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Mr. Rochester’s lips curve, but his tone is gently chiding when he says, “You care too much about what other people say.”
“To be honest,” I can’t help mumbling, “I never did...until you.”
One eyebrow arches. “Is this true?”
I nod jerkily. Years ago, I had left home and never looked back, not even when it reached me that my step-aunt had made up all sorts of lies about my sudden disappearance.
I ran away with an ex-convict.
I got out of town because I had to have an abortion.
I checked myself in for drug rehab.
And those were already among the nicer things that had been said.
There were other stories, more disgusting and all completely untrue, but I hadn’t even lost a single night’s sleep on any of them. As long as I knew the truth it was enough for me, but with Mr. Rochester—-
My lips compress.
There’s just something about this man that makes me feel overexposed and oversensitive, and I find myself caring about every damn little thing. Something about him is so damn...different. I’ve never even found myself crushing on a guy, but then Mr. Rochester acts like the biggest ass in the world to me, and what do I do in return?
Jump into bed with him and offer my virginity on a silver platter.
I look at Mr. Rochester. Dressed in a handmade Italian suit of dark grey, he looks even more stunningly handsome than the first time we met, and when our eyes meet and his lips curve into this devastatingly sexy and annoying smirk—-
I have this really bad feeling I’ve been doomed to be under this guy’s command for as long as I live.
“And aren’t I lucky,” I mutter sarcastically under my breath.
Mr. Rochester, already standing behind his desk as he browses through his morning papers, glances up at hearing me speak. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” I say sweetly. “May I go now?”
“Not yet.”
I scowl. “Why not?”
“Because I have something to tell you.” Mr. Rochester crooks a finger towards me. “Come here, Ms. Reed.”
I consider disobeying him.
“Now.”
Or maybe I’m just pretending to consider disobeying him, I think uneasily, so I can hear him order me around.
Gaaaah.
Either I’m suffering from temporary insanity—-
Or I’m just plain masochistic.
It’s a horrible thought, but even so I find myself moving towards him.
Mr. Rochester settles himself on his seat, and my heart lurches.
Oh no.
Is he going to—-
Mr. Rochester taps his lap.
I shake my head vehemently. “No.”
But our company’s resident bad boy only smiles, purring, “Yes.” And when he taps his lap once more, it’s like having my willpower sucked away and all of a sudden the only thing I need to do is whatever it is he wants to do.
Shit.
I am a masochist.
Mr. Rochester reaches for me, and when I sit stiffly on his lap, he croons, “Relax, my dear.”
Again: easier said than done.
But there’s nothing I can do, with Mr. Rochester already pulling me towards him, forcing me to lean against him, my back pressed to his chest—-
That’s when I feel his monstrous cock stirring underneath me, and a bolt of sensual excitement strikes me, making my body shudder.
Oooooh.
“Last week,” Mr. Rochester whispers into my ear, “was one of the most enjoyable times I’ve had in recent years.”
The sweet words catch me unaware, and I say awkwardly, “O-oh?”
“I want more of it.”
Oh.
“But unfortunately—-”
And of course there’s a but, I think darkly. All kinds of worst-case scenarios rush to my mind, and just about every one of them involves Mr. Rochester dumping me for another woman. Unable to bear the possibility that it’s so, I blurt out, “Are you ending things?”
Mr. Rochester turns me around to face him, and I catch sight of the flash of exasperation in his eyes as he remarks, “A negative Nancy, aren’t you?”
My face remains stoic, and I ask flatly, “Are you or aren’t you?”
“No, my dear.” His voice is amused. “I’ve barely had my fill of you so why the bloody hell would you think I’d end things this soon?”
Oh. His words alleviate my worries somewhat, but even so I say defensively, “You can’t blame me. You’ve been acting so shady since you said you were going to tell me something. I mean, why don’t you just say it—-”
“I’ll be gone for two weeks.”
My jaw drops. Two weeks? Two weeks?
Mr. Rochester pulls me back closer to him, murmuring, “I’m sorry it’s sudden. I only got the call about the emergency in London earlier.”
“It’s your life.” My voice is stiff. I try pulling away from Mr. Rochester, but my boss doesn’t let me up.
“Are you mad?” His uninjured hand moves up to cup my breast, and I hate the way it immediately swells at his touch despite the inner chaos I’m struggling with.
“I’m not mad.” But I can’t help slapping his hand away. Seriously, two weeks? When he chuckles, my hackles rise, and I snarl, “I’m really not. Okay? In fact, I wish you a safe trip.”
