Chapter Nine
Brielle
On Monday morning, I'm still reeling from the weekend, trying to process the reality that Asher blames himself for the accident…
that he hates himself for it. I don't have time to prepare for whatever fresh hell he intends to throw at me today.
I'm not even sure I have the emotional bandwidth to deal with it.
But I show up at seven on the dot anyway, as prepared as I can be for him to make me suffer for the little bit of humanity he allowed me to see on Saturday.
To my surprise, he's almost…calm. He doesn't mention what happened or the way he ran out, as if his confession shamed him. He says nothing at all about the weekend, in fact.
"I brought you coffee," he says instead, motioning to the cup perched on the edge of my desk.
I eye it suspiciously. "Did you poison it?"
His level stare tells me he didn't poison it and doesn't find me funny. "Drink it," he growls.
It's the first weird moment in a day of weird moments.
By nine, I'm positive I've entered a parallel universe.
Asher doesn't so much as look at me twice.
He runs through the week's agenda like a machine, spitting out valuable information on the industry and different studios that I should be soaking up.
Except I'm not. My mind keeps shorting out, replaying his taste, the sound of his nightmare, and the way he confessed to a wound as deep as bone and then vanished like the moment was too real for him.
I want to ask if he slept at all this weekend, or if he even tried.
But I can't. I'm not even sure what imaginary rule of our agreement I'd be breaking if I did, but I'm sure he'd think of one. Maybe the one about pretending we're both still human.
Lunch comes and goes, which is nothing new, but Asher doesn't even fake an appetite. He just keeps working, occasionally glancing up to make sure I'm still taking notes as he explains all the little nuances of a game that he mastered a long time ago.
He's polite, asking instead of demanding for the first time in his life. He even says "please" once, though I think it's a slip of the tongue. When it happens, he goes silent for a full three seconds, like he's trying to process what the fuck he just said, and then he picks up where he left off.
The only hint of our real dynamic is when he calls me "princess" under his breath, so quietly it's almost an afterthought. But the word hits me like a shot of bourbon—sweet, burning, and very, very real.
At two, he closes his laptop and stretches his arms above his head, every move deliberate. The way he looks at me feels like a threat.
"Come here," he says.
I do, because there's never any point in resisting. He's bigger and faster than me. He's meaner, too.
He waits until I'm standing on the far side of his desk to send my heart into overdrive with a single word. "Strip."
I glare at him silently for a long moment before I mutter a soft curse and slowly shimmy out of my pants and top. Why I thought wearing pants today might save me, I don't know. Obviously, it didn't.
"All of it, princess," he demands, his eyes locked on my body.
I throw my bra at him across the desk, but I'm not stupid enough to toss my panties at him, not after what he did with them on Friday. I throw those halfway across the office, so he has to work for them if he wants to gag me again.
Once I'm naked and trembling in front of him, he opens the drawer nearest me, producing a length of black silk rope.
He lays it on the desk like an offering.
My brain takes a full five seconds to process.
"Are you threatening to tie me up?" I try to keep my voice casual, but it shakes, my wrists burning with the memory of him binding my hands on Friday.
His mouth quirks. "You think it's a threat?"
"Please tell me you're joking. The entire office is still here!"
"Then you'd better hope no one decides to stop in this afternoon." He moves around the desk, standing a foot away. "Now, put your hands together in front of you."
I don't move. "No."
His smile is patient, amused even. "Try again."
"This wasn't part of our agreement." I stand my ground, arms crossed and feet planted.
"Actually, it was. You agreed to whatever the fuck I want to do to you. And right now, I want you tied up." He smirks at me. "Besides, you said you wanted to learn everything. This is part of it."
"Part of what?"
He steps closer, until his body is a line of heat against mine. "Learning that you can't control everything," he murmurs against my ear. "Learning how to be an obedient little fucktoy when told."
I open my mouth to argue, but his hands are already on my hips, spinning me until I'm right where he wants me. I struggle, but only half-heartedly, because there's a strange comfort in the inevitability of what's happening here. And a hot bolt of excitement at the thought of anyone catching us.
