Chapter 9 The Phone Call
THE PHONE CALL
EMERY
Flecks of black ink stain my notepad as I tap my pen to paper, the gentle thudding noise acting like a metronome.
The only thing I want to call you, Miss Jones, is mine.
I can’t stop thinking about those words.
And the lips from which they came. That’s the problem.
Words. All the dirty, enticing, and debilitating words.
I can’t unhear them. I can’t unhear his desires, his plans, his promises.
They replay in my mind day and night. Like a filthy hymn sung by a fallen angel.
“Next slide, please.”
A shiver courses down my spine as I remember his hand around my throat and the thrill it brought me. The thrill of being fucked. Really fucked. Like a beast. Like an animal that needs to be tamed. He could do that. I think he could do that. Oh, he could definitely fucking do that.
Crossing my legs, I feel him against my thigh as if he’s still touching me, taunting me, torturing me with all the wicked acts we could perform. He could be the ringmaster, and I, his little monkey. He could make me jump. He could make me crawl. He could make me suck and fuck and choke and—
“Excuse me, Miss Jones?” Shit. I snap my head up.
The entire boardroom turns their attention to Halima as she lingers outside the office door with a sticky note on her finger.
She gives all the senior partners an apologetic look.
“Sorry for interrupting, but Miss Jones, you have a call on line one.”
“I’m in the middle of a meeting,” I state, clearing my throat. “Please take a message and tell them I’ll call them back.”
“I tried that, Miss Jones.” Halima cringes. “They’re rather persistent.”
I sigh. “Is it Mr. Sayuri? I swear that man—”
“No,” Halima peeps. “It’s a Mr…” She checks the Post-it. “A Mr. Lush.”
“Lush? Who is…?” Immediately my eyes spring open.
Are you fucking kidding me?
“Yes,” Halima confirms, “He said that if you didn’t answer he’d come down and—”
I abruptly stand up, fumbling to grab my notebook and pen off the table. “I’ll take it in my office.” Mr. Kenneth glares at me, unimpressed, from the head of the table. Uptight prick. “A potential client.”
“Better be a big one,” he huffs, annoyed that I’m leaving his precious quarterly review meeting five minutes early. “Well? What are you doing just standing there? Go, Emily!”
“It’s Emery,” I grunt under my breath before hustling back to my office.
He’s calling me at work?! Work! This man doesn’t have any boundaries. None! And we’re shocked, why? True. I should’ve known better than to think our interactions would remain exclusive to the club. Idiot.
With sweaty hands, I sink down in my computer chair and stare at the blinking yellow light on the telephone. It’s fine. Just be calm and collected. And horny. Can’t forget horny. Shut up!
Taking a long breath, I pick up the receiver. “Have you lost your damn mind?!” So much for cool, huh?
Damon chuckles in a low, velvety timbre. “Good afternoon to you too, Miss Jones.”
“You shouldn’t be calling me here,” I state, my body physically reacting to the depth of his voice. What is wrong with me? “This is highly inappropriate.”
“Which makes it that much more exciting, no?”
“No.” Yes. “No.”
“Two nos?” He lets out a soft laugh. “That’s a whole lot of resistance, Miss Jones. It’s just a phone call. What harm could it do?”
“A lot, Mr. Lush,” I say, tone sour. “God, you have some balls on you.”
“Thank you,” he says lightly. “My first compliment. I’ll cherish this moment forever.”
“This isn’t funny. If anyone in my office finds out—”
“Finds out what?” He lowers his voice. “That there’s a sexy little slut underneath all that beige?” My breath hitches and heat pools in my belly. Say it again. “Oh…” A husky growl floats into my ear. “Do you like that, Miss Jones? Do you like being called a little slut?”
“Stop it,” I whisper, biting my lip. What is this? Living. “I don’t—”
He clicks his tongue. “Oh, Miss Jones, I think you and I would have a lot of fun together.”
