Chapter Eleven #2
Anger heats the tip of my ears. “Excuse me?” I’m extremely self-critical over my work.
I agonize over every sentence, paragraph, and article.
I constantly question the validity of what I do and the value-add I bring to my industry.
Right now, I see my success mostly as a product of luck and tenacity.
Killian’s speaking as though I’m an ego-inflated narcissist who’s obsessed with herself, which is total bullshit.
“You shouldn’t have won a Pulitzer,” Killian starts.
I stand up. “I’m not here to listen to you deride my career.”
“Quite right, you’re not. And dinner isn’t finished yet, so you aren’t going anywhere. Sit down.”
The voice he uses is a mixture of potent dominance and unveiled threat. My ass meets the seat before I can think twice, and then I stiffen and withhold a whimper because fuck that hurts.
Killian’s lips tip up at the edges as he observes me, reaching for his wineglass.
After he’s taken a gulp, he sets it down again.
“You shouldn’t have won a Pulitzer for multiple reasons.
Not because the article wasn’t good enough—several of yours are more than enough to meet that award’s meager standards—but because you’re too young, and you’re capable of much better than what you’re putting out.
I suspect you merely require the correct guidance and inspiration. ”
My instinct is to rail against his statements, call him an asshole, and walk out of here, uncaring over if that earns me more pain.
Instead of acting on my angry impulses, however, I fix my gaze on my plate and stew.
At first, replaying his words in my mind just pisses me off and ruins even the delightful aromatic scent of food in front of me, but then, I try to give his opinion the same weight I’d lend a critic whom I respect.
After a few moments, I have to grudgingly admit he’s right.
I won the prize last year, and whenever I reread the piece that got me there, all I feel is a vague sense of frustration because I could’ve made it so much better.
If I redid it today, it’d be far superior.
If I redo it next year or five years from now, all the more so.
“Are you going to pretend as though my experiences with you will elevate my career?” The words come out in something of a sneer. “Is that the game you’re playing?”
“No. The game I’m playing will end up with you in my bed, screaming my name until you’re too incoherent to do so. That’s the only game. As for my comments on your work, it’s no game… but surely you must be aware that my professional guidance could work wonders for your career.”
Prick. “Remind me, from which university did you earn your journalism degree?”
His smile is all teeth, no humor. “Nowhere. I did, however, attend Harvard business school. I’ve interned and worked with the top industry professionals and leaders in the world. I know how to build people up professionally and personally—and that is not a service I often offer.”
“And it’s a service you’d offer me?”
“If I were so inclined. You could convince me much faster if you give up your ridiculous resistance, accept what I give you, and take what you can from me. The next eight weeks could determine the course of your career and change your life for the better.”
“At the low cost of giving my body freely to a fucking sociopath who has no respect for consent or the lack of desire in others.”
He doesn’t seem offended whatsoever. “I’m not a sociopath; I just have a limited emotional range and prefer to be in control.
” He pauses when I snort. “I don’t think you understand the unprecedented opportunities you’ll be offered.
If you checked your itinerary for our work together, you’ll have seen multiple events that will play host to the top professionals.
Not just in journalism and news, but in publishing as a whole.
” He cocks his head to the side. “You have good prose and the seeds of talent. Have you ever considered writing a book rather than an article?”
Yes. It’s a dream I had as a child, but the opportunity never presented itself.
“This conversation is moot. I’m not going to betray myself just for the betterment of my career.”
“Then you’re either stupid or you have more pride than sense.”
“Fine. Then I’ll be a person who doesn’t fuck their way to the top, and I’ll be able to sleep at night. How sad for me.”
“It is sad for you. I’m going to fuck you, Lyra, very soon. I’m going to fuck you more than once. I will not go easy on you. You could either reap the benefits of that or flounder in misery. It honestly makes no difference to me.”
Frustration mounts into anger, which boils over into rage. “I don’t want to sleep with you!” I shout, losing my temper.
Killian flicks a dismissive glance over me. “Yes, you do. Whether or not you’ll admit it and consent to it is a different matter entirely.”
“Urgh.” I’m panting with anger, a few moments away from stomping out of here—only I doubt the elevator will take me back down to the ground floor without Killian’s permission. Again, he’s trapped me. Again, I’m helpless and furious. So much so that tears start to sting my eyes.
I push my plate away. “I’m done. I’d like to leave.”
“No. We have three courses to go.”
“And I can leave after that?”
“If you still wish to.”
That seems far too easy for a man like Killian. He went through a lot of effort to get me here, and he’ll simply let me go once we’ve eaten? No vicious whipping, no forcing me to have sex, just… nothing?
My appetite is so far gone that I can only take a bite of the next two courses and a small sip of wine.
When the dessert course finally comes around, I eat a couple bites, mainly because the crème br?lée is perfectly paired with the sweet, slightly fizzly wine.
I finish the glass, and nearly finish the dessert.
“Have a sweet tooth?” Killian questions mildly.
I think I might’ve drank the wine a bit fast on a nearly-empty stomach, because the sound of his voice is unusually pleasant. “Does it matter?”
“Of course. I always take my guest’s preferences into account when planning dinners.”
“Well, then, yes.”
Wait—hold on. Why did I say that? I have no intention of willingly being Killian’s repeat guest. I don’t want to be here.
