Someone clears their throat. More specifically, a man.
A foot away from me, a pair of Italian leather dress shoes comes into focus. Nice. Working my way up the black slacks, which encase strong, thick and very male legs, my eyes pass over his crotch, up to his belt…
That belt.
My eyes widen.
That belt!
Skimming over his crisp white shirt, silk black tie, and classy black suit jacket, my eyes move up fast to meet a pair of hooded, soft brown ones.
My heart races.
What is happening here?
Searching his face as he looks down on me, my eyes drift over the small ‘13’ tattooed on his cheekbone, then down lower at the artistic swirls, color, and grey shading peeking out from under his shirt that decorate his neck. We spend a moment watching each other closely. Me, trying to figure out what the hell is going on, and him, trying to gauge my reaction to seeing him in a more…professional sense.
Taking a small step towards me, we’re impossibly close. My breast brushes his knee. His lips twitch, and he gestures to my position kneeling on the floor. Using one tattooed hand to adjust the opposite cufflink, his husky voice washes over me. “I feel we’ve been here before.”
Oh my fucking God.
This is not happening.
Goddamn.
Seeing the beautiful Alexa Ballentine on her knees in front of me was not how I assumed this meeting would start. And by the look on her stunned face, she didn’t think it would either. But here we are.
Her clear blue eyes drift down to my belt, and her pupils dilate as she inhales quickly.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
She likes the belt. No one likes the belt. It’s a fucking choker for chrissakes. A growl escapes me and her head snaps upwards. She tries to avoid my gaze. I don’t like that.
Reaching forward, I cup her chin gently but firmly and lift her face. She has no choice but to make eye contact, and when our eyes meet, her face flushes and her lips thin in obvious frustration and annoyance. She whispers, “What are you doing here?”
Never one to make it easy on someone, I reply just as quietly, “You’re already wet, aren’t you, Alexa?”
Hissing in a breath, she closes her eyes. “You shouldn’t be here. I have an appointment.”
Gripping her chin tightly, I mutter in a bored tone, “I know. Falcon Plastics. Donation. Interview. All that jazz.”
Her eyes snap open. She stumbles on her words, “S-so you’re still watching me? I-I haven’t seen you around. Or even f-felt you around. I just assumed you were done—”
Cutting her off, I grip her arm and pull gently. She stands, lowering her skirt back over her knees, and I announce, “I own Falcon Plastics, Lexi.” Her wide-eyed, incredulous face is…priceless. I love this. Awkward tension fills the office. So thick you could cut it with a knife. This is what I like. It’s my favorite thing to do. Making people uncomfortable is fun. “I’m your appointment, babe.” I grin a little too happily.
What she says next makes my smile melt off my face.
“B-but I thought you were homeless,” she mumbles.
My blood boils.
Nope.
My pride…it doesn’t like that.
I’ve been homeless. Best years of my life. Not even a joke. When I was eight-years-old, I decided that being homeless was better than being a punching bag for some overweight, disgusting slob that deserved the death he got…eventually. And it was better. I found there were a lot of kids like me out there. Running from home. Running from certain death. Most people think of home as a safe place. A haven. Not me. My home was…horrifying. A fucking nightmare.
Taking two steps backwards, I slowly move my hand up to flick over the sign on the door. This room is now In Use. Taking my time shutting the door, when the latch clicks loudly, Lexi jumps in…fright? In anticipation? In want and need? I’m not sure. Women are complicated creatures.
Looking back, I reach for the string hanging by my side, unwind it, and watch the open blinds drop to the floor, leaving us in complete privacy.
Lexi’s face shows fear. But I know better. She isn’t scared of me. Oh no. She’s scared of herself. Of her own reaction to me.
I warned her. And I meant what I said. She will never want anyone else after I’m through with her.
And after I’m through with her. I’ll leave. And never look back.
Getting back to the matter at hand, my fingers move to my right cuff, popping out the cufflink. My voice hoarse, I say slowly, “As you can see, I’m most definitely not homeless.”
Not anymore. And I never will be again.
Stalking towards her, she backs up until the backs of her legs hit her desk with a soft thud. The fingers of my right hand work on the opposite cuff, and once it’s free, I remove my suit jacket, throwing it onto her desk, and roll up the sleeves of my shirt to the elbows. My mind – ever calculating – suggests that I play with my newest toy. Who am I to refuse myself simple pleasures? I can’t say no. She looks so flushed and meek right now. And I’m fully hard.