Chapter 7 Sophia
Sophia
His grip on the edge of his creepily minimalist desk turns white-knuckled as he surveys me, and I lounge back a little further in my chair.
I know Eight here is going to want to call every shot, and I intend to let him have his way.
Once I’ve wound him up a little, that is.
Let’s just say I have an inkling that pushing his buttons will make everything even hotter—for both of us.
And he’s far too uptight. It would be a shame not to have some fun with him.
Which is why I reach for the top button of my dress and slide it out of its buttonhole.
He pushes off the desk. Before I know it, he’s towering over me, a strong hand wrapped around each of my wrists, holding them rigidly away from my dress as if I’ve been in danger of pressing a detonate button—which doesn’t feel too far from the truth.
I gaze up at him. He’s fuming, and I don’t hate it.
His lovely mouth is pressed into a thin line.
‘I call the shots. What part of that do you not understand?’
I smile at him. ‘Just trying to help.’
‘Well don’t. Not without my authorisation.’
I shrug. ‘Got it.’
He reluctantly releases me and collapses back against the desk. ‘Do you have a safeword?’ he barks. He resembles someone in the midst of a major sugar crash surveying a dessert buffet—like he doesn’t know where to start. Like I’m breaking his brain.
‘EBITDA,’ I say sweetly. It has the desired effect of stopping him in his tracks.
He frowns. ‘EBITDA, as in Earnings Before Interest, Tax, Depreciation and Amortisation?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Why on earth?’
‘Because it’s deliberately unsexy. It breaks the moment.’
‘I don’t know about that. I happen to think a figure that represents my company’s underlying profitability, without all the noise of financial fees and accounting adjustments and intangibles, is actually pretty sexy.’
He says it with a straight face, and I reward his deadpan delivery with my biggest, most seductive smile. It’s as if I’ve shot a stun gun between his eyes. He stares at me like he’s never seen anything like it.
‘I don’t disagree. I may have to rethink it. Not that I’ve ever used my safeword,’ I add, just to break his brain a little more.
‘You’ve never safed out? Ever?’
‘Nope. I can handle a lot.’
‘I bet you can,’ he drawls. He slaps the desk suddenly, aggressively, and it makes me jump. ‘Now swap places with me and do exactly as I say. You hear me?’
With a little nod of acquiescence, I rise to my feet and pass him, my mostly bare arm brushing against the cotton of his shirt as I do. God, I love this state of anticipation, of putting myself wholly in the hands of a man I know will command me to perfection.
When I was doing my MBA, I fucked a guy on the Stanford swim team for a few months. He was the epitome of physical perfection—not a subcutaneous fat cell on his body—but the sex was meh. He was far too easygoing.
Then I prostituted myself for Thad, a belligerent arsehole older than my father, with skin beaten by decades of sun abuse to the colour and texture of walnuts and moobs for days, but he still made me lose my mind every time he ordered me about.
Bottom line: I’m a ho for an alpha guy.
A dominant personality will do it for me over a perfect body every time.
Happily for me, this dude looks as if he has both.
He settles in the chair like a man about to enjoy a private show, which is exactly what he is. I may have height on him in this position, but there’s no doubt who’s in control of this little scene.
‘Now you can unbutton your dress, slowly, starting at the top.’
I do as he says, enjoying the brush of my fingers against my skin as I work my way slowly down the rest of the big gold-and-enamel buttons.
Enjoying those arresting grey eyes riveted to my body.
If I take this job, which, let’s face it, I already know I will, we’ll fuck hundreds of times.
There’s something almost sacred about uncovering myself for him for the first time, about preparing myself for him to profane me in whatever way he likes.
It’s the allure of the unknown that makes this feel so thrilling.
His eyes lock onto the black lace of my bra as I arch forward to undo the lower buttons.
When the last one is undone, I straighten up and pause, the dress hanging open like a coat, my soft curves and black lace lingerie on partial display for him.
I remain leaning against the desk, letting my hands rest on it too.
He hasn’t told me to take the dress off yet, and he’s about to find out that I’m as pliant in a sexual context as I am feisty out of it.
‘Stand up and take it off,’ he orders me. His body is still, his gaze rapt.
I push myself off the desk and tug the dress off my shoulders, shimmying a little so it slides down my arms like a coat. He holds out a hand and I pass it to him, watching as he leans over and lays it reverently on the floor beside him. Appreciation for Chanel will always win him brownie points.