And yet, for some reason, I’m having a hard time peeling my eyes away from him. From the way his muscles stretch the fabric of his perfectly tailored dark suit. From the artful tousle of his hair. From his eyes, which are even more beautiful when they’re not starkly empty.
Something warm starts to fill me, but it’s not the languid, pleasant sort of heat I usually get when I drink without eating enough. It’s something else. Something pulsing and aching, stemming from my core.
Am I… turned on?
No—I can’t be. Killian being objectively attractive means nothing to me… only it’s making me feel a lot right now. Namely, arousal.
I blink slowly, confusion overcoming me. I feel like I drank a bottle of wine rather than a glass and change. A bottle specifically formulated to make me feel turned on.
I need to get out of here. Killian said he’d let me go after dinner was finished, and dinner is finished. It’s time for me to go home.
I stand up, legs feeling unsteady. Killian’s hand shoots out, wrapping around my arm, and I gasp at the contact. Any previous time he’s touched me, I’ve felt fear. Right now, even his hand on my arm feels good—alarmingly good.
He gazes up at me for a few beats, then pushes back his chair and tugs me directly into his lap. I fall hard, and tense in preparation for the burn in my ass to return. It does, but even that feels good—really good.
“You’re starting to feel it, aren’t you?” Killian questions mildly. His hand drifts up and down my arm, raising goosebumps. His eyes are so green. I can’t seem to look away from them, or from the curve of his sharp, angular jawline.
Wait… he said I’m starting to feel it.
Oh my god—he did something to my wine. He drugged my wine. I watched one of his servants pour me a glass from the same bottle they used for Killian, which is why I wasn’t worried, but they also switched out the wine glass with each course. Something invisible must’ve already been in mine.
“You—you drugged me,” I gasp. My words aren’t slurred, I don’t feel like I’m going to pass out… maybe it’s all in my head?
Then, Killian dispels that by saying, “Yes. It’s an aphrodisiac recommended by an acquaintance of mine with peculiar tastes.”
His hand lands on my thigh, taking full advantage of the slit in my dress. A quiet moan escapes my lips, and the ache overtaking my body intensifies. I feel like one huge, pulsing clitoris.
“Fuck,” Killian hisses. “I want to hear that again.”
“No—I have to—” before I can finish my request to leave, Killian fists my hair, turns my head to face him, and slants his mouth over mine.
Pleasure explodes at the contact of his soft lips moving over my own—it’s overpowering.
I moan again into the kiss, losing control of my body.
Any semblance of protest is wiped clean away from my mind.
He’s warm, soft, inviting, and ravenous for me. I’ve never felt such visceral desire for me radiating from a man before. His hand in my hair is firm, his grip on my thigh tightens, and his tongue plunges into my mouth, exploring every crevice accessible. It feels amazing. Enlightening, even.
I try to match his vigor in the kiss but fall short. He’s too intense, too hungry, and I’m too… not myself. I’ve never been an overtly sexual person, but right now one could be forgiven for thinking I am. My nails dig into Killian’s shoulders. My body presses fully against his, of its own volition.
A soft grunt of approval escapes him. He pulls back, only to trail his lips down my neck. I arch into his mouth; he bites me harshly over my pulse, and even that pain—which is substantial—adds to my arousal.
A slice of clarity briefly cuts through the fog encasing my thoughts. I don’t want this. I’m on a drug, I’m not in my right mind—legally, I can’t actually give consent right now, the cues my body’s giving be damned. My hands weakly push at Killian’s shoulder.
“Wait, I don’t—” my words cut off when his hand slides up my thigh and cups my pussy. Whatever he finds there makes him groan, a low, masculine sound that nearly makes me orgasm. My pussy pulses, my breasts ache, my body is no longer my own. For this moment in time, it’s his.
I should hate it, but I can’t—not with the sensations he’s inspiring. I’ve had my fair share of lovers, but none have ever made me feel like this.
Probably because none have drugged you, a voice in my head reminds me.
The doubt can’t take root. Before I comprehend what’s happening, Killian pushes the straps of my dress over my shoulder, and tugs it down to my waist. My nipples harden at the cool air, and I whimper, aching. Wanting. Needing.
“Killian—” the rest of my words get lost when his mouth closes around the peak of my nipple. His tongue curls around the taut bud, followed by a vicious nip of his teeth that draw a cry of agonized pleasure from my lips.
I should push him away. I should, but I can’t. Instead, my hands reach for his hair without my permission. God, it’s silky, and so soft. I want to bury my face in it. I want to drown in the sensations he’s inspiring.
His teeth bite into my nipple, so harshly it clears a bit of the haze—but then, his palm squeezes my pussy, and the heel grinds into my clit. The pain and pleasure intermix, making me painfully aware of just how empty I feel.
I despise Killian, but right now, I need him.
“Please,” I whine.
Killian pulls back, his gorgeous green orbs locking on mine. One of his brows bow. “Begging already?” he chuckles. “I’ve barely touched you.”
“Please touch me,” I moan.
Killian’s lips curve up, and his eyes gleam with something devious. “You want me to keep touching you, Lyra? You want me to fuck you?”
I want to say no, I have to say it, but what comes out is a breathless, “God, yes.”