29. REMINDER
ariella
The implication settles heavily in my chest. It’s something worse than a mere threat.
Shivers run down my spine from the immediate contact.
I feel him—hard, insistent—through the layers of fabric. My throat tightens, attempting to swallow nothing.
So he’s been the one pulling the strings from the beginning—trying to manipulate me into believing I had the upper hand. For how long has he known?
“Get away from me, Alistair.”
“I love the way my name sounds in your fake British accent,” amusement bleeds through his voice.
“Let go,” I grumble, twisting in his hold, trying to break free, but it only worsens the situation.
My body grinds back against him in the process, with the fabric of my skirt riding higher.
The friction pulls a sharp breath from my lungs, heat flaring low and fast.
“We can still pretend nothing happened between us.”
“Keep that up, and I might fuck you right here and now,” his voice drops, rougher now.
His hips deliberately nudge forward in emphasis. It sends a pulse of heat straight to my core.
“We’ve cameras in here,” I hate the way my voice wavers, the lack of certainty bleeding through the threat.
It’s too vague, too unsure—I don’t actually know if we do.
“No, we don’t.”
My eyes close briefly. What was I thinking? This is his personal space after all.
“Not even a recorder,” he adds, leaning in, his lips ghosting far too softly over my cheek. “Nothing to prove what I can do to you here.”
A slow breath grazes my skin. “It’s just you and me, Ariella.”
I try to face him, to regain some kind of control, but he doesn’t let me move at all. The only thing I manage is to tilt my head toward him.
Our lips almost brush.
I take a sharp inhale—coffee. The smell wraps around my senses, and for a fleeting second, I wonder if he’d taste the same.
My lips part on instinct.
His front presses against my back, letting me feel how this minor interaction is also affecting him physically—how hard he is for me.
I snap my face forward, forcing my gaze down to the marble beneath me.
The edge presses into my hips, grounding me just enough to remind me where I am and who I’m trapped with.
If anything, it’s making me want to grind my clit over his desk. I want him to do something to me—give something to my body. It begs to be ruined by him like last night.
His fingers slide between mine. I let him. I allow him to pin my hands flat against the desk firmly.
I bite back hard. But it doesn’t stop my panties from flooding with moisture.
“Don’t you… don’t you have a wife?” I force the bitter words out.
“That wasn’t your concern when you were licking her off me every night, little kitty,” the words brush against my ear.
My eyes widen from the realization crashing into me like a train wreck.
He knew.
He knew.
Waves of panic kick hard in my bloodstream. My mind races fast, scrambling to piece together just how much he’s seen, how much he’s understood, how much I’ve unknowingly revealed.
“So you pretended to be sleeping while I…” the words catch as awareness slams into me all over again.
Saying it out loud feels like crossing a line I can’t step back from.
“I pretend to be a lot of things,” Alistair says, his tone sincere, “but right now I’m not pretending to fuck you.”
My pulse stutters into an uneven rhythm.
For a second, I think he actually will. What terrifies me the most is that I won’t stop him if he does.
He exhales slowly, the sound caressing the shell of my ear like a promise he has no intention of breaking.
Then suddenly he pulls back.
The loss of his weight leaves me disoriented, my body still pitched forward over the desk, palms flat where he just had them pinned. Thighs trembling, pussy aching from the desperate urge to touch myself.
I hate it.
I hate that he can do this to me so easily—start something and then just walk away nonchalantly.
As if the last few seconds never happened. As if I wasn’t about to grind against him. As if I didn’t almost—God.
I straighten too quickly and turn around to face him, bracing my hands behind his desk.
“Your cheeks are red, little kitty,” he sniggers, pleased at himself to see me flushed. “Is it from anger or…”
No words come out of my mouth. What am I supposed to say? Both?
“We can fix that. To do so, I need you to unbuckle your belt and give it to me.”
“Wait, what—”
“I’m afraid it’s not a suggestion. It’s an order,” his ocean-blue eyes hold me steady. They’re one shade darker now.
“Take it off yourself,” suddenly acting like a brat feels good.
“If I do, that won’t be the only piece I’d take off of your body.”
My throat swallows a lump subconsciously. Well, I don’t mind him ripping off my clothes and—
“And I’d make you walk out of this room like that.” I can’t even finish forming the image in my head when his voice cuts in. “What do you think that’s going to do to your good-girl reputation?”
Based on how much I’ve known Alistair, he’ll definitely keep his word.
So I don’t think twice—my hands move on autopilot, already doing what he asked me to.
“Good girl,” he drawls as I reach out to hand him my belt, my eyes never leaving his.
Not that I needed it anyway, the skirt is snug against my waist. That was just for fashion.
He twists the strap through the buckle twice in a way that forms an infinity sign, then wraps the remaining strap under the infinity sign and through the buckle.
Satisfied with his work, he holds it for me. “Put your hands through the loops.”
He wants to tie my wrist using my belt.
The action shouldn’t turn me on, but it does. My body steps towards him on its own. I push my hands through the loops before my brain can decide for me.
Unfortunately, he notices me jolting faintly when his fingers gently brush against my hand. It’s evident in the smallest tilt of the corners of his lips.
Alistair dips his head. His lips part, and his tongue darts out. Then he takes the tip of the strap and bites onto it, tugging it tight and securing the belt. His gaze never wavers from mine.
The simple action spikes up my heart rate. The stupid organ pounds so loudly, it drowns out everything else.
A sharp gasp slips free at the sting flaring from the leather cutting into my skin—he deliberately hooks the prong at the tightest level.
His palm rests on my head as he pushes me to the floor. And like an obedient pet, I allow him to put me on my knees.
Once my knees hit the floor, his knuckles gently run over the side of my face, “Good kitty,” the dimples on either side of his cheeks deepen from the grin.
The act is too soft in contrast to the power dynamic.
From his angle—looking down at me with a wicked grin carving across his mouth—he’s looking every bit the devil he is.
And me—on my knees, staring up at him through lashes feigning innocence. But there’s nothing innocent about this.
Not in the way his gaze darkens, dragging over me.
Not in the way my pulse stutters under the weight of it.
Not in the way I stay exactly where I am—like I belong here.
I momentarily forget about the stinging sensation on my wrists.
Alistair reaches into his coat and withdraws a thick fountain pen. The metal catches the low light as he leans forward and offers it to me.
My mind scrambles, tripping over itself trying to make sense of it—what use is of a pen when my hands are bound?
Still, instinct overrides logic. I shift on my knees and reach out, wrists straining against their restraint, managing to take it with my right hand.
He smiles. “You should be taking that with your left hand.”
“Huh?” My head snaps up, eyes locking onto his as I look at him from below, confusion tightening my brows.
What’s that supposed to mean?