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Because he wanted me. He wanted to fuck me, and now I owe him for more than just the fifty thousand dollars. I owe him for keeping me out of jail.
I have to be out of jail for my siblings. There’s no other way they can survive. Not with my dad as unpredictable as he is.
The light in Mr. Leblanc’s eyes shifts, his expression changing with it. I’m probably just imagining things. This is already an out-of-body experience. It would make sense that my mind would search for a sense of safety. Of meaning, even.
But I canseehim.
Behind his cultivated wardrobe and perfect movie-set office, behind his wolfish satisfaction at getting to blackmail me, he’s searching. Reaching. As if the cold composure on his face and the hot anger in his eyes are a thin layer between the world and his heart.
A human heart. Maybe even a bruised one.
“What happens if I don’t agree?”
He narrows his eyes at my question, and my certainty disappears. I know what he is, and what power he has. I know what danger I’m in.
So it feels wrong to go without a fight. I’ve always had to stand up for myself. My older brother left for the military before I turned eleven, so it was me against the world.
Me, standing in front of Ben and Mia. My dad, trying to screw things up as badly as he could.
Mr. Leblanc gestures toward his phone. “All it takes is one call.”
He’ll really do it, then. I let him fuck me any way he wants, or he’ll have the police at my desk before I can saythis is against temp agency rules.
Another vicious smile. “Come here, Ms. Anderson, or go wait at your desk for the boys in blue to get the handcuffs.”
The office outside is quiet, but not silent. There are people out there. I could make a scene. I could—I don’t know. Scream. Run.
But the part of me that thinks it might not be so bad to let Mr. Leblanc touch me.
He’s tall. He’s hot. More than hot. If it weren’t for the quickly fading bruise on his cheek, he could have walked out of a men’s fashion magazine.
My mouth goes dry.
Quick. Before anyone else comes in.
I go around to the other side of his desk. He points in front of his feet. There’s barely enough room for me to fit between his body and the desk. I brush against him as I go, mortified already.
I didn’t plan to have sex for the first time in my boss’s office.
It’s not just my hands shaking now. It’s my whole body.
I cling to the fact that he’s hot. That he wanted me. That I still have hope. I’m not fired. I’m not arrested.
Not yet.
He brushes his knuckles across the back of my neck, and I jump, my hands flying to my chest.
“Put your hands on the desk.”
The result is that I’m bent forward, just slightly, with my palms flat on his desk calendar. Must be fine, because he doesn’t comment. He just brushes his knuckles across the same spot again.
This time, I keep it together.
Outwardly, at least. Inwardly, I’m combusting.
He reaches in front of me and strokes one fingertip over the line of my jaw.
His next touch is lower. The front of my neck. One fingertip becomes his whole hand. A gentle squeeze. He doesn’t choke me, but I can’t breathe. My nipples are painfully hard.
