7. Drake
CHAPTER 7
Drake
I’d been pretty sure that one of the pills Patrick had given me would last through a morning of meetings, but after about one o’clock, I start recognizing the signs that they’re wearing off.
I snap at Caroline, who gives me a look that makes me wonder if she’s going to job interviews on her lunch breaks, and I swear to myself I’ll give her a bonus. If I can’t make her want to stay because of the job, I’ll just pay her enough to where it’s worth dealing with me.
“Sorry,” I mumble as I slink out of the last meeting of the day. Oliver and I had spent most of it arguing, completely derailing the entire presentation and prolonging a half hour meeting into a full hour.
“For what, Mr. Brutal?” Caroline asks, the picture of the executive assistant who doesn’t hate her boss as much as I’m sure she hates me.
I scowl at her for a second, then remember that I don’t want her to leave. “Come in my office for a second,” I tell her, heading that way.
She follows me in, closing the door behind her.
With how many closed-door meetings we have, people probably think we’re fucking, but I couldn’t find her less appealing if I tried.
She’s pretty enough, with auburn hair and piercing green eyes, but she’s too put together, too calm, too… responsible. Or something. I don’t really know, but there’s nothing about her that makes me want to shove my dick into her .
Not like Mimosa, who barely does anything at all but still has me wanting to fuck her senseless — sometimes out of anger, sometimes out of desire, but wanting to all the same.
“I need you to find out what Oliver is up to,” I say as I settle into the chair behind the desk and gesture for her to take a seat across from me.
“Spying isn’t in my job description,” Caroline says steadily.
I glare at her. “What? Yes, it is. You’re my executive assistant. That means you do everything I ask.”
“Are you sure? Let me pull up the contract. I believe my list of duties includes day to day support of your work duties, while being on-call for work emergencies,” she retorts.
“Yes, and telling me what they’re up to is supporting me in my day-to-day work,” I counter, bitterness seeping into my voice. Fuck, I don’t need this right now. I think about the pills in my desk drawer and how much I’d love to pop one right now.
I don’t particularly want to give Caroline extra reasons to quit, though.
“Can I be honest with you?” she asks, and while her voice is careful, I can tell she’s going to say something that’ll probably piss me off.
I grunt in assent, waving a hand in her direction to tell her to go on.
“Oliver isn’t the problem.”
I ball my hands up in fists at my sides, but I don’t interrupt her. Of course he’s the fucking problem. Everything here would be perfect if that fucking snake wasn’t doing something behind my back.
“As long as you’re in top form and have the support of the shareholders, they can’t do anything,” she says.
I snort. “But I don’t have the support of the shareholders, is what you’re saying.”
“I can only go by what I’ve observed, but….” Her brows furrow. “You’ve blown off a lot of meetings lately, Mr. Brutal. You missed the last shareholder meeting, too.”
I grimace. “Not on purpose. I had to meet with…”
No matter what I say, it’ll sound like a stupid excuse. Especially since it is a stupid excuse. We’d just saved Chase’s girl a few days before, and maybe I’d been really fucking jealous and I’d gone to my little friends for some moral support. Only somehow time had completely disappeared.
I probably shouldn’t have washed the pills down with champagne.
“Whatever the case,” she continues. “Your business is your own, but I like my job. I like this company.” She shrugs, adding frankly, “And I like my pay and bonuses. So I would hate to have to start job hunting because my boss got himself replaced.”
How the fuck would they replace me? I’m the founder of the company!
I catch her smile, and I realize she was making a joke. It’s not funny though.
I shouldn’t have done an IPO. But Chase and his team of lawyers had gone over everything so thoroughly, assuring me that this was the best way for me to grow the company.
That had been almost ten years ago now, so mostly they’d been right.
Except now I have to worry that some old-money fuckers will decide they don’t like me anymore, and they’ll steal everything I built out from under me.
Exhaling slowly, I nod to her. I’m pissed at her, but at least she’s telling me this shit up front. It might only be because she wants the money, but that’s basically everybody. Nobody decides to stick around me because they like me.
It’s always about the money.
“Mr. Brutal,” Caroline says, seeming to choose her words very, very carefully, “Perhaps what you really need is a vacation? A proper one?”
I glare at her. “You just said everybody’s noticing how I’m blowing people off. You keep telling me that I can’t miss any more meetings. I don’t think dropping everything will win me any favors.”
She gives me a knowing smile. “What luck that your assistant thought fit to clear your schedule for the next two weeks.”
