His Belt (Part Two) Page 2
“Abigail,” I breathe. “I –”
“Don’t,” she spits. “Don’t you dare.”
“Don’t what?”
She spins around, and now her breasts are just inches away from my chest. Jesus. “Don’t try to make yourself feel better by making up some excuse or telling me what a good job I’m doing, or saying you’re sorry, or…whatever it is you were about to say.”
“That’s what you think? That I’m going to say I’m sorry? There’s nothing to apologize for.”
“Why? Because you didn’t technically touch me so you could console yourself with that fact later?”
“What? No.” I shake my head. “I have nothing to apologize for because what we did last night? You wanted it, too.”
“And the fact that I work for you has no bearing on anything?”
“It does, of course. But I have a feeling that’s not the reason you seem so upset.”
“You’re right, Mr. Armstrong. That’s not the reason I’m so upset.” Her blue eyes are flashing as she pulls her hand from the door handle, squeezing her hands into fists by her sides. “The reason I’m so upset is because you used me. And I’m not upset at you, I’m upset at myself.”
“You think I used you?”
“Of course you did!” She throws her hands up in the air, her breath coming fast so that her full breasts heave under the white dress she’s wearing. I didn’t get to see her breasts last night, and I imagine what they look like, full and round, her nipples perfect and pink. “Why the hell else did you call me in here and tell me that what we did couldn’t happen again?”
“It wasn’t because I was using you,” I say. “First of all, if I wanted to use someone for sex, I’d make sure it was someone more –”
She looks away. “Prettier? Hotter? More experienced?”
I reach out and take her chin, tilt it up until she’s looking in my eyes. “No. Easier.”
She stays quiet. “Then why?” she says softly. “Why did you do it?”
“Because you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” I breathe. “And the thought of not being with you last night was unfathomable. It was impossible.”
“Then why are you saying it can’t happen again?”
My first instinct is to lie. To make up some excuse. But she’s leveling me with those clear blue eyes, and so I do something I don’t normally do. I’m honest with her. “Because I have… certain needs.”
“Like you need sex all the time?” she asks.
“No.” I shake my head. “Well, yes. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Then what?”
“Do you know what a dominant is, Ms. Bennett?”
“Of course I know what a dominant is. I work in romance publishing.”
“Then you know why this can’t continue.” I take a step back from her, because I don’t trust myself. “I have needs, Ms. Bennett. Rules. Rules that would consist of me punishing you if you broke them.”
“Like what kind of rules?”
I’ve put a couple of feet between us, but it’s done nothing to stop the heat that’s pulsing between us, my desire for her.
She reaches up and pushes a stray curl behind her ear, and it’s all I can do not to reach out and fist her hair, like I did last night, the silky strands sliding through my fingers like a waterfall.
“Like having you do everything I say,” I tell her. “No questions asked.”
“Sexually?” she presses.
“Yes. And in other ways.”
“Like?”
“Like be where I tell you to be. Wear what I tell you to wear. Let me own you.”
“And what makes you think I wouldn’t be interested in that type of arrangement?” Her eyes are locked on mine, the interest there simmering like two hot pools.
“Are you?” I study her face, ignoring the excitement that is beginning to burn inside of me. I will not do this unless she’s sure.
“Possibly.”
“I need more than a possibly, Ms. Bennett,” I say, and then I turn from her. I walk to my desk, desperate to put more space between us. This -- the two of us talking about her being my sub -- is dangerous.
I’ve already broken so many of my rules, taking her to dinner last night. For fuck’s sake, she works for me. If we were ever found out…
She thrusts her chin into the air.
“How can I give you more than a possibly when I don’t understand exactly what you’re proposing? You of all people should know that you can’t agree to a deal unless you know the terms.”
“Fine.” I take my suit coat off and drape it over the back of my chair. “You want to know what being with me is like? Take your clothes off and I will show you.”
Chapter 3
ABIGAIL
He’s insane.
That’s the only explanation for it.
I mean, it would make sense.
He’s beautiful and gorgeous and no one gets to be as successful as he is without having a few screws loose.
But if he’s insane, then what am I?
Last night I let him wrap his belt around my wrists, let him watch as I touched myself until I came.
And now he’s brought me into his office and he’s telling me to take my clothes off, and a part of me – no, all of me – wants to do it.
I crave his touch, his hands on me again, his mouth on mine.
But most of all, I crave his approval.
It’s like something inside of me has been awakened, something I didn’t even know was there.
“You’re insane,” I try.
“That has no bearing on what we’re talking about.” He’s unbuttoning his shirtsleeves now, taking out his cufflinks. He sets them down on his desk, then rolls up his sleeves, revealing tan forearms corded in muscle.
“Take off your clothes, Ms. Bennett, or leave my office.”
My heart pounds and my pussy floods with warmth.
I have never been naked in front of a man before, much less stripped in front of one. And yet, here is, asking me to take off my clothes so that I would be standing in front of him, vulnerable and naked.
