22. Cora
Cora
When Brady tells me we’re going into his office, I feel a strange thrill in my stomach. A dangerous thrill. If I’m visiting his workplace, then we aren’t just crossing paths in this penthouse. We aren’t leading separate lives if I let our lives get intertwined.
I tie my hair in its professional low ponytail, then put on my navy sheath dress and black pumps, the sleekest business outfit I have. I struggle with the zipper, but there’s no way I’m asking Brady to zip me up with the hideous bruise on my back.
Stupid fire hydrant. Stupid fucking asshole who takes pleasure in kicking a woman lying trapped on the ground. I find myself hoping he’s dead, that I killed him with his own club.
Brady has the car meet us on the less convenient side of the high-rise, away from the scene of my attack. It’s just a patch of sidewalk to me, but I make a mental note of Brady’s attention to detail. Not only does he notice more than the average man, he acts on it.
Pete drives us through skyscraper canyons shimmering with heat. When I ask, he reports that Gloria played spectacularly at her recital, and he thanks both me and Brady for giving him the night off.
In the backseat, I flash a smug smile at Brady. He mouths the word brat, and his implication sends heat between my legs.
I probably should’ve expected my billionaire husband to have an impressive office suite, but when I’m actually standing in it, I’m stunned.
We’re on the eighty-third floor, and his private office stretches extravagantly along the east wall.
The lake sparkles as a blue expanse in the distance, somehow adding even more luxury to the space.
The room is a long rectangle, with both of the long walls completely glass, the interior wall displaying the rest of the bustling office.
When Brady locks the door behind us, he presses a button that turns the inner wall opaque. Everyone else disappears, and it’s just the two of us.
“Drink?” he asks me, sauntering to the far end of his office.
Both of the shorter walls are covered with dark-paneled bookshelves.
Paired with the expansive glass, it’s a magnificent blend of old world and new.
Brady’s long black desk is contemporary and stylish, while the bar he’s standing over could be an antique.
It’s a large sepia globe, hinged open to reveal the bottles within.
“Do you like single malt?” he asks.
“I’ve never tried it.” Not because I’m not interested, but because it’s out of my budget.
Or it was out of my budget.
“Ah, then you’re in for a treat.” He pours us each a tumbler and we clink glasses.
“Oh wow, that is good,” I say, licking my lips.
Brady looks pleased, but it’s as if he’s more interested in my liking the whiskey than he is in the whiskey itself. He sets aside his glass and starts to peruse the shelves.
I have no idea what he’s looking for. So I simply stand back, glass in hand, trying not to admire him too much in his tailored charcoal suit.
He runs his long fingers over the spines of the books he’s browsing, and I bite my lip as I think about everything those fingers can do.
“Here we are.” He pulls out an oversized volume.
It’s an ancient-looking book, its covers dusty brown and substantial, at least two feet by two feet in size. Brady carries it to his desk and crackles it open. As he leafs carefully through the pages, I see that they’re old survey maps.
“You said that the warehouse is northwest of the city?” he asks.
My chest swells with excitement. We’re not scoping out the warehouse in person, but somehow this is better, with Brady bringing me here to his office, as dangerously intimate as it is.
“Yes,” I confirm, pulling out my phone.
Last night, after Brady so rudely sent me to bed alone, I channeled my frustration into deducing the precise location of Seven’s warehouse, a lone building on the outer limits of West Park’s abandoned industrial area.
I zoom out from my pin to compare my map to the old survey, but my screen’s not big enough.
Brady circles around to his computer. Without looking, he hooks his ankle backward to pull up his executive chair, sitting down in one smooth motion.
I’m baffled by how sexy the simple action is.
He brings up the modern-day map on one of his enormous monitors, and I lay the book open on his desk to compare.
I stand beside his chair as we look back and forth between screen and old paper. When we realize we’re on the book’s wrong page, we both reach to turn it together, his hand on top of mine. He keeps it there as we flip to the correct map.
“Interesting,” he muses.
What? I want to ask. The fact that merely turning a page together literally makes me wet?
It’s more than just his hand on mine. It’s his presence beside me, his scent, his everything.
