Okay, then. I guess there’s nothing left for me to do but face my office mate.
Grant looks up as I walk in. Just his eyes move as he continues typing, watching me cross the room, put my jacket away, and finally take in the room’s new arrangement. It’s official. We’re face-to-face again.
I do my best to ignore him, sit down, and open my computer. But let’s be honest, anyone with eyes can see that I’m not entirely myself right this second. I’m an amped-up version. My butt, sore and oversensitive from where my wool skirt’s rubbing against the vestiges of last night’s spanking, is a constant turn-on.
Headphones on, email inbox open.
I sneak a glance, sure I’ll catch him staring. Nope.
My nerves continue to fizz as I go about starting my day. Dani swings by asking for sticky notes, and another colleague wants printer paper. Both times, as I’m about to respond, Grant cuts in and tells them to look in the storage closet, down the hall. While it’s not great for his already poor reputation with the staff, I rather enjoy not being the one to tell them. He is, after all, already considered the bad guy.
Unlike my colleagues, though, I no longer see Grant as a threat. Would I like to be let in on what, exactly, he expects to find at Sugar? Yes. Of course. But I trust him in a way I didn’t before. He’s not a man who’d go and fire people for no reason. Deprive a poor, horny woman of her rightful orgasms? Absolutely. Of a job? My instincts say that he would not.
I check the time. A little before noon. Seems as good a time as any to start my campaign to make him regret the orgasm embargo.
I gather a few files from my desk drawer and head to one of the cabinets, where I get down on my knees and then move to all fours to slide them all the way back.
Behind me, all typing stops.
Grant can’t see my sore bottom. I know that. But I specifically chose this length of skirt to play peekaboo with my garters.
No orgasms, he says. Well, no orgasms, my (well-spanked) ass.
It doesn’t take long for him to clear his throat. “Do you have lunch plans, Rae?”
My mind goes blank. “Do I?”
“We should, ah, meet. About…”
“The thing,” I finish.
“The thing.”
“Yes, sir.” We stare at each other through a silence that is positively throbbing with subtext. “I mean, Grant,” I amend. “Oh, actually, I have to check with Sam.”
I duck out into the lobby, where my bestie’s madly tapping at her phone.
The second she sees me, she slams it face down on her desk. “Rae!”
“Hey. You mentioned lunch, but I’ve got the…”
“Yeah, actually, I can’t. Not today. There’s…”
“Retreat coming up, so lots of…”
“An event,” she finishes, nodding.
“Meetings.” I end at the very same time and immediately feel bad about lying. “You good?” I ask.
Sam’s hand flies down to still her buzzing phone. “Great. Awesome. Just…” Her shrug is so painfully casual that I know for a fact that something’s off.
“Hey. Maybe we should cancel our…” I wave a hand in the air. “Events. And have lunch after all, you know?” I cast a quick look over my shoulder before leaning in and whispering, “I have so much to tell you.”
“Me too, Rae.”
“Let’s do it. Lunch. Come on. My treat.”
“Yeah, I—” Her phone buzzes again. She picks it up, reads whatever it says, and I watch in real time as her face morphs into a look I never thought I’d see again. The expression’s only there for a split second, but it’s enough. She looks young and scared, like the Sam I first met back in middle school. The Sam who didn’t have enough food at home, whose mom was never around, and whose dad was a one-weekend-a-month kind of father.
