Page 49

But then he speaks again, and his words shatter whatever fragile confession was building in my throat. “Sophia.” His low, rough voice follows me. “Do not walk out of this office.”

Not heeding his warning, I step into the hallway, my heels clicking sharp and angry against the marble floor.

“Sophia!” Vance calls after me, but I don’t stop. I walk past Melanie’s desk without looking at her, feeling her contented smugness as she watches me. “Mrs. Ashford,” she says, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “Is everything all right?”

“Perfect,” I snap, not breaking stride. “Just perfect.”

I reach my office and close the door behind me, leaning against it with my eyes closed, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Hot tears burn behind my eyes, threatening to fall, but I refuse to let them. I will not cry over him.

Sophia storms from my office, her heels clicking a furious staccato against the marble floors, and something hot and dangerous coils in my gut. If she thinks she can dismiss me and walk out of my office, she’s forgotten who she’s dealing with. I don’t tolerate unanswered questions, and I don’t tolerate being ignored. And I have even less patience for a wife who thinks she can simply decide when our conversation is over.

She can be angry. She can disagree with me. But she will not disrespect me.

I move before I can think better of it, crossing my office in quick, long strides and shoving through the door. Melanie looks up from her desk. “Mr Ashf⁠—”

“Not now,” I snip, not bothering to look at her. My focus is narrowed to the woman disappearing down the hallway and the heated sway of her hips.

“Sophia!” I bark her name as she disappears inside her office. When I reach her door, I don’t give her the courtesy of a knock. I push inside before closing the door with enough force to make the floor-to-ceiling windows flanking the door shudder in their frames.

Sophia is standing in front of her desk with her back to me, her shoulders heaving with breaths that almost sound like sobs.

“What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing.” She doesn’t turn around. “Just leave me alone, Vance.”

After locking her door, I reach for the blinds separating her office from the rest of the floor and yank them closed, cutting off the view of the bullpen.

No interruptions. No audience. Just us.

“Nothing,” I parrot, stalking toward her. “That’s your answer? After you acted like a bratty child and stormed out of my office?”

She finally turns, and her eyes are bright and welling with tears, her jaw set with a stubbornness that makes my hands itch to tame it. “I have work to do, Vance.”

“The silent treatment is new and not cute.” I stop in front of her, close enough to smell her perfume and see her pulse fluttering wildly in her throat. “I’m going to ask you again. What is the problem?”

“Nothing.” She adds an eye roll, that small gesture of defiance severs the last thread of my restraint.

I reach for my tie, quickly loosening the knot. Her eyes track the motion, widening slightly as a flicker of uncertainty breaks through her anger.

“If you have something to say to me, Sophia, say it. I have no patience for games. You can answer me, or I can make you answer me,” I threaten as I pull the tie free, the silk whispering against my collar.

I grab her wrist, spinning her around and roughly forcing her over her desk. She gasps, her free hand coming up to push against my chest. I loop the tie around her wrists, binding them together with the Windsor knot. With one sweep of my arm, I clear the scattered files, pens, and papers from the desk top. They crash to the floor as I pin her to the desk with her arms above her head, securing the end of the tie to the heavy brass leg of her desk. The position stretches her body, arching her back, leaving her helpless.

“What are you doing?” she snarls, trying to hide the nervous tremor in her voice.

“Getting answers.” I step back, surveying my work as I undo the top buttons of my shirt. She’s tied to the desk on her back, arms stretched above her, with her skirt bunched around her hips as her chest heaves with each breath. The position is perfect. She’s exposed, vulnerable, and accessible. I can reach every part of her from here. Take my time making her talk.

After pulling her skirt to her waist, I trace the edge of her panties, teasing the edge and feeling the heat radiating from her through the sheer lace. She’s already wet when I press two fingers against her clit through the delicate fabric. “Shh,” I admonish when she whimpers. “Not a sound, sweetheart. You don’t get to make noise until you’re ready to tell me what’s wrong.”

I work her slowly, circling her clit through the fabric, not giving her enough pressure to climb toward release. She whimpers faintly when I stop. I lift my fingers to my mouth, tasting the faint evidence of her arousal on them as I coat them with my saliva. After pulling them from my lips, I use my free hand to pull her panties to the side before returning my wet fingertips to her firm little clit.

She gasps when I glide over the sensitive nub, her hips bucking instinctively, seeking the pressure I’m denying her. I tease her relentlessly, minutes passing as her mewls slowly grow louder and more desperate. When I sense she’s close to the edge, I pause, my fingers stilling. She cries out in frustration, her body trembling with unfulfilled need.

“Please,” she begs as I slip her panties down her legs, pulling them off completely. She watches me with wide, pleading eyes as I bring the damp fabric to my face, inhaling her scent before balling them up.

“I thought I was pretty clear. Not a sound until you’re ready to talk.” I squeeze her jaw until her mouth opens and shove her damp panties between her lips.

Her moans are muffled, but no less desperate when I sink two fingers into her pussy, curling them to find the spot that makes her back bow off the desk. She glares at me over the lace between her lips, sharp breaths blowing from her nose as I bring her to the edge again and again until she’s trembling.