Chapter Seventeen
Sloane
Oliver’s pulse races beneath my palm where it rests on his neck; the familiar rush of excitement running through my veins.
This is a terrible idea.
I’ve had a lot of bad ideas in my life, but this… this one takes the chocolate cake with sprinkles and a cherry on top.
There are a thousand reasons I should not pursue Oliver Green.
He works for me. He’s young. I’ve mixed business with pleasure before, and I know it doesn’t end well.
I’m still reaping the repercussions of trusting Robert with my baby—Veil—and my heart.
Every fucking day. Kissing Oliver is a mistake.
A mistake I might be able to salvage if I stop now.
I could put an end to this easily. Pull my lips from his and tell him I’m sorry.
That I didn’t mean it and demand that we never speak about it again. Make him sign a gag order. Hell, I could sweeten the deal with a bonus, like I did with Robert when he signed his NDA.
It would be the smart thing to do. The practical thing.
But I don’t want to stop. I want to devour Oliver and his wicked little mouth.
I want to punish him for being a tempting little brat, and I want to show him just how good boys get rewarded.
I want him to fight me. I want him to submit to me.
And then I want to lead him to the edge and make him beg for what I know he craves. What he needs.
His fingers grip my hair tight. So tight I can almost feel the tension headache forming as my mouth finds its home beneath his ear, and he groans.
“Sloane…” His voice is like honey. Sweet and thick. I’m tempted to make him scream it. Right here against the door where anyone can see.
And that’s the thought that stops me, dead in my tracks.
I pull my lips from his neck, my eyes flicking up. I don’t see any cameras, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any.
Oliver’s breath comes in heavy and labored, and I still feel the twitch of his cock against my leg. His chest rises and falls and I feel his gaze flash to my mouth as he sucks in a breath.
“Apologies,” I mutter. “I didn’t mean to—”
Oliver’s lips part, his bottom lip plump and juicy, begging to be sucked. Bitten.
I swallow hard, trying not to think about taking it between my teeth.
“I know,” he whispers. “It’s… fine.”
His little utterance of that word—fine—cuts sharper than a knife. Because I know it’s not fine.
“We can’t.” I clear my throat.
“I know," he says, his voice barely a whisper.
And then I feel him. His fingers trace the edge of my shirt collar with a gentleness no man should be capable of possessing.
Oliver touches me like I am made of glass. Like one wrong move will shatter me completely.
And perhaps there is truth in that.
“But…”
A hopeless sigh escapes me as his fingers slide down my collar, grazing over the buttons on my shirt. His watch shifts, clunking against my chest.
“No one has to know.” His voice is dark but strangely melancholy.
“Oliver…”
His green gaze finds mine. “I won’t tell anyone.” He swallows. “I swear.”
I should not believe him. But then I think back to earlier. I’d told him I’d tested him because I needed to know the truth. I needed to know if he would do as I asked or if he was a liar.
I know it makes no sense, but something tells me Oliver is not a dishonest person. And though my little rabbit can bite, he is not like my ex.
He is not Robert.
I look at Oliver in the orange light pouring from above us, from the porch light. His kiss-swollen lips, his big, green eyes that beckon me with innocence and sin.
“I know," I say as I step closer to him. His breath is softer. Almost even.
My heart beats like a drum in my chest.
Oliver’s hand finds my arm, and he gently trails his fingers up and down my jacket. Down my exposed forearms.
“It doesn’t have to mean anything," he says carefully. “It can be our little secret.”
Something passes in his eyes. Something I can’t quite place.
“Our little secret, hmm?” I say, my gaze drifting to his neck. The urge to wrap my hand around his throat again is prevalent. The monster inside me has tasted freedom, and he wants more.
Oliver nods. “Think of it as… stress relief.”
I let out a chuckle, and I don’t miss the faint smirk on his face.
“Stress relief?” His fingers slip down my abdomen to the edge of my waistband, his fingers deftly tracing lines along my belt.
“What do you know about stress, little Rabbit?” I breathe against his neck. The shiver that runs through him is tantalizing.
He’s so fucking responsive to just a simple touch, a simple breath…
God, I can only imagine the way he’d respond to the soft leather of my whip or the snap of my crop, the drip of hot wax. The chill of ice between my teeth.
