Page 13 of The Boss' Pet

Hot water hits my skin, invigorating at first and then painful as I turn around and let it strike my ass. I can feel the places he spanked me reigniting with the incessant drumming of the water. I spin quickly all the way around, but I can’t avoid the pain forever. I need to wash myself properly, with soap. I need to make sure that my skin is clear of his billionaire emissions.

“Asshole,” I curse to myself as I am once more exposed to the pain of washing a spanked and fucked ass.

He’s managed to ruin a shower, and that’s practically impossible to do.

I wash quickly and get out of the shower.

It would be easier to go to bed, rather than keep living with the memory of what just happened in my head, but I can’t afford to forget it. Not yet. All I can think about is Marcus Waterstone. I know I’ll never see him again, but I’ll never dismiss what he did to me either.

When I check in the mirror, I’m surprised at the lack of damage. I would have thought there would be bruises and welts everywhere. Instead, my butt is just slightly red, although he’s left a mark on me that I’ll never be able to erase. I’m going to remember the day a billionaire fucked me for the rest of my life.

I wrap my hair in a towel, fold another fluffy towel around my midsection, and go and sit in front of my laptop. My fingers start typing by force of habit, transferring the thoughts I don’t dare think in my head to the screen in front of me.

Marcus Waterstone is the most insufferable, arrogant, and outright dangerous man I have ever had the displeasure of meeting.

Alright. Well, that’s quite an opening.

My finger hovers over the delete key but doesn’t make it all the way to pressing it.

Marcus believes he has dominion over everything and everyone he lays eyes on. He is the embodiment of the spirit of a conqueror, a holdover from a more toxic time. Marcus may only be thirty-nine years old to my twenty-six, but he is a dinosaur in every sense that matters.

That paragraph’s not as good. It sounds sort of bitter. I want to be a little acerbic, but I don’t want to come off like a jilted lover. Damnit, if anybody finds out that I slept with him, all of my work will be instantly undermined. I bet he knows that. I bet he thought about that before I fucked him.

I put my fingers on the keys again for one more try.

Marcus Waterstone is an asshole, and I don’t like him.

Nope. I’ve completely lost the plot now.

Closing the laptop, I get up from the kitchen counter, walk a handful of steps over to the bed, throw back the covers, and fall in. I pull the sheet and comforter up over my head, close my eyes, and find the whole sorry situation playing itself over in the theater of my mind.

I find myself lingering on the memory of what it felt like to be handled by him. He’s so strong. It’s quite normal for a man to be stronger than a woman, but I’ve never been touched by someone who has that much latent power. It felt as though he could throw me around any way he liked. I was entirely helpless, not just physically, but mentally. Something about the way he spoke to me.

He’s just a rich asshole, I remind myself. Charisma is usually a bad sign in my experience. Good people don’t need it, and bad people almost always have an abundance of it. The fact that I’m thinking about him even though I hate him is a sign I’m falling under his spell. Hopefully tonight was just a weird one-off for him, because I don’t know what I’ll do if I do see him again for some reason.

In the midst of all of these thoughts, my hand has slid down between my thighs, and my fingers have found a part of my anatomy that shouldn’t be as wet as it is. I ache in the places he touched me. My pussy is so tender and so sore. I feel as though touching myself is wrong—but I’m allowed to touch myself, of course. There’s no way for anybody to know what I’m doing, which means it’s fine to do it. It’s not even more shameful now, to be touching myself to the memory of the worst thing that has ever happened to me.

Marcus

Marcus Waterstone is an asshole, and I don’t like him.

I smirk at the screen as I read my new pet’s assessment of me. Of course I’m nowhere near her little apartment, but that doesn’t mean I’m not keeping tabs on her.

I know what she wrote because Charlie’s laptop is mirrored on one of my screens. I also have her social media accounts on another window, and a readout of her bank account tucked away on another. It’s all a terrible invasion of privacy, I suppose, but she doesn’t have privacy anymore. Not since I decided to make her mine.

She’s petulant after her spanking and her first fucking, but that’s to be expected. She doesn’t know how to take discipline. She’s precocious and spoiled, temperamental and generally intriguing.

A soft buzz heralds communication from my driver.

“Go ahead,” I say, accepting his call.

“Would you like me to keep watching, sir? I think she’s gone to bed.”

“Yes, Henry. Stay there a little while longer. I’m still compiling her profile.”

“Maxwell’s not doing it?”

“This is a special case.”

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