“Being called a slut doesn’t sound very fun,” I mutter, forcing myself to be logical despite all logic withering into primitive thought. “It’s degrading. It’s—”
“What you crave,” he finishes my sentence. “Isn’t it?” He pauses. “There’s no need to be ashamed, Miss Jones. We’ve all got our kinks.”
“And what’s yours, Mr. Cavanaugh?” I ask. Deflect. Now. “Do you also like being called a little slut? A whore, maybe? Does that make you hard?”
“Please.” He snorts. “Do I look like the sort of man who’d get off on that?”
“Yes,” I state defiantly. “You do.”
“Careful, Miss Jones,” he warns. “I’d hate to come down there and teach you a valuable lesson in respect.
” I swallow, my heart beating fast at the idea of an impromptu visit.
“I can see it now. Bent over your desk. My handprint across that perfect little ass of yours. The entire office hearing you scream.” He releases a breath. “Mmm, What a pretty picture.”
“So that’s your thing, huh?” I clear my thoughts, adjusting my position in the chair, my ass somehow already stinging from the hypothetical discipline. “You like to beat women?”
“Beat?” He sounds offended. “I do not beat women, Miss Jones. I carry out appropriate punishments and rewards. And yes, the punishments can be brutal at times, but the rewards,” he hisses out a breath of air, “those make it all worthwhile.”
Clips from conversations with Ginger and Crystal play in my head.
They offer the patrons of Lux a little more than lap dances.
I’ve heard it all. Men who like being spit on.
Men who like hot wax on their balls. Men who cry out for mommy.
And the men—the ones they praise the most—who like to dominate in every arena of their lives.
This isn’t new to me. It shouldn’t be as jarring, as shocking, as outrageous to hear.
But it is. Because I don’t offer side specials.
I dance. Just dance. Even though I’ve always wanted a little bit more.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Damon says after a few charged seconds of silence. “Talk to me, Miss Jones.”
“I’m thinking that I’m at work,” I say as an email lands in my inbox. This conversation needs to end now. Why the fuck am I even entertaining this man? “I need to work, Mr. Cavanaugh, and you need to respect my wishes and not call here ever again.”
“You can’t play hard to get forever, Miss Jones,” Damon says, ignoring everything I just said. “Eventually, you’ll get tired of running.”
“Luckily for me, Mr. Cavanaugh, I have impeccable stamina.”
“Oh, I don't doubt that, Miss Jones. But still.” He pauses. “Are you near your computer right now?”
I frown. “Maybe.”
“Why don’t you check your email, Miss Jones? Perhaps that’ll give you some motivation to finally stop running.”
Frowning, I open my inbox. At the top of the page, with the subject line reading “Possibilities”, is an email from d.cavanaugh@.
“What did you—”
A gasp leaves my throat as I open the email. Holy fucking hell. Filling the screen of my desktop is a cruel photo of a long, thick bulge hidden under light gray joggers, a familiar hand wrapped around the tempting girth. My breathing turns shallow.
“You’re awfully quiet, Miss Jones. Has something caught your eye?
“I—” My brain temporality short circuits as my pulse quickens. Dirty, dirty boy. “You—”
“I figured this was only fair,” he hums. “I’ve seen your body, Miss Jones, and now I’ve given you a taste of mine.”
As I tilt my head to get a different angle, another email lands in my corporate inbox and I gasp, mortified.
“You sent this to my work email?!” Dread washes over me as I move the cursor over the delete button.
I hate the fact that I fucking hesitate before trashing it.
“Our entire IT department has access to my server! Oh my God. Tom has access.”
“Oops,” Damon snickers, not at all apologetic. “A technical oversight.” He pauses. “Do you think he’ll be upset if he sees it? I’d hate to put a riff in such a happy and fulfilling relationship.”
“Is this the way you think you’ll get me, Mr. Cavanaugh?” I ask, the anger I should be feeling toward him not as strong as I’d like. “By jeopardizing not only my relationship but career as well?”
