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Mr. Leblanc’s free hand traces my collarbone. He grips my throat. Short. Glancing. I see it for what it is.Here’s what I’ll do before I make you cry.Then he moves his hand to the back of my neck, but he doesn’t lean in for another kiss. He holds me still, watching, as he finger-fucks me. Slow and deep.
I understand without asking that I’m not supposed to close my eyes. That I’m not supposed to hide anything from him.
It feels so revealing when he watches me like this. Almost like he’d stripped me naked and put me in front of a spotlight.
“Are you this wet and hungry because I’m your boss?”
I don’t know how he can ask me questions in such a level, businesslike tone when he’s playing with my body. Testing the depth of his fingers. The pad of his thumb on my clit. Minuscule adjustments. As his temporary secretary, I’ve seen him do this in email chains. Small, considered changes to investment deals that seem like they should be nothing, but they end up making him millions of dollars.
I didn’t know the skill could translate into orgasms.
It’s going to, if he doesn’t stop.
Please, don’t let him stop.
“Yes. No.”
“Which is it?”
“I think—” I think my brain is unraveling. Pleasure overload. I don’t like to lie, but I don’t like to tell all my secrets, either. I just can’t help it. “I think it’s both. I think it’s you.”
I’d still think he was gorgeous even if he wasn’t my boss. I’d still want him no matter where he worked. Will beingmy boss is icing on the cake.
“Why do you have a palm tree on your desk?” Mr. Leblanc asks. “Those tropical candies?”
I’m waist-deep in pleasure. Maybe up to my chest. Maybe up to my head. It’s warm and bright, like ocean water under the sun. It takes a second for the words to penetrate. “What?”
“On your desk. You have a figurine of a palm tree. And a bowl of candy.”
My hands flex on his shirt. “Why were you looking at my desk?”
He did more than look. Mr. Leblanc knew they were tropical Jolly Ranchers, which means he picked one up. Turned it over and read the wrapper. Did he think about how they’d taste?
About how I’d taste?
“I go past it every day on the way out. I can look at my own property whenever I please.” I clench around his fingers, and Mr. Leblanc laughs, low and mean. “Dirty. You’re my property too, Bristol. I own you until you’ve paid back your debt. Answer the question.”
The question. The palm tree. The candy. “My siblings gave it to me. It’s a reminder. So are the candies.”
He circles my clit, adding pressure, and I’m really going to come. I’m desperate to know whether he’ll let me do it or whether he’s just teasing. Just torturing.
“A reminder of what?”
“Of where I—” I almost come mid-sentence. “Where I want to go.”
“And where is that?”
“The beach.”
“Why do you want to go to the beach, Bristol? You want men to look at you in your bikini. You want them to stare at your tits and wonder what your pussy feels like?”
“I want you to look.”
That’s when it happens. All the heat and pleasure between my legs exposed. I can’t see his face anymore. I can only feel his hand on the back of my neck. Can only hear him.
“That’s worth some money, Bristol. Keep coming. It’s fucking gorgeous. You’re making such a pretty mess.”
When I come back to myself, I discover that I’ve made fingernail imprints in the front of his shirt.
