“Look,” I growl, “I want an honest assessment of the mental and emotional state of our workforce beyond just the numbers and bottom lines. Their overall well-being and stress levels as they deal with our increasing growth trajectories.”
The room falls into a tense silence.
Finally, Chris speaks up, clearing his throat like a nervous schoolboy. “Well . . . boss, obviously a lot of them are working overtime on the TLS bid. And not to put too fine a point on it, but we’re already providing onsite shrinks, masseuses, full medical screenings whenever requested. Unless there’s some other counseling or mental health resources you’d like us to explore offering, I can’t imagine what more we could reasonably provide?”
He’s not wrong—we do offer all those things. But that nagging voice in the back of my mind—Gemma’s scathing commentary last night—won’t pipe down.
I fold my hands over the pile of documents before me and shake my head. “I’ll discuss it further with HR. What’s next on the agenda?”
We move on, but I can’t focus for shit. My eyes drift back to that damn diary on my screen. I know I should be paying attention to the meeting, but I can’t help myself. I need to see what else got under her skin last night.
So while the rest of the table jabbers on about the agenda, I let my gaze drift back to the screen, ready for another dose of Gemma’s unfiltered rage.
And McLaren was being. . .fucking weird today. One minute he’s tearing me a new one for the grievous sin of being late one time in my life. Then he’s complaining about my recruitment strategy but doesn’t tell me what his issue is. But by the end of this delightful rollercoaster ride, he’s giving me whiplash by saying “it’s fine, go ahead and execute it.” Maybe he was hungover after his big party last night. Or is this his way of gaslighting me into the looney bin?
A low chuckle escapes me before I can stop it, causing the conference room to go silent.
Sophie, my CFO, clears her throat. “Liam, do you need to handle something? We can pick this up later if you’ve got more pressing matters.”
“No, no. Continue.”
As they resume their discussion, I turn my attention back to Gemma’s diary.
And that’s not even the most disturbing part of my day. Oh no, that delightful honor goes to my . . . solo love session this evening.
I shift in my seat, caught off guard. Fucking hell. I sure as shit wasn’t expecting her little diary entry to take this kind of turn.
I was so damn close. I could feel that earth-shattering O building. I can’t believe I did it over McLaren’s company picture. It’s the damn vests he wears. What is it about a man in a vest?
God, what is wrong with me? The man is a soulless, manipulative asshole who seems to derive perverse pleasure from tormenting me and everyone else under his thumb. And yet apparently even just an innocuous corporate headshot has the power to reduce me into a quivering, moaning mess.
I release a heavy breath, my eyes glued to the screen.
So she gave herself a steamy hate-wank over yours truly last night, huh? I can picture it—Gemma Jones, sprawled out in her Putney flat, furiously rubbing one out while she fantasizes about verbally eviscerating me.
I shift in my chair again, trying to find a more comfortable position as my cock starts to swell, straining against the confines of my trousers.
I was imagining marching into his office, shoving him up against that pretentious mahogany desk of his, and showing him exactly what I think of his bullshit power plays. I pushed him back, ripped open his trousers, grabbed him by the dick and rode him until he was begging me to let him come. Then I refused to let him. Because one thing’s for sure, I was in control. He can bend in front of me and say, please, Ma’am.
Jesus, Gemma. You can’t just throw something like that out into the universe and expect a man to keep his composure.
Because fuck me, the visuals she’s painted here . . . they’re the stuff of every wet dream I’ve never let myself have. At least not consciously.
I can’t be thinking like this.
But god do I want to. Want to haul her into my office by that red ponytail, bendherover my desk, and show her exactly what happens to naughty girls who don’t know how to keep their fantasies to themselves.
This is crossing so many lines, even in the privacy of my own head.
Every eye in the room snaps to me, and I realize I must’ve made a noise.
“Carry on,” I gruffly mutter, trying to look like I wasn’t just mentally jerking off to the idea of my HR manager masturbating.
This is a problem. A big, hard problem.
They exchange glances but continue their discussion. I lean back, attempting to exude an air of nonchalance even though I’m growing harder by the second. My grip tightens around my pen like it’s the only thing holding me back from exploding right here at the damn table.
Gemma Jones, you are full of surprises, aren’t you?
