ELEVEN #3
What the hell was wrong with me? I’d known this woman less than a week, and already I was on the verge of unpacking my entire emotional baggage.
‘He was sick. But he’s fine now,’ I mumbled, my eyes glued to the screen. ‘What part did you write again?’
‘The sex part,’ she said without missing a beat, one brow arching in challenge.
I nearly choked on my coffee.
‘That’s what you hired me for,’ she continued smoothly, taking another sip. ‘Shouldn’t you be in bed?’
Abso-fucking-lutely. One behind bars – some doctor somewhere would’ve argued. I struggled against the warmth creeping up my ears.
‘I’m fine,’ I said, though the words came out too stiff, too defensive.
‘Sure you are.’ Paula smirked, her eyes glittering with amusement. ‘You know the convention starts tomorrow, right? Are you skipping?’
I bit my lip, debating how much honesty I wanted to offer. ‘If I could, I would,’ I muttered.
She tilted forward, resting her elbows on the desk, her gaze anchored to mine. ‘Are you telling me Cain D’Angelo dislikes the attention?’
I frowned at her, hoping the expression would convey my exasperation better than words.
‘No, didn’t think so,’ she said with a knowing grin, leaning back in her chair. ‘A former model isn’t exactly the type who’d shy away from attention.’
I turned to her fully now, narrowing my eyes as I tried to read whatever was hiding behind that smug little smirk. Did that mean she thought me handsome – or stuck up?
‘It paid the bills,’ I countered, my interest suddenly snagging on the unresponsive workspace. I glared at the blank little network icon in the corner.
‘Have you been doing a background check on me?’ I asked suspiciously.
Clicking furiously at the icon, the thing flipped off then on, but nothing changed.
‘Of course,’ she replied matter-of-factly. ‘You’re my employer. I like to make sure I’m not accidentally working for the mob. Lord knows I’ve had enough excitement in my life.’
I paused, my attention shifting from the unresponsive network icon to her fingers flying across the keyboard. Her workspace connection hadn’t kicked her out, which only irritated me more. I restarted my computer, tilting back in my chair as the screen went off.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, my tone harsher than intended.
Her comment set off a quiet alarm in the back of my mind – I hadn’t done any background checks on her. That was a rookie move. Had Vinnie?
‘Ah, nothing really,’ she said, waving a hand dismissively. ‘I had a toxic relationship back in the States. Found out too late he was dealing weapons. It… wasn’t pretty.’
‘When was this?’ I asked, toning down my curiosity as I fixed my eyes on the screen that flickered to life again.
‘It’s been about two or three years now,’ she said, her tone casual, but I caught the faint edge of detachment. I knew that sound well – the way someone tried to feign indifference about something that still weighed heavily.
‘He in jail?’ I pressed, glaring at the persistently dead network icon.
‘Yes.’ Her response was succinct, clipped. It was clear that was all she intended to say about it.
‘Drama,’ I added lightly, trying to ease the tension, and was rewarded with a small smile.
‘Is your internet working?’ I diverted, shoving my chair back with an exasperated groan.
She glanced at her screen and nodded, then stood and circled our desks. ‘Stop pouting, D’Angelo,’ she teased, ‘or the day will find new ways to mess with you.’
My gaze snapped up instinctively. I didn’t retort. Just watched. I let her have the last word, which was not something I did lightly.
She crouched down beside her desk, separating a few tangled cables as she inspected the connections. Her calm efficiency melted my irritation, and I couldn’t deny the creeping admiration for how unbothered she seemed, even after casually dropping that grenade about her past.
Suddenly, she sank to her knees, facing away from me – offering a view that should have come with a goddamn warning.
Oh no…
It echoed through me like a psalm. Her jeans were stitched sin – unapologetically tight, daring me to stare.
Which, of course, I did.
If I angled my head just a little, I could already picture the outline of a rope around her waist, arms bound behind her, forehead pressed to the floor. Submission rendered in denim. Art, really – the kind I’d hang on my wall.
Right next to the paddles.
She shifted a little, tugging gently at the network cable, and my eyes followed that seam of her jeans stretching under pressure.
My brain went feral before it went surgical – how long would she last if I had her like that, knees bruising, thighs trembling, surrender trickling down her legs in soft, milky-white drops.
I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, tasting metal – a warning flared from somewhere deep inside me. This was a really bad fucking time to be thinking about this. And the wrong place.
But reason didn’t stop the film roll from unravelling behind my eyes.
Clicking her tongue – oblivious – she fiddled with something under the floorboard, while I sat here doing my best impression of a man still in charge of his dick.
I tried to focus. On my screen, on tomorrow’s convention, on literally anything but the idea of pulling her hair back and whispering things into that soft neck.
No use. That thought already took root.
‘Almost done,’ she muttered, to the cable – or to me. And that low tone dragged over my nerves like a fucking flogger.
What came out of me wasn’t a word. More like a grunt. Borderline unhinged, but if I let my tongue loose…
I caught myself in the reflection of my monitor – jaw clenched, eyes half-lidded, looking like I’d kill for a reason to fuck her into that rug.
Grimacing, I dragged myself upright. Get it together, Cain. You’re a sadist, not a fucking teenager.
‘You’re quiet. Is it working?’ she asked, glancing back – just in time to catch me in the act of pulling myself out of the abyss. Her expression was calm. But her eyes? Yeah. She knew.
‘There,’ she said brightly, rising to her feet and dusting off her hands like she’d just prevented the world from tipping over – unaware that my fucking brain was leaking out of my ears.
And something else, too.
‘Is the net back on?’
The net? A black rope lattice maybe… a single one.
Wrapped around her bare skin, the strands biting lightly as I drew it tighter, crossing over curves and soft hollows until she was nothing but breath and tears.
Knots like kisses, restraint like worship.
One slap to the back and she’d arch, one whisper and she’d break.
Shifting in my seat, still coiled and frayed, I pretended my gaze wasn’t trailing her walk back to the desk like a fucking leash.
Leash…
I rubbed my face.
I need therapy…
‘I’ll reboot the router,’ she might have said. My ears were ringing.
Sure, I thought inwardly, and I’d reboot that part of me that had just imagined you gagged, bound and begging.
‘Thanks,’ I said, my voice brusque, trying to play it cool despite the heat scorching me from the inside out.
‘No problem,’ she replied breezily, completely unfazed, her smirk widening just enough to make me suspicious.
I shifted uncomfortably, glancing at my monitor and pretending to focus on the long list of emails I needed to respond to.
My phone buzzed then.
I pounced on it as a distraction, but when I unlocked the screen, it was just an update from the weather app.
Sunny all day. Fantastic.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her watching me with a knowing smile.
‘Stop pouting, D’Angelo,’ she echoed as she typed away at her keyboard.
I glanced back at her, deadpan. ‘You’re not the boss of me.’
Laughing lightly, she stood again and reached for her coffee. The moment she turned, I shifted my chair to face the desk more directly – just in case.
Christ, I wasn’t going to make it.