Chapter Five
Brielle
Tuesday is a lesson in humiliation.
I arrive at the office early, hoping to beat Asher to the punch so I can pretend I'm redoing his stupid spreadsheet and ignore whatever inane task he wants to torture me with. Unfortunately, he's already standing by the window with a mug in his hand, staring out at the city.
He doesn't even look up when I walk in. He just sips his coffee and flicks through emails like I'm not even there. I should be annoyed, but all I can think about is the way he tasted yesterday and the bruises he left on my knees.
I'm still mad as hell that he didn't let me come. He told me he'd know if I touched myself, and part of me was convinced he actually would. So convinced, in fact, that I couldn't get myself off.
We don't talk, not even after he takes his seat behind his desk. The silence is a raging war, with each of us trying to outlast the other.
I'm almost relieved when the monster I know finally rears his head.
He decides to put the plug in right in the middle of a conference call.
And just like yesterday, he makes sure I'm drenched before he does it.
The whole time, he keeps talking on the call like he's staring at spreadsheets instead of my ass.
By the time he finally lets me up, I'm ready to murder him.
And then there's the elevator after lunch.
I'm alone inside, trying to keep my shit together on my way back up, when the doors grind open on the twenty-first floor. Asher steps in, so close his blood-red tie brushes my arm. I expect him to ignore me, but he smirks at me like the devil.
"What?" I growl as the elevator ascends.
He doesn't say a word. He just turns, hitting the stop button with a knuckle.
The elevator shudders to a stop between floors. The sudden stillness is deafening.
He crowds me against the chrome wall, the static from his suit setting my nerves on fire.
"Will you go away?" I snap, trying to dodge him.
He's faster than I am, though. His hands span my waist, spinning me until I'm trapped between his body and the wall. There's a heartbeat where nothing happens, and then I feel the hard, relentless line of his cock grinding against my hip.
"Did you behave last night, princess?" he asks, his lips grazing my ear.
I stiffen, outraged by the question. "Go fuck yourself, Asher."
His rough chuckle touches places it shouldn't. "I'll take that as a yes. Did you shower, or did you want to keep my taste on you?"
"Get off me," I hiss.
He just grins, his hand inching lower. "Not yet. You like it when I touch you, even if you won't admit it."
His palm covers the front of my thigh. He squeezes once, slow and deliberate, then pushes my skirt higher with his knee.
"I'm not your toy," I say, but my voice shakes.
His teeth sink into my earlobe in a savage, quick bite. "Yeah, you are. And you fucking love it." The tip of his finger slides beneath my skirt, tracing the waistband of my panties.
I snap my knees together and try to twist away, but he holds me still with ridiculous ease.
"Why are you doing this?" I whisper.
His laugh is a demonic, heavenly sound that grinds against my clit. "Because I like watching you try to resist." He pulls back, his eyes wicked when they meet mine. "I like it even better when you don't."
His lips brush the side of my throat in the sweetest kiss before he releases me all at once, leaving me drooping against the wall, breathing hard.
Homicide is justified in these circumstances, right? I bet, if he were the victim, not a single person on the jury would vote to convict.
He hits the stop button again, and the elevator jerks to life.
When the doors open on the next floor, he's already at the far end, fixing his cuffs, every inch the despotic CEO. I stare at my reflection in the chrome, red-cheeked and shaking.
I want to cry, or scream, or both.
Instead, I go back to my desk and pretend nothing happened, willing the heat to leave my face.
Wednesday is worse.
He puts the plug in as soon as I make it through the door, driving me right to the brink before he stops.
"We have a board meeting," he says, already striding toward the door while I'm still draped over his desk, panting. "Be in the conference room in five minutes."
"I hate you," I mutter, but he just chuckles in response.
By the time I get to the conference room, there are a dozen men and women around a massive conference table, all of them stern and tight-lipped. Asher sits at the head, his gaze unreadable, his voice cold and almost bored as he outlines who they've added to their roster during the last quarter.
I take notes, doing my best to look invisible.
Of course he isn't satisfied with that. Midway through, he calls on me, just to torture me. "Miss Dabry, could you bring me the file on Ace Sterling?"
I'm halfway out of my seat when he stops me with a hand on my shoulder.
"Wait." He leans in, close enough that I can smell the coffee on his breath. "Your lipstick's smudged. Fix it before you come back."
The men at the table hear him and snicker. A couple of the women smirk. My face burns. I want to tell him to fuck off, but I swallow it back and simply nod.
When I return, he doesn't look at me. Instead, he taps his pen on the table until I step closer. He takes the folder from my hands, trailing his thumb over my wrist in a motion so intimate it makes my pulse stutter.
"Thank you, princess," he says, his voice little more than a purr. "You can sit beside me."
I do, acutely aware of every set of eyes in the room watching us in a way they weren't before.
Great. Now, they all think I'm his little plaything.
I keep my head down, pretending not to notice the stares.
