Of course, my subconscious is right. Yet I also know that there’s more with Brent and James coming … and I can’t wait.
I spendfive minutes in the bathroom faking like I’m fixing my hair, but really, I’m just trying to flush the color out of my cheeks. I splash cold water on my wrists, like that’s supposed to slow my heart, but it just makes my skin break out in goosebumps. I try to imagine what my mother would say if she knew I was having sex fantasies about the men who defended her ex-husband, and the answer is so bleak I almost laugh out loud.
Once I’m composed—or as composed as I’m going to get—I head back to my desk in the intern gulag. The other girls are already busy, and Shay has her earbuds in, but she clocks me from the corner of her eye and smirks like she knows exactly what happened.
“You look like you just got out of a dentist appointment,” she says, voice low.
“Worse,” I reply, collapsing into my chair. “They could have done a cavity search and I wouldn’t have noticed.”
She snorts, then pulls out an earbud. “So how was it?”
I try to summarize, but nothing comes out. “Brent and James are … intense,” I finally settle on.
“Everyone says that.” Shay leans in conspiratorially. “But you got the double-team on day one? Damn, girl. They must like you.”
I bristle at the implication, but the flush comes back instantly. “I’m not sure ‘like’ is the right word.”
She gives me a once-over, eyes sharp and assessing. “Trust me, if they wanted you gone, you’d already be at Starbucks filling out an application.”
I force a smile, but it lands sideways. I keep expecting to wake up and find out I’ve bombed it, or that they saw right through me, but the reality is much scarier—Brent and Jameswantme here. And that means I’m in.
The day blurs past in a static haze of HR emails, more orientation packets, and mandatory e-signatures. At one point, Mrs. Jenkins appears and hands me a thick envelope. Inside: official offer letter, benefits breakdown, and a handwritten note from the partners, welcoming me to the team. I nearly drop the paper. The handwriting is precise, a little old-fashioned, and both men have signed it in ink. Just looking at it makes my stomach twist with nerves and not a little bit of something else.
I stare at the note until my eyes blur, then stash it in my desk drawer and try to focus on the casework they’ve assigned. But all I can think about is the way Brent’s hand swallowed mine, the smell of his cologne after he let go, and the way James’s lips curled up just before he pressed a little too close. The image keeps replaying: Brent pinning my wrists above my head, James’s mouth between my legs, their voices rough and approving as they make me beg for it.
Get a grip, I tell myself.These are your bosses.Older, experienced, probably not even interested in you. Besides, you’re here for the files. For your father.
But then why do I want it so bad?
Around three, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye: Brent, in the hallway, talking to another lawyer with his headbent low, lips barely moving. He glances in my direction and our eyes lock for a second. There’s no mistaking it:he knows. He knows what I’m thinking. What I want. What I desire. It’s not a leer, but a simple, devastating acknowledgment:I see you.
I look away first, heart hammering, and pretend to type.
Five minutes later, James appears in the glass corridor, phone pressed to his ear. He’s not even trying to be subtle; his eyes go straight to mine, and when he catches me watching, he smiles slow and wide. The rest of the office is oblivious, but I can feel the charge in the air, thick as storm clouds.
When the clock hits five, I pack up my bag and slip on my coat. The air outside is colder than before, biting at my thighs through my skirt. I walk fast, head down, hoping the physical exertion will burn off whatever chemical reaction they’ve triggered in my blood.
But halfway down the block, my phone buzzes. It’s an email from James: “Welcome to the team.” There’s no punctuation, just a line break and his name. No signature. No HR cc.
I reread it three times before deleting it. I want to respond, but I don’t trust myself not to say something stupid or outright obscene.
When I get home, I collapse onto my bed and stare at the ceiling, playing back the day in granular detail. Every look, every question, every micro-expression. I know I should be terrified. I know I should be focused on my father’s case and not the twin forces of masculine destruction who just hired me to work at their firm.
But the only thing I feel is anticipation. A hunger, deep and insistent, curling low in my stomach and setting my nerves on fire.
I close my eyes and let it happen: I imagine Brent’s voice, low in my ear, telling me to be a good girl as I bend over. I imagine James’s hands on my hips, his mouth hard and greedy as he pushes me to the edge. I imagine them both, pinning me on the mahogany table, making me forget who I am or what I ever wanted, except this.
I come so hard I nearly black out.
When the shaking stops, I stare at the ceiling, sweat cooling on my skin. I know I’m in over my head. I know this is dangerous. But I also know that I’ll walk into that office tomorrow and look them both in the eye, because I’m done pretending.
If I’m going to be prey, I want to choose the wolves.
And I want them to devour me, together.
3
CHAPTER THREE — NAUGHTY IN THE POTTY
