I drop the script on his desk, being as loud as possible.
He just flicks a glance at me, a question in his gaze.
I briefly consider cursing him out, regardless of who is on the other end of that line, but there's something in his eyes—some hint of softness—that stops me.
Why is it so hard for me to hate him?
The asshole doesn't even have the decency to be a consistent monster. And worse—worse—he keeps shoving these little cracks of realness through my armor. It's making me crazy.
I stomp back to my desk, throw myself into the chair, and glare at my screen. Even then, I still see the look in his eyes when I dropped the script—like he was trying to tell me something without actually saying it. Like maybe this war between us is just a stand-in for something else, something we both refuse to name because it would mean acknowledging we're just two broken, angry people who never learned how to stop hurting the things we care about most.
He hurts me, and I try like hell to hurt him back, or to hurt him first, because we'd rather destroy ourselves than let go. That's the thing about pain that no one tells you, the insidious part they always leave out. Sometimes, it's the only way you know you're still alive.
And sometimes, it's more addictive than pleasure.
Chapter Ten
Brielle
On Wednesday, I don't wake up with him in my bed again, but I wake up with the distinct impression that he was there at some point. I still smell his aftershave on the pillow. I think I even feel him between my legs.
I'm not sure what it means that he's already gone, or that he came at all. I spend the entire morning trying to piece together an answer, but I can't.
When I get to the office, instead of the usual parade of torment and petty demands, there's an agenda and a neat stack of legal pads waiting on my desk, along with another cup of coffee.
The vibe in the office is different—harder, somehow, like the tension in the air right before a thunderstorm. Asher stands at the window, his tie already off and his shirt sleeves rolled up, watching the world from forty stories above. He doesn't acknowledge me when I enter. He just gestures for me to sit, opens his laptop, and logs into a video call.
Within seconds, the screen is a mosaic of board members and investors. The topic is whether they should take over some big management agency in Europe that's been embroiled in a scandal because one of the partners has a coke habit and a penchant for fucking married clients.
My job is simple. Take notes. Shut up. Don't embarrass him.
It should be easy, but I know Asher too well. The other shoe will drop. The only question is when he'll put his boot on my neck so he can watch me squirm.
For the first hour, it's all numbers and nuance. Asher barely glances at me, except when he needs a spreadsheet or a figure, which I produce without a word. When I'm on camera at all, the men on the call act like I'm invisible. The only one who ever looks at me is Asher.
The more his frustration with his board grows, the more frequently his eyes drift in my direction, almost like he's trying to decide if and how he wants to make me pay for their sins.
At 9:13 a.m., he drops his pen.
It's not an accident. He watches it roll off his desk, then levels a look at me.
"Can you get that?" His voice is silk, the command dressed up as a question, even though we both know it's not that.
I duck under his desk, my cheeks burning. The pen has rolled to the far end, so I have to crawl for it, my skirt riding up my ass,my hair in my face. I grab the pen, but before I can surface, I feel his hand on my neck.
He pulls me closer, so my head is right between his legs. His cock is already out, hard and leaking, obscenely demanding.
I shoot him a look that says I'll bite it off, but he just grins, his eyes glued to the screen. "Stay quiet," he murmurs without even moving his lips, his hand knotting in my hair.
Then, with the perfect timing of a sociopath, he looks back at the screen.
"Christian, tell me your main concern about a cross-Atlantic merger," he demands, while pushing my mouth down on his cock. He doesn't miss a beat, his voice calm.
I want to murder him, but I want to ruin him even more.
I open my mouth, my tongue sliding along his length, and pray the men on screen can't see what's happening under this desk. His grip on my hair is iron, guiding me up and down in a slow, relentless rhythm.
He holds a running dialogue about mergers and contracts, never once faltering or letting his breath change. Meanwhile, I'm choking and gagging on his monster of a cock, fighting not to make a single sound.
