Page 8 of Bourbon Wishes
She just shrugs. "Seems like something you'd get off on."
"You have no idea what I get off on, Constance."
"I can guess," she sniffs, rolling her eyes at me. "I've worked under you for three months. I've learned plenty."
I should not entertain this conversation. I need to shut it down. But…curiosity is a motherfucker, and I'm dying to know what she thinks I'm into.
"Like what?"
"Probably all kinds of things you can't write home about."
"Humor me," I growl, motioning for her to share her—sure to be colorful—thoughts on what gets me off. "What have you learned about me that makes you think you know what gets me off?"
She eyes me levelly for a moment, almost as if she's waiting for me to change my mind. I absolutely should, let's just be clear about that. I'm crossing all kinds of lines here. But at this point, I don't care about that anymore. She's talking about what gets me off, and I'm just desperate enough to want to hear her thoughts on the subject. I'm sure I'll replay this conversation when I'm jerking off to the memory later.
"Fine," she finally says, sitting up straight. "I know you get off on control. If you aren't in charge, you can't stand it. It makes you twitchy. Youneedto be the one calling the shots. You're probably like that…well, everywhere. You definitely aren't crawling for anyone or asking permission. You could be a sadist, but I don't think you actually enjoy causing pain or humiliation. It does nothing for you. I think you're just…"
"Just what?" I growl, leaning forward in my chair, intrigued by what she thinks. Fascinated that she's pegged me so fucking well. I want to be the one who decides when and how she comes. I want to be the reason she gasps and quivers. I want her weak for me, quivering on the edge becauseIdrove her there. I don't want her humiliated or in pain. I want her broken with pleasure.
"A complicated grouch with no soul," she says, smirking at me.
I shouldn't ask. I fucking know I shouldn't…
"What about you?" The question rasps from my lips anyway, more desperate need than passing curiosity. I'm rabid to know what makes her tick and what makes her sweat.
"Oh, I have a soul," she says, teasing me by purposefully misunderstanding the question.
My hands tighten around the edge of the desk because she's right about me. Ineedcontrol. It's probably why I've never evenbothered trying to date. I'm self-aware enough to know no one should be stuck dealing with an autocratic asshole all day, every day.
But…I want her to deal with it. Right now, I want to force her to give me what I want. I want her to spill her secrets and tell me what makes her tick. What does she want? What does she crave? What makes her thrust those fingers into her panties to get herself off?
"You like to see how far you can push before you're forced to obey," I rasp, pushing the boundaries to the breaking point. Ha. Who am I kidding? This is so far outside the bounds of appropriate workplace conversation, it's laughable. Except, I'm not laughing, and neither is she.
She's staring at me with a flush to her cheeks and the pulse in her throat fluttering. She doesn't tell me to stop, though. So I don't.
"But you don't get off on disobedience."
Her tongue darts out, whetting her bottom lip. "W-what do I like?"
"Being made to submit."
She won't bow to just anyone, though. Hell no. Constance is too goddamn smart for that. Unless a motherfucker can prove he's worthy of her, she won't give him the time of day simply because she knows her worth. She knows what she deserves, and she won't settle for a single iota less. She's not a delicate little flower, willing to jump into bed with the first man who comes along. She wants real and raw. She wants a man willing to work for her.
I want to work like a fucking dog to please her.
She stares at me silently for a long time, her nipples hard points in her thin silk blouse. And then she gives her head a sharp shake, as if she's trying to pull herself back together ordispel the thick layer of tension coating every fucking inch of my office.
"Well, at least one of us is right," she says, her lips quirking into a grin as she rises gracefully to her feet. "And it isn't you." She tries to laugh off what I've said, but it comes out a little breathless and unsteady. "There isn't a submissive bone in my body."
I lean back in my chair, my fingers interlaced behind my head. She's half right. She isn't submissive. What she craves isn't an exchange of power. Hell will freeze over before she willingly gives that up. What she wants is someone who can match her, someone who makes her so wild she'll do anything for another taste. She wants someone who makes her want to let down her walls and trust him with her heart, her body, and her soul. And she