She’s wet.
“Say my name,” I tell her in a low tone.
She blinks slowly at the command. Her pouty pink lips part. And with her eyes locked on mine, she does as she’s told.
“Damien…”
Fuck.
I refrain from swallowing hard. I also refrain from altering that dress with my teeth right on the spot. “Very good,” I manage to say. “But from now on, you only call me by name when I tell you to. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” she nods.
“Also, red or plum colored lip stains. Always.”
“Yes, sir.”
Good girl.
“Let’s go,” I say as I walk out the door.
Annelise follows as we ride down the elevator to the lobby. She follows behind me as I head to the coffee shop. The lobby is crickets save for the bellhops and the front desk, all of which greet me with aGood morning, Mr. Graves,to which I respond with nothing more than a small nod.
I turn and look over my shoulder at her. “Next to me,” I say. “You are to walk next to me. Not behind me.”
“Oh,” she nods and picks up her pace to fall into stride beside me. “I just assumed…”
“There are exceptions for my personal assistant. Remember, you aren’t just working for me. You’re with me.”
“Yes, sir,” she nods, and her words come out in nothing more than a breath.
“It isn’t important that you know my coffee order because the baristas know to have it ready on time every morning,” I say as we approach the counter.
“Americano, two raw sugar packets,” she says, and I look at her. After a beat of silence, her cheeks flush the softest shade of pink.
“You told me that. In the interview,” she reminds me.
“Glad to see you’re taking notes,” I answer as I mix the sugar with a wooden stirring stick. I lick it off and as I do, her eyes follow my tongue, her lips parting ever so slightly. Then, I flick it into the trash.
“This is Annelise,” I tell the barista.
“I go by Ellie,” she says, and there’s a momentary flash of familiarity. I’ve heard that name before. Of course, I’ve heard a thousand women’s names before.
“Ellie, that’s cute. What would you like, Ellie?” the barista responds.
“Annelise,” I correct both of them, and they stop. “No nicknames.”
“Right. Sorry Mr. Graves.”
I expect Annelise to be embarrassed. Unnerved. But instead, she looks annoyed. “I’ll take an iced vanilla latte, please,” she says.
Once we have our coffee, I show her the rest of the lobby. “The front desk is manned at all times, with no exceptions. Security is discrete but also always in place. The bar is for hotel patrons only. No strip stragglers are permitted, no exceptions. Same with the dining room. We have a rotating menu with weekly specials. Special does not mean discounted; it means elite, and only VIP guests have access to that list. All our spirits are top shelf. Our bartenders have 272 cocktails memorized, alsono exceptions. Are you taking notes?” I interrupt myself with the question.
“Yes, Sir,” she answers.
“You’re not writing anything down,” I point out the obvious.
“I don’t need to, sir,” she answers bravely.
