Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Nico
An hour later, I’m still on a conference call, my eyes on Erica through the security footage on my monitor.
She's struggling.
She’s trying so hard to appear normal, to be professional. She’s typing, responding to emails, answering the phone, but there’s a tension in her shoulders, a restlessness in her movements that gives her away.
Every so often, she shifts in her chair, a subtle, almost imperceptible movement, and I know she’s thinking about me. About what I did to her. About what I’m still doing to her.
A slow smile spreads across my face.
I like her like this.
And whether she's ready to admit it or not, she likes it too.
“Nico, are you still with us?” a voice crackles through the speaker.
My eyes are still on Erica as she rubs the back of her neck, a gesture of frustration, of agitation. She’s wound so tight, a perfect, beautiful knot of need and desire.
“I’m here,” I say, my voice calm and even. “Just reviewing the final figures.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line.
“Everything in order?” one of the managers of the club asks.
“Everything’s in order,” I confirm.
It is.
Everything is exactly where I want it to be. My club. My company. My woman.
My smile widens.
Especially my woman.
She sits up straighter, squaring her shoulders like she’s trying to physically shake off the distraction.
She takes a deep breath, her chest rising, her blouse pulling tight across her breasts.
I can see the faint outline of her nipples, hard and peaked, a clear sign of her arousal, even through the camera.
My cock throbs.
I can't wait to have her again.
Later.
After she's learned her lesson.
After she's good and ready for me.
After she’s a sobbing, pleading mess, completely, utterly mine.
“Then we’re all set for the launch next week?” the manager asks.
“We’re all set,” I confirm.
“Great. We can move onto…”
I resist the urge to brain myself from boredom and continue to entertain myself by watching Erica.
She's typing furiously now, her fingers flying across the keyboard, a flurry of activity that’s more about distraction than productivity.
She thinks she can outwork this feeling. She thinks she can bury it under a mountain of emails and spreadsheets.
She's wrong.
This feeling isn't a task to be completed. It's a state of being. A constant, throbbing awareness of me, of my control, of the power I hold over her.
And she’s going to be living with it for the rest of the day.
I pick up my phone and send a quick text.
Don’t cross your legs.
I watch her phone light up on her desk.
She glances down, her brow furrowing in confusion. She picks it up, her fingers moving across the screen as she reads the message.
Her head snaps up, her eyes wide with shock. She looks at my office door, and then around the room. Then, finally, up at the camera in the corner.
Her cheeks flush a deep, beautiful crimson. She looks away, her gaze darting around the empty hall, as if she’s worried someone might have seen her, might know.
But there’s no one here.
Just her and me.
After some internal debate, I watch as she slowly uncrosses her legs. The movement is hesitant, reluctant, but she does it.
She obeys.
I bite back another smirk.
I can only imagine what she's feeling right now. Her skirt constantly brushing her swollen, sensitive clit. Her nipples rubbing against the fabric of her bra with every breath she takes.
She's trapped in a prison of her own desire. And I'm the one who holds the key.
I want to text her again.
Rub your clit through your skirt. Right now.
I almost do. The thought of her, sitting at her desk, trying to maintain a professional demeanor while secretly touching herself for me, is incredibly tempting.
But I don't.
I want to draw this out. I want to savor this.
I want to see how long she can last.
I want to see how far I can push her.
I want to see her break.
But it's a damn good idea for tomorrow.