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They’re a waste of time and lack purpose—something that fools do to feel cunning or important. That type of affirmation means absolutely nothing to me.
If anything, I’m the one who makes the games and sets the rules that everyone needs to follow.
So imagine my fucking surprise when I find myself dragged into a game I didn’t sign up for. A game that shouldn’t have existed in the first place.
I’m in the middle of it now. Right there where the game—Gwyneth—is.
You can play with me all you want. I’ll be your toy.
Those mere words turned me into a fucking insatiable beast. I didn’t only win her in the middle of the game, but I also had every right to play with her, torture her, torment her.
A week now. It’s been a week since the day I broke my own protocol and brought sex to my workplace. When I ate her out and tasted her sweet cunt.
I don’t mix business with pleasure.Ever.It’s unprofessional, bothersome, and fucking distracting.
Or that’s what I thought before her, Gwyneth, my unwanted game. Because I sure as fuck didn’t think about the risks when I told her to open her legs, then proceeded to have her for lunch.
And like an addict, the need for more kept multiplying with each day.
Now, I’m the one who seeks that fucking distraction.
I tell her to behave and she doesn’t. Gwynethreallydoesn’t know how to. She’ll either drop something and bend over to pick it up, putting her ass on display, or she’ll flirt with Christoph.
We’re only talking, she tells me.We’re friends and we talk. I wasn’t flirting with him. But fuck that, if she’s laughing with him and he’s the only intern she talks to, then it’s fucking flirting.
So I call her into my office, bend her over the table and eat her out. Sometimes I finger her until she’s screaming and writhing and begging. I love it when she begs, when her little body is so much at my mercy that she knows she won’t be able to escape my wrath unless she begs.
Then when I get home, I go up to her room and have her for dinner. I teach her how she should behave at the firm, how she should be focused on her work, not on anything else. That she’s not allowed to have lunches with Sebastian, Daniel, and Knox. Yes, one of them is my nephew, but still. She’s too easygoing around them, too vibrant, too alive, and I fucking hate that.
I also hate that everyone seems to be expecting cupcakes from her now. She’s been religiously bringing them to everyone, especially the IT girl and fucking Christoph.
She either stays up late or wakes up early to bake them while singing off-tune as Alexa plays her favorite band, Twenty One Pilots. She never told me they were her favorite, but she listens to them all the time, whether she’s in the shower, baking, or helping Martha in the kitchen. Anytime, anywhere. They’re her auditory vanilla milkshakes and ice cream, I now realize. They’re what keeps her at peace, even though her peace is loud.
All of it is too much. From her and the music to her body language. Because she doesn’t just sing and listen and bake, she dances, too, and it’s as off-rhythm as her off-pitch voice.
Gwyneth is a loud person when she’s alone. So loud that it’s hard to tune her out. So loud that she interrupts my violent silence. I used to prefer that simple nothingness, the lack of sounds, and the clearance of mind that helps me concentrate and work, but ever since she’s been killing that violent peace, whenever I hear her damn “Alexa, play Gwen’s playlist,” I can’t resist coming out to watch the show.
Like right now.
I lean against the kitchen’s entryway and cross my legs at the ankles. After I got home a while ago, I took a shower and then went to get some water while wearing a towel. Something that made Gwen stare at me bug-eyed as her cheeks, ears, and neck turned red. So I changed into sweatpants and a gray T-shirt. Sometimes, I forget I’m not on my own now and that there’s a woman who looks at me as if I’m the most beautiful and frustrating thing she’s ever seen.
In the past, I didn’t give a fuck about how women saw me. Yes, King and I often attracted attention for our looks and athletic bodies, but it was all a game. A shallow, meaningless game that had no effect on my life whatsoever. So why the fuck do I feel a tinge of pride whenever Gwyneth looks at me as if I’m the only man she sees?
Back to the present—I usually stay outside so she doesn’t notice me, but fuck it, I’m watching her up close and personal today.
Holding a spatula as a microphone, she plays the role of a backup singer to the one who’s currently rapping. The upbeat music fills the kitchen and she sways her hips and kicks her leg, seeming lost in the song.
I’m supposed to be going through a case file, but I’ll do that later when she goes to sleep. That’s when my violent silence returns and I can concentrate.
However, that might be a fucking lie, because I’ve been losing grasp of the wordconcentrationsince I made this chaotic girl my wife.
She never misses a chance to barge into my thoughts uninvited. Whenever I’m working, in a meeting, or even in court, I think about her on my desk with her legs wide apart as she moans my name and tells me she’s been a very bad girl and wants me to teach her how she can be a good girl. Though she doesn’t genuinely mean that, considering she’s always being naughty in one way or another.
And I can’t stop thinking about that, about her hidden tendencies and sweet taste. I haven’t been able to stop since the first time.
Since I touched her and got a hard-on for my friend’s fucking daughter.
I close my eyes to chase that line of thinking away.
