AllFreeNovel
Share Us
You got yourself into this with your eyes wide open, Reed.
Mr. Rochester had never lied about his past. I had no excuse to feel upset about being confronted by the fact that Mr. Rochester had sexual partners before me.
No excuse...and yet the feeling had continued to linger in the brief moments that I was alone, tormenting me with images of Mr. Rochester with other women.
Women who were more beautiful and more accomplished, women who were more suitable for him than I could ever be...
The only times those painful thoughts had faded were when I was in Mr. Rochester’s arms, which fortunately happened more often than not. Mr. Rochester and I had fucked for five nights straight—-
And God oh God, the things we did in those 120 hours—-
We had only eaten and slept because we had to.
But other than that it really had been fucking nonstop.
Against the wall. On the floor. In the shower. Over the table. On the chair.
And in every position he could manage to convince me—-
Standing up. Sixty-nine. Doggie. Seated on his lap.
“Should I even ask what you’re thinking?” Mr. Rochester’s question, spoken in a quietly amused tone breaks the silence inside the limousine and hauls me back to the present.
“It’s nothing.” I avert my gaze as I speak and lace my fingers together over my lap. After nearly one week of nonstop shagging, Mr. Rochester and I are now back to our regular routine—-
And it’s a good thing, I tell myself doggedly. If we spend too much time together, we might end up being sick of each other—-
And you don’t want that, do you, Reed?
Mr. Rochester sighs. “Why do you insist on lying to me, Ms. Reed?”
I squirm on my seat. “I’m not—-”
“Is it because,” he asks at the same time, “you miss being punished?”
What the—-
You’d think I’d be used by now to having Mr. Rochester tease me, but I’m not. Everything he says or does still gets to me, and I’m either angry...or aroused.
Most times, it’s both...like now.
Turning to him, I half-stammer, half-snarl, “Of course not!”
“Liar.”
The limousine crawls to a stop, preventing me from responding right away. Mr. Rochester steps out first and after taking his hand, I wait until I’m on my feet before muttering childishly, “I’m not lying.”
“If you say so.” Mr. Rochester’s voice is smooth.
Too smooth, I think irritably, which means he’s just humoring me.
Bastard.
When we make it inside the building, the attention we draw is as I expected, which is a hundred times worse than usual. By now, there can’t be any doubt that Mr. Rochester and I have an understanding.
How can there be, with the way Mr. Rochester has his arm wrapped possessively around my waist?
Is she his girlfriend, I hear one of the interns ask before the elevator doors close on us.
I kinda want to know the answer to that myself, I think.
Mr. Rochester catches me looking at him. “What is it?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.” And it is nothing. I don’t need a label to define what we have, I tell myself. It’s the 21st century now, Reed. As long as you and Mr. Rochester are having fun without harming anyone—-
Then who cares what other people think, right?
Easier said than done, I realize a moment later.
When we make it to the penthouse floor, Mr. Rochester takes my hand as he leads me out of the elevator, and it’s all I can do to keep my head high even as most of the women shoot me dirty looks whenever Mr. Rochester isn’t looking.
As expected, I think with a silent sigh.
When we reach my desk, I try digging my feet in, saying, “This is me.”
“I know.” Mr. Rochester doesn’t stop walking. “But it’s not where I want you to be.”
And so I’m forcibly dragged into his office with him.
As soon as the door closes, I throw my hands up in exasperation, exclaiming, “What the hell’s that about? Didn’t we agree we’d do this low key?”
Mr. Rochester looks genuinely bemused. “That was low key.”
It was?
“If I had done what I wanted to do, then we’d have been making out in the elevator.”
“Oh.” All sorts of explicit images flash in my mind, deflating my anger and making me aroused instead.
He smirks. “Interested?”
“N-no.” But the word comes out a croak.
“Liar.”
Absolutely, I think. Even so I scowl at him, muttering, “I’m serious about keeping this low-key. Everyone’s probably talking about us now, and I’m sure they all think I’m your newest bimbo.”
“Then they’re idiots,” Mr. Rochester dismisses with a shrug. “Anyone only has to be in your company for five minutes to know you’re not the type.”
Oh.
“Secondly, your boobs aren’t big enough.”
OH!
“You fucking—-” But then I meet his sapphire eyes, see the gleam of amusement in them, and grimace, realizing he’s only pulling my leg. “Bastard.” But I have a hard time keeping myself from laughing.
