Page 42 of At His Beck & Call

I’m at my desk, tidying away the paperwork that didn’t go into the folders we sent off this afternoon. It’s been an incredibly busy day for all of us, and everyone pitched in and got so much done.

Adelaide was calmer after she returned from her meeting, smiling at me whenever I caught her eye. She’s definitely warming up to me.

Noah was in the conference room all day, and he’s done a fantastic job. The folders and archive boxes that seemed to have no order at all now have labels on each one. They’re packed and stacked in uniform lines, and although the conference room is overflowing, it’s manageable.

I’m staring at the stack nearest the door, marveling at how neat Noah’s handwriting is, when the little light at the edge of my desk goes on.

The rush of heat that pulses through me takes my breath away.

What has this man done to me?

After years without anyone touching me, I suppose it’s not entirely surprising that my sex drive has woken up and taken notice. But still, this underlying, constant, thrum of need is perplexing.

It’s just after six when I step into his office. Oliver is behind his desk, his jacket off, forearms on display as he types rapidly across the keys. I’m reminded again of how different he is compared to Noah. Noah barely fills a chair when he sits in it; Oliver’s presence seems to occupy the whole room.

His shirt is straining over the muscles of his chest, and my eyes are drawn to the triangle of flesh where the top button has been undone. He looks harried and irritated, and yet my body is already aching for him.

I lick my lips, walking over to his desk.

“Did you need something?” I ask when he doesn’t look at me.

His fingers don’t pause on the keys, his jaw clenching. “Lock the door.”

Yes, sir.

I don’t say it out loud this time.

I go to the door, turn the lock silently, and then walk back toward his desk. Nerves rise in my stomach as I wait for him to tell me what he wants.

I can see the tension around his eyes, and I know from Adelaide that he’s been in back-to-back calls all day. It’s obvious this case wasn’t something he requested; it was thrust upon him.

He doesn’t look at me at all, and I wonder whether I should take a seat and wait until he’s ready, rather than hovering in front of his desk like an idiot.

His long fingers move over the keys for several seconds until he finally presses the return key and leans back in his chair.

Oliver’s eyes come to rest on me, his gaze dark and unreadable.

“It’s past six,” he says suddenly, glancing at the clock.

I nod. “It is, but I don’t mind staying if you need…” My confidence fades at the energy in his look. He looks like a coiled spring ready to snap.

He makes an exasperated noise and stands, coming around the desk to glare at me.

“Why didn’t you go home?”

“Do you want me to go home?” I whisper, unsure whether I’ve pissed him off. He’s so still and quiet.

“I want to fuck your mouth,” he says coldly, his thumb and forefinger grabbing hold of my chin as I try to keep my breathing controlled. “But I’ve had a fucking shitty day, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

I stay silent, not sure what it is he wants to hear. At this point, I’ll do whatever he tells me to. The need to please him, to make the anger in his eyes dissipate, is an intoxicating pull on me.

Oliver stares at me, his mouth twisting as if he’s trying to decide what he wants to do. His thumb and forefinger don’t release me, and those black, angry eyes never leave my face. It’s alarmingly arousing.

“Get on your knees.”

I sink to the floor, a small involuntary sound breaking free from my throat as I do so. I look up at him, and he grunts as my eyes meet his.

“Put your hands on the back of my thighs.” I do it as he steps his feet wider apart. Then his fingers run through my hair, gripping it so tight, I moan. “I’m going to put my cock in your mouth and fuck your throat. If you want me to stop, you take your hands off my legs. If you want me to slow down, take one hand off. Is that clear?”