And I don't hate myself nearly enough for agreeing to let him.
Chapter Four
Brielle
"You have got to be kidding me," I growl, glaring daggers at Asher across his behemoth of a desk, first thing on Monday morning. It's too early to be awake, let alone to deal with his bullshit. And yet, here I am, wading neck deep in it. "There's no way I'm working in here with you."
He doesn't even bother looking up from his screen. "There's no way you're working anywhere else," he says, his voice flat. "Your desk is right there, princess. Get used to it."
My "desk" is a foot from his, dainty pink and already stacked with files. I stare at it, then at him, calculating how hard I'd have to swing the hole punch to leave a mark. It's probably not worth the jail time, even if I'm itching for the catharsis.
"What, you don't trust me with the other agents?" I say, dropping my purse with enough force to rattle a few pens loose. "Afraid I'll unionize?"
He finally looks at me, one dark brow arching. "I'm less concerned about you unionizing, and more concerned with which of the motherfuckers I'll have to kill for trying to touch what's mine. We both know how much you love trying to flaunt other men in front of my face."
"Aww, is someone jealous?"
His mouth does a thing. It's not a smile, not even close, but it flickers with the memory of one. "Sit your pretty little ass down, Brielle. It's too goddamn early for your mouth."
I plop into my chair, ignoring the fact that my knees bump the underside of the desk because it's been set too low. That was probably on purpose. He said he wanted me to suffer. I guess this is how it starts. "Anything else, Your Highness? Want me to answer your calls in a French maid costume?"
He ignores that and hits the intercom. "Miss Dabry will be handling all my scheduling for the week. If you need me, go through her."
The click of the speaker sounds like the door of a prison cell clanging shut. I stare at my hands, willing them to stop shaking. It's not fear, I tell myself. It's anger. Always anger.
Within five minutes, he's got a list of demands. Calls to be made. Notes to be organized. Stupid shit anyone else in thisoffice could do, but that's the point, right? To make me do the most mind-numbing, menial tasks possible?
"Oh, and I need coffee."
I stare at him blankly.
"That's your cue to go get it, princess."
"Fine," I growl, rising from my chair. "Where in this stupid office is it?"
His smirk should be my first clue that he's up to something, but for some reason, the pure evil in it escapes me. Probably because he's nothing but evil. "You're going to Tommy Joe's," he says. "Bring me back the Scandinavian blend, heavy cream, and a single ice cube."
Of course he's sending me six blocks away. Of course he is. I take the order with a smile, mentally rehearsing exactly where I'll insert the cup if he so much as sighs about the temperature when I get back.
"Before you go," he says, and then waits until I scowl at him to crook a finger. "Bring me the plug."
"I'm not wearing it out of this office," I growl.
"You are." He pushes up from his desk, smirking like the goddamn devil. "Now, give it to me."
I briefly consider launching it at his head before I decide I really don't want to have to explain that one to the paramedic. I stomp across the office to him, slapping it into his palm.
"Turn around and bend over."
"I'm going to poison your coffee," I swear, reluctantly obeying.
He just chuckles, one hand sliding up the back of my thigh. I grit my teeth, trying to pretend his touch doesn't affect me at all. It's a lie, though. I'm already wet, already achy.
His breath blows hot across the back of my neck half a second before I feel his mouth right there, his teeth raking.
I bite my tongue, refusing to whimper.
His hand travels higher, dragging my skirt up. Cool air swirls against my skin, and then he's dragging my panties down.
