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One of my thighs tries to sneak inward and trap his hand, but he stops me with a single, disapproving noise.
I’ve become a different person in the last five minutes. A woman who spreads her legs even wider for her boss.
That’s not the reason I’m wet. Not the reason I’m soaked. Not the reason I’m having trouble staying still. And it isn’t because I don’t want him to touch me. It’s that I want more contact, and he doesn’t give it to me. His fingertips circle my hole.
I hear it. That’s how wet I am.
“Oh, Ms. Anderson,” he scolds. “Are you sure you didn’t get caught stealing fifty thousand dollars on purpose?”
I open my mouth to protest, but I don’t get the chance. Mr. Leblanc’s fingertips meet my clit, and I let out a low moan. “No.”
Small circles. Even pressure. “That was a little loud, don’t you think? I’m certain you don’t want the rest of the office to hear.”
I pinch my lips shut.
He knows what he’s doing. He’s touching me the way I want now. Fingertips moving. Palm over my folds. I find myself arching back for him even while embarrassment eats me alive.
If I die from this, at least I won’t owe anyone any money.
But that doesn’t happen. I stand there, I stay, with Mr. Leblanc’s hand working between my legs. Circling my clit. I’m on the edge. My thighs shake.
This—this is what’s wrong.
He could make me come, but he just keeps making those maddening circles. I’m so close. I could do it. I could orgasm in this humiliating position and not make a single sound, I want it that badly.
“You want to come, don’t you?” he murmurs.
“Yes.” The word struggles past gritted teeth.
“Poor thing.”
One more circle, and his hand is gone. He tugs my panties up and lets the waistband snap into place. Flips my skirt down.
I’m frozen with my palms on the desk.
Mr. Leblanc snaps his fingers. “Up.”
“You—” You can’t be serious. That’s what I want to say. You can’t leave me this way. Wet and unsatisfied and embarrassed. I have no other clothes to change into. I just have to live like this all day.
A cruel grin says he’s done it on purpose. “You have work to do, Ms. Anderson. Go back to your desk.”
Chapter Nine
Bristol
Mia stands in the doorway to my bedroom, her arms crossed over her chest. She sticks her chin out. There’s a defiant fire in her eyes.
“I don’t want to go back, Bristol. It’s not fun there. I’m always getting into trouble for nothing.”
I meet her eyes in the mirror as I slide the backs onto the second of a pair of cheap pearl studs. Duane Reade, I think. I’m careful to keep my expression nonjudgmental. “Your teacher said you have trouble sitting still in class. That doesn’t mean you are trouble. And it doesn’t mean you can’t have fun.”
“Yes, it does mean that. I can’t have any fun.” Her eyes slide to the window, and I see just how it is in class. “I can’t even sneak a book.”
She’s looking out the window and worrying. Probably about the man who beat up our dad.
I turn around and pull her in for a hug. “How about I talk to your teacher?”
“No.” Mia pulls back. “Don’t tell her anything. I’ll do better today.”
