Chapter Four
Brielle
"You have got to be kidding me," I growl, glaring daggers at Asher across his behemoth of a desk, first thing on Monday morning. It's too early to be awake, let alone to deal with his bullshit. And yet, here I am, wading neck deep in it. "There's no way I'm working in here with you."
He doesn't even bother looking up from his screen. "There's no way you're working anywhere else," he says, his voice flat. "Your desk is right there, princess. Get used to it."
My "desk" is a foot from his, dainty pink and already stacked with files. I stare at it, then at him, calculating how hard I'd have to swing the hole punch to leave a mark. It's probably not worth the jail time, even if I'm itching for the catharsis.
"What, you don't trust me with the other agents?" I say, dropping my purse with enough force to rattle a few pens loose. "Afraid I'll unionize?"
He finally looks at me, one dark brow arching. "I'm less concerned about you unionizing, and more concerned with which of the motherfuckers I'll have to kill for trying to touch what's mine. We both know how much you love trying to flaunt other men in front of my face."
"Aww, is someone jealous?"
His mouth does a thing. It's not a smile, not even close, but it flickers with the memory of one. "Sit your pretty little ass down, Brielle. It's too goddamn early for your mouth."
I plop into my chair, ignoring the fact that my knees bump the underside of the desk because it's been set too low. That was probably on purpose. He said he wanted me to suffer. I guess this is how it starts. "Anything else, Your Highness? Want me to answer your calls in a French maid costume?"
He ignores that and hits the intercom. "Miss Dabry will be handling all my scheduling for the week. If you need me, go through her."
The click of the speaker sounds like the door of a prison cell clanging shut. I stare at my hands, willing them to stop shaking. It's not fear, I tell myself. It's anger. Always anger.
Within five minutes, he's got a list of demands. Calls to be made. Notes to be organized. Stupid shit anyone else in this office could do, but that's the point, right? To make me do the most mind-numbing, menial tasks possible?
"Oh, and I need coffee."
I stare at him blankly.
"That's your cue to go get it, princess."
"Fine," I growl, rising from my chair. "Where in this stupid office is it?"
His smirk should be my first clue that he's up to something, but for some reason, the pure evil in it escapes me. Probably because he's nothing but evil. "You're going to Tommy Joe's," he says. "Bring me back the Scandinavian blend, heavy cream, and a single ice cube."
Of course he's sending me six blocks away. Of course he is. I take the order with a smile, mentally rehearsing exactly where I'll insert the cup if he so much as sighs about the temperature when I get back.
"Before you go," he says, and then waits until I scowl at him to crook a finger. "Bring me the plug."
"I'm not wearing it out of this office," I growl.
"You are." He pushes up from his desk, smirking like the goddamn devil. "Now, give it to me."
I briefly consider launching it at his head before I decide I really don't want to have to explain that one to the paramedic. I stomp across the office to him, slapping it into his palm.
"Turn around and bend over."
"I'm going to poison your coffee," I swear, reluctantly obeying.
He just chuckles, one hand sliding up the back of my thigh. I grit my teeth, trying to pretend his touch doesn't affect me at all. It's a lie, though. I'm already wet, already achy.
His breath blows hot across the back of my neck half a second before I feel his mouth right there, his teeth raking.
I bite my tongue, refusing to whimper.
His hand travels higher, dragging my skirt up. Cool air swirls against my skin, and then he's dragging my panties down.
"Suck," he demands, shoving the plug in front of my face.
I hesitate for a brief second before wrapping my lips around it, my cheeks burning. They only burn hotter when his hand slips between my cheeks, prying them apart.
I expect him to go right for my ass, but he doesn't. He plays with my clit instead, his thumb grinding circles while I suck on the plug.
Only when he's satisfied does he pull it from my mouth.
"Relax," he orders, pressing the tapered end against my asshole.
I tense slightly, but there's no fighting it, not when he's still got his thumb pressed to my clit. Not when I want this as badly as I do. I hate him for making me want it. I hate myself for wanting it.
"Fuck," I whimper, my hands curling uselessly on the desk as he pushes it into me. He isn't gentle about it, and he doesn't go slow. He just does it, like he wants to own my pain as much as my pleasure.
"Good girl," he breathes against the back of my neck, still playing with my clit.