“What the fuck? Without telling me?” I start to get up, but she’s got this steely look of determination on her face that I’ve never seen before.
“Mr. Brutal, you look like death warmed over on a good day. Half the reason you blow people off is because you’re tired and overworked. You need a vacation,” she says, and while her voice is even, her face is guarded with apprehension.
She thoroughly expects me to explode, and she’s not wrong to be worried. It’s not like I’ve never lashed out at a woman before. It’s not like I’ve never hit a woman before.
But I’ve never taken the full measures of my wrath out on anyone at the workplace.
I can’t blame her for being wary, though.
I sink back down into the chair. “All right,” I say, taking a deep breath. “All right. I’m listening.”
“You’ve been volatile, irresponsible, and you’re making it very easy for people to dislike you,” she says.
I grit my teeth, counting to ten. Then fifteen. Then twenty. She gives me that moment to absorb her words rather than barreling on, which is probably for the best.
“Have there been any people who like me?” I ask bitterly.
“Oh, you aren’t so bad. When you’re well-rested,” Caroline says with a touch of humor that I don’t find particularly welcome.
“It’s not my fault everybody’s so needy,” I grumble.
“They are,” she agrees. “Which is why you’re going to take two weeks off for some well-deserved rest and relaxation, and you won’t check your email or your work phone during that time. I booked flights to Honolulu and Ibiza, if you’d like to go to either of those places during your time off. Really get away from everything.”
When I was young, even trips to the neighboring state had been out of the question. Now my assistant books first class flights to multiple locations just in case I’m interested in going.
Ibiza sounds nice, actually, but I realize… two weeks, completely free of work duties.
Two weeks where the only thing on my calendar is Mimosa.
“Nah,” I say, smiling. “You can cancel those flights.”
It really would be nice to take a break to be at home training Mimosa. I could spend hours torturing her, forcing her to show an emotion that isn’t fucking fake.
“I’ll take a nice, deserved staycation. Or maybe I’ll drive somewhere. Nobody else needs to know where the fuck I am,” I say with more cheer.
“They don’t. I’ll be vague about your whereabouts though, so they won’t bother you as much.” Caroline sighs, closing her eyes for a moment. “Unfortunately, the next board meeting really couldn’t be moved, which is why your vacation is only two weeks long.”
“Oh, that’s fine,” I tell her. “Just send me any documents I’ll need to prep for that.”
“Of course. I’ll have everything summarized and ready for you when you return.” Caroline smiles at me, like this is all a done deal.
It sounds almost… reasonable.
I hate it, but it does.
“You’ll be fine without me?” I ask her.
Caroline shrugs. “For two weeks? Yes, I think I’ll survive.”
I can’t believe my fucking assistant sent me on a forced vacation.
On the other hand, isn’t a good executive assistant meant to be near psychic? I guess she earns her pay.
“Then let’s wrap up whatever we need to do today to prepare for my vacation,” I say.
“Right away, Mr. Brutal.” She stands up, heading to the door. Before she opens it, she turns around and says, “Thank you for listening to me. We can set up an auto-forward so you don’t even get tempted to read your emails?—”
“Stop,” I growl at her. “Don’t push your luck.”
She lets out a little snort, shaking her head before leaving my office.
I grab a clicky pen and start fiddling with it.
Vacation.
Vacation. Just me and Mimosa, having fun.
I keep clicking the pen, trying not to focus on the fact that my gut is still not on board with the entire idea.
I leave at quarter to five, paperwork completed and caught up on. I’m pretty sure Caroline has been planning this for a while, because most of the work had already been wrapped up .
Whatever.
This means I get to focus entirely on Mimosa. No getting distracted, no letting her get under my skin.
I flip through emails on my way home, reading them despite Caroline’s insistence that she could handle everything.
There’s some stuff only I’d be able to handle, no matter what Caroline says.
I’m in a strange mood when I get off the elevator and walk into the penthouse, thinking about the absurdity of the entire situation. I’d have killed for a vacation like this when I was young. Never mind Spain or Hawaii—just getting to chill at home in a luxury condo would have seemed out of reach back then.
Instead, I got to listen to my parents tell me how we couldn’t afford to do anything nice, ever.
They’re dead now. I should miss them, but I don’t. Instead, I’m only reluctantly grateful for their life insurance policies, the only good thing they ever gave me.
I shake off those thoughts, focusing only on the fact that I’m going to have Mimosa to myself 24/7 for the next few weeks.
