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“Ivy’s happy.” I stand up and straighten my tie.
They’ll know I visited him here. My story is solid though, if they even bother to ask questions. I doubt they will, but I like to be prepared. I came here to let him know in advance that he’s being fired. Even if he denies that, it works for me.
I love a perfect crime. Too bad Ivy got hurt in the past. I might not like her, but she never deserved him or the torment he brought her. Ever.
And what the fuck, maybe I’ll take him on in a pissing contest before his untimely demise.
For her.
“And you’re right, Trenton, she’s very fucking good at playing my dirty little slut. Begs for my cock. And she tastes like heaven, doesn’t she? Always so wet, so ready to fuck. Whenever, wherever. She loves kink, comes and comes like no other woman I’ve ever been with. A girl like that’s worth keeping, don’t you think?”
The look on his face is priceless.
“Oh, she didn’t get that way for you?” I step toward him. “Maybe because you’re a fucking sadistic pedophile who sexually tortured her as a child.”
“Bastard.”
“I’ve been told,” I say with a nasty smirk. I nod at the thumb drive. “Keep it, I’ve got copies. I’ll let myself out.”
“You seem different.” Ivy hesitates, clearly deciding if she should add “Sir” or not.
We’re at dinner in Greenwich Village, a cozy little place that has seriously good food and a romantic atmosphere. I figured it was fitting since I told her it was a date once I got home from Trenton’s. And then afterward, we’ll make our appearances at the clubs.
“Do I?”
Her baby doll dress is short and printed with flowers. She has on the black heels again, and her hair is in a ponytail, just the way she knows I like it.
It’s perfect.
She’s perfect.
If I wanted, I could grab her by that long, thick ponytail and pull her against me. I could hold her by her hair while I felt her up right at the table. Or slipped my fingers into her pussy underneath the tabletop and make her come.
And the slight nervous edge to her says she wouldn’t put it past me doing all that here.
I like that she doesn’t know.
Just like she wants to call me Sir.
The worlds of fantasy and reality have become so blurred, for both of us. I want them to bleed into one another and stay that way, blended forever.
A sir at an unplanned moment. Maybe whispered when we’re at a sex party. If she ever makes it back to school, maybe an unplanned visit to her there where I could lock the door to the lab and punish her ass for some made-up infraction. Or I could fuck her while she’s bent over a table. Or have her on her knees blowing me surrounded by beakers and microscopes.
The possibilities are both delicious and endless.
“Yes, Sir. It feels good. Happy. It suits you.”
Happy? I shift in my chair. It’s way too simple a word.
So I ignore the comment and focus on her. “You went shopping.”
She nods. “James—your driver—handed me a card. I-I used it. It had your name on it. But I can pay you back.”
“You want to pay me back for spending my money on something I asked you to get?” I shake my head. “There’s a line between subservient and a fucking welcome mat, Pollyanna.”
“Mercer—”
“Sir.”