“All is fair in love and war, Miss Jones,” Damon whispers. “Remember what I said? I don’t play games, which means there are no rules.”
“You’re playing with my life,” I hiss.
“I’m not playing with your life, Miss Jones,” he notes with hidden meaning. “I’m changing it.”
“For whose benefit?” I ask, teeth gritted. “Mine? Or yours?”
“Ours,” he whispers, a faint hint of melancholy in his voice. “Trust me, Miss Jones, if you let this unfold, you will never regret it. I promise. This time I’m sure of it.”
“This time?” I ask as Halima knocks on my door.
“Miss Jones?” she calls out. “Mr. Warner is looking for you.” Tom. Shit. “He said he’ll meet you downstairs in ten minutes.”
“Okay,” I squeak out. “Thank you.”
“Who was that?” Damon asks, tone strained. “Thomas, perhaps?”
“None of your business,” I say, sighing. My head hurts now. I need a break. “I have somewhere to be now, Mr. Cavanaugh. Don’t call my office again.”
“Remember what I said, Miss Jones,” Damon threatens. “There are no rules.” Before I can double down on my request, he adds, “Enjoy the rest of your week. I’m sure it’ll be thrilling.”
Slamming the receiver on the dock, I shake my head, gathering my wit. He’s insane. Clinically deranged. Like you. No. Not like me. I would never—
My personal phone vibrates. A message from a New York area code. It’s the same image from the email with a text that reads: reward. I let out a soft laugh of complete disbelief. I can’t imagine being this cocky, this fucking arrogant. He’s delusional. Totally and utterly delusional.
Dropping my phone into my purse, I exit my office and head to the lobby to meet Tom for lunch. I need a distraction. Something to take my mind off the phone call we just had. Out of sight. Out of mind. It has to work. There are no other options.
“How was the meeting?” Tom asks, holding out his hand, and Damon immediately pops into my head.
I envision his hand, then his cock and then his lips, then his eyes, and nose, until every corner of my brain is filled with pieces of him.
“You okay, Em? You look a little flustered. Did something happen?”
Maybe it’s just an itch. A temporary ache that can be soothed even with generic lotion. Something that is fast-acting. I glance over Tom’s shoulder toward the single-stall restrooms tucked in the far end of the lobby. Yes. An itch. It just needs to be scratched. And all will be well.
“Come with me.” I yank on Tom’s arm, dragging him to one of the stalls.
“What? Em!” He struggles to detach himself from my grip as I throw us inside the room and slam the door shut. Tom stares at me, concern plastered across his face as I take my shirt off, tossing it on the dirty floor. “What-What are you doing?”
I smirk at him, unzipping my pencil skirt. It falls on the floor. “Fuck me.” Standing two feet away from Tom, I desperately beg him. “Fuck me, Tom. Right now.” I slide my hands up my stomach, cupping my breasts. “I want you to fuck me.”
“Emery.” Tom stares bewildered. “We’re in a public restroom.”
“I know,” I breathe, twisting my nipples, the pain so fucking sweet. “Please? I need you.”
“Em…” Tom clears his throat and bends down to the ground. He picks up my blouse, bra, and skirt. Gingerly, he holds my clothes in the air. “Please put your clothes back on, Emery.”
“No,” I protest, taking two steps forward. “I won’t.”
Tom offers me a smile. “While I think you’re beautiful, Emery, and I would like nothing more than to make love to you, I won’t have sex in a restroom at work.” He tilts his head. “Can this wait until tonight? My place? I’ll make dinner.”
I stand nearly naked in front of my boyfriend, who refuses to even touch me. “Right,” I say, taking my clothes from his hands. “Sorry. I guess I just… I guess I just wanted to be spontaneous.” Clearing my throat, embarrassment washes over me. “I’ll just, umm, get dressed.”
“Tonight.” Tom places a kiss on my cheek. “We’ll make love tonight.”
I don’t want to make love.
I want to fuck.