Chapter 7 Ethan #2
I lean in just enough that she can feel my breath on her cheek, and she still doesn’t move. Her pupils are blown wide, and her grip on my shirt tightens slightly.
“You think I don’t notice the way you breathe when I speak? The way your legs press together under that desk like you’re afraid I’ll find out?”
She opens her mouth like she’s going to argue, but I cut her off before the lie can land.
“Take your hair down.”
She pauses for half a second, then lifts her hands and pulls the tie loose. Her curls fall over her shoulders, thick and wild, and I don’t miss the way she flushes under the attention. She looks like she knows exactly what that little act just did to me.
“Good. Now unbutton your blouse.”
There’s a flicker of hesitation, but she does it. Slowly. Carefully. One button at a time until I can see the swell of her breasts and the way her bra strains against her chest.
“Keep going.”
She swallows, but her fingers keep moving. I don’t help her. I just watch her undo herself for me, standing in my office like she’s already mine.
“Hands behind your back.”
Her eyes lock on mine, searching for something, but she doesn’t ask questions. She obeys. Her arms fall back, and her chest lifts just enough that I can tell she’s trying to keep it together.
“You look beautiful like this,” I say quietly, standing so we’re nearly eye to eye. She tilts her face up, lips parted, and I see it in the way her breath stutters—she’s right on the edge.
“Color?”
“Green.”
I nod. My hand lifts to her throat, fingers resting lightly along her pulse, not squeezing, just grounding her there. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t even blink.
“You want my attention at work,” I murmur, “then you’re going to earn it. On my terms.”
“Yes, Sir,” she says, and it’s so soft it’s almost a breath, but the words still go straight to my blood.
“Good girl.”
She exhales shakily, and I feel her knees shift, but I hold her steady. Her body’s reacting before her brain catches up, and I like her like this—stunned, needy, unsure whether to beg or behave.
“We’ve got twenty minutes,” I say, brushing my hand down her sternum, slow enough to make her shiver. “Let’s see how much of that you can spend remembering who you belong to.”
I guide her onto my lap and settle her there like it’s always been her place, one arm firm around her waist while my other hand cups her face and tilts it toward mine.
When I kiss her, I take my time, letting her feel the pressure, the way I decide the pace and she follows it without even realizing she’s doing it.
Her mouth opens for me, soft and warm, and when our tongues meet she moans unguardedly even though she doesn’t mean to. Her hips shift on instinct, rolling forward like her body’s already learned the rules even if her mind is still catching up.
I growl into her mouth and tighten my grip on her ass, pulling her down harder so she can feel exactly what she’s doing to me.
My cock strains against the zipper, hot and impatient, and she gasps into the kiss but doesn’t pull away.
If anything, she presses closer, like she’s testing how far she’s allowed to go.
“You’re playing with fire,” I murmur against her lips, my voice steady even though my body’s anything but.
She barely hesitates. “You told me not to run.”
“And you’re obeying,” I say, and she nods, breath ragged now, chest rising fast enough that I can feel it under my palm.
I kiss her again, deeper this time, slower and dirtier, my hand sliding under her skirt and up her thigh in a way that makes her whole body jolt.
She’s not wearing stockings. Just smooth skin and lace that’s already damp enough to give her away.
I drag a finger across it, intentionally light, and she whimpers like I’ve touched something exposed.
I pull back just enough to bite her lower lip, tug it gently between my teeth, then release it and watch her try to steady herself.
“You’re soaked for me already,” I say quietly as I marvel at how sensitive she is.
She moans, her head tipping back as I press my thumb against her clit through the fabric, keeping the pressure teasing and controlled. I’m not trying to make her come. I’m reminding her that I could.
“Ethan—”
“Say Sir.”
She pants, the word catching in her throat before it comes out. “Sir.”
I pull my hand away immediately, gripping her hips instead and holding her still when she tries to chase the sensation. She lets out a frustrated little sound, and it makes my mouth curve.
“Tonight,” I say, leaning in close enough that she can feel every word against her skin, “you’ll come to my place. We’ll discuss a personal project.”
Her eyes flutter, her lashes dark against flushed cheeks, and she nods like she’s afraid her voice might betray her again.
“Words, baby.”
“Yes, Sir.”
That does something deep and possessive in my chest. I lift her off my lap slowly, setting her on her feet and keeping my hands on her hips until she finds her balance.
Her legs are unsteady, her dress wrinkled, her lipstick gone, and she looks like she’s been thoroughly handled even though I haven’t given her half of what I want to.
“Fix yourself,” I tell her, not unkindly.
She smooths her dress, runs a hand through her hair, and takes a steadying breath that doesn’t quite work. I stand and adjust my pants, then step in behind her, close enough that she can feel my presence without me touching her.
“I’ll see you at seven,” I murmur near her ear.
“Yes, Sir.”
I unlock the door and step back, watching her walk out with her head held high and her knees still weak, and I don’t stop myself from thinking it.
She’s such a good girl.