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“For as long as you work for me, when I tell you I’m taking you somewhere, you will comply.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but the second I step out of the building at five o’clock, I’m no longer your employee.”
“I’m driving you home, nonetheless, Indigo.”
“What if I have plans?”
“Do you?”
I sigh. “No.”
“Good. I’ll walk you to your office so you can get your things. Then I’m driving you home.”
7
Greyson
Tuesday
“Take a seat, Indigo.”
Before she can sit next to me as instructed, she looks over at the client, Johan, whose greedy eyes light up at her presence. If he weren’t my client, I’d seriously consider teaching him some fucking manners.
“Black, Earl Gray, English breakfast?” she asks in that bratty way of hers.
I know what she’s doing—payback for yesterday.
I blink slowly. “Excuse me?”
“Just wondering what kind of tea or coffee you’ll need today.”
“I’m good with my water,” says Johan with a smile.
“So am I,” I add. “Now, sit down. Now.Please.”
She does as she’s told, throwing me a faux-innocent little smile before picking up her pen as my mind wanders to the various ways this girl would benefit from some very thorough and intensive disciplining by me.
* * *
Half an hour in, I’m really trying to listen to what the insufferable asshole in the too-tight shirt is saying, but it’s remarkably difficult when Ms. Nilsson is sitting next to me, wearing the exact kind of curve-enhancing outfit I thought I’d made myself very clear about her not wearing to this office.
I’ve never called a woman up on her choice of outfit before. And I’m fully aware that several of the women around here wear lower-cut tops and shorter skirts, not something I’ve ever cared about.
But for some reason, when she does it, it rankles.
I know enough about the men around here to know exactly what they’ll be thinking when she sashays that tight little ass of hers down the corridor, wobbling around on heels she’s clearly not used to like some fucking baby deer not realizing she’s being watched.
Her breasts hang low against her shirt, whose buttons she’s opened to the top of her cleavage, as she leans over the page and writes down anything remotely pertinent that the wealthy CEO client sitting opposite me is telling us about his plans for next year.
I can’t stop myself from taking in her hand as she writes, her fingers slim, encased in numerous stone-topped silver rings, her short nails painted white. I can’t help but imagine taking them in my mouth.
I’m only having her sit in on meetings that couldn’t compromise any of our clients, but I’d forgotten quite how lecherous this particular one is, and every time he glances over at her ample tits, I have to restrain myself from ramming her pen into his eyeball.
As the meeting comes to a close, my fingers harden around the pen in my hand at the sound of a knock on the door. With half an hour to go, I was hoping we’d make it to the end of the day without him and her being in the same room together.
Without waiting for a reply, my father enters, liking to see our less important clients himself for a few minutes at the end.
“Johan,” he says, approaching, eyes fixed on the girl staring back at him, one whose presence in the same room as him I barely tolerate.