Damn you, Abigail for wearing a halter dress this morning!
Of course I’d done it just in case I saw him. But now I realized that in order to take my clothes off, I would pretty much have to be almost naked right from the beginning.
There wasn’t any way I could strip slowly, unbuttoning a shirt or slowly pulling down a zipper.
I close my eyes, then reach up and undo the straps that hold the back of my dress together.
I’m wearing a strapless bra underneath it, and for the first time in my life, I say a prayer of thanks that my breasts are so big that I’m not the type of girl who can get away without wearing a bra.
“Pull the dress down, Ms. Bennett.”
I close my eyes and pull it down to my waist, then shimmy my hips until it pools around my feet on the floor of his office.
I step out of it and stand there, my eyes still closed, not wanting to see what he’s seeing.
“Open your eyes,” he commands. “I want to see them while you strip for me.”
I open them, locking my gaze on his, not knowing what I expect to see reflected in his expression.
He’s been with supermodels, supermodels with perfect bodies and flat stomachs and breasts that are fine with or without a bra.
But all I see in his eyes is lust and desire, and something else, something primal and deep.
“Do you understand what take your clothes off means, Ms. Bennett?”
“Of course I know what take my clothes off means. I’m not an idiot.”
His eyes blaze. “You will not talk back to me, Ms. Bennett. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” The words slip out of my mouth automatically, before I can stop them.
“Good girl. Now if you know what ‘take your clothes off’ means, then you know I mean all of them. Your bra first. I want to see those big tits that you’ve been teasin
g me with.”
His dirty words send prickles of heat and an ache straight to the place between my legs.
I reach around and grab the hook of the strapless bra, undo it slowly, until the sides hang but are still covering my breasts.
“Drop your bra, Ms. Bennett.”
I drop it, letting it fall to the floor. Heat rises on my cheeks, embarrassment and humiliation at being here like this, at letting him treat me this way, at wanting him to do it.
And also at the air hitting my nipples, causing them to pebble.
“Open your eyes, Ms. Bennett.”
I open my eyes.
“Keep them open.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now your panties.”
I slip my fingers through the sides of my panties and pull them down, remembering and reminding myself that he’s already seen my pussy, that last night was way more intimate and revealing, at least when it came to having my pants down.
When my panties have joined the rest of my clothes on the floor and I stand there in just my heels, Elijah he walks to me, tilts my chin back up and presses a hand to my back, pulls me in and kisses me. His mouth claims mine, moving slowly, softly, while he pulls my body against him.
My bare skin rubs against the front of his trousers, the crispness of his shirt making my nipples harden even more.
His hand travels up my rib cage, and I shiver as he hefts my breast in his hand, his thumb running over the peak of my nipple in smooth circles.
I inhale and bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out.
“Turn around, Ms. Bennett.”
I turn around. Now I’m facing the door, and although it’s a relief to be able not to have to look at him, now he’s behind me, and I have no idea what he’s doing.
“Lock the door.”
It wasn’t already locked? Jesus Christ.
I turn the deadbolt, not letting myself stop to think why he needs a deadbolt on his office door in the first place.
“Lean over and hold onto the door handle, Ms. Bennett.”
I do as I’m told.
From behind me, I hear the sound of his belt slipping through the loops of his pants.
“I am going to show you what happens when you talk back to me. Do you understand?”
I lick my bottom lip, my mouth suddenly dry. “No, sir, I don’t --”
The belt comes down on my ass, softly, not enough to hurt, but enough to make me gasp and let go of the door handle. I straighten up, but his hand is on the back of my head, fisting my hair the same way he did last night.
He pushes me back down.
“Hands on the handle,” he growls.
I do as I’m told.
“Push your ass into the air.”
I rise up on my heels, and he belts me again, this time harder.
The sting is immediate, the sharp pain fading into something warm and pleasurable that settles in between my legs, a pulsing kind of ache.
The next blow comes harder than the second, and this time, the strap of the belt slides against my pussy.
I bite the inside of my cheek.
“One more,” he growls, and this one comes the hardest, so hard that it hurts a lot.
There’s a pause, and I resist the urge to straighten up, not knowing what the consequence will be if I dare to do that, and stay bent over.
“Good girl.” He pushes against me, the back of his pants against my ass, and I can feel his cock against me. “Spread your legs so I can see your tight little cunt.”
I do as I’m told, spreading my legs even as the humiliation blooms through my entire body like a dark rose. My legs beginning to ache from the position I’m in. But I don’t care. All I care about is him, feeling his hands on my body, his belt against me, his lips on my skin.
“Your pussy is glistening, baby. You liked that, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You liked getting treated like a bad little slut?”
The words send shockwaves through me, but perhaps that’s the point. He’s trying to shock me, to see if I’m really up for this. And even though my mind is screaming that I’m crazy, that he’s crazy, that this is crazy, my body wants it.
He’s right that I’m wet – I can feel it pooling between my legs, my own body betraying me.
