“And does it turn you on when he praises your hard work?”
My eyes widen at this, but I don’t answer. I can’t. Why? Because then I’d have to acknowledge it. His “good jobs,” “great works,” and appreciative smirks were becoming too much, but I soon found out that when I emailed him, he only responded with a generic “thank you.”
For the past year, I’ve been able to avoid those praises and up until ten minutes ago, have been able to fester in my general hate for the man.
“Exactly. Look, this may be a little TMI, but we’ve been friends long enough, I feel like I can tell you I have a thing for degradation.”
My brows snap together. “You like being called names?”
“Among other things, but I suspect you have a thing for being praised. Not only that, I think you’d make a good brat.”
“Okay, wait. Girl. Hold on. First, doesn’t everyone like to be told when they're doing a good job? I mean, I bust my ass up there and probably put in more hours than anyone else. And second, a brat ?”
She guffaws, wagging a finger at me. “First, you do more than your job entails every damn day and don’t give me that bullshit about wanting to be a good employee. You just want it perfect for him. And secondly, you deliberately poke at Mr. Chen, a man who is your boss, that you rip and run for all day long, just to get a reaction. You're sassy, only to him—”
“And nosey Nancy,” I interject.
“Yeah, but you make it a point to give him extra attention while also aiming to please him in the ways you know he wants.”
“So I don’t get fired, Monica. In no way, shape... ugh, hang on.” I hold up a hand as I fish my vibrating phone from my pocket.
But the moment I see the number rolling across the screen, my heart leaps into my throat, and all thoughts of kinks, along with my possible secret need to please my boss, leap out the window.
B y the time I realize I’m biting too deeply into my lip, the sour taste of copper hits my tongue. I know better than to play with fire, to let another person dictate what I do, yet, once again, I let Presley do just that.
Now I’m left with a vexatious hard-on, and new images I know I won’t be able to rid myself of anytime soon.
For the tenth time, I attempt to resume work and go over files sent by the social media team, with new people they think are up-and-coming. And just as I begin to forward them to my PA who I can’t purge my thoughts of, my personal cell clatters against the glass desk as it vibrates with an incoming call.
Tapping the green button, I press the phone to my ear. “Yes?’
“Hello. May I speak with Roman Chen, please?” The syrupy sweet voice on the phone asks, and I have to hold in my annoyed sigh.
“You called my direct line. Who am I speaking with?”
An awkward laugh rings out, grating against my nerves.“Yes, a habit, forgive me. My name is Chelsea Stone, and I’m calling in regard to an employee of yours who submitted an article.”
“I employ well over six hundred people; you’ll need to be more specific.”
“Ah, yes. I’m sorry. Presley Cartier.”
“Cartier,” I correct.
“Yes, Cartier. She submitted an article with an application for employment and I have you listed as her current employer. Do you have a moment so I can ask you a few questions?”
I nod, though the woman can’t see me, and force my jaw to unhinge. “I do.”
The muscles in my neck tighten as I listen to the woman ask me questions about my employee. My assistant. The small woman who has plagued me with the internal struggle of what I want versus what I know I shouldn’t have.
Like now, I should be furious that one of the best PAs I’ve ever had is on the verge of leaving, but instead, I’m relieved she won’t be on my payroll. It eliminates the dilemma I’ve had about her since the very beginning.
Absentmindedly, I answer Ms. Stone’s questions as I recall, yet again, what I did moments ago with Presley. Just another thing I shouldn’t have done, but the way her entire frame tensed as I hovered over her, and the blush that crept up the delicate column of her neck while she watched me roll up my sleeves made it well worth it.
And then there were those light brown eyes—full and round. They were wide with anticipation rather than their normal defiance, and that only yanked at the strings holding together my composure, and for a second, I thought they might snap. It would have been interesting to say the least, but it affirmed my suspicion that she does in fact feel the underlying dynamic swirling between us.
I finish my conversation with the woman and place my phone face down on the table. My fingers trace over the edge of the armrest as I lean back in my chair and rotate to survey the city, contemplating what I feel weighing heavy in my chest.
It isn’t disappointment, or anger, but something similar to freedom and anxiety. It’s a strange combination, and I’m not sure what I’m meant to make of it, or if I even want to. Instead, I brush it away and focus on the darkening scene outside the window.
The snow is falling heavily now, the dancing of the flakes replaced with a squall. I’ll need to go home and get changed before tonight’s party, and since it seems as if this may be the last one my PA will join me at, I intend to make it one she’ll remember.
Decision made, I slip my suit jacket on, followed by my undercoat. I only make it a few feet from my door when Charlotte's incessant assistant stops me. She’s nothing but long, lanky limbs and fake breasts. She totes herself around the office as though she’s what everyone should aspire to be, but in reality, she’s nothing more than a sub-par assistant with a horrendous superiority complex. Not to mention, her weekly advances are taxing considering she hasn’t the slightest idea what successfully coming on to someone like me would mean. How it would feel.
Sex with no give and take, with no power, restraints, and only pretty words, doesn’t work for me. No, I crave more.
I need more.
There has to be pain mixed with my pleasure, limits pushed to new heights, dripping and panting and begging, until we’re both shaking from giving everything we have. I want to be addicted to her scent, to her pleasure, to her arousal when it first begins to blossom.
Nancy would crack within the first two minutes.
The bleach in her hair has seemingly seeped into her bloodstream and given her some type of false bravado as she presses into my space.
I don’t bother shielding her from the grimace pulling down my features as her overbearing perfume assaults my airways. “Miss Cunnings. Is there something you need?”
She bats her caked eyelashes at me. “Presley hasn’t been back at her desk all afternoon, and I’m not sure she’s even bothered with getting a dress for tonight. I was thinking perhaps I could accompany you to the party in her stead. I’m sure Char won’t mind.”
“Mrs. Wessinger. And Miss Cartier is taking care of my needs, rest assured. A replacement won't be necessary.”