"Thank you, princess," he says, his voice little more than a purr. "You can sit beside me."
I do, acutely aware of every set of eyes in the room watching us in a way they weren't before.
Great. Now, they all think I'm his little plaything.
I keep my head down, pretending not to notice the stares.
His hand finds my thigh under the table. It's casual at first, a warm weight. But then he inches higher, squeezing until my nails leave half-moons in my palm.
I try to keep my face neutral, but my whole body is alive and aching. My skin feels too tight.
He waits until the room is distracted by a heated debate about revenue streams before slipping his fingers between my legs, pressing hard against my clit through my panties.
I almost jump.
He doesn't relent, just keeps his hand there, torturing me with tiny circles until I can't breathe. I can't move, either.
No one seems to notice.
He removes his hand just before the meeting ends, leaving me wet and trembling. I don't dare look at him as I stumble out, but I hear his voice behind me, taunting me.
"Good job, Miss Dabry. You exceeded expectations."
I want to kill him. I also want to kiss him until he can't breathe. I don't know which urge is stronger.
Wednesday afternoon is the copy room.
I'm bent over the tray, cursing under my breath, when he slips in behind me and shuts the door, smirking like he was just waiting for me to get distracted so he could wreak havoc again.
"Great. It's you again," I mutter.
His hands close around my hips, dragging me back against his chest. I stiffen, but he just presses his mouth to the nape of my neck.
"Are you still wet for me, Brielle?"
I don't answer. I'm too busy trying not to melt.
He bites down on the side of my throat, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to leave a mark I'll have to cover if I have any hope of surviving the month without the entire office knowing that we're fucking. At least, we would be fucking if he'd get on with it and stop torturing me already.
His hands slide up my sides, gathering my blouse in his fists.
"Will you stop that?" I growl, trying to pry his hands off. I might as well be trying to lift a steel bar, though.
"You need a lesson in obedience," he says, and I can hear the fucking smile in his voice.
He slips his hand under my shirt, cupping my breast through my bra. He rubs the nipple until it's stiff, then pinches. Hard.
I gasp, half in pain, half in desperate need.
"Please," I whisper. I don't know if I want him to stop or to keep going.
"You beg so pretty," he growls. His other hand dips between my thighs, hiking my skirt up.
My thighs part on instinct, my body fully on board with his torture even if my brain isn't. He doesn't care what my brain has to say about it, though. I doubt the bastard ever has.
He's relentless as he strokes me through the thin lace of my panties, tormenting me. It takes everything I have not to sob out loud or beg him to let me come.
He doesn't stop until I'm trembling, until I'm grinding against his hand, desperate to go over. An orgasm rushes toward me, hot and inevitable, and then he just…lets go.
