But today, right now, when I’m not only doing my normal workload but being forced to go to this stupid party I don’t even have a dress for, to work some more, I refuse to lose our little game.
Squeezing my thighs together, I shake my head and clear my throat. “Sorry, sir. Can’t say I know what you’re talking about. And, also, I’m not sure if I’d ever voluntarily play a game with you.”
He leans back, folding his annoyingly defined arms across his chest and peering down at me as if I’ve said something mildly entertaining. The light above his head casts a dark shadow over his face, and sickly, instead of being more nervous, I’m more aroused. It’s then I realize how we’re positioned—him up above, looking down, while I’m seated, mere inches away from his groin with my face turned upward and my chest heaving.
It’s submissive.
I am not submissive.
It’s as if we both have the same thought at the same moment. His smile widens as he kicks himself from his desk and moves back around to sit, while I disregard my heart hammering into my chest and furrow my brows. “What did you need me for?”
“You were gone for so long, I emailed you the list so I wouldn't forget.” Roman picks up his phone and resumes his normal business as if he hasn’t just wasted my time.
I scoff as I get to my feet, trying to remember the new heels from Alexander McQueen that I’m getting myself for Christmas.
“Oh, and Miss Cartier, can you remember the number six for me?”
Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around.
“Yes, sir.”
I make it out the door in my next breath, but before it closes behind me, I swear I hear the faintest whisper. Whether I imagined it or not, it rolls down my spine and ignites my nerves into a startling frenzy.
Two little words. One phrase.
Good girl.
T his time, I do use Favor to gather the last-minute needs for the party and head back downstairs. The desire to help with decorations suddenly replacing my will to sit at my desk, which is only a yard away from his office. The room that just completely upended my current psyche and brought feelings to light I take pride in keeping in the dark.
In all the time I’ve worked for the pompous asshole, I’ve felt many emotions—anger, resentment, annoyance, and even a bit of jealousy. But complete and utter want?
Never.
Not here at least. In the privacy of my room, surrounded by four walls, under a thick duvet when the rain is pouring down and my moans can’t be heard even by me? Maybe.
Sounds absurd, I know, but it’s not as if it would ever happen in reality and the idea of making an arrogant man like him crumble when I make him come? Instant O.
Ignoring Nancy’s scoff as I shut my computer down for the afternoon, I float to the back of the office and stab the elevator button.
“That bad?” Marge asks, though a telling grin on her face has my brows raised in question.
“Cat got the cream?” I ask, popping a hand on my hip.
She chuckles. “Not yet.”
I narrow my eyes but don’t probe her further and slide into the cabin.
When I make it down, everyone except Monica has left for lunch. She’s putting down the placemats I gave her. “Not hungry?”
She shrugs, applying a glue dot to one mat before pressing it on the table. “I wanted to at least finish up with this so when we came back, someone could start setting out the name plates.”
“Hmm.” I nod, grabbing a stack of the mats and joining her at the other side of the round table.
“What about you?”
“I ate something while I was out. Oh, you’ll never believe who I saw.”
She tosses me an unopened package of the glue dot applicator. “Spill.”
“Trenton.”
Monica’s thin eyebrows shoot into her hairline. “Mister goodie-two-shoes, who can only have missionary sex in the dark, Baker?”
My head falls back and the first bout of genuine laughter I’ve had all week spills out.
I may have forgotten to mention that tidbit. Missionary only. Which is fine and all, but since he saw toys as competition and not his partner, the position made it extremely difficult for me to sneak a hand down and get me where I needed to be. Which means yep , you guessed it, I only came about five percent of the time.
“Yep. He’s dating a baker, still building his Legos, and living his best life.”
Monica guffaws, pressing another placemat down as I work on tearing open the glue dot package. “His best life is right. He wasn’t for you, girl.”
“I know.” I shrug, giving up on trying to peel off the plastic and rip the top completely, popping it through instead. “I’m not sure who is.”
My current career already gives me minimal time to date, and the dream I’m chasing gives me even less. So running into a guy that can handle my chaotic schedule, and deal with my eccentric shoe collection and horror movie marathons, while simultaneously giving me real orgasms? Improbable.
“Well, we aren’t trying to get you hitched. You need someone with a schedule like yours, and a dick that makes you scream. Lord knows you could use it.”
My stomach clenches as I let out another cackle. “Scream?”
Monica moves to the next table, and I follow suit, applying glue to the back of the mat. “Bitch, yes. I don’t know if you know this, but you need to give up some of that control you hold on to. Let someone else take the reins and fuck your ass six ways to Sunday.”
“Wait, wait, wait. What?” Monica has accused me of being many things—bouncy, sometimes introverted, spicy, and even timid, but never as someone who needs control.
“You misunderstand. I’m not saying you’re a control freak by any means, but think about it, Pres. You give us department heads even stricter deadlines than what Mr. C. gives you—”
“So that I have time to check over things and get them fixed if need be.”
“Why are we the heads of the department if you have to check our work?”
“So that Roman doesn’t rip me a new one if something isn’t done to his standard,” I counter.
She smirks. “You want things perfect for him because you want to please him.”
“Back the fuck up.” I hold up a hand, failing at keeping my mouth from gaping. “Please him?”
Monica shrugs, ignoring the frustrated blush blooming across my face. “You say you hate him.”
“Duh.”
“Why?”
I shoot out my hands in an “isn't it obvious” gesture. “He’s literally an asshole.”
“Because he tells you, his personal assistant, what to do?”
“It’s how he says it,” I grit out. “And let’s not get started on his condescending attitude.”
“Alright, let me ask you something else. Promise you won’t get all pissed off, though.”
Rolling my eyes, I place my three mats down and move to the next table, strategically placing a bit of room between us. “Be my guest, Dr. Phil.”
“Does it motivate you when he gives you more work than you can handle?”
“I...” My eyes flit back and forth as I think about all the times he’s giving me more than I thought I’d be able to do and I took it as a challenge. Yeah, I was always annoyed by it, but it also felt good accomplishing his feats. “I guess.”