Chapter 18 – Pleasing the Boss

“With women.”

“Never given a woman a contract who hasn’t earned the promotion, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

Like I said, he’s good. Blatantly putting me in my place. Flexing his power.

As if he can read my thoughts, he defends himself. “I’m not threatening to blacklist you from the industry. I’m not saying I won’t hire you as a team reporter. I’m not taking away your livelihood or thwarting your career track. It’s transactional.” He grows serious. “I think you’re already used to transactional relationsh*ps.”

It’s not the first time that he’s tried to see inside my marriage. He’s not wrong, but it’s all guessing. No way did Elvis tell him the basis of our partnership, and like hell will I give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s right.

But I am honest in my reply. “I married my husband because I loved him.”

He studies me for a beat. “Ah, I see.”

“Oh, f**k you, you don’t see anything.” I reach for my wine, letting the movement take my knee away from his. Missing the touch immediately.

I take a swallow of my wine, hoping it will replace his warmth, but it does nothing. No, touching him isn’t that bad. More wouldn’t be awful. It might even be nice.

Or maybe I’m remembering how much Elvis hurt me by sending me here, and as Shiloh suggested, that would be a bad reason to let anything happen with Hadrian. “Let’s not talk about Elvis,” I say. I put my glass back on the table, and this time, it’s me who lets my knee rest against his when I sit back up.

“His name is gone from my l*ps. This is about you, anyway.” Funny how he echoes Elvis’s sentiment. “No one else. Well, you and me, I suppose.”

I hate the way he’s paired us together like that. Made us a unit. It’s what he’s done since that first moment in the elevator when he made our interaction feel like a secret.

And I’m just as bad because I know what he’s doing, and I still like it.

Which makes me hate us both. “What this is about is sex work.” I’m trying to control the narrative. “It’s prostitution.”

“Is that how you define the relationship of women with sugar daddies? Or sugar mommas?”

No because that starts to be very near to the terms of my marriage. Transactional, as Hadrian suggested. “It’s not the same.”

“I beg to disagree, but fine.”

“A woman dating a man for his money isn’t forced into the situation. She chooses it.”

“I’m not forcing you into anything, Brystin.”

I’m determined to define the difference. “She isn’t opposed to earning her lifestyle by lying on her back. I want to earn my career on merit.”

“No one gets to where you want to go without some exchange of favors along the way. But if it makes you more comfortable, I’ll be sure to never directly say your contract is contingent on it.”

And now he’s said exactly that without saying it. Clever.

f**k.

I hate this. I hate everything about this. I hate his reasonable presentation. I hate his devil smile. I hate the touch of his knee and the scent of his cologne and the way he makes my p**sy clench. I hate how much I want this job.

I hate that he’s asking me to choose it. To choose him.

It would be so much easier if he would force me, and I hate that I could ever have a thought as vile as that.

I shake my head then lean over to grab my glass and take three large gulps. “Favors?” I don’t look back at him. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“What I’m interested in, I would very much consider favors.”

“Favors. Plural.” We haven’t defined anything, and I’m all of a sudden aware that I might still have something to negotiate. Like Elvis said, there’s a big difference bet**en penetration and a blow job.

“A leading anchor spot, Brystin. It will change the rest of your life.”

“How do you know I wouldn’t change the rest of your life?” I turn back to him, an eyebrow raised.

A grin plays on his l*ps. “I guess I want the chance to find out.” He holds my gaze, and for whatever reason, I’m all of a sudden remembering what he’d said earlier today, on the horse. How he’d said that he’s attracted to brains before beauty, and I wonder if this isn’t exactly what I wanted—for someone in a position of power to notice that I have something to offer. I wonder if this is what that looks like.

I wonder if he’s hard right now.

“What favors are you willing to give me?” he asks quietly when the silence bet**en us has stretched taut. “For me to take a risk?”

It’s ridiculous how much I want him to k**s me right now. And I’d accused him of romanticizing this.

I force my eyes away from him so I can think. So I can spell out what I’d be willing to give. “I don’t like pain,” I say, slowly, because I’m making this list up as I go. “Nothing gross. Um.” I pause to reword, not wanting to shame any kink he might be into. “I’m not into shit or urine or vomit or anything too outside of the mainstream. And if you’re expecting me to be some kind of Dominatrix, that’s not happening.”

“All that sounds reasonable.”

I’m bolstered by the ability to put my wants on the table and having them be acknowledged and heard. Transactional. Just like he said. It makes me brave enough to say my biggest term yet. “And no intercourse.”

“No intercourse?” He chews the word as he says it.

I sit back, giving him my full attention. If I’m going to be strong enough to make this demand, I should do it to his face. “No intercourse,” I repeat. “I don’t want to cheat on my husband.”

“Even though your husband—?”

I cut him off. “It’s my rule.” Partly, it’s an excuse to keep some control, to not give this man too much.

To be honest, I wish that was all it was. Lord knows I shouldn’t care if Elvis doesn’t, but stupidly, I do.

Hadrian mulls it over, and for a long stretch of seconds, I think I might have pushed my luck.

Then, without saying anything, he stands up and reaches his hand out to mine. Unsure, but curious, I slide my palm in his. Goosebumps scatter down my arms, and I shiver as he leads me away from the couch.

To the bedroom?

But we only take a few steps before he stops. He positions me then, like I’m a doll, smoothing my hair behind one ear, pulling it forward on one side. He studies me. Looks at the light above me. Nudges me back an inch. Studies me again.

Smiles slightly.

He trails his palms down the length of my arms, positioning them with a bend, my hands splayed at my h*ps. Then he moves his grip to my waist, and I’m mesmerized by how bold his touch is. He’s not asking for permission. He’s commanding me with his fi**gers and his hands, and my breath gets caught, thinking about how bold his touch could be in other places. Places that are begging for his attention.

“You’re a work of art, Brystin.” His thumbs graze my ribs, below my br***ts. Too far below. “Outside and in. Beautiful.” He fi**gers the sash of my belt. “And I really like beautiful things.”

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