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That will teach her.
I hear the other women snigger as they agree.
Bitch. I want to scratch all of their eyes out, but even I know my anger is superficial. The person I’m really furious with is him.
It’s half past two when Mr. Rochester walks back into the office, and again he strides past my desk without a word.
I resist the urge to throw my laptop at him.
Whatever.
I’m just over it—-
Or so you say, the know-it-all voice inside my head snickers, but we know that’s a lie since you still don’t have your panties on.
Shit.
My inner voice has a point, and it’s all I can do not to throw a tantrum and start slamming my keyboard against the desk.
Damn him. Damn him. Damn him.
Did he ask me to get rid of my panties purely to make fun of me? Is all of this just a game to Mr. Rochester?
I stare murderously at my laptop’s screen. Instead of words and numbers I see my boss’ face, and God I want to slap it so—-
My intercom suddenly buzzes, making me jump in my seat.
Shit.
I clutch my chest unconsciously, hating the way my heart so easily changes its reason for beating madly, switching from anger to excitement in a blink of an eye.
After taking a deep breath, I pick up the receiver. “Yes, Mr. Rochester?”
“You took long enough to answer.”
“I—-”
“Don’t bother. I’m not interested. Just get in here. Now.” The line goes dead, leaving me gaping at the receiver.
Bastard.
I jump to my feet—-
And regret it a second later when I feel my skirt inch up dangerously close to the crack of my ass.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Face flushing, I hastily push my skirt down and look around guiltily, but fortunately no one seems to be facing my way. I force my limbs to work, all the while conscious of how bare my lower half is. I don’t know what I’d do if someone actually ended up finding out I don’t have anything under my skirt.
Kill Mr. Rochester first probably, I think grimly, then myself.
Not bothering to knock on Mr. Rochester’s door, I barge inside my boss’ office and slam the door loudly behind me, uncaring of how it would look to others. Crossing my arms over my chest, I demand coldly, “Do you really think I’m in the mood right now?”
It’s a grand entrance if I say so myself, but I might as well have slunk in like a timid little mouse with all the attention my boss gives me. Mr. Rochester hasn’t even glanced up the entire time I was speaking and instead takes his time putting his papers away. After, he places his pen on the desk before getting to his feet with leisurely grace.
And then he’s walking towards me, his glittering sapphire eyes meeting my gaze—-
Ah.
I’ve never had anyone look at me so possessively before, and it leaves me stunned and jittery, but more than anything else it makes me wet—-
Oh God.
My legs snap together in an instinctive attempt to stem the wetness threatening to gush past my folds. I feel feverish and cold at the same time – it’s a strange, all-consuming feeling and I start to tremble as Mr. Rochester comes closer and closer—-
Oh God. Oh God.
The scent of his aftershave precedes him, tantalizing and teasing, and a tiny gasp escapes me. How can a mere scent be arousing in itself?
I watch Mr. Rochester’s lips curve slowly into a taunting smile. “I can smell how wet you are for me, Ms. Reed.”
His purring voice is just as provoking, and the combination makes my fingers clench against my sides as I hiss, “Bastard.”
But my rage seems only to amuse him. “Dare I hope you’ve been a good girl?”
Before I can even think of a proper retort to his hateful question, Mr. Rochester is already drawing me close, his uninjured hand firmly clasping the side of my hip.
“What—-”
And then I feel his hand moving down my side.
I stiffen. “Mr. Rochester—-”
His hand goes under my skirt and moves up. In the next second his fingers come into contact with the bare flesh of my pussy.
Whatever else I have to say is completely forgotten as a gasp tears out of me at his touch.
“It’s time for your reward,” Mr. Rochester rasps.
R-reward?
But there’s no chance for me to speak. His fingers have started moving and oh—-
Oh God, it’s so, so, so much more than I’ve ever hoped for.
My knees give out, but even as Mr. Rochester releases a low, dark chuckle at the way my body sags against him, his expertly skillful fingers don’t stop moving. Every stroke seems calculated to make me wetter and hotter, and God it’s driving me crazy—-
“Please,” I choke out.
“Please what, Ms. Reed?”
“You know.” My fist strikes his chest, but it’s a half-hearted attempt, and whatever impact it should have is completely ruined by the way my body shudders as his fingers start stroking faster over my folds.
