"Suck," he demands, shoving the plug in front of my face.
I hesitate for a brief second before wrapping my lips around it, my cheeks burning. They only burn hotter when his hand slips between my cheeks, prying them apart.
I expect him to go right for my ass, but he doesn't. He plays with my clit instead, his thumb grinding circles while I suck on the plug.
Only when he's satisfied does he pull it from my mouth.
"Relax," he orders, pressing the tapered end against my asshole.
I tense slightly, but there's no fighting it, not when he's still got his thumb pressed to my clit. Not when I want this as badly as I do. I hate him for making me want it. I hate myself for wanting it.
"Fuck," I whimper, my hands curling uselessly on the desk as he pushes it into me. He isn't gentle about it, and he doesn't go slow. He just does it, like he wants to own my pain as much as my pleasure.
"Good girl," he breathes against the back of my neck, still playing with my clit. Right when I'm on the edge, pain faded to pleasure, he stops, taking a step back. One hand slides my panties back into place before he pats me on the ass cheek and smooths my skirt down. "You're going to wear this all day."
I stand upright, my knees shaking, to glare at him.
"Coffee, princess," he says, like he didn't just shove a plug up my ass and demand I wear it for the next eight hours. "Now."
I flip him off on the way out of his office, just in case he didn't already know how I feel about him.
The café line is long. When I finally get the drink and trek back, my feet are killing me, my panties are soaking wet, and I'm close to pouring his coffee all over him.
I slap it onto his coaster and wait for the complaint, instead.
He doesn't touch it. It sits there while he dictates three hours of letters for me to type up, his voice never rising above a bored monotone. I glare at the cup, then at him. He glances at me, clocking the tension, and that flicker crosses his lips again.
The bastard knows exactly what he's doing. He probably didn't even want the damn coffee in the first place.
By the time I finish the letters and drop them on his desk, I've almost forgotten the plug. Almost. My panties are still drenched, though.
Asher reads them without a word. I want him to say something negative, anything, so I can explode and get it over with. But he won't play my game.
"Impressive," he mutters. "You actually know how to spell, unlike my last assistant."
"I do. Like your first name, for instance. F-U-C-K-I-N-G. And then there's your last name. A-S-S-H-O-L-E." I bat my lashes at him. "Want me to take a stab at your middle name, too?"
He ignores the question, handing me a sheet of paper with a list of client names and data. "Input all these into a new spreadsheet. I want separate tabs for each quarter, color-coded. And don't fuck up the sort order."
"Whatever you say, Your Highness."
I spend four hours on the spreadsheet. By the end, my vision is a blur of numbers and color blocks, and my hand aches from clicking. I shoot it over to his inbox, then lean back in the chair and massage my temples, hoping I look as drained as I feel.
He opens the file, scrolls for about ten seconds, then deletes it.
"You want to try that again?" he says, not looking at me.
A bolt of pure, blinding rage stabs through me. "Excuse me?"
"Maybe use a more readable font this time. This is an office, not a frat house."
My hands clench on the armrest. I'm not sure whether to scream, cry, or climb across the desk and throttle him. That spreadsheet was perfect, and he knows it.
"You're an asshole," I say, willing my voice not to quiver.
"I believe we established that already. You even spelled it out for me." He leans back, steepling his fingers. "If you don't like it, quit."
I shove out of my chair. "Maybe I will. God, you don't even need me for any of this shit. You just like making me miserable."
