Chapter 19 – Pleasing the Boss

One tug, and my dress falls open.

Oh, we’re doing this.

I didn’t bother with a bra, so the fabric parts to reveal steepled n**ples and a black lace thong that leaves little to the imagination. Heat pours through my veins like liquid fire as he pushes the dress off my shoulders. It catches on my elbows.

“Don’t move.” Without moving his eyes from mine, he walks backward until he reaches the armchair. He sits, casually spreading his legs.

At the sound of a zipper opening, my attention flies past those gorgeous abs to the bulge in his crotch. Big bulge. Bigger than it had felt p**ssed against my back on the horse.

“Eyes on mine,” he orders, and without hesitation, I do as he commands, locking my gaze to his. Out of the corner of my vision, I see him reach toward the end table next to him. I hear a drawer open. Hear him fumbling around before I hear the sound of a bottle cap. Hear the squirt of liquid into his hand.

Then I hear the very distinct sound of his palm r*bbing rhythmically over his flesh.

The next several minutes go by this way—me posed and nearly naked, him with his shirt open and c**k out. I see the movement of his hand in the periphery, can very clearly tell what he’s doing, but I can’t actually see it.

And, God, I want to.

I’m dying to study his anatomy. Touch him. Put him in my mouth. At the very least, I want a good glance at the scepter he carries bet**en his th**hs. It’s torture to be denied even one peek.

Each second that passes, it becomes harder to keep my eyes pinned on his, but I do. Because he does too. He’s barely looked at my body, if he has at all. Hasn’t noticed how my n**ples are painfully erect. Hasn’t seen the w*t spot that I’m sure is on the front of my pa**ies. But I can tell he’s very aroused, his breathing coming faster, almost as fast as mine.

It’s about the power, I realize.

He’s turned on by how much power he has over me. How he’s been able to get a woman—someone he barely knows—to shed her clothes and stand before him in his room while he jacks off. It has to be intoxicating.

I might be disgusted if I weren’t so turned on too.

And beyond the degradation, beyond the sex part of it all, is the actual eye contact. It’s overwhelming. I read a study once, about how strangers could develop passionate feelings for each other with just two minutes of prolonged eye contact, and holy shit. I don’t know that what I’m feeling would be considered passionate, but it’s certainly intense. It feels like I’m being cut through and splayed open. It feels like I’m being dissected and discovered and known, and when Hadrian’s hand movement becomes jerky and his face contorts, and a ragged m**n sl*ps past his l*ps, I swear I’m about to come too.

He cleans up quickly, and by the time he breaks eye contact, and I’m free to look where I want, he’s put himself away. Without saying a word, he crosses to the sink at the bar and washes his hands.

“I’ll take care of giving notice to your station.” He avoids my eyes now as purposefully as he pinned them a minute before. “I’ll get the ball rolling first thing Monday morning.”

I’m still standing with my dress peeled open, not sure yet if I’m supposed to move. Wishing he’d look at me like he had. Or that he’d touch me. And weirdly, I feel like I might cry if he doesn’t.

I get my hopes up when he starts in my direction, but he passes by without looking up, headed somewhere behind me.

“And Brystin.”

It’s a relief to hear him say my name. To acknowledge I’m human, and I’m still here. Eagerly, I turn to find him standing in the doorway to his bedroom.

“Make yourself available. When I call, you come.” Finally—finally—he trails his eyes down my bare br***ts, but it’s a quick glance, and seems to have no impact on him. “You can go. Errol can show you back to your room if you’re lost.”

He disappears into his bedroom, shutting his door behind him.

It’s the harshest dismissal I’ve ever been given. As quick as I can, before I do something stupid like start sobbing or follow after him into his room, I refasten my dress and start for the door. I make it three steps before going back to the coffee table and pouring back the rest of my wine in a single chug.

As Hadrian had suggested, the man who’d brought me to his room is waiting for me in the hall. Errol, I suppose, is his name. I shake my head when he looks at me. “I know where I’m going.”

Going straight to the top of America’s most famous, that’s where. It feels good to remind myself that, and so I say it over and over as I climb the stairs to my bedroom. I intersperse the mantra with a lot of cursing, all of it directed at Hadrian. Calling him an asshole. A f**knugget. A flea on the bottom of a pile of dog shit.

I’m so in my head when I walk in, I’ve forgotten all about Elvis. He’s waiting, awake and still dressed, and if I had to guess, he’s been pacing.

He pounces as soon as he sees me. “Thank God. I’ve been sick about…worrying. What happened? Are you all right? Tell me you’re all right.” He wr*ps his arms around me, and I shudder, not wanting to be touched.

Not wanting to be touched by him.

I push out of his arms. “I need space.” It’s tripping with me as much as it’s got to be tripping with him. I rarely deny his affection, and I don’t know if it’s about what happened with him earlier or what happened with Hadrian, but I desperately need to be alone.

Probably worried by my unusual behavior, his tone gets sharp. “Did he hurt you? If he hurt you—” He cuts himself off, though I’d kind of like to know how he’d finish that statement.

He’d…what? He hadn’t thought it his place to protect me before something happened, and now he’s ready to defend my honor? Ready to slug Hadrian in the nuts? Ready to dump all thoughts of his career and take me off into the sunset?

Yeah. No.

And I don’t care enough to be in his presence to p**ss him on it.

“I’m—” I stop myself before saying fine. He doesn’t deserve to have his conscience cleared that easily, and it’s kind of validating to see him worried. Instead, I say, “Look, I don’t want to talk about it. Please. Can we just not talk about it?”

“Okay,” he says reluctantly. “If that’s what you want.”

“It’s what I need.”

He surveys me, and I know he’s looking for hints of something that will give away what my words won’t. Signs of a struggle. Signs of rape.

I wr*p my arms around myself, more uncomfortable with his stare than I had been with Hadrian’s heavy-lidded gaze. “I’m—” Again, I have to stop myself from saying fine. “I’m going to take a shower.” I brush past him, turning back to give him the one piece of information that he does need to know. “He’ll get everything rolling on Monday.”

Without waiting for his response, I escape into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I strip quickly, turn on the shower, and get in before the water’s warmed up.

Then I brace an arm against the tile wall and barely have to touch my c**t before I come.

The next morning, I’m sitting on the chair by the window in our room, buckling my sandal when Elvis walks in, dressed in his running outfit and covered in sweat. I can’t decide if I’m glad he’s back or disappointed. On the one hand, I didn’t have to face another interrogation about Hadrian when I woke up to an empty bed.

On the other hand, I hadn’t been looking forward to venturing downstairs on my own.

This is probably better, I decide. It’s not like I can hide from my husband forever. “Good run?” I ask.

He nods. “Beautiful property. I could get used to the scenery. I’d hoped to get back before you woke up.” He’s staring at me, hoping I’ll fill in the blanks about last night. When I don’t say anything, he wisely changes tactics. “Have you been down for breakfast yet?”

“Just about to. I’m in desperate need of coffee.”

“Wait a few minutes for me to shower and change, and I’ll go with you.”

I agree, and he peels off his clothes, leaving them in a pile before disappearing into the bathroom. Normally, I’d take the opportunity to ogle over his lean runner’s body. Even at fifty-three, the man has zero fat.

But it’s been less than eight hours since I saw Hadrian’s washboard abs, and now I might be ruined for life.

Thinking about the ripples on his torso makes me think about the rest of last night, and I’m glad Elvis’s gone so he doesn’t ask about the heat in my face. The heat in my entire body.

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