Page 35 of Pretty Little Thing

“Bathroom?” I ask.

Clive points toward the stairs. “First floor. Left of the entrance.”

“Thank you.”

I stand up, fighting the instant dizzy rush that plagues my head. He stands up with me but he doesn’t follow. I squeeze through the lump of people standing between me and the stairs. The only eyes I feel on me are his and the feeling stays in my skin even after I reach the bottom and throw open the ladies’ room door.

I duck into the farthest stall and lock it behind me. I remain standing, planting my back against the door and staring at the walls painted to look like red bricks.

What the hell just happened to me?

I’ve never passed out before. Ever. I’ve never even had an anxiety attack or a panic attack or any other of those things you see women go through in romantic comedies. I’ve never tripped and fallen in public. Things like that just don’t happen to me.

Until now, that is.

Strangely, though, the thing I’m more upset about is how much I’m not upset by all of this.

I don’t give a shit about passing out in front of strangers. I don’t care that I got flogged in front of them either.

No, the only thing I feel is a deep throbbing between my thighs begging me for more.

“Clive,” I whisper, involuntarily.

His voice in my ear. His hands on my body. The way he forced my hands up and placed them exactly where he wanted them. He didn’t even restrain me. I didn’t need to be. I wanted to go where he told me to go. I wanted him to do whatever he wanted to do to me.

Oh, Christ.

I flick the button on my pants, loosening it enough to slide my hand inside. With closed eyes, I touch myself. I rub the edge of my sensitive clit, teasing it to life and it doesn’t take long before I’m actively holding back moans.

The bathroom door opens and closes. I don’t stop. I ignore the sounds of running water and ripping paper towels. My mind replaces those with my own gasps and the flogger’s snap and Clive’s deep growl...

I come hard, harder than I have in weeks. My entire body tingles from head-to-toe. My knees nearly give out but I keep my free hand on the bar along the edge of the stall to keep myself up.

“Fuck,” I whisper, moaning through my teeth. I instantly regret saying it. I could be punished again for cursing.

I smile. “Fuck.”

I lay my head back, purposefully slamming it against the door. Something about this feels so wrong — masturbating in a public restroom aside.

I’m his boss.

He’s my employee.

This could end badly.

But only if I let it begin.

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