“It’s an old quarry.” He clicks through the digital map views to confirm the warehouse’s existence, then double-checks the old book.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“The land was backfilled. It was probably cheap. It’s good enough to build on, but it’s not as good as solid ground.” He gives me a knowing grin. “Anything built there would be ridiculously easy to demolish.”
Now, that is interesting.
“Don’t tell me,” I say. “You’re the family’s demolitions expert?”
“I’m the real estate developer. It’s part of my purview.”
Learning yet another facet of my husband’s expertise makes me crave him all the more. And the look in his eyes tells me he’s craving me too. It remains to be seen whether this information is truly useful or not, but right now what matters is that we’ve uncovered it together.
Brady looks from my eyes to my lips, and suddenly I’m wetter. I’m still upset with him for sending me back to my room last night, but it’s an anger that makes my pulse race, enhancing the urgency of my need. I want nothing more than for him to rip off my clothes and bend me over his desk.
But the thought of him tearing off my dress gives me pause. My bruise. His reaction this morning was to be expected, but I don’t want either of us to go through it again.
I clear my throat and head back toward the door, focused on the light switch beside it.
“Can we dim the lights?” I ask. Too late, I realize the lights aren’t on. It’s a dazzling late summer day in a room with wall-length windows.
“If you want,” he says with a lazy smile.
He presses a switch on his desk, and panel shades descend along the windowed wall. They’re black woven bamboo, letting in just enough light that the office has the intimate glow of a speakeasy.
My breath quickens, but I keep my walk steady as I return toward Brady.
“This is valuable intel,” he says, closing his computer. The loss of the monitors’ light makes him look like a shadowed villain. He leans back in his chair. “You deserve a reward.”
My feet falter in my heels, and I stop where I am at the side of his desk. I have to grip its edge for support. The thought of a reward from Brady makes me soaked. But my voice doesn’t work to give him a response.
“Then again,” he drawls, “you also deserve a punishment for putting yourself in danger last night. The note I left you was very clear about not doing anything stupid.”
My face flushes hot. It’s partly indignation, because how dare he blame me for getting attacked? But it’s also the heat of my anticipation. We both know what he means by punishment. And reward. I gulp, but my voice still comes out raspy.
“You said that if I enjoy it, it’s not really discipline.”
“Enjoy what?” he asks, as if he has no idea what I’m talking about. I take a shaky breath, rising to his seductive challenge.
“Bending me over your knee.”
“Did I say that?” he muses. “Hm… I suppose it all depends on how hard I spank you.”
The room is too dim for him to see me blushing, but I can see the outline of his devious grin. He senses my reaction.
“You want to find out,” he says. “So badly.”
I realize I’m breathing heavily, already panting with expectation. How can he read me so well? I can control my expressions, but my body can’t lie to him. He laces his fingers behind his head as he watches my chest unsteadily rise and fall.
“Take off your clothes,” he tells me, and fuck. I should not be so turned on by him telling me what to do, but it’s what I want too.
Brady knows it, I know it, and my pussy definitely knows it.
I step out of my shoes, then reach behind my back to unzip my dress.
There’s a half beat of awkwardness as I wriggle my shoulders, but Brady is completely at ease.
Beneath his devouring gaze, I don’t think there’s any level of awkwardness that could matter.
He wants me regardless, and that thought is empowering.
“Bra and panties too,” he says.
I unhook my bra and let it fall to the floor, then hesitate. Without my panties, I’ll be fully naked, standing before him while he’s sitting there in his suit, seemingly relaxed in his executive chair. But even in the dim light, I can see his cock already straining at his suit pants.
I picture myself draped helplessly over his knee as he spanks me, first as a reward, then even harder as a punishment. The image ignites my lust for violence, the coiling of pain with pleasure so inseparable in my reptilian brain, in that basest form of myself.
I take off my panties. The inside fabric shines with my wetness as I shimmy them down past my hips. They land on my feet, and I step back to flick one leg up toward Brady, flinging my panties at him.
He catches them expertly, then brings them to his nose, closing his eyes to inhale deeply. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Slowly he opens his eyes, drinking in the sight of me naked as he savors my scent.
I shiver at the intensity of his want for me.
He lowers my panties from his face but keeps them clenched in his fist. With his free hand, he pats his knee. Even though he says nothing, I follow his command, aching for my reward. For my punishment.