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But I stop myself. I can’t finish the sentence. It’s too close to flirting, too…intimate.
Fuck it.
“So?” he echoes, impatiently waiting for me to finish.
“So, how did I do?” I desperately want to bury my face in my hands or hide under the table or even pull the fire alarm, but if he’s going to be so flippant and nonchalant about this, then so will I. Because I’m actually dying to know now. If he lives this secretive kinky life, then I want a peek behind the curtain. It’s enticing, the idea of just dipping my toe into whatever forbidden, yetexciting,life he leads.
So, instead of hiding, I force my body not to betray me, and I keep my spine straight and expression relaxed. As if I just asked him what the soup of the day is and not how well I performed as a kinky secretary slave.
After a moment of prolonged silence and a deep exhale, he says, “You did exceptional, Charlotte.”
Wait, what?
“You seemed pretty exasperated with me,” I reply. “I didn’t do anything right.”
“Well, in your defense, you didn’t even know what you were doing.”
A laugh bubbles out of my chest. “So how was that exceptional?”
He’s pensive again, clearly at war with himself inside his head as he weighs his options, probably thinking that as the adultier adult here, he should really put an end to this inappropriate discussion. “I really shouldn’t say…”
“Oh, come on. You started it.” It takes some effort, but I manage to keep my casual tone and lazy approach.
And suddenly, there is no hesitation. The words just travel effortlessly across the table straight from his lips to my ears. “Ms. Underwood, you looked exquisite on your knees.”
Even if I had a voice at this moment, I wouldn’t know what to say. Instead, I’m rendered completely and utterly speechless, sitting across from him like a fish with my jaw hanging open, wondering how I went from a fight with Beau on his front lawn a couple days ago to this—his father telling me that I look goodon my knees.
No, not just good.Exquisite.That word has lost all meaning to me now. Not a day will go by in my long life when I will hear those three syllables and not think of a man twenty years my senior, using that exact designation when referring to how well I kneeled for him.
It’s ludicrous. Ridiculous. Narcissistic and sexist and demeaning and sensuous and flattering and…so many more words I can’t seem to find at the moment.
And somehow the only words I manage to utter in response are, “I did?”
“Yes,” he replies, and it sounds hungry, like a lion growling before the kill.
Sitting here in my dumbfounded silence, I implore my brain to manifest a coherent thought outside…oh that felt nice. Finally, it settles on a question.
“And this kneeling job…is something your company hires girls for?”
“Yes, we do.”
“And you thought I was one of those girls.”
“Correct.”
“Is that the job you’re offering me now?”
“That would be highly inappropriate, considering your relationship with my son.”
“Past relationship,” I add because all of this sounds insane, it really does, but I’m not so sure I want him to exclude me from it all just yet. My curiosity has gotten the better of me.
“Still.”
“You’re not hiring me as one of your kneeling girls because of Beau…”
“No, Charlotte. I’m not hiring you as one of mykneeling girlsbecause I need a secretary, and you seem like you need the money.”
“That felt like an insult,” I reply, and he laughs again.
