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“Is something bothering you, Mr. Ford?” During office hours, I make it a point to call him by his formal name. Not because he requires it, but because the flare of heat in his eyes makes me hot.
Price sets the pen on his desk, atop a thick stack of tiny print legalese for a contract I know is due this afternoon. He steeples his fingers over the top of the pages and considers my question. If I hadn’t felt his stare for the last few minutes, I might have been tempted to buy into his taciturn regard. I know better. I’ve seen the passion no one else around here is privy to. I know he’s debating whether to play it straight or to take the opportunity to engage in some workplace shenanigans.
Unexpected, right? Who would have imagined, in a million years of imagining, that stone-cold asshole Price Ford would be the type to get off on chasing his intern around the office, so he can tear off her panties and ravage her on his desk? Well, as long as the intern is me…
I scoured the internet for every bit of information I could find about him after we met face to face. Not one single mention on any forum or reddit thread of him being a playboy. He never dated, and from everything I can find, he didn’t bother attending the social events one would expect wealthy businessmen to frequent. In fact, the open secret seems to be, the best way to get Price to donate to a cause is to skip inviting him to fundraising events and just send a request for funds. It’s only the certainty I’m different, special, that has allowed me to feel comfortable letting our relationship become intimate.
Maybe, I should feel some sort of way about sleeping with my boss, but I don’t. People use nepotism, networking, friends and family connections, etcetera to advance in the world. Why should I care if people think I’m getting ahead by getting on my knees? I know the truth. So does Price.
I’m about to finish my undergrad Magna Cum Laude. I’m being courted by multiple master’s programs, all of which are offering fellowships and grants for me to come study. I’ve built an impressive resume shone long before I set foot through these doors. Monarch Renewables is lucky to have me. So is Price.
I lift my eyebrow and meet his stare. If he wants to play, he’ll have to work for it. We’re behind schedule today as it is, thanks to his weird mood this morning. I’d gone into the bathroom after we shared breakfast, so I could brush my teeth and take my birth control pill. Today’s pill was already popped and gone from the little foil packet, and my toothbrush was wet, as though I’d brushed already.
When he’d seen my confused look and I explained I didn’t remember taking my pill and brushing my teeth already, he’d given me a tight smile and said maybe, I’d still been foggy from my morning orgasms and forgotten. My birth control and teeth brushing routine is so ingrained it's practically sacrosanct, so it seems weird I’d mess up the order of my morning like that. The real weirdness centered around the look on his face. As if he were waiting on me to challenge him or argue more.
“Are you fulfilled here, Ms. Casey? Do you like your position with Monarch Renewables?” Of all the things I’d expected might come out of his mouth, this isn’t even close to being on the radar.
“Sure. I mean, obviously, I can’t continue on as an intern forever. Price, what’s going on with you?”
He gives his head a shake and then offers me the first true smile I’ve seen in the last few days.
“Never mind me. Just being a future thinker. You might recall, Ms. Casey, that’s somewhat of a hallmark around here.”
There’s the arrogant smirk I’m used to seeing whenever anyone else is around. Being the target of it is every bit as disconcerting as I’ve seen others find it.
“Should I order in an early lunch? You’re in a strange mood. Perhaps, some food might regulate your blood sugar and help get your day back to normal.” I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but it’s very, very unlike my boss to be so distracted.
Chapter3
Price
Lyric thinks food will fix my mood, as though I’m a child to be mollified with some fish-shaped crackers and a juice box. She’s always trying to organize and streamline my day to clear obstacles from my workday and smooth the paths. She says it’s about helping me be as efficient as possible, so my brilliance can flourish. I know what she’s actually doing when she fusses like she does, though. She’s quite obviously pouring her innate sweetness onto me. Blanketing me in the loving care that radiates from her precious heart.
Three months in my bed, countless hours under me, astride my lap while perched on my cock, endless moments stretched out over my desk with my hips pounding into her firm backside, and she still thinks she can manage me. I may be comfortable allowing her to fuss and perform her little acts of love, but that doesn’t mean she’s in control. Not here in the office and certainly not in our bedroom.
Yes, I saidourbedroom. Technically, Lyric may still have an apartment across town near campus, but for all intents and purposes, I’ve moved her into my home. She rides in with me every morning, stays until my workday is done, and returns to my home at night. On days she has class, she borrows the plug-in electric car I keep here at the office for quick runs around town to meetings and appointments.
Lyric is mine. In every space, in every way, and it’s time I start reminding her of that.
“Come here.” It’s not a request. I’m not asking. Hearing the command in my tone, she pushes the door closed and crosses from where she’s been leaning against the doorframe of my office.
When she’s standing next to my chair, her knees pressed to the side of my thigh, I push my chair farther from my desk and guide her to stand in front of me. I press forward until her backside is against the edge of my oversized desk. She shivers at the feel of the cool metal and glass against her exposed thighs.
The rule since the first day I took her as my own has been skirts and dresses in the office. I’ve found I have no restraint around Lyric, and the feral hound she’s unleashed in me demands unobstructed access to her sweet, hot pussy. Slacks get in the way of that, I’ll fucking destroy anything that comes between me and her slick cunt.
“Early lunch is a good idea. I’ll start with an appetizer.” I shove her form fitting pencil skirt into a ring around her waist and boost her onto the glass desktop. It’s sturdy enough. Fuck knows, we’ve tested its durability repeatedly.
I waste no time getting her plush pussy lips spread and my mouth latched over the tight little pearl of her clit. For a slender woman, Lyric’s got a juicy, fat cunt with labia pillowy enough to cushion even the roughest fuck I can deliver.
Just another dichotomy that makes the woman endlessly fascinating to me. I target her firm clit with my tongue and teeth, battering it almost brutally with my mouth. I’m driving her to her peak with no finesse, no build up.
It’s her orgasm I want. Drinking it is the sustenance I need to mollify the monster inside me that demands she be punished for planning to abandon me. Abandon us.
Lyric always comes first. Another rule. Sometimes, it’s a leisurely, rolling one that tells her with my attention how cherished and vital she is to me. Today? I’m going to orgasm her viciously. Torment her body with pleasure until the pain of it destroys any ability to think about leaving me.
“What are you doing to me? Price? Price!” Her panting questions tell me she’s not mindless enough yet. I pull back and snarl at her.
“If you’re asking, I’m not doing enough.”
