"So, what now?" I say. "If you're not going to help, prepare for legal war. I was going to settle. Just get Mr. David compensated properly. But now? I'm going after everything. The senator, this factory deal, all of it. I'm going to burn it down. I'm going to win."
He stays silent, that unreadable mask still on his face. The silence pisses me off.
Then he smiles gently. "Don't do anything stupid."
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"You came into my office, threatened my staff, played knight to a man who's not paying you enough for the unnecessary torture you're going through, might I add. Angel, I'm sorry to say this, but desperation doesn't look good on you. And you won't win. Not when I'm the one backing him."
I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off.
"I didn't send anyone after you. But if I wanted to, I wouldn't send amateurs. And I can. Don't think that just because I'm fond of you, you can keep pulling these stunts."
I see red and before I know it, I'm snatching the stapler from the first aid kit and lunging at him. How dare he? Just because he’s rich, he thinks he can say whatever he wants? Hemoves fast, dodging and grabbing my wrist before twisting it behind my back, forcing me up against the cold desk.
"Let me go, you fucking asshole! Degenerate piece of shit!"
His voice is low in my ear, almost amused. "What a mouth you have on you."
He squeezes my wrist just enough to make the stapler drop from my fingers. My breathing is hard. I can’t believe this. He’s pinned my hands behind my back I’m like some criminal.
"For such a short woman," he murmurs, "you've got a tall temper."
I spit to the side. "You men are all the same. You push a woman until she breaks, then blame her when she finally snaps. You say she's hysterical, dramatic, overreacting. But you started the damn fire."
He doesn't answer at first, only tightening his grip until my shoulder aches.
"Since you're already pinning me," I snap, "go ahead. Hurt me. Isn't that what you've been itching to do this whole time?"
He laughs, that dark, shameless sound. "I quite like us in this position," he says. His breath is hot on my ear, and then I feel his tongue. "And God—you smell divine."
I freeze. My pulse jumps, and not just from fear. Then I feel something pressing against me from behind. I pray it's a gun, God please let that be a gun. "What do you want?" I grit out. "You've done your research. You know I'm broke. If you take this to court, I'll play the victim. You won't get a dime out of me."
He chuckles, next to my ear. "Who said anything about money? I've got enough to buy a country."
He leans in, peppering kisses on my neck. "What I don't have," he murmurs, "is you. First you try to stab me with a pen, then a stapler. I'm starting to think you actually want to kill me." He presses closer. “You don't come at a man like that unless you want him to react."
He turns me around to face him before pressing into me again this time from the front.
"You want rough? You want a fight?" His voice drops, low and edged. "I can give you exactly what you're asking for... just say the word."
He looks me dead in the eyes, mutters. "My spitfire."
He guides me to the long chair and whispers in my ear, "Spread your legs."
What. The. Fuck. I'm spitting curses, twisting away from him, and the next thing I know, I'm pinned on the chair with his body above mine. His knee pushes between my legs, spreading me open so he can settle between them.
"You bastard," I hiss, struggling again. My wrists are pinned, his grip unforgiving. All I can do is arch my back against the leather and glare up at him.
He looks down at me like I'm a prize he means to claim. Slowly, he starts to unbutton my blouse. At that moment, I regret my choice of clothing. A navy blue silk button up blouse and a grey pencilled skirt. Sue me. I like to feel confident especially in my figure.
"Ilay," I warn, starting to panic. "Don't."
He ignores me, going for my first button and popping it free, then another. My chest heaves, the pink lace of my bra now exposed.
"I quite like pink on you," he murmurs, his fingers ghosting over the edge. "Honestly, I expected black. But this? This is surprising." His smirk deepens. "Not that pink doesn't suit you. You'd be sexy in anything."
His hand moves, cupping my left breast through the lace. His thumb grazes over the sensitive peak, and he gives a firm squeeze. A low, involuntary moan that betrays everything I try to suppress comes out. God, I hate that he can pull that from me. I Hate how my body reacts even when my mind is screaming no.
