Chapter 7
SEVEN
Lucan
Five weeks later…
Keeping Virelle a secret is proving considerably harder than I anticipated.
I had assumed professionalism would solve the problem. I would treat her exactly as I treated every other employee, she would do the same, and whatever happened behind closed doors would remain there. Simple. Efficient. Controlled.
That was before I discovered that Virelle finds my attempts at professionalism endlessly amusing.
She sits across from me in the Monday morning strategy meeting, taking notes with an expression of perfect concentration while the corner of her mouth keeps threatening to curve upward.
I know exactly why. Five minutes ago, I asked her for a projection update without looking directly at her, and she watched me deliberately refuse to acknowledge the fact that her skirt is distracting enough to make concentrating on quarterly figures an exercise in self-control.
I finally glance at her. She grins like a Cheshire cat. Barely. But it's there.
I narrow my eyes. Her smile grows.
Bad girl.
The thought comes automatically now, and somehow it manages to be both exasperating and disturbingly affectionate.
"Ms. Ashcombe," I say, my voice deliberately cold, "would you care to share whatever you find amusing with the rest of the room?"
Her expression becomes innocent.
"No, Mr. Wrenford."
"Then perhaps you could concentrate."
"I'm concentrating."
"Good."
She lowers her eyes to her notebook.
I turn toward the presentation screen, but I can still feel her looking at me.
The woman is going to be the death of me.
It gets worse in the elevator.
We're rarely alone in there anymore, which is probably for the best. The first few times we've ridden together since that night, I've maintained enough distance between us to convince myself I have regained control. Virelle seems to regard this as a personal challenge.
Yesterday, we were alone for approximately twelve seconds before she moved closer.
Not enough to touch me.
Just enough that the scent of her perfume reached me.
I looked down.
She was staring straight ahead, perfectly innocent.
"Move back," I said quietly.
"Why?"
"You know why."
"I don't."
She took another tiny step toward me.
The elevator doors opened before I could respond.
She walked out without looking back.
Today, she does something worse.
We're riding down with three other employees when she drops her pen.
It rolls toward my shoes.
She bends to retrieve it. And her skirt rides up high, exposing her shapely ass.
She’s wearing a fucking thong tonight. It disappears in the crack of her ass, making her round, plump ass cheeks look more pronounced.
Her choice of underwear has been getting more scandalous since we started having sex.
It takes everything in me not to grab her ass and leave my handprint on it.
I look at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then anywhere except her.
When she straightens, I catch the tiny smile she's trying to hide.
I lean toward her without moving my expression. "Do you enjoy testing me?"
Her eyes flick toward mine. "Maybe."
The elevator doors open, and she walks away, not knowing I’m semi-hard from the sight of her panties and ass.
Then Virelle makes the mistake that finally pushes my restraint too far.
It happens during an afternoon meeting with one of our clients. She is sitting two places away from me, listening while one of the younger associates presents his portion of the proposal.
He's charming, and younger than me. He’s exactly the type of guy she should be dating and marrying. Someone who is around her age.
And Virelle is smiling at him.
At first, I tell myself it's harmless. Then she laughs at something he says. He leans toward her. She leans toward him.
My jaw locks. I remember the agreement we signed.
Exclusivity.
No romantic or sexual involvement with anyone else for the duration of our arrangement.
It isn't merely about jealousy, although I am jealous enough to want to put my fist through the conference table.
It's about risk. I fuck her bare all the time. We’re both taken test and shared our results with each other. I don’t need her getting any infections from anyone else.
The meeting ends.
People start gathering their laptops.
Virelle looks at me. There is something almost playful in her expression. She quirks her eyebrow, like she’s challenging my authority, begging me to put her in her place.
That is when I know. She did it deliberately.
I wait until everyone has left the conference room before following her into the corridor.
"Virelle." My voice is a low, dark warning.
She arcs her head back. I catch her wrist and pull her through the nearest open door before either of us can be seen.
The supply closet is cramped, dark, and filled with shelves of cleaning supplies.
She looks up at me, her innocent eyes glittering with sexual need. She’s such a needy little thing and the worst part is that I can’t even deny her what she needs.
I close the door. "You were flirting with him. Was that supposed to make me angry?"
Her lips twitch. "Did it?"
"Answer me."
She looks down. "You were too absorbed in the meeting. I wanted to remind you that I was there, too."
I cough. "What?"
She hesitates. Then, quietly, she says, "I wanted to know if you were paying attention."
The anger drains out of me.
I step closer. "Virelle. I'm always paying attention. I stalk you, for fuck’s sake. Did you forget?"
