Chapter Ten
Brielle
On Wednesday, I don't wake up with him in my bed again, but I wake up with the distinct impression that he was there at some point. I still smell his aftershave on the pillow. I think I even feel him between my legs.
I'm not sure what it means that he's already gone, or that he came at all. I spend the entire morning trying to piece together an answer, but I can't.
When I get to the office, instead of the usual parade of torment and petty demands, there's an agenda and a neat stack of legal pads waiting on my desk, along with another cup of coffee.
The vibe in the office is different—harder, somehow, like the tension in the air right before a thunderstorm.
Asher stands at the window, his tie already off and his shirt sleeves rolled up, watching the world from forty stories above.
He doesn't acknowledge me when I enter. He just gestures for me to sit, opens his laptop, and logs into a video call.
Within seconds, the screen is a mosaic of board members and investors. The topic is whether they should take over some big management agency in Europe that's been embroiled in a scandal because one of the partners has a coke habit and a penchant for fucking married clients.
My job is simple. Take notes. Shut up. Don't embarrass him.
It should be easy, but I know Asher too well. The other shoe will drop. The only question is when he'll put his boot on my neck so he can watch me squirm.
For the first hour, it's all numbers and nuance. Asher barely glances at me, except when he needs a spreadsheet or a figure, which I produce without a word. When I'm on camera at all, the men on the call act like I'm invisible. The only one who ever looks at me is Asher.
The more his frustration with his board grows, the more frequently his eyes drift in my direction, almost like he's trying to decide if and how he wants to make me pay for their sins.
At 9:13 a.m., he drops his pen.
It's not an accident. He watches it roll off his desk, then levels a look at me.
"Can you get that?" His voice is silk, the command dressed up as a question, even though we both know it's not that.
I duck under his desk, my cheeks burning. The pen has rolled to the far end, so I have to crawl for it, my skirt riding up my ass, my hair in my face. I grab the pen, but before I can surface, I feel his hand on my neck.
He pulls me closer, so my head is right between his legs. His cock is already out, hard and leaking, obscenely demanding.
I shoot him a look that says I'll bite it off, but he just grins, his eyes glued to the screen. "Stay quiet," he murmurs without even moving his lips, his hand knotting in my hair.
Then, with the perfect timing of a sociopath, he looks back at the screen.
"Christian, tell me your main concern about a cross-Atlantic merger," he demands, while pushing my mouth down on his cock. He doesn't miss a beat, his voice calm.
I want to murder him, but I want to ruin him even more.
I open my mouth, my tongue sliding along his length, and pray the men on screen can't see what's happening under this desk. His grip on my hair is iron, guiding me up and down in a slow, relentless rhythm.
He holds a running dialogue about mergers and contracts, never once faltering or letting his breath change. Meanwhile, I'm choking and gagging on his monster of a cock, fighting not to make a single sound.
He pushes deeper, until my nose hits his belt, and the only thing I can taste is him—salt, sweat, and soap.
I clench my thighs, the humiliation so total that I could die right here and be grateful for it.
He pets my head. Not gently, but not cruelly, either. "Good girl," he whispers, then returns to grilling someone on the call about European labor laws.
When I try to pull away for air, he pins me there, holding me down on his cock until my vision turns black at the edges. Only when I'm on the verge of passing out, clawing at his thighs with desperation, does he let me up for breath.
I choke on it, nearly sobbing.
Above the desk, his board argues over control shares. Asher's voice turns cold. I feel the tension building in his body—the same tension I see in the conference.
I suck him harder, wanting to see him break, even a little. He doesn't. If anything, he doubles down, pulling me against him while he negotiates the future of his own company.
He comes down my throat just as he finishes browbeating the board into agreeing to the merger, his voice steady as steel. He doesn't shudder or moan. He doesn't give a single indication of what's happening below the desk.
"Thank you, gentlemen. I'll expect your signatures by end of day," he says, stroking my cheek.
He log off the meeting, then leans back, breathing slow and deep.
"Do you understand what just happened?" he asks, tucking himself away as he helps me out from beneath the desk, his hands gentle.
"Yeah," I say, my voice hoarse. "You used me like your trained whore."