“Oh, Mimosa,” I say with a savage grin as I enter the bathroom she’s tucked away in. “I have great news for you.”
It takes me a second to spot her. She’s lying in the bathtub with a pillow under her head and a blanket pulled over her.
And somehow, she’s actually asleep.
I frown at her, not liking the fact that she gets to rest while I deal with the snake den that is work these days. I go to her, shoving her hard to wake her up.
Mimosa gasps and startles upright, clutching the blanket to her. “What the f—” She cuts herself off when she sees me.
“It’s after five,” I inform her. “Time for little sex slaves to serve their masters.”
The vacation is good, I remind myself. It’ll be nice.
I’ve been dying for time off.
“Okay,” she says, schooling her expression. “How would you like to be served?”
I stare down at her. I want to break through that. I want to see her as she really is. I want her to squirm and cry and break.
Don’t I?
“Let’s deal with food first. And no backseat cooking,” I tell her. I unchain her, then add, “Oh, and I’m on vacation for the next two weeks. We’re gonna have some fun.”
Her eyes widen, and I feel a small thrill about that. Oh yeah, she’s gotten used to me being out most of the day. Well, I’m going to show her just how terrible my full attention can be.
“Yeah,” I say, chuckling. “I know you’re happy. C’mon. Crawl to the kitchen.”
I turn, striding for the kitchen. I half-hope she decides to stand to follow me, but she obeys, crawling from the bathroom to the kitchen. It has to be hell on her knees, but I don’t particularly give a damn.
“Good girl,” I tell her before turning back to the fridge. Chase and Hunter might make fun of me for my diet, but what they don’t know is that I didn’t get things like meat when I was growing up. I have no intention of forcing myself to eat anything I don’t like, which is why I pull out a few thick-cut pork chops from the fridge.
Mimosa ends up resting against the kitchen counters again, watching me warily. I ignore her while I cook.
I could hire somebody to do this, but I don’t want to explain my eating habits to a total stranger when I can just as easily fry up the chops myself. I do too many meals with clients anyway, so it seems pointless to have someone on hand.
I could gag her and lock her in the bathroom, but that isn’t foolproof. If a private chef went snooping or decided to use my bathroom instead of one of the others… No. It’s never been worth it before, and it certainly isn’t now.
I grab some sweet potatoes for variety, starting to cut those up.
Once I put everything in the oven, I’m left with twenty minutes of downtime.
I stare at the oven timer, but it doesn’t tick down any faster.
Twenty minutes of nothing to do.
That’s not true, though. I have Mimosa.
I’m actually surprised she hasn’t spoken up. It’s a little unnerving, too, and I fix her with a hard stare. “You want to say something. I don’t know what, and it’ll probably get you in trouble, but say it.”
“You said you were on vacation.” Mimosa keeps her legs pulled up to her chest as she talks. “Was that planned? Or did you take time off because of me?”
My jaw clenches, and I hate that I’m giving a tell that I’m not entirely pleased about the vacation. I shrug as casually as I can manage, though, checking the timer. Seventeen minutes left.
Fuck.
“I decided I needed some time to myself,” I say vaguely. “And yes, to spend some time with you. Gotta get you nice and trained up, after all. Can’t have you running off or getting kidnapped like the last few.”
“The last few?” Her brow furrows. “You had others before me?”
I almost let her think that I did, but then I shake my head. “Nah. My friends can’t seem to keep their own… women in check.” I make a face. I don’t tell her that they’re completely fucking whipped now, wrapped around those women’s little fingers.
“Your friends.” Mimosa’s gaze shifts to the side, but before I can snap at her to pay attention, she looks back at me. “Like that doctor. Hunter, you said his name was?”
“Yep. Like the doctor. Lawyer friend of mine, too, so don’t think you can escape and try to bring charges against me.” Even without Hunter and Chase, I’d be able to dodge any fallout from my purchase .
I think.
But there’s no sense in risking it.
“Only two friends?” Mimosa says, and there’s something weird about her tone that pisses me off.
“Only two friends with slaves like you,” I snap even though there’s the sad fact that I really do only have three friends. Only three people who put up with me, and some days… Some days I wonder if they even want to. Hunter has drifted away since acquiring Stef, Chase is busy with May, and here I am, the poor schmuck left to deal with all of this shit on my own. At least there’s still Patrick.
Not that I’d talk to them about my feelings or whatever.
I glance at the oven timer again, and it’s somehow only gone down to fifteen minutes. It has to be broken .