I bet he would shine beautifully under my care.
“I know more than you think,” he says, his voice tinged in humor.
“Go to bed, Oliver. It’s late,” I tell him, my lips pulling up into a salacious grin.
Oliver’s gaze darkens, and his lips part as a small gasp leaves his throat.
In my experience, most people love the idea, the fantasy of being dominated.
But most don’t understand that domination is not about the power.
It’s not an act of violence or degradation.
It’s not about the pain, either. It’s about consent and trust. It is about the power of choice—to submit is not to surrender oneself.
It is a gift to give yourself to someone in the most complete sense there is.
The men who have served me never understood this, and part of me worries I am making a grave mistake.
That there is no way Oliver will understand this, either.
But there is also a part of me, however small, that wants to teach him. To show him how much power he has. He only has to reach for it.
I grasp his throat, my fingers curling around his neck like they belong there.
Comfortably. I don’t squeeze or choke him.
I just rest my palm against his skin. I wait for his admission, his response.
For him to choose which version of me he wants.
In that one touch, I give Oliver the choice. Obey me, or defy me. The choice is his.
Should he defy me, I will not hesitate to walk away.
I will put my wall up and keep Oliver at a distance; not just for my benefit, but his.
I will separate myself. I’ve done it before, and I can do it again.
He could still quit, and I would once again be out an assistant, and Chickadee would be pissed, and I would be alone, anyway.
Rightfully so, too. I’d told Chickadee I’d keep my assistant for three months and I’ve only had him two fucking days, and that’s a record for me.
Chickadee is a woman of her word. She always has been.
At times, she was more of a rock for me than my own parents were. But if Oliver quits, she does, too.
It’s not ideal in the least. Yes, I could survive it, but it isn’t just about the job duties they take off my shoulders. No one knows me like Chickadee, and even though it’s only been two fucking days, I think Oliver knows me, too.
Better than he should, given current circumstances.
Two days. Two days, and he’s got me wrapped around his slender, perfect finger. Two days and I can not think straight.
Two days and Oliver Green has me losing control like a starving fox desperate to catch his prey.
If he obeys me though…
I stare at his verdant gaze, little flecks of gold catching the porchlight like a treasure desperate to be unearthed.
If he does what I ask, I’ll know. I’ll know exactly where I stand, and I will not hesitate. I will not sit idle and pretend that this—this kiss, this colliding force—does not exist.
I will take everything Oliver Green is willing to give me, and I will give him exactly what he wants. I will take care of him for as long as he’ll let me inside the Veil and outside of it if that is what he chooses.
Oliver holds my gaze with a darkness I recognize all too well. He shifts his position, leaning into my grasp. His eyelashes flutter as his kiss-swollen lips part and he speaks.
“Yes, Sir," he says, his voice smooth like silk.
“Good Boy,” I say, giving his throat a soft squeeze. And then I let him go.
I take a small step back and take this moment to savor it.
Savor him—standing there against his door, blonde hair a bit mussed from our kiss, those pouty lips curling up into a smile that lights up his eyes.
“Be ready for me at six am," I say matter-of-factly.
Oliver’s eyebrows furrow, and he opens his mouth to speak, and I can’t help myself.
I lean in and kiss him, silencing his protest. It’s not a rush or a frenzy like before. It’s sweet. Playful, even.
I hate to let him go, but if I don’t now, I’ll never leave. I’ll be bound to Oliver forever.
So I break away and kiss the corner of his mouth. I gently squeeze his hip and whisper in his ear.
“Good night, Oliver.” I press my lips to that sweet spot beneath his ear, relishing in his little shiver.
And then I let him go. I take two steps back. Then two more. Oliver watches me. He never looks away. Not until I flash my headlights. He presses his key into the lock, and I wait until I see the door shut to turn the engine on.
Just as I turn around to look behind me, I notice his Chromebook, in his seat.
He left it. On purpose. Oliver is too smart to make the same mistake twice. This… this is not because he was distracted or nervous. This was a choice. A small act of dominance. I can’t help but smirk.
“Oh, Oliver…” I shake my head as I back out of the parking lot. “I am going to enjoy breaking you.”