He straightens up and stills. Everyone loves having praise and compliments lavished on them, but anything he could say right now would surely appear trite compared to the enraptured expression on his face.
His eyes wander over my body, taking a leisurely perusal of the generous curves of my hips and tits, the decadent lace of my lingerie, and my bare legs, still in their red heels.
Finally, our eyes lock, and he swallows.
‘Take off your bra.’
His voice is brusque. Husky. I reach behind me and unhook it.
I know he’s seen me naked. I know he’s seen my portfolio, and I even know from Camille that he left a lot of tissues in the office bin for a man who didn’t appear to be suffering from a cold.
All of which is to say that, despite his history of hiring slim, sleek gym-bunnies from Seraph to date, I’m not worried that he’ll find my body too much.
On the contrary, I want to know what it feels like to have him gorge himself stupid on it.
The office is cool, and his gaze is hot, and my exposed nipples react accordingly, growing taut and achy.
He grips the chrome arms of the chair much like he gripped the edge of the desk: hard. When he speaks, his voice is a rasp of barely controlled need. ‘That’s very, very good. Now turn around.’
That I can do. I smile seductively and push off the desk, turning around like he asked. His face must be level with my arse, and I know what he’ll see. A scrap of black lace dissecting plump, tanned cheeks. No tan lines on this girl.
I can feel the scorch of his gaze on my bottom as surely as if his eyes were laser beams.
The chair creaks.
He’s standing up.
I sense the air move as he steps closer.
When he speaks, his voice comes from right behind me.
‘Now. Bend over. Slowly. I want to watch.’
While I didn’t necessarily expect today’s interview to take this turn, in this job you’re always prepared for nakedness. In this job, the layers underneath the interview outfit are as important as the outfit itself.
So my lingerie is perfect. My skin is buffed and waxed and moisturised, my tan freshly topped up from a cheeky couple of days of naked sunbathing on Thad’s super yacht before the party. In a nutshell, I’m primed and ready to give this guy a show.
I place both palms on his desk and slide them forward over the empty expanse of white as I hinge elegantly at the hips.
I guess Eight’s dislike of any type of clutter is conducive to spontaneous sex on junk-free surfaces.
And this beautiful slab of smooth white marble looks like it can handle a good railing.
As can I, my friend. As can I.
I slide my hands forward until I’m bent right over and my boobs hit the cold stone.
I can’t help but feel a little like a sacrificial lamb.
Eight’s intake of breath is audibly sharp, but he still hasn’t touched me.
I suspect this man likes to exert as much control over himself as over everyone else.
I can’t resist giving my bum a little wiggle. ‘Well? I thought you had something to show me.’
Instantly, he’s right up against me, his wool trousers brushing against my bare thighs and a very nice erection pressing against my pussy. He grabs my hips, his thumbs dragging over my arse cheeks.
‘Your self-control is deplorable.’ He sounds deeply disappointed in me.
‘Self-control is overrated. And I don’t have all day. Unless you’re stalling because you’re worried you won’t be able to deliver?’
He pushes his hardness further against me, his strong fingers and thumbs kneading my bare skin. ‘I have no concerns. And if you’re going to work for me, you’ll need to learn to shut up and take what you’re given.’
Hell, yes. My head is turned sideways, one cheek is pressed to the coolness of his desk, arms cactused. So when I let my eyes flutter shut at this most delicious threat, I guess he sees it.
‘You like that.’
Yes. ‘Maybe.’
With my face like this, I can see his arm and not much more. He releases his grip on me and slides his fingers underneath the elasticated lace at the top of my thong. ‘You like it.’
He waits, and I sigh in defeat, because I have no interest in going up against Captain Edger in a self-control contest.
‘Yes. I like it. But I’d like less conversation and more action even better. I’m not the only one who needs to learn to shut up.’
‘Like I said. You’ll take what you’re given.
’ The strain is evident in his voice, and that’s enough to shut me the hell up.
A few seconds of meek silence on my part seem to do the trick, because he slides that thong over my arse and right down my legs, and my mind reels.
It reels as much at the pleasure of having damp lace peeled away from my swollen flesh as at the knowledge that Eight is getting his first good look at my goods and his first real proof that, despite my backchat, I’m evidently more than ready to “take what I’m given”.
I wonder what he thinks.