“Okay. So the other people you know don’t keep sex slaves.” Mimosa’s eyes flicker to the oven timer. “The hobby isn’t that popular after all.”
“Or people just, you know, don’t talk about it,” I retort. “There are lots of people around who keep women like you. I just don’t know them all personally. There’s no club or anything.”
“I guess so.” She scowls and averts her gaze. “Somebody was buying the other women, after all.”
“Or Pavone was just getting rid of them,” I say with a nasty smile. “Like he would’ve gotten rid of you if you’d kept mouthing off and biting people. There are people who like to play more interesting games with whores like you… and those games don’t end in orgasms.”
“I’m not mouthing off,” Mimosa answers calmly. “And you don’t want to get distracted right now.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?” I ask, annoyed by the way she doesn’t even show a shred of fear at what should be fucking terrifying.
“Your food will burn.” Mimosa points to the oven.
I glance at it with a curse. “You think you’re so fucking smart. So fucking cute.” And I’m tired of it. I’m tired of feeling like I don’t have the upper hand. Even Chase has his bitch fucked into submission, and here I am being led around by my fucking sex slave.
I go for the oven anyway, checking on the chops and potatoes through the glass door. It looks fine, of course; there are still ten minutes left on the timer.
I can torture her for ten minutes. Exercise is better before food, anyway. I reach down and grab her arm, pulling her upright with more force than strictly necessary. She winces, but she doesn’t cry out.
Fuck that. I’m going to make her wail and howl in pain. She’s going to be begging for me to go easy on her.
“Let’s see how much damage I can do to you in ten minutes,” I snap at her. I look around the kitchen, but there’s nothing I want to use on her. Spanking with a wooden spoon might be a classic, but I’m not going to get any of my cooking utensils dirty like that.
I do, however, have a few things stashed in the nearby guest room. It’s been a while since I’ve used any of them. Even women who want to get into my pants — and my bank account — balk when I even casually mention anything like spanking.
Well, Mimosa can’t say no, and tonight, I’m going to remind her of that.
I pull her toward the guest room, and even though she tries to match my pace, I’m moving too quickly for that. She stumbles along, fighting to stay upright. When we’re in the room, I shove her hard into the wall.
I see her wince, and even that reaction feels like a triumph. She thinks she’s so fucking above it all. Don’t I get enough of that shit at work? I don’t need my own fucking slave to think she can undermine me.
I find the nondescript chest with my toys in it, pulling it out of the closet. All of them are expensive, and most of them are unused. I could’ve gone to a local kink club, but people talk even when they’re supposed to keep their fucking mouths closed. I can’t be seen at a BDSM club, especially right now when my standing at the company is apparently weaker than I want to admit.
That thought brings a scowl to my lips, and I look at the coiled leather whip in the chest. It doesn’t look that appealing, though. It doesn’t seem like it’ll send enough of a message. The cane, on the other hand…
I exhale slowly. I don’t need a wooden spoon to beat her into submission when I have a gorgeous cane that was designed to do just that.
“Ever heard of bastinado?” I ask with a dark, humorless smile.
She wraps her arms around herself and scowls at me. “No.” She looks around, as if she’s trying to learn something about me from the guest room.
Fuck yeah.
I finally have something over her. “I want you to lie down on the bed, face down, with your feet hanging over the edge of the mattress,” I tell her. “Then I highly suggest you don’t fucking move, no matter what I do.”
Mimosa eyes me warily, but she continues to do her pretending-to- play-along thing, so she gets onto the bed. Her feet are just at the edge of the mattress.
I roll my eyes and grab her ankles to pull her down a few inches, leaving her feet hanging off the mattress. “Not so good at following directions after all, are you?”
She doesn’t respond, which is irritating even though it should be a good thing.
I grab the wooden cane from the chest, taking a deep breath. It’s small, unassuming, and when I’d first seen one, I hadn’t been too impressed. A few online tutorials had convinced me, though, and I’d bought it on a whim.
That, and a lot of other toys I’ve never been able to use before.
I feel like a kid on Christmas morning — at least, the stereotypical Christmas morning. My Christmases had always been depressing and miserable, and I?—
I force myself to stop thinking of the past. My mood is already sour enough. I don’t need memories to make it worse.
I step in close, slowly trailing the tip of the cane along the sole of her foot as I try to decide where I want to strike first. It makes her twitch, and I distantly wonder if she’s ticklish.