Right when I'm on the edge, pain faded to pleasure, he stops, taking a step back.
One hand slides my panties back into place before he pats me on the ass cheek and smooths my skirt down. "You're going to wear this all day."
I stand upright, my knees shaking, to glare at him.
"Coffee, princess," he says, like he didn't just shove a plug up my ass and demand I wear it for the next eight hours. "Now."
I flip him off on the way out of his office, just in case he didn't already know how I feel about him.
The café line is long. When I finally get the drink and trek back, my feet are killing me, my panties are soaking wet, and I'm close to pouring his coffee all over him.
I slap it onto his coaster and wait for the complaint, instead.
He doesn't touch it. It sits there while he dictates three hours of letters for me to type up, his voice never rising above a bored monotone. I glare at the cup, then at him. He glances at me, clocking the tension, and that flicker crosses his lips again.
The bastard knows exactly what he's doing. He probably didn't even want the damn coffee in the first place.
By the time I finish the letters and drop them on his desk, I've almost forgotten the plug. Almost. My panties are still drenched, though.
Asher reads them without a word. I want him to say something negative, anything, so I can explode and get it over with. But he won't play my game.
"Impressive," he mutters. "You actually know how to spell, unlike my last assistant."
"I do. Like your first name, for instance. F-U-C-K-I-N-G. And then there's your last name. A-S-S-H-O-L-E." I bat my lashes at him. "Want me to take a stab at your middle name, too?"
He ignores the question, handing me a sheet of paper with a list of client names and data. "Input all these into a new spreadsheet. I want separate tabs for each quarter, color-coded. And don't fuck up the sort order."
"Whatever you say, Your Highness."
I spend four hours on the spreadsheet. By the end, my vision is a blur of numbers and color blocks, and my hand aches from clicking. I shoot it over to his inbox, then lean back in the chair and massage my temples, hoping I look as drained as I feel.
He opens the file, scrolls for about ten seconds, then deletes it.
"You want to try that again?" he says, not looking at me.
A bolt of pure, blinding rage stabs through me. "Excuse me?"
"Maybe use a more readable font this time. This is an office, not a frat house."
My hands clench on the armrest. I'm not sure whether to scream, cry, or climb across the desk and throttle him. That spreadsheet was perfect, and he knows it.
"You're an asshole," I say, willing my voice not to quiver.
"I believe we established that already. You even spelled it out for me." He leans back, steepling his fingers. "If you don't like it, quit."
I shove out of my chair. "Maybe I will. God, you don't even need me for any of this shit. You just like making me miserable."
He finally meets my eyes, and there's a flare of something in them, something dark, cold, and hungry. "No, I like owning you," he says, his voice almost a whisper. "I like watching you burn. But you're the one who always comes back for more."
That stops me cold. I realize I'm trembling, really trembling, and I hate that he can see it.
I open my mouth, not entirely sure what I'm going to say, but he's already standing.
He walks to the office door, and for a brief, blissful second, I think he's leaving. Instead, he turns the lock.
I look at him, my heart hammering when I realize that he suddenly looks alive in a way he hasn't in a long time.
He leans back against the door, arms crossed. "Kneel."
I laugh, a short, wild bark of sound. "Are you serious? You think I'm going to drop to the floor for you, like a fucking dog?"
He doesn't blink. "I said kneel, princess."
He's serious. That's the worst part. His face doesn't move, not a twitch, not a hint of irony.
I cross my arms and glare, chin out. "Not in a million years."
He crosses the space between us in three strides. One hand closes around my throat, just hard enough to remind me that he can break me in half if he wants. His other hand fists my hair, dragging my head back. The sharp pain has my pulse hammering wildly against his fingers, my core clenching.
That's my sickness. No matter how big of an asshole he is, no matter how controlling or domineering, my body responds like it's desperate to push him further, to feel the monster unleashed on it.
I don't know if I've always wanted pain with pleasure…
or if he's just conditioned me into believing the two should go hand in hand.
If hating and wanting him simultaneously has made me crazy enough to like the fight.
But…I like the way it hurts. I want it to hurt.
"Do you want me to fire you?" he murmurs. "Is that what you're gunning for? Or do you want something else?"
"Let go of me," I snarl.
He doesn't. He just tightens his grip, forcing my eyes to his.