Her expression changes. For the first time, I see something underneath the teasing. Something fragile.
I reach for her face, cupping her cheek. "Tell me the truth. Why are you so insecure?"
She swallows, hesitating. "I don't know."
"Yes, you do."
Her eyes shine. "I wanted you to notice me."
"I notice everything about you."
"Even when I'm being difficult?"
"Especially then."
She gives a tiny, broken laugh.
I brush my thumb beneath her eye. "You've been doing this for weeks, baby. I’m beginning to see a pattern."
She looks away. Her expression is full of guilt, as if I’ve caught her doing something bad.
"First the clothes. You wore suggestive clothes to get my attention ever since you started working here. I had to wonder, why would a young, pretty thing like you be so needy for the attention of an older man like myself?"
Her cheeks color. "Then the elevator. You showed me your naked ass. That seemed more daring than your previous antics. And now this."
"I'm sorry." She bites her lip.
"I'm not asking for an apology." She looks back at me. "I'm asking why."
Her expression crumples slightly. And suddenly I realize I don't want to punish her.
Not yet. I want to understand her.
"What do you need from me?" I ask. “What do you really need? Because I don’t think it’s a punishment or rough sex.”
She doesn't answer.
"Virelle,” I prod her.
Her eyes close. "I need to know you'll still want me, even when I’m not a good girl. Even when I get on your nerves and do things you told me not to do. Even when I disappoint you."
The words hit harder than any confession could have. "Why wouldn't I?"
"Because eventually I'll disappoint you. And then you’ll decide I’m too much trouble and end things."
I stare at her. She continues before I can interrupt. "My father was like that."
Her voice becomes smaller. "He wanted a different daughter."
I keep my hand against her cheek. I stroke her skin, feeling the sadness radiating from her words.
"He wanted someone who was ambitious and brilliant and always achieving something.
I was quiet. I daydreamed. I liked books and making up stories and sitting outside by myself.
I wasn't interested in being the person he wanted me to be.
" Her eyes fill. "So he stopped paying attention to me.
He always looked at me like I was a disappointment, like he had better things to do than give someone like me attention. "
I feel something inside me twist.
"He'd praise my brothers and my sister. He'd talk about their grades and their accomplishments. When I did something well, he'd expect more. When I didn't, he'd become disappointed and distant."
She laughs softly, but there is no humor in it. "I learned very young that being loved meant being what someone wanted."
I understand that lesson too well. Different circumstances. Same wound.
"So sometimes I test people," she whispers. "I act badly. I push. I flirt. I see how far I can go before someone decides they've had enough of me."
My chest aches.
"And when they don't leave?"
"I don't know what to do with that."
I pull her against me.
She comes willingly, her face pressing into my chest.
For several seconds, I simply hold her.
I don't know how to make tenderness look natural. It has never been my language. But with Virelle, I'm learning that perhaps I don't need to know how. Perhaps I only need to stop resisting the instinct to give her what she needs.
"You should have told me."
"I'm embarrassed."
"You don't need to be."
She pulls back enough to look at me. Her expression falls. "I broke the rules."
"Yes. You will be punished."
A flicker of nervousness crosses her face.
"But not because I think you're bad." I touch her cheek again. "You're allowed to be difficult. You're allowed to be imperfect. You're allowed to be jealous, insecure, needy, stubborn, frightened, or infuriating."
Her lips tremble into a smile. "Infuriating?"
"Frequently."
She laughs. I find myself smiling too.
Then I become serious. "I don't want some perfect version of you."
Her eyes search mine.
"I want you." I kiss her forehead. "I want the woman who takes care of everyone. I want the woman who gets nervous and drops things. I want the woman who argues with me in elevators and deliberately makes me jealous because she needs reassurance."
Her cheeks turn pink.
"And I want the bad girl too. But don't mistake wanting every part of you for letting you get away with everything."
Her smile becomes shy. "I know. I like that you set boundaries for me."
"Good."
She rests her forehead against my chest. And something inside me settles.
I have spent my entire life believing love was another word for vulnerability, and vulnerability was another word for losing control. Yet standing here in a supply closet with Virelle in my arms, I understand that perhaps control was never the thing I needed to protect.
Maybe I needed to find someone I could trust enough to let go around.
When she wraps her arms around me and holds me tighter, I know one thing with terrifying certainty.
Whatever this arrangement was supposed to be when we signed that contract, it has become more.
I have feelings for her. I want to protect her, both emotionally and physically.
I want to give her the things she was denied, and more than that, I want to listen to her and understand what made her the person she is today.
And that could only mean that I’m falling in love.