8. Ophelia
OPHELIA
An impossible desire gathers in the pit of my stomach as Mr. Moretti seals the lock on the door, dragging me over to his desk.
Oh, this desk is about to see some things indeed.
“I hope this wood is solid oak,” I say.
Salvatore’s hand disappears under my skirt as he grabs my pussy, slapping it. “The desk can be made out of aluminum for all I care. It will still be broken by the time I’m finished with you.”
I gasp, electricity shooting through my body. “Fuck,” I groan, using his finger to rub myself.
He pulls my panties aside, placing them on the desk beside me. “Such a fucking minx,” he grunts, examining the panties, seeing how drenched they are. “You’ve been wet since the Wall Street meeting,” he states, sliding his fingers over my pussy, petting me.
“Is it obvious?”
“Admittingly, you were more subtle for the rest of the afternoon, darling, for those last two meetings, but you still need to do something about those cheeks.” He slots a finger into my entrance, pumping.
“Deep breaths, remember. Work with me.” He encourages me to sync my breaths with the finger, exhaling as he withdraws, inhaling as the finger drives back into my pussy.
“You like being fingered, don’t you, Miss Bennett?
” He hitches my skirt up to my hips, exposing my pussy to all of Manhattan as I sit on the edge of his desk.
“I might have to fuck you upright like this so I can look into your eyes, watching the innocence disappear in them.”
“Please,” I beg, my pulse shaking my entire body. “Fuck me already. The clock is ticking. I’m sure you have other places to be.”
“Oh, there are a thousand other places I need to be,” he murmurs, dipping his head between my legs, planting the most spellbinding kiss to my clit. “But business can wait.”
“Yeah,” I gasp, watching him resurface from between my thighs.
He works his belt buckle, sliding the leather free. Wrapping the belt around his hand until he has a secure hold of it, he inserts the belt between my legs, pressing it flush against my pussy.
I rub myself against the leather, a tight ball of fire burning low in my core as I reach the end already.
The fire threatens to burst when the metal buckle grazes my clit, the cool sensation sending flames bursting in all directions.
“Holy shit.”
“So fucking needy,” grunts Mr. Moretti, observing me, still fully dressed for the most part. The black boxers need to come off. I’m sure his cock will be poking through soon, seeing as though how hard he is, letting me know how much he wants this.
“How long have you wanted this for?” I ask between staggered breaths.
“Oh, sweetheart, have I not stroked your ego enough?”
“Like yours doesn’t get stroked on a daily basis.”
“Ever since day one, sweet dear, I have wanted to fuck you, seeing how well your little pussy can take what I have to offer.”
The offer is a lot to handle, quite like the man himself.
“You walked in wearing those black pants that were too short for you, stopping at the calves.”
“They’re called capris.”
“You sat down, looked me dead in the eye across the table with your feline eyes, and let me know you were going to cause a stir.”
“And have I?” I ask, staring deep into his soul.
Mr. Moretti flashes a smirk. “I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.” He shoves his boxer shorts down to his knees, his cock laying thick against his stomach, causing my pulse to hum.
I feel my mouth gape wide open, my jaw dropping a hundred stories, landing on the fucking streets of Manhattan. I never saw his cock the first time, only felt it inside. Angling my head to the side, examining it, I wonder how my cervix survived.
“You, on the other hand, Miss Bennett,” continues Mr. Moretti, running a finger over his lip, “are already stirred.”
“I’m perfectly fine, which is why you hired me, remember?” I say, leaning back on my elbows. “I know how to handle my shit.”
“Handling me might take some practice.”
“You speak way too highly of yourself.”
“What happened to formalities, Miss Bennett? A level of respect is still required for your boss, even though you may be fucking him.”
“Well, we’re not fucking,” I grit, my patience running thin. “Not yet.”
“We can soon change that,” he says, guiding his cock between my legs, nudging his tip against my clit. “I want you to look at the man who is fucking you, Miss Bennett. Keep your eyes on me.”
I buckle my hips as he fills me, pleasure already starting to burst at the seams.
I force my eyes open even though pleasure weighs heavy on my eyelids, pressing them down. I force them open, my vision turning green as I find him staring at me.
I glance at his chest, seeing muscles work underneath his shirt. “Take your shirt off.”
“Excuse me?”
“I want to be naked. Remove my blouse and your shirt.”
“I do not accept demands from my assistant, or even requests,” says Mr. Moretti, his hips crashing with mine as he slides his cock in all the way. “You listen to me, Miss Bennett, not the other way around.”
I arch my back, fitting more of him, already on the verge of climax.
This is not how I saw today going. After the chat with Aunt Viv at the gallery, I was initially on the fence about Salvatore’s arrangement, about bending over his desk again when there’s clearly more to this man than attraction and money.
For breaking that man’s nose, Mr. Moretti has proven to be reckless, unable to stay in control for very long.
He may give off the illusion in public that he is in control, entering rooms with purpose, speaking with intention, like every word that comes out of his mouth has been thought over carefully, but seeing blood is not a shock for him.
He didn’t blink once yesterday, more concerned about the mess the man was making on his floor than the casualty.
Perhaps he spills blood on a regular basis…
“No matter how horrific, how upsetting something may be, if you are exposed to the trauma enough, you eventually stop reacting,” is what my mother told me once after a night shift at the hospital.
“Think about the worst thing you’ve ever seen, and I promise you the reality is ten times worse in the ER,” she said.
“And us nurses deal with patient trauma like we’re making a sandwich. ”
“I’m getting hot,” I gasp, lifting the hem of my blouse over my torso. “I feel like I’m in a steam room.”
“I feel fine,” says Mr. Moretti, flashing me a quick glance. He stabilizes himself on the desk, using the hand as momentum to drive forward, fucking me deeper.
My eyelids droop, my own pleasure forcing them to close.
I give in, allowing my eyes to shut. An image of the crow forms as soon as I close them.
I visualize the wings spreading across my boss’s chest and mull over crimes he could be committing now, right under the company’s nose; things far worse than vandalizing and shoplifting; things worthy of a lifelong prison sentence, stuff that would shock even ER nurses.
Breaking noses could be the tip of the iceberg for all I know. The muscles contracting under Salvatore’s shirt look like they were built outside of the gym in the real world, hitting real people, ruining real lives.
And yet, the thought of my boss using violence, breaking someone’s nose to get what he wants, exhilarates me, pushing me right to the edge of my desire.
I splay my hands over my boss’s shoulders, feeling incredible muscles contract, wondering how he trains these muscles in his spare time to get them looking and feeling like this.
Mr. Moretti is respected, feared; swooned over by every woman on the continent, and most importantly, has a thousand other places he needs to be.
And yet the man is right by my side, in no rush to leave, even after he finishes deep inside, leaving me dripping with his cum for a moment while he disappears to the restroom to grab tissue.
“How generous of you,” I say as he cleans me, my legs still spread wide in front of the window as he moves tissue over my inner thighs.
“My pleasure.” He trashes the tissue, turning his back on me to glance out of the window, the sun arching in the sky, streaks of golden light landing in various parts of the city.
“It’s quite the view up here.”
“Indeed,” he says to the window, arms folded over his chest.
His back muscles pop through the white shirt. My hands itch to touch him again, to appreciate how much power this man exerts. But sex changes very little. We’re still strangers, and walls go back up as soon as the clothes are on…
Interestingly, Mr. Moretti is adamant on keeping those walls high.
A man built like a Roman Gladiator should have no issues taking off his shirt upon request. Mr. Moretti has posed for Vogue in the past. The clothes stay on, but the pursed lips and confident eyes suggest, on the surface of things, he has no insecurities…
Except maybe the crow tattoo, as he caught me staring at it the first time.
I hop down from the desk, grab my purse from the mahogany cabinet where I dumped it.
“Enjoy the rest of your day, sir,” I say, clamping the purse under my armpit, ready to take off when I see a single A4 sheet of paper placed on the shelf below where I dumped my purse.
Since Mr. Moretti still has his back turned, gazing out at the city, I sneak a glance at the paper. Detective Ophelia Bennet is officially in the building… only I have no idea what I’m searching for here.
75 Queens Blvd, Queens, NY, 11373 is the address that has been noted down on the piece of paper.
I frown, trailing my finger over the address briefly before returning the document to its home.
This is nothing unusual. Addresses are noted down all the time so Mr. Moretti knows exactly where to meet people when he is leaving the office for meetings.
But as his assistant, it is my job to take note of these addresses, not the other way around...
I flash Mr. Moretti a smile as he heads to the door, seeing me out.
“You enjoy the rest of your evening.”
“Yes,” I say, an awkward silence stretching between us as I bid him goodbye. “See you tomorrow.”
My legs carry me to the elevator. I slide in when the doors open, staring vacantly into space on my way down.
I blink and I’m back at my apartment, the commute home a complete fucking blur as I spent the entire time mulling over my boss and our changed relationship…
And how this could affect me and my reputation.
Cozying up to Mr. Moretti is dangerous, but my mother warned me about the Crows for a reason. Secrets are constantly drifting through this city, hiding in plain sight. All I have to do is open my eyes to see the truth, and it starts by networking with the right people.
I slip the sketch from my purse, opening it back up, staring at the wings, the slightly opened beak. I’m missing something here. Perhaps the answers are staring me right in the face.
I pick myself off the couch and walk into my bedroom, tearing open my closet door, staring at my mother’s clothes.
My gaze lands on the blue pocket dress. Unhooking it from the rail, I lay it flat on my bed, staring at the garment, waiting for answers to find me.
The words MADE IN TUSCANY are written across the label, followed by the numbers: 11373. This is a code usually linked to the manufacturer.
But the garment was handmade by an Italian designer. There would be no registered identification number, no manufacture linked to an item of clothing that has been handmade by an independent designer.
I stare at the numbers, something clicking in my brain as I read the label, the five digit numbers transforming me back to Mr. Moretti’s office. Zip codes consist of five numbers…
I grab my laptop, flipping the lid, typing the number into the search bar. The number on the label is a zip code in Queens, the map pointing me toward a block of self-storage facilities...
I double click on the images, flicking through each one.
Walking through this place during the day looks like it would be a death sentence, since there are no emergency exits, nowhere to run.
Endless garage doors run off into the distance, each one painted orange.
Looking too long sends shivers down my spine.
There’s something uncanny about this place. Over two hundred self-storage containers are in this corridor, almost all of them privately owned.
I click off the images, typing ‘Tuscan’ into the search bar along with the five-digit number, eager to see what the search results give me. Properties appear on the web page in the Tuscan region.
I scroll through the listings, wondering if this is just one big coincidence…
But I suppose there is only one way to find out.