19. Taylor
TAYLOR
When I enter Mikhail’s office, he’s waiting in a chair beside the door, his head in his hands and his sleeves rolled to his forearms. The veins in his arms bulge, and my body reacts sharply, one clean, hot response still rolling beneath the smarting humiliation of him yelling at me in front of my coworkers.
“Hey, I’d appreciate it if you’d use a tone that’s a little more respectful next time,” I say, swallowing and trying to sound forceful.
He looks up, and I’m taken aback by the smoldering in his brown eyes. His jaw is set firmly. “Lock the door.”
I’m so surprised that I do it without question, and something flashes across his face. Satisfaction.
Mikhail straightens his tie and looks over my body. Slowly. “Taylor, you told me that you wanted to be taken seriously here.” He leans back in the chair, his hands resting on his knees.
I squirm in confusion, tugging my skirt farther down. “I do. I don’t understand. Am I in trouble? Did I do something wrong?”
He rises to his feet and takes careful steps toward me.
He gives the impression of being calm, but his breaths are anything but.
His chest is heaving, and his fists clench and unclench at his sides.
He stops in front of me, close enough that I take a step back until my shoulders knock against the door.
“If you want people to take you seriously,” he growls, “why am I always seeing you with men around this office? Have you considered that it might be counterproductive?”
I blink at him. “Men?” His jaw tightens. “Do you mean Dima?”
“He should not have been touching you.”
“He stopped me from falling.”
“He had his hands on your waist.”
“Oh my God.” I stare at him for a second, then something clicks into place. “Was Nikolai not supposed to touch me either?” His expression changes. Barely. But I see it. “The man from the bar,” I continue. “The one who mysteriously never called me.”
“Nikolai has nothing to do with this.”
“That sounds like a yes.”
“Taylor.”
I fold my arms. “You seem to think you have a lot of say over who gets to touch me.”
“I’m looking out for you.”
I actually laugh. “By monitoring which men put their hands on me?”
“By recognizing that you do not always make good decisions.”
My smile disappears. “Excuse me?”
“You are twenty years old, alone in another country, and you behave as though consequences are things that happen to other people.”
“That is unbelievably patronizing.”
“You send money home when you can barely afford your own expenses.”
For a second, I just stare at him. The argument disappears. So does the room. “What?” Mikhail goes still. “How do you know that?” He says nothing. My stomach turns cold. “How do you know I sent money home?”
“Taylor—”
“No.” I shake my head. “I sent my parents two hundred dollars. Three weeks ago. How do you know that?” His eyes remain fixed on mine. I feel suddenly exposed in a way that has nothing to do with the distance between our bodies. “Did you investigate me?”
“I had you vetted.”
“That is not vetting.”
“I am responsible for the people who work around me.”
“You know my bank account.”
“I know enough to recognize when someone is putting herself in a vulnerable position.”
I stare at him. “You went through my finances because you were looking out for me?”
“I did not say I went through them personally.”
“Oh, that makes it so much better.”
His mouth tightens. “I am trying to keep you from becoming vulnerable to people who might take advantage of you.”
“Like who?”
“Anyone.”
“Men at bars?”
“If necessary.”
“Coworkers?”
His eyes harden.
I almost laugh again. “Dima?”
“This is not about Dima.”
“It is absolutely about Dima.”
“I don’t want people in this office getting the wrong idea about you.”
“What wrong idea?”
“That you are here to socialize. That you are careless. That your attention can be bought with a drink and a smile.”
My face heats. “I like spending time with Dima.”
His jaw flexes. There it is.
I look up at him through my lashes with a smirk. “Dima’s funny, and he’s tall. I can’t help it if he wants to take me out after work.”
Mikhail’s breath makes a trail of goose bumps along my neck as he looks down at my breasts then leans forward and whispers in my ear, “And you do not care if the office starts to talk?”
I turn to look at him, our faces so close we could kiss, and I say, “I think you care if the office starts to talk.”
“And the way you are dressed,” he says quietly. “Is that on purpose, or are you just a slut?”
The word should offend me. Instead, heat drops straight through my stomach. “I guess I’m just a slut,” I tell him simply.
He growls, finally sick of me, and grabs my elbow. He turns me around, shoving my face into the door, and slides his hand up my thigh. I whimper the closer he gets to my underwear. He hears me and says, “Hold your underwear to the side if you want my finger inside you.”
I reach back, my face in the door, and do as I’m told.
He wastes no time. It isn’t like before in his bed when he touched me gently, sliding his fingers up and down my slit and then circling my clit.
