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Well, I guess we know now, I mutter internally as I push my hands on the side of the chair and get to my feet, taking a few steps back so that he can see me.
His hands slide down the arms of his chair as he studies my face, and then my chest, my waist, my hips, my thighs, my legs, going all the way down to my feet.
It’s wildly inappropriate, but nerve endings I really thought dead as a dodo are now firing all over my body. That’s all I care about right now.
He inhales his satisfaction at my acquiescence sharply. “Turn around for me.”
Only this is where I draw the line.
I shake my head. “No way. You can see enough to appraise my outf—”
The word dissolves as Greyson gets to his feet, slowly walking his mammoth frame towards me. He stops six feet away.
“Turn,” he repeats.
I lift my chin and reply with as much nerve as I can muster up. “Absolutely not.”
I freeze to the spot as he begins to walk around me, a breath floating from him in a hoarse groan, caressing my neck, I swear.
That woody, citrusy scent of his envelopes my senses, distracting me from wondering whether my ass looks good from behind, and whether there’s any chance if I asked nicely, that Greyson could bend me over his desk right fucking now and fuck away the memories that haunt me at night, leaving me tossing and turning, unable to keep my eyes closed, taking showers in order to get the feel of someone else out of me.
I surely can’t be imagining it when another quiet groan rasps from his throat, the sound so delicious that it almost makes me close my eyes.
By the time he comes to stand back in front of me, I'm amazed I’m still standing at all, between the crackle of electricity zapping its way between our bodies and the sudden realization that my libido wasn’t actually guillotined, but just… put to sleep, waiting to be glared back to life by this man.
His hands tense as he watches me.
“Well?” I say, pretending that this man isn’t currently giving me a minor orgasm. “What exactly is the problem?”
“I don’t want you dressing like this in this office.”
“And why not?”
“The clothes… They’re too tight.”
“These are Carrie’s clothes. She told me to wear them.”
“She doesn’t have your…attributes.”
My nipples tighten into hard points beneath my blouse as I try to keep a lid on my indignation… and my arousal.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I spit out, although I already know.
Carrie’s body is more the ectomorph type—long and lean and goddess-like, the kind of lithe body you’d see walking down a runway.
I guess I’m as slim as her, but my waist is small, my hips a little broader, and my tits definitely a handful more bulbous.
“You know what it means,” he replies, eyes half closed as he inspects me. “I don’t want you walking around like this. This is a male-dominated office and I don’t need them distracted all day long.”
“Distracted?!Isn’t ittheirresponsibility to control their dicks? I hate to point this out, but there are several other women I’ve passed around here in mini-skirts and fuck-me heels. Do you take issue with them too?”
“I don’t give a fuck what anyone else wears,” he responds in rough irritation. “I won’t have men around here looking at you.”
That’s when it hits me—he’s not telling me to not wear these clothes because he’s a puritanical asshole with boundary issues, but because… he’s jealous.
“Isn’t that my business, not yours?” I ask just to annoy him.
“Don’t test me, Indigo.”
