She thinks I want to ruin her, that I'm out for revenge. That's a lie. I want to own her so she can't ever escape. I want her under my control, mine in a way nothing and no one can ever shatter. I want to pick her apart and then put her back together, just so she never forgets that she breathes for me.
Yeah, it's a problem. A big fucking problem.
She's dressed for war in a black blazer over a white camisole, her tits pressed together like she's daring me to look. The matching pants hug her wide hips and thick thighs in a way that makes me wish I were the fabric wrapped around her. Her eyes are venomous green, her face flushed with rage.
"You know there's a process for getting on my calendar," I drawl, lacing my hands together on top of my desk. My knuckles are white, like I'm clenching a live grenade instead of my own goddamn fingers.
She takes three steps forward and plants both hands on my desk, leaning over so her hair falls in a waterfall and her scent—orange blossoms and hate—hits me like a fist. My eyes naturally fall to the tops of her breasts.
It's unfortunate that they aren't already covered in my marks.
"Is that supposed to scare me?" she asks, every word a hissed threat. "Because last I checked, you're not my boss."
"I'm everyone's boss," I reply, letting the arrogance bleed through. It's not a lie. When you have as much money as I do, the world bends to your will. Every part of it except her, anyway.
Brielle bends for nothing and no one. She never has. Maybe that's why I'm so goddamn desperate to see her on her knees—because I know she'll never willingly kneel for anyone. I can have anything I want…except her.
It pisses me off.
Once upon a time, she would have gladly given herself to me. She would have crawled through hell for me. That was before I nearly killed her. Now, she'd rather set me on fire and watch me burn.
It's precisely what I wanted, but it pisses me off anyway.
She laughs, a short, brittle sound that bounces around my office like the crack of a whip. "You're an asshole, Asher."
I lean back in my chair and let my gaze drag down her body in a way that would constitute sexual harassment if anyone elsein the building tried it. But I make the rules here, and they don't apply to me.
Besides, everyone in this office knows not to even look at her. I've destroyed men for less. Those who thought they could claim what's mine will never recover. And if anyone is ever stupid enough to put their hands on her, they'll never find the fucking bodies.
"Is hell cold enough for you yet, princess?" I ask, taunting her because it's a biological imperative. It's also preferable to saying what I really want to say, which is 'bend over the fucking desk and show me what belongs to me'.
She ignores the bait. "You blacklisted me."
"Excuse me?" I ask like I don't know what she's talking about.
Her jaw sets, the muscle in her throat working as she swallows. "You blacklisted me from every agency in Manhattan. I can't even get a fucking phone call returned. I want to know why, Asher."
I glance at the stack of contracts in front of me, then at her. "Because I can."
Her hands ball into fists on the antique wood. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you get," I say, smirking at her. "You want a career in this field? You know what you have to do."
She pushes off the desk, a stubborn tilt to her chin. She's furious, her face flushed and her lips trembling. I'm a bastard for loving the way fury looks on her, but we both know a bastard is the least of what I am.
"What? You want me to starve?" she spits like she doesn't have a trust fund.
"No," I say, rising slowly. My height puts me a head and a half above her. "I want you to suffer and beg, princess."
It's a complicated truth. She's taunted me for years, torturing me just because she could. She's flaunted herself and tried everygoddamn way she could to find someone she could throw in my face. I've spent night after restless night, worried that some little motherfucker at NYU would steal her away in those hours when I had to sleep, or in those moments when I couldn't watch.
Now, she gets to pay for it with sweat and come and my handprints in her skin. I want to occupy every inch of her mind, possess every inch of her soul the same way she does mine. I want to break her open and pour myself inside.
She'll scream and cry and bleed and beg. She'll let me fuck her and break her and claim every inch of her body. And when I'm the only thing that exists for her, when my name is the only one she remembers, and she can't tell pain from pleasure, maybe I'll finally be able to let her go. But not until.
She takes a reckless swing at me. I see it coming, but I don't stop it, mostly because I deserve it. Her palm cracks against my cheek, the sound like a gunshot.
My cock throbs in response.