His hand finds my thigh under the table. It's casual at first, a warm weight. But then he inches higher, squeezing until my nails leave half-moons in my palm.
I try to keep my face neutral, but my whole body is alive and aching. My skin feels too tight.
He waits until the room is distracted by a heated debate about revenue streams before slipping his fingers between my legs, pressing hard against my clit through my panties.
I almost jump.
He doesn't relent, just keeps his hand there, torturing me with tiny circles until I can't breathe. I can't move, either.
No one seems to notice.
He removes his hand just before the meeting ends, leaving me wet and trembling. I don't dare look at him as I stumble out, but I hear his voice behind me, taunting me.
"Good job, Miss Dabry. You exceeded expectations."
I want to kill him. I also want to kiss him until he can't breathe. I don't know which urge is stronger.
Wednesday afternoon is the copy room.
I'm bent over the tray, cursing under my breath, when he slips in behind me and shuts the door, smirking like he was just waiting for me to get distracted so he could wreak havoc again.
"Great. It's you again," I mutter.
His hands close around my hips, dragging me back against his chest. I stiffen, but he just presses his mouth to the nape of my neck.
"Are you still wet for me, Brielle?"
I don't answer. I'm too busy trying not to melt.
He bites down on the side of my throat, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to leave a mark I'll have to cover if I have any hope of surviving the month without the entire office knowing that we're fucking.
At least, we would be fucking if he'd get on with it and stop torturing me already.
His hands slide up my sides, gathering my blouse in his fists.
"Will you stop that?" I growl, trying to pry his hands off. I might as well be trying to lift a steel bar, though.
"You need a lesson in obedience," he says, and I can hear the fucking smile in his voice.
He slips his hand under my shirt, cupping my breast through my bra. He rubs the nipple until it's stiff, then pinches. Hard.
I gasp, half in pain, half in desperate need.
"Please," I whisper. I don't know if I want him to stop or to keep going.
"You beg so pretty," he growls. His other hand dips between my thighs, hiking my skirt up.
My thighs part on instinct, my body fully on board with his torture even if my brain isn't. He doesn't care what my brain has to say about it, though. I doubt the bastard ever has.
He's relentless as he strokes me through the thin lace of my panties, tormenting me. It takes everything I have not to sob out loud or beg him to let me come.
He doesn't stop until I'm trembling, until I'm grinding against his hand, desperate to go over. An orgasm rushes toward me, hot and inevitable, and then he just…lets go.
Just like that, he steps back, leaving me panting and empty again.
"Please," I whimper, hating that I'm desperate enough to beg even while I do it.
"No. I don't think you've earned the right to come yet," he says, his voice cold. "You'll stay just like that today."
He's gone before I can turn around, his laughter trailing behind him.
"I fucking hate you," I snarl, but I'm talking to myself.
Thursday morning, I wake up furious after dreaming about him all goddamn night. Even in my dreams, he wouldn't let me come.
I dress in my shortest skirt and my highest heels and then paint my lips the color of blood. I walk into his office like I own it, refusing to look at him, refusing to play his games.
I don't make a sound when he puts the plug in. I don't look at him, don't speak to him, nothing. I just let him do it and act like he isn't bothering me at all.
My resolve lasts until lunchtime.
He corners me in the hallway, trapping me between his body and the wall.
"You're ignoring me," he says, his eyes lethal.
I try to duck away, but he blocks me with a hand on my shoulder.
"Get out of my way," I snap.
He leans in, pinning me with his stare. "You look so fucking beautiful when you're angry, princess. All I've thought about all morning is fucking you until you scream."
I laugh in his face. "You wouldn't last two minutes."
He grins, an unholy, unhinged twist of his lips. "Try me."
His hand slips between my thighs, right there in the hallway, and I nearly collapse from the shock. I'm so wet, it's humiliating. I bite my lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a moan.
He strokes me through my panties, gentle at first, then rougher. My breath comes in quick, shallow bursts. I feel the orgasm building, so close I can taste it.
Yet again, he stops, leaving me desperate and aching.
"I'm going to kill you," I say. I mean it. I think.
"See you at the staff meeting," he replies with an arrogant smirk, walking away.
I just stand there for a long time, shaking, trying to convince myself that I hate him and his goddamn game.
I don't succeed.
By Thursday night, I'm a mess. My skin is flushed, my chest is tight, and there's a constant, aching throb between my legs that won't go away. Worse, I still can't get myself off. Every time I try, I remember his promise that he'll know if I do, and part of my brain is absolutely convinced he will.
I know he's done this on purpose. He wants to break me.
But I'm not broken. Not yet.
If anything, I'm more alive than I've ever been.
I crawl into bed and stare at the ceiling, my hand between my thighs, and imagine what it would feel like if he were the one bringing me over the edge again.
But even with visions of him playing behind my eyes, even with the memory of his hand between my legs, I still can't get myself there. No matter how hard I try, it just doesn't work.
The bastard is ruining me.