“I see a girl who’s been bartered for so long, she’s forgotten what it means to want for herself. I see someone who is so good at following orders, she doesn’t even recognize the shape of her defiance.”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t speak.
She casts her eyes down, shame burning on her face.
“Look at me,” I cup her chin and force her head up.
She does.
“Now look at these papers.” I gesture at the contract, the ledgers, the ledger of her life. “This is what you are to them. Ink on a line, a placeholder for the next iteration of power. But you—” I squeeze her chin, just enough to make it hurt—“you are more than this. Give yourself to me, and I will remind you exactly who the fuck you are.”
She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You have no idea who I am.”
I release her and move until I am behind her. “I can show you.”
She stumbles, but I catch her. My hands close around her wrists. I can feel her pulse, frantic and wild, just beneath the skin.
I guide her to the front of the desk. The paperwork crunches beneath her as I push her forward, palms flat on the surface.
She tries to turn, but I pin her, one hand on the back of her neck, the other on her hip.
“This isn’t right,” she hisses.
I lean in, breath hot on her ear. “Oh, that’s where you’re wrong. This is all that’s right.”
She struggles, but not enough to matter. I press my body to hers, letting her feel every inch of my intent. The heat between us is volcanic.
I slide my hand up her thigh, slow at first, savoring the way her muscles quiver under my touch. She tries to twist away, but my grip is absolute.
Her skirt rides up, the fabric gathering at her waist. She’s wearing black lace, expensive and delicate, but not delicate enough to withstand the pressure of my fingers as I hook them beneath the elastic and snap it against her skin.
She gasps, the sound half pain, half surprise.
“Why are you doing this?” she whispers.
“Because I want to see you cum around my cock while you’re spread out on the destruction of your own life. I want to watch as you find yourself in between the orgasm I will force from you, and I want to feel the way you rebuild yourself, right here, right on top of the desk of the man who wants to destabilize you,” I say, and I mean it.
She shudders, but doesn’t fight.
I slide her panties down, exposing her. She tries to close her knees, but I hold them open, sliding my fingertips over her soft skin until they stop between her thighs. She’s soaked already, and I want to groan, but instead I slide two fingers between her lips, finding her clit, working slow at first, then faster.
Her head turns and she moans. She bites her lip, hard enough to draw blood. Her eyes are wide, unblinking, staring at the wall where a picture of her father hangs.
I curl my fingers inside her, pressing just so, and she arches away, a strangled sound escaping her throat.
My mouth to her ear, I lean over her. “Is this what you want?” I ask.
She shakes her head, but her body says yes.
I work her, relentless, until her legs are shaking and the surface of the desk is slick with sweat.
“Let go,” I command.
She doesn’t, not at first. So I push her harder, my free hand gripping her neck, not tight, just enough to remind her where she is.
“Say it,” I demand.
She sobs, then: “Please.”
