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“Not a single thing,” I answered coolly.
“Are you certain?”
“Hundred ten percent,” I snapped.
But instead of enraging him – which a part of myself foolishly wanted to happen – Mr. Rochester only smiled. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said softly, “since it means you want me to fuck you that much.”
My jaw dropped. What was he—-
And then Mr. Rochester took his phone out, saying, “Security sent me CCTV footage, Ms. Reed. You were in the staff kitchen, enjoying what I assumed was a very late dinner.” Mr. Rochester paused. “But then I looked closely and I realized that it wasn’t the only thing you were enjoying.”
I looked at his phone and saw myself on the screen, staring at his photo, a look of undeniable arousal on my face.
Oh God.
“I was actually prepared to let everything go, Ms. Reed. If you had simply apologized, we could have put the incident behind us and things could have gone back to normal.” Mr. Rochester gazed at me contemplatively. “Sorry. That was all you had to say, Ms. Reed.”
I couldn’t answer right away...because he was right. Why hadn’t just I said ‘sorry’? Why?
“But you didn’t apologize.” Mr. Rochester leaned back against his seat. “Instead you did the opposite. Rather than keeping your mouth shut, you kept provoking me at every turn. It was as if you were begging to be punished—-”
“T-that’s insane.” But my voice was faint, and a large part of me was terrified that what he said was true. Hadn’t I been wondering myself why I kept saying and doing the most outrageous things in his presence?
“It was clear enough you wanted me to be furious,” Mr. Rochester went on as if I hadn’t said a word, “but what frankly puzzled me was why. Why would you court trouble so deliberately? I read your background report, so I knew you couldn’t afford to lose the job. I considered the media angle: perhaps you were a paid snoop by the paparazzi, but it didn’t fit your profile—-”
“It’s none of that,” I finally blurted out. “And you’re right I’m sorry—-”
“Please, Ms. Reed. There’s no need of that.”
I blinked.
Mr. Rochester flashed another smile. “After all, it’s already too late.”
What?
“When I saw the video everything became clear.”
It did?
“This tiny glimpse into your private world was enough to explain everything.” As he spoke, Mr. Rochester glanced down at his phone, and I flinched when I saw him running his thumb down the screen.
Oh God.
My body started trembling almost as if his hands were caressing the real me, and not just a captured image of myself—-
SHIT.
How could I be so aroused with just the knowledge that he was watching me stare at his almost-naked photo?
It didn’t make any sense, I thought numbly.
Mr. Rochester chuckled, and when my gaze jerked towards him, he said calmly, “Of course it does.”
My eyes widened. I hadn’t realized that anxiety had me unconsciously speaking my thoughts out loud.
“The photo was the mere trigger, but the desire was there all along.”
His words stunned me, and I said automatically, “No.” I shook my head. “It’s not like that.” And it couldn’t be.
But it was as if he hadn’t heard me.
“It was why you started acting out the moment you saw me,” Mr. Rochester murmured. “You were like a child who wanted my fucking attention—-”
“NO.” This time, I cried the word out. “It’s not—-”
“It’s exactly like that,” Mr. Rochester crooned, “and you’ll be glad to know that it worked.”
I froze.
“You have my fucking attention.” Mr. Rochester paused. “The question is...what do you want to do about it?”
“DO YOU REMEMBER EVERYTHING now?” Mr. Rochester’s words, spoken in a dulcet tone, snap me back to the present, and I nod jerkily in answer, accepting that there’s no point lying.
He knows. Mr. Rochester. Mr. Rochester knows he turns me on.
A tidal wave of sensation threatens to sweep me away, and I find myself gripping the armrests tightly. I wish I could say it’s dread that’s trickling down my spine and making me shiver, but I know it’s not.
It’s something worse – like excitement, or even arousal.
He knows. Mr. Rochester knows.
And as if the realization isn’t enough torture, my mind starts replaying events of last night, forcing me to confront reality.
You have my fucking attention. The question is...what do you want to do about it?
My cheeks flush at the memory, and when I find myself involuntarily searching for Mr. Rochester with my gaze it’s as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking—-
Mr. Rochester’s smile is all taunting sexiness, but it’s a complete contrast with his oh-so-polite tone as he prompts, “And your answer, Ms. Reed?”
Arrogant bastard.
God, I hate him.
Jumping unthinkingly to my feet, I bite out, “Nothing. Nothing is going to happen because you’re being completely delusional.”
Mr. Rochester’s smile continues to play on his lips. “Am I?” And then his gaze slowly moves down, lingering on my chest.