“Yes, sir.”
His fingers find my folds from behind, and I gasp, remembering his words from last night, how he was going to be the first one inside of me.
My body tenses, but he’s rubbing me on the outside, over my clit, his fingers working through my pussy as his thumb presses and swirls against my clit. He varies the pressure, and the torture is exquisite.
He stays quiet, for once stopping his dirty talk, and now I want it back, want him to say something, anything, because the only sounds are my own pants and moans, and I’m surprised to hear, the sound of me begging him to make me come.
It doesn’t take long, and I feel my pussy clench and then an orgasm is ripping through me like a riptide, pulling me under with it as I surrender to it, to him.
He waits until I’ve stilled.
I stay holding onto the door handle, bent over, because he hasn’t told me to stand back up, and I’m afraid it’s some kind of test, afraid that if I do something without his permission there will be consequences.
I hear the sound of his belt being put back into his pants.
And then the sounds of him moving back toward his desk.
I hear his laptop opening, the chimes of his computer starting up.
“You may go, Ms. Bennett.”
My heart pounds.
I turn around, but his eyes are on his computer screen, and he’s paying me no attention.
I’m dismissed.
My eyes burn with tears, tears that threaten to spill down my cheeks as I quickly put my clothes on and leave his office.
Fool me once, shame on you.
Fool me twice, shame on me.
Fool me three times? No fucking way, Mr. Armstrong.
As soon as I’m back at my desk, I pull up our interoffice messaging system. I need to talk to someone about this, and as much as I don’t want to, I have to.
Will or Hailey? I tap my hands on my desk, contemplating my options.
They’re my only friends in the city, and my friends from back home wouldn’t understand. Not to mention, my friends from back home are few and far between-- people aren’t super excited to be friends with the girl whose mother is a prostitute and a murderer.
Thinking of my mother reminds me of the razor blade she sent me.
I push it out of my head.
My mother is in prison.
She can’t hurt me.
And besides, I have more pressing problems, aka Elijah Armstrong, and the things he’s been doing to me.
I enter my password into the office messaging system, but it won’t take it. The “invalid password” sign flashes at me, red and angry. I double check that my caps lock isn’t on, then try again.
Still, “invalid password” flashes again.
Great.
Now I’m going to have to call IT up here to fix it.
I pull out my phone. It’s probably better to text anyway – remembering how controlling Elijah is about everything, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s watching all of our interoffice messages.
I don’t want any record of this on our office computers.
I pull up the group text that Will and Hailey and I have going 24/7.
Meet at Cocoa’s tonight? 7?
The reply from Hailey comes immediately.
Finally!!!!! I was starting to get super worried! Yes, I am there!
I squelch down the tiny bit of guilt I feel for not replying to the countless texts she’s sent me, asking about last night and Elijah. But when I got home last night all I wanted to do was take a shower and go to sleep, and this morning I wasn’t sure exactly what to say.
But now, after what just happened upstairs, I need to talk to someone.
Can we make it 7:30? Armstrong is in a particularly horrible mood and I may have to work late.
Tell me about it.
Later that night, and we’re sitting at the bar at Cocoa’s, the sports bar right around the corner from our office. The restaurant is down a side street, one of the only ones close to our office that doesn’t feel stuffy and pretentious. Framed jerseys hang on the walls, a dozen televisions broadcast different sporting events, and bowls of peanuts litter the bar.
We get our usual drinks – a dark beer for Will, an apple martini for Hailey, and a rum and diet coke for me.
We sit down and I take a sip of my drink, suddenly feeling calmer. It’s not the alcohol. It’s like no matter what happened up in Elijah’s office, now I’m here, having drinks with my friends, sitting on the same bar stool with the cracked vinyl cover that I always sit on. Things are still the same.
But then I catch sight of the marks on my wrist, the marks his belt left last night, and I yank the sleeves of my cardigan down over them. The cardigan I conveniently left at my desk when I was called up to the fortieth floor.
“So spill,” Hailey says. “I can’t stay long. I have to go back to work and redo the cover for Charlie Hammer’s new sci-fi book, since they said the first one looked too sci-fi. Whatever that means.” She rolls her eyes.
“I thought Charlie Hammer was moving into –”
“Abs! I have, like, half an hour before I have to be back in the office, and I am not going to spend it talking about Charlie Hammer’s new cover.”
“Are you going to spend it talking about how you’re not going to spend it talking about Charlie Hammer’s new cover?” Will asks, smirking as he takes a sip of his beer. As he does, the sleeve of his shirt pulls up a bit, revealing a shiny new watch.
“Nice watch,” I say. “New?”
“Yes.” He holds it out for me to admire. “You like?”
“Love.” Will has family money from some trust or something, and he spends it on the things he deems most important – an apartment that’s small but only two blocks from work, and clothes and accessories that always make him look like a million bucks. He subscribes to the theory that you dress for the job you want, not the job you have.