He gathers my wrists together in front of me, wrapping the silk around them, and then knots it before I even have time to panic. The fabric is soft and cool, but his hands are hot. The contrast makes me shudder.
He leans down, his lips just above my ear. "See?" he whispers. "You're learning so quickly."
He nudges me forward until my thighs are pressed against the front edge of his desk. He pushes gently on my shoulders until I sink into a leather office chair reserved for visitors, my arms bound together.
For a moment, he just stares at me.
I glare at him in response, but there's no real menace in it.
If anything, I feel almost weightless, my heart hammering with anticipation.
I'll never admit it to him, but part of me loves being under his command, reduced to something meant only to obey.
There's a freedom in it I didn't expect, as if, in moments like these, I don't have to think or try or be anything other than his.
He crouches down, bringing his face level with mine. "Good girl," he murmurs, running a fingertip down the center of my chest.
I roll my eyes, trying to pretend his touch doesn't affect me, that my heart doesn't sing at his praise. But it's a lie. Every time his hands are on me, my entire body ignites. And every time he calls me a good girl or his perfect little slut, my fucking heart wants to burst with happiness.
He just grins in response, like he knows exactly how I feel.
He grabs a second rope I didn't even notice, and before I can react, he's got my legs up over the arms of the chair, looping the rope around my thighs and then tying my ankles to the legs of the chair. The position spreads me wide, leaving me more exposed than I've ever been.
I flush, but he just runs his hands up my calves like he's touching a priceless piece of art.
"You're going to stay like this while I finish my paperwork," he says. "If you interrupt me, I'll find a way to keep you quiet."
My pulse spikes. "That's not even remotely professional."
He leans in, his lips brushing my jaw. "I didn't pay for a professional. I paid for something beautiful."
There goes my heart again, bursting with happiness.
He returns to his side of the desk, sits, and opens a folder. For five minutes, he ignores me completely, scribbling notes and flipping pages. And then he glances up, staring right at my pussy for a moment before he goes back to work.
A few minutes later, his eyes are on me again, and then he's back to work.
Every time he glances up, it's with that same burning intensity, like he's trying to decide if he wants to devour me or destroy me.
The room is quiet except for the scratch of his pen and the sound of my own blood pounding in my ears.
I try to wriggle out of the restraints, but the knots are merciless. I'm stuck, completely at his mercy. The realization sends a bolt of heat straight to my core.
The longer he ignores me, the hotter I get. I feel myself dripping onto the leather beneath my ass.
I'm so mad and so turned on, I think I might come without him ever touching me.
But he's not done tormenting me yet. He keeps me right there for over an hour, tied up, helpless, and dripping, occasionally staring at my pussy like he's trying to decide if he wants it badly enough to come take it yet.
Eventually, I can't stand it anymore. I need him to touch me more than I need to breathe. "Please," I whimper, not even caring that I'm begging. I'll get on my damn knees and plead at this point.
He grabs something from his desk and then stands, rounding the desk to kneel in front of me, cool and calm. I'm anything but. Sweat beads between my shoulder blades. My arms scream for me to move them. My legs burn. I'm so fucking wet, the chair beneath me is drenched.
I choke on a whimper when I see the marker and binder clips in his hands. "W-what…?" I can't even force sound out to ask what he's going to do with them.
But he seems to know what I'm trying to say. "Whatever I want," he murmurs, his eyes locked on mine like he's challenging me to stop him. Except…I don't. I don't even try. Not even when he leans forward, sucking one hard nipple into his mouth.
He bites down until I sob his name, then pulls back.
I cry out when he attaches the binder clip to my nipple. It's a perfect kind of pain, sending currents of electricity straight to my clit.
He does the same thing with the other nipple, and my hips arch away from the chair, the ropes digging into my thighs.
He pushes me back down with one hand against my abdomen, his hazel eyes glittering with something that takes my breath away.
"You know what this is for?" he asks, holding up the dry-erase marker, one brow arched.
I shake my head, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. It isn't fear, though. It's something else, something wicked and dirty and excited.
He keeps his gaze locked with mine as he runs the bottom of the marker up the inside of my thigh.