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The receptionist gapes. "Y-y-your new assistant?"
"Put her on the list of people who have twenty-four seven access to me."
"Twenty-four seven?" It’s my turn to gape. I stare at him over my shoulder. "But I don’t need twenty-four seven access."
"Yes, you do." He locks his fingers above my elbow, and tendrils of heat vibrate out from his touch, arrowing straight to my core. My nipples harden, and I find myself swaying toward him to draw in his sea-breeze scent. Then, he’s steering me around the receptionist’s desk and toward an elevator set at the far side of the lobby. He stabs the button, and the doors open. He pushes me in, steps in after me, then presses his thumb onto a pad.
The dashboard illuminates with a green light, and the car rises upward. It’s so smooth, it’s only the progression of numbers in the floor display panel that indicates our upward movement. The elevator doors are buffed to a high polish that reflects back both of us. He releases me and moves to stand to the opposite side of the car, putting as much distance as possible between us, and a shiver runs down my spine. How is it possible to miss his warmth when he doesn’t mean anything to me? He’s an egotistical, pompous bastard who thinks no one can disregard his orders.
"If you think paying for my mother’s stay at the care home means you’ve bought me, then you’re—" I firm my lips, for he’s turned those startling green eyes on me. My words stick in my throat. Am I going to deny why I came to see him? Sure, it was to tell him off, but also to say I’d work for him.
The relief I felt knowing my mother doesn’t have to leave the home made me understand my priorities. It doesn’t matter what I have to do to keep her in there. Doesn’t matter that I'm going to work for the devil himself. Nothing matters as much as making sure she's comfortable and safe and content in her last days. And the bastard knows it. That’s why he paid for her for the next twelve months. Which means, I’m effectively bound to this job for that much time, at least. The fight goes out of me, and I glance away.
He notices it but doesn’t say a word. He could gloat about how he’s been proven right about the job, but he stays silent. The elevator slides to a stop at the top floor of the building. He couldn’t have his office anywhere else but where he’d be the lord and master of all he surveys, of course. The doors open, and he gestures for me to step out, then leads the way. This time, he doesn’t touch me. The first time I met him here, I was too nervous about the prospect of working for him to take in my surroundings. Now, I follow him past the rooms with executives still at their desks—apparently, people here work late nights—a small conference room with two other executives engaged in discussion, then two larger ones which are empty, and a workstation set outside double doors. He opens one and ushers me in.
I walk into what I know is his office. I noticed how spacious it was the last time, but this time, the details sink in. It has to be triple the size of the apartment I share with Mira.
Floor-to-ceiling windows cover one side, and I can see the Thames and the large imposing building which houses the MI5 on the opposite bank of the river. In the distance, the London Eye gleams in the evening sunshine. He props a hip on the massive desk that is set against another bank of windows. There’s a laptop, three screens, and a couple of papers stacked one on top of the other in a neat pile. Other than that, the surface is spotless. On the far end of the room is a bookcase—or rather shelves of a bookcase which are empty—that lines a wall, and in front of it is a seating area. There’s a sofa with its back to the bookcase, a coffee table in front of it, and two chairs on either side. Next to it is a door which I assume leads to an ensuite bathroom. In another corner is a long table with chairs, and a screen on the wall—a space meant for more formal meetings. Next to that is a wet bar, and adjoining the room is a kitchenette. Whoa, it’s a self-contained unit. A self-contained, not very lived-in unit. There’s no art on the walls, no empty coffee cup, no pictures. Except for the papers on top of his work desk. It’s a sterile room, with a stunning view dominating the space. Unable to resist the view, I walk over to the window and glance out.
The hair on the back of my neck rises, and I know he’s watching me. I tighten my hold on my bag and continue to stare ahead. If I turn to him, I have to face the fact that I’m at his mercy.And would that be so bad? What the—! I did not think that. I did not!And I can’t hide away by looking at the view, either.
"So,"—I point at the MI5 headquarters—"is it true that, though you were in the army, you were on a secret mission for the MI5 when you were captured?"
The silence in the space seems to deepen. The temperature seems to drop until it’s frigid in here. I wouldn’t be surprised to see my breath forming puffs of condensation in front of me. Goosebumps rattle up my skin. I mentally slap myself. Nice one, you went and said the one thing that he didn’t need to hear. The one thing that’s probably giving him flashbacks to his capture and to whatever was done to him there, and I had to bring it up.
I draw in a breath, then square my shoulders. "Okay, sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t mean to constantly bring back memories of your time as a prisoner of war. It’s just—"
Heat sears my back. I turn and gasp, for he’s standing right behind me.
12
Knight
"You want to know why I have this unrestricted view of the MI5 building from my office?"
She gulps, her bag slips from her shoulder, and I catch it, then lower it to the ground next to her. When I straighten, the color bleeds further from her features. Her fear is a visceral scent that zips straight to my groin, and my cock grows harder than it’s been since I’d first seen her standing at my reception. Fucking woman. Can’t stop myself from thinking of all the dirty things I want to do to her. Not when I’m away from her, and not when she’s standing in front of me, all big eyes and blonde hair and pink lips parted in surprise. "Do you, Little Dove?"
"Do… Do I what?" she stutters.
"Don’t make me repeat my question."
She pales further; her eyes dilate. She glances at the door, then back at me.
"I’m not letting you leave without answering," I drawl.
She manages to get a hold of herself and draws herself up to her full height, which still means, she’s only at eye level with my chest. Not a surprise, considering how tall I am. Most women are diminutive in front of me. But I don’t want to drop to my knees and press my face into the apex of their legs and draw deeply of their pussy scent, the way I want to with her. And if she doesn’t speak soon, nothing is going to stop me from doing it right now, either.
She must read some of the intensity on my face, for she takes a step back, only to freeze when her shoulder blades touch the windowpane. She gulps, "N-no."
"No, what?"
"No, I don’t know why you have this unrestricted view of the MI5 building from your office." Then, she flashes me a bright smile because, of course, that’s what Ms. Sunshine and Happiness does.
"Let me enlighten you." I twirl my finger in the air.
She blinks, then slowly follows my lead and turns around to face the window again.
"Good girl."