On some level, I know it’s stupid to do this when I’m pissed off. I could do some real damage.
Maybe I want to.
“If you struggle, you might cause permanent damage,” I say cruelly.
Mimosa’s shoulders tense, but that’s the extent of her reactions.
That’s not going to last long. Because no matter how much she pretends, I don’t believe she can withstand the pain. She isn’t a little masochist like Chase’s bitch.
I take a breath and swing the cane.
I think part of me expects her to remain stoic. Despite my certainty, I’m still afraid she’ll be able to endure it without reacting.
She doesn’t.
Mimosa lets out a loud, long wail, just from that first swing to the soles of her feet. Her back arches, and she pulls her feet away from the edge .
“Stop that,” I bark out, grabbing her by the ankle. “Put your fucking feet back. That was just one stroke. For fuck’s sake, it was just a test swing.”
Mimosa hunches her shoulders together, and I see her shake her head minutely.
“No?” I ask, torn between that sadistic amusement and anger. I don’t know which is stronger, but either way, I’m not going to be denied. “I will tie you down and make sure you can’t walk ever fucking again if you don’t put your goddamn feet down and hold still.”
“F-fine,” Mimosa mutters. She uncurls her body until her feet are extended again, but she’s completely tense.
I’m not going to tell her that it’ll hurt less if she relaxes into it. I don’t care how much it hurts her.
I want it to leave a lasting impression.
The cane swishes through the air as I bring it down on the heel of her other foot. She howls in pain again, and the sound is so intoxicating that I think I might actually be able to calm down if I keep this up.
Every time I hit her, her body arches, and she cries out with more emotion than I’ve heard since the day I bought her. This is what I wanted from her. Not some mindless, obedient automaton. Not a sassy little cunt who enjoys getting hurt. No, I want her raw emotions, the pain and the tears, and I want to know that I’m the one who caused it.
She curls up again, and I bark, “Feet fucking straight, Mimi!”
She sobs, but after a few seconds she extends her feet once more.
“You pull away one more goddamn time, and it’s your cunt I’ll be caning. Understand?” I sort of like the idea, too. I like it a lot. If she’s crying now…
“Got it,” she mumbles, her voice wavering.
Fucking finally.
I don’t think I’ve broken her. Not really. At least, not yet. But I’ve cowed her into submission for now, and the thought of it has my dick pressing hard against the fly of my pants.
I unbutton and unzip them, pulling them down along with my boxer briefs before I climb on the bed behind her.
“Spread your legs,” I order. “And lift that ass in the air before I cane that , too. ”
Fuck, this opened up all sorts of possibilities for me. Why have I been holding back?
I’m willing to bet she’d prefer being fucked to being caned more because she obeys immediately. I grab her ass cheeks and spread them, staring down at what belongs to me. I’d fuck her ass, but that would mean stopping to get lube to keep my dick from being rubbed raw.
Instead, I start to shove my way into her cunt. That isn’t much better, but at least I know she’ll get slick soon enough. I grunt at the resistance her body gives me but ignore it in favor of pushing deeper and deeper.
Mimosa buries her head in the pillow, muffling her cries. But I want to hear her. I grab her hair and pull up sharply.
“No hiding those noises from me, Mimi,” I say darkly.
She sobs and makes enticing little noises, while her cunt clenches around me.
I’ve tried to make her cry before. I’ve tried to get into her head. I failed then, but this? This is the way to hurt her.
This is the way to break her.
The only problem is, I don’t know what breaking her would look like. Would I like it? Or would I be disappointed?
Fuck it. Who cares? I have a hot, tight cunt wrapped around my cock while my pretty little slave cries, while she suffers because I inflicted so much pain on her that she can’t stand it.
It’s enough to make me fuck her harder, faster, until my balls tighten and my orgasm barrels into me full force.
Fuck, her tears make everything better.
When I finish and the pounding in my ears subsides, I can hear her soft crying. I pull out of her and roll her onto her back, marveling at her tear-stained face.
“Fuck,” I mutter. I rub one of the tears on her cheeks. “You look good like that, Mimi.”
She blinks, and another tear rolls down.
Then she says, “Your food is burning.”
I scowl at her. “What?”
But now that she says it, I can hear the soft beep of the oven timer going off insistently, and a strange, acrid smell coming from the kitchen.
Fuck.
I glare at her while I pull my pants back up, not bothering with the belt. The afterglow is gone, and I hate that she ruined it.
Fuck her for being right about ruining the food.