as she cried out her release. She felt him collapse over her, burying his face in her hair as he fought to hold back the groan of his own. A few frantic pumps more was all they could afford before he pulled out of her. Far too soon for either of their liking.

She slumped against the table, panting, empty without him. Before she'd even half recovered her senses, she heard his voice behind her, steady and calm.

"Good luck with your lecture, Doctor Preston."

And he walked out the door.


What the…

He couldn't just…

But he had.

The son of a bitch had.

He'd quoted her one last time, thrown her own words right back in her face. Or against her back, as it were. Left her hanging high and dry. Well, wet.


She stood up with a start on shaky legs as she floundered for a moment. She needed to get to the bathroom and fix herself up. Now. With a rush of adrenaline she shoved her skirt down.


She didn't even try to gather her papers up. She had the lecture memorized. She didn't need to incorporate any of Wyatt's insights from the meeting, they were already in her lecture. With a start she suddenly realized he'd known that. He'd known all along. He'd been right there beside her for weeks as she'd prepared it, had agonizingly pored over every word of it. Now that she thought about it, he'd been helping her all along, offering his little tidbits, his encouragement, his confidence in her. She'd been stressed about it. It was her first original piece since re-entering academia. He had told her repeatedly that she just needed to stay calm and go with the flow of it. That her natural genius and experience would shine through. He would never actually sabotage her by throwing her off course right beforehand.

This whole episode, the whole charade, had been his final aid to her. Get her mind off the needless details, the minutiae, the stress. Get her out of her head and into a natural flow of things.

Her favourite kind of flow.

Okay, it was also somewhat about his revenge too. She had known it would happen eventually. No, she certainly hadn't expected it to happen on this day, in this meeting. But that was the whole point, wasn't it?

And hey. It meant the ball was once again in her court.

She'd get him back. She'd get him back real good.

Right after she slayed this lecture.

The End

Written under duress on my 20th day of Quarantine. It's now day 100. Whoops. But also…. HOLY MOLY day 100…! My work was cancelled Friday, March 13. Mid-morning. "Stop what you're doing, just put it down, and go home, right now." Phew. Still no clue when I'll be back to it. But anyways, when writing all those weeks ago, for the two Saturdays previous, Jessica Johnson and I had been doing Netflix Party Rectify marathons, with full drinking game rules in place. The writing Saturday's festivities were put in jeopardy, however, when she declared there was a caveat. I "Had" to write something first. I wrote to her

"And then Lyatt did Sex. The End." There. I wrote!

It was apparently not good enough. So here you go! I actually penned the ideas of this story with PeachCheetah almost exactly a year ago. Whoops… Better late than never? :D Yes, there are several more stories to follow in this wee little revenge verse I've now established… 😉