Page 20 of Wolfish Player
“I do believe you need this job, correct?” I ask.
“Not if you’re going to treat me like shit.”
“I have expectations and they should be met,” I say. “That’s all I’m asking for. If you say another word—one more fucking word—I’ll treat you like you’re unemployed.”
As if she’s incapable of controlling herself, she bites down hard on her bottom lip. But then words slip from her mouth.
“You’re a fucking terrible boss, and I swear to?—”
I seize her wrist and yank her against me, my mouth crashing down on hers. It’s rough, claiming, filthy—and she gasps into me, giving me exactly what I want. I take the kiss deeper, my tongue sweeping in, swallowing her defiance until she’s breathless.
I rip her hair clip free and fist the loose strands, pulling her head back so she has no choice but to yield to the force of the kiss. Her body arches into mine, and the moment she presses against me, she can’t miss how hard I am.
I grip her hip and drag her flush against me, grinding just enough to make her whimper into my mouth. The sound nearly undoes me.
She’s trembling, her nails digging into my shirt, but she doesn’t pull away. If anything, she pushes back harder—kissing me like she’s just as starved, just as reckless.
The taste of her is addictive—sweet, dangerous, the kind of thing I’ll regret later but can’t stop taking now.
It takes everything I have to tear my mouth from hers. I rest my forehead against hers for a beat, breathing hard, still holding her hair tight in my fist.
“Thank you, Miss Barrett,” I say finally, forcing steel back into my voice. “I’m glad we could have this moment of clarity. I hope we won’t need to have others anytime soon.”
Her lips are swollen, her eyes wild, and I let her go as if it costs me something.
She nods, silent now, and I open the door. “Consider this your first and last warning.”
THE AUTHOR
HEATHER
Several Days Later
My eyes burn like someone swapped my tear ducts for hot coals, and my brain is so fried that I’m beginning to wonder if I actually kissed my boss days ago or if that was a figment of my imagination.
I rub at my temples, tug my hair into a knot, and squint at the glowing screen until the words blur together. Powering off the computer at last, I slip off my shoes under the desk and rest my head on the wood.
Mr. Wolfson clears his throat from my doorway—as if he’s telling me to sit up—but I stay put. I’m willing to risk his berating for a nap today.
Before I can shut my eyes, my desk phone rings—cutting my protest short.
“Wolfson Publishing,” I answer. “This is Adrian Wolfson’s office, how may I help you?”
“Oh, wow.” It’s Joanna. “You sound sooo professional!”
“Why can’t you call my cell phone?”
“I did, and it went straight to voicemail,” she says. “How’s it going?”
“Amazing.” I force a smile. “I love being worked like a farm dog.”
“Is someone around you?”
“Yes.”
“Is it your boss?”
“Yes.” I stifle a groan and glance over at him. Looking perfect as ever, he’s flipping through a new magazine and sipping his coffee like he owns time itself.
