Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
I stare at the note until my eyes blur, then stash it in my desk drawer and try to focus on the casework they’ve assigned. But all I can think about is the way Brent’s hand swallowed mine, the smell of his cologne after he let go, and the way James’s lips curled up just before he pressed a little too close. The image keeps replaying: Brent pinning my wrists above my head, James’s mouth between my legs, their voices rough and approving as they make me beg for it.
Get a grip, I tell myself. These are your bosses. Older, experienced, probably not even interested in you. Besides, you’re here for the files. For your father.
But then why do I want it so bad?
Around three, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye: Brent, in the hallway, talking to another lawyer with his head bent low, lips barely moving. He glances in my direction and our eyes lock for a second. There’s no mistaking it: he knows. He knows what I’m thinking. What I want. What I desire. It’s not a leer, but a simple, devastating acknowledgment: I see you.
I look away first, heart hammering, and pretend to type.
Five minutes later, James appears in the glass corridor, phone pressed to his ear. He’s not even trying to be subtle; his eyes go straight to mine, and when he catches me watching, he smiles slow and wide. The rest of the office is oblivious, but I can feel the charge in the air, thick as storm clouds.
When the clock hits five, I pack up my bag and slip on my coat. The air outside is colder than before, biting at my thighs through my skirt. I walk fast, head down, hoping the physical exertion will burn off whatever chemical reaction they’ve triggered in my blood.
But halfway down the block, my phone buzzes. It’s an email from James: “Welcome to the team.” There’s no punctuation, just a line break and his name. No signature. No HR cc.
I reread it three times before deleting it. I want to respond, but I don’t trust myself not to say something stupid or outright obscene.
When I get home, I collapse onto my bed and stare at the ceiling, playing back the day in granular detail. Every look, every question, every micro-expression. I know I should be terrified. I know I should be focused on my father’s case and not the twin forces of masculine destruction who just hired me to work at their firm.
But the only thing I feel is anticipation. A hunger, deep and insistent, curling low in my stomach and setting my nerves on fire.
I close my eyes and let it happen: I imagine Brent’s voice, low in my ear, telling me to be a good girl as I bend over. I imagine James’s hands on my hips, his mouth hard and greedy as he pushes me to the edge. I imagine them both, pinning me on the mahogany table, making me forget who I am or what I ever wanted, except this.
I come so hard I nearly black out.
When the shaking stops, I stare at the ceiling, sweat cooling on my skin. I know I’m in over my head. I know this is dangerous. But I also know that I’ll walk into that office tomorrow and look them both in the eye, because I’m done pretending.
If I’m going to be prey, I want to choose the wolves.
And I want them to devour me, together.
3
CHAPTER THREE — NAUGHTY IN THE POTTY
Marnie
The third floor women's restroom at Gibson Grant is as close to private as I’m ever going to find in this building. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors, tile in wet-concrete gray, lighting that erases every human flaw—if you squint, that is. But I’m not here to touch up my make-up. I’m here because my panties are soaked straight through, and the scent is a dead giveaway. Yet, I can’t let anyone know that I’m constantly aroused whenever I see Mr. Gibson or Mr. Grant, and therefore, I have to change my panties on the reg when I’m at work.
I all but dive through the door, clutching my purse like a life raft. If anyone’s behind me, I don’t see them. I make a beeline for the last stall, the handicapped one with the shelf big enough to stage a five-course meal. I lock myself in and press my back to the cold partition, lungs burning.
It’s only after I’m safely hidden that I let myself look. The navy pencil skirt is dark enough to hide most sins, but when I shimmy it up my thighs, I see the clear outline of my own disaster: panties, formerly light pink, now stained a wet magenta at the gusset. My thighs are slick and shiny, and there’s even a trail of fluid leaking almost all the way to my knee. OMG! What is going on with me? I hardly even see my bosses, and yet it’s the knowledge that Brent and James are here.