He reaches from in front of me and pushes a finger inside me and when I cry out, he covers my mouth with his hand.
He says, “You are trying to make me jealous, Taylor, and I do not appreciate it. I am trying to get work done.” I laugh into his palm despite myself, and he moves his hand. “What?”
“No one was trying to make you jealous. You’re just insane. Dima’s a coworker.”
“And now?” he asks. I say nothing. His voice lowers. “Now you are.”
He releases me, pulling his finger out of me with a wet pop that leaves me feeling empty. My back arched, my face against the door, I feel humiliated, and I straighten quickly. He walks over to the chair I found him in, and he sits down. “Come here.”
I should tell him to go to hell. Instead, I walk toward him.
His eyes track every step. The closer I get, the more aware I become of the wetness between my thighs. When I stop in front of him, he spreads his knees. “Closer.”
“You’re enjoying this too much.” I step between his legs. He puts his hands on my hips and looks up at me. Something about the position makes my confidence falter. Mikhail Korolev seated in front of me should make him look less powerful. It does not.
His fingers tighten around my skirt. “You said you liked Dima’s attention.”
I smile again. “I do.”
His hand slides behind my knee. “Then why are you here giving me your attention?”
“Because you ordered that I give it to you.”
“Do you do everything I order you to do, kotik? You are that good of a girl?”
I look down at him with my chest heaving, lightheaded, unsure of what’s going to happen next. I feel like I’m on a ledge.
“What if I order you to suck my cock?”
He reaches between us and unfastens his trousers. My breath catches. Mikhail watches my face as he opens them, freeing himself. He’s already hard, the thick length of him resting against his stomach. The sight sends another pulse through me.
He wraps one hand around himself and strokes once. “Get on your knees.”
My eyes snap to his. He waits. There is no mistaking what he wants, but he doesn’t reach for me. He gives me the order and leaves the choice sitting between us.
I kneel slowly. His expression darkens with every inch. My knees touch the carpet. He reaches out and brushes my hair away from my face. “Do you want to do this?”
I look at him through my lashes. “Yes.”
“Tell me then. Slovami.”
Heat crawls over my cheeks. “You want me to beg?” He says nothing, his cock still in his hand. I glance at it and then back at his face. “I want to suck you.”
A rough sound leaves him. “Good girl.”
I wrap my fingers around the base and lean forward. The first touch of my tongue makes his stomach tense. I trace the swollen head, tasting him, and his fingers slide into my hair.
He doesn’t push. That restraint makes me bolder.
I take him into my mouth. There’s too much of him. My lips stretch, and I can only manage a few inches before my throat tightens.
Mikhail’s head falls back against the chair. “Blyad.” Fuck.
I pull away and take him again, using my hand for what my mouth cannot manage.
I find a rhythm slowly, watching his control deteriorate.
His fingers tighten in my hair. I hollow my cheeks and suck harder.
His hips twitch. I pull back with a smile.
His eyes open. Then his hand closes firmly around my hair and pulls me up from my knees.
I gasp. “What?”
“You’re trying to make me lose control.”
“I want you to feel good.”
“No,” he says. Before I can answer, he turns me and pulls me across his lap. “You want me to feel powerless.”
My palms catch against the carpet. “Mikhail.” He pushes my skirt up over my hips. Cool air touches the backs of my thighs. “This is ridiculous,” I breathe.
“Yes. It is ridiculous that I have to spank you to get you to behave.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You told me you were a slut.”
“I was mocking you.”
His hand moves over my ass. Slowly. Possessively. “I know.”
The first slap lands sharply. I jerk across his thighs. The sting blooms beneath my skin. “Oh my God.”
His palm soothes the place he struck. “Too hard?”
I swallow. “No.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
My cheeks burn as the truth settles in. “No.”
The next slap is harder. I bite my lip to keep quiet.
Mikhail strokes me afterward, his hand spreading over the heat he created. He does it again, alternating between sharp impacts and long, maddening caresses. The pain becomes something else. Something hot. My hips shift against his lap. He notices. “Are you enjoying your punishment?”
“No.”
His hand comes down again. I gasp. “Liar.”
Another. My fingers curl into the carpet. I can feel how wet I am, feel it soaking into my underwear, feel the hard shape of him beneath my stomach every time I squirm. “You never wanted Dima’s attention.”
I look over my shoulder. “What?”
His palm rests against my burning skin. “I know that Dima likes Viktoriya.”
“Then why are you doing this?”