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“That is obvious.”
It is not his first time alluding to this notion. Each time he does it, it freaks me out even more. I am officially shocked and scared at the ambiguous word, each emotion fighting for the winning spot.
He stares at me with hunger in his eyes. “I really like to be in control, Angie.”
“Okay, Graham, what does that mean exactly?”
“I would rather know what you think it means, sweetheart. Surely you have some sort of idea floating around in your pretty head.”
“Well, as bossy as you seem to be, I imagine your need for control goes beyond the walls of just the office or the bedroom. I guess you do not become a CEO by taking orders, but rather giving them. Probably makes you all squishy inside too.”
Graham moves over to the conference table, leans his backside against the smooth polished surface, and crosses his arms over his broad chest. He looks powerful. Unmovable. “Perceptive, despite your need for sass. Please go on,” he persuades.
“Mr. Hoffman,” I say, turning my attention away from the skyline, “what is left to say? You have to understand in your pretty little head that most people do not throw a temper tantrum every time someone disagrees with them. That most people have their own brain. Make their own decisions. Have civil discussions in the face of adversity. So, maybe—”
His blue-topaz eyes darken to the richest shade of sapphire stopping me midsentence. My eyes blur with a flash of color. His body charges and lunges toward me. Several sounds penetrate my ears—a growl, a whoosh of air, and my own yelp. His arms scoop me up and carry me over to a sofa, ignoring my weak protests. We descend together, and I try to wiggle out of his vise-like grip. He flips me over his knees, and my hands are swiftly pinned behind my back, confined by the strength of his unyielding fingers. I struggle, only to discover the rock-hard protrusion of his cock pressed against my lower belly. My thighs clench to hold back the molten lava burning inside me. I silently thank my intuition for deciding on the confining outfit over something flirtier, with fifty percent less material. I grimace at my reaction to being Graham-handled. My breasts heave against the side of his thigh. I am trapped and paralyzed in the shock of my own want and his own physical reaction to my close proximity.
“What the hell, Graham?” I yell. “What are you doing?
“What I should have done as soon as you stepped foot inside my office.”
“Let me go.” I try to keep my voice even and calm, but the little hiccup imperfections in my pitch give away my struggle.
“No. That’s not what you want, Angie. That’s not what your body needs.”
I shake my head back and forth as best I can from the confining position he has me locked in.
“You just keep lying to yourself, sweetheart. Trying to convince yourself that you don’t feel this attraction. You make me powerless. You’re the one who is making me out of control.”
“Oh no, do not blame this on me,” I say, wiggling to get free. Big mistake. It is just causing friction to where I crave it most. “I swear your bipolar ways need to stop. You go from calling me sweetheart one second and then going all caveman the next. It confuses the hell out of me.”
I can feel his appraising eyes all over every inch of me, soaking up my vulnerability. I feel naked under his gaze. He’s enjoying the show—of this I am sure. His free hand smacks my butt with each squirm that I make. I am primed and sexually charged. I hear a string of unintelligible expletives spew from his mouth. The clapping sound hits my ears first before the sting warms my behind.
It is dirty.
Raw.
Sexy.
The swat is hard enough to invoke a small whimper, but light enough to shoot sensory pulses to my toes. My breath leaves my lungs in spurts, keeping my vocal tendencies at bay. I fume on the inside at how affected I am by this simple, inferior position I am in. None of my erogenous zones are intentionally caressed. I am fully clothed, yet my mind focuses on the pleasure of the nonsexual-sexual act. Graham is testing me. And I am submitting to his will, giving him exactly what he wants, exactly what I told myself I wouldn’t do.
The sensations of the pleasure-pain pulses fool the rational centers of my brain. At no time has anyone ever put me in this position, not even as a small, defiant child. I have seen my fair share of time-outs, but other than that, refusal of toys and privileges topped the list of punishments growing up. Here, Graham is extracting pent-up emotions that I didn’t even know I was holding on to. I knew that taunting him with my sassy mouth was playing with fire, but out of bottled-up curiosity, I wanted to test the boundaries to see how far I could push. And keep pushing before he would snap. There is something in him that thrills me and entices me to want to be bad and to make him lose the control he claims he must have.
In a matter of seconds, I am lifted up and helped to stand while Graham remains seated comfortably on the couch.
“Show me how turned on you are, Angela.”
“What?” My legs quiver with the directive. I stare back while he runs a hand down his stomach and cups his erection straining to break free.
“Undo your button and zip down the jeans that must have been painted on you, they fit so well.”
“I—”
“Do it, Angie. Fucking show me how saturated you are. Prove to me that I am not a delusional asshole. That this is not all fabricated in my head.”
My thighs clench at his strong words. It’s as if he is angry at himself. And for some unknown reason, I am compelled to listen. To take my trembling fingers and unbutton the button of my jeans. To pull the zipper down. I stand like a statue. My hands are down by my sides, and the front panels of my jeans lay open like a mounted butterfly, barely revealing my lace thong.
Graham leans forward, grabs the pieces of denim and uses them as handles to jolt me forward a few inches. He peels my jeans down so they are resting at midthigh. His growl is low in his throat. “I can smell your beautiful pussy from here.”