He laughs, wiping a tear from my cheek. "No, princess. I used you to remind myself that I can control any variable. That nothing—not even my own distractions—can stop me from taking what I want."
He tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze.
"This is how you project power," he says. "In the boardroom, and everywhere else." He eyes me levelly, his expression inscrutable. "If you don't believe you're in control and can take what you want, no one else will either. It's an important lesson, especially if you want to run your own company."
I gape at him, stunned. "How do you…?"
"I know you, Brielle. I know what makes you tick. I know how you think. I know what you want and what you hate. You thought I wouldn't figure out why you asked for five million?" He snorts, like the thought is ludicrous. "The only thing I haven't figured out is why."
I consider lying, just to keep him guessing.
"So I have something you can't take," I say instead.
"If I own the company, it's mine. You don't get to waltz in and rip it out from beneath me.
I know you, too, Asher. I know that, as much as you hate me, you fucking love keeping me chained beside you.
You love controlling my life. This time, you don't get to do that. "
"You really think owning a company will free you?
" His smirk grows. "You aren't nearly that na?ve, princess.
If I let you go, it won't be because you used my money to build your own little empire.
It'll be because I decided to let you go.
But we both know that isn't really what you want.
You fucking love being chained beside me, almost as much as you loved having my cock down your throat while the whole board pretended not to hear you choking on it. "
He turns to his phone, dismissing me.
I should hate him for that, for treating me like a fucking toy meant to serve him. I should run.
But all I want is to see what he'll make me do next because he's right, damn him. I did love having him in my mouth while he was talking to his board.
Fucking hell.
He's ruining me.
I wake in the middle of the night to the pressure of Asher's body pinning mine to the bed, his chest fused to my back, his hand tangled in my hair. He's already inside me, fucking me deep and slow.
I consider fighting, or at least feigning outrage, but the sensation is so good it borders on holy. I can't bring myself to pretend I don't love it.
I keep my eyes closed and pretend to be asleep, but my body betrays me instantly. My thighs part to give him better access, and my back arches, my hips tipping up for him.
He groans, so soft I feel it more than hear it, the vibration running through my chest.
He bites my shoulder, not quite breaking the skin. "You can keep faking, princess," he whispers, "but I know you're awake this time."
This time?
I start to ask, but decide it doesn't even matter, not when he's inside me. Every thrust is possessive, his grip hard enough to bruise, his mouth open and hot against my neck.
"You're perfect," he murmurs. "Perfect and tight and always so fucking ready for me, even when you're sleeping."
I moan, the sound escaping before I can stop it. I feel my inner muscles clench around him, greedy and desperate, and he laughs, the sound full of triumph.
"You love this," he says. "Being used. Being taken whenever and however I want."
He's right, and I hate him for knowing it.
I clutch the sheets, trying to anchor myself to something real, but he yanks my arms behind my back, pinning them at my spine with one rough hand.
His cock is so big it hurts, but the pain is perfect, igniting every nerve in my body.
He fucks me harder, the slap of our skin echoing off the bedroom walls. I gasp, each breath a ragged little plea. He eats up every single one like they're a prayer.
"I've done this twice already this week, Brielle," he rasps, his lips against my ear. "I didn't even care if you woke up and caught me. I love fucking you when you're so soft and helpless. When you can't fight back."
He punctuates his confession with a savage thrust, and my body goes white-hot.
I want to be disgusted, but all I feel is need, gnawing and absolute.
"You don't hate me when you're asleep. You don't pretend you hate the way I make you feel.
You fucking moan for me like I'm the only thing you've ever wanted.
" He bends my arms higher, forcing my chest into the bed, my ass into the air.
The angle is brutal—he can get so deep like this, every stroke scraping something inside me raw.
"God, you feel so fucking good when you're sleeping," he whispers. There's a note of awe in his voice, like he can't quite believe it himself.
He moves faster, his control slipping. For the first time, I feel him really lose it. His rhythm falls apart, his breath gets wild, his teeth sink into my shoulder, and he moans my name like it's the only word he remembers.
He comes, spilling hot and messy inside me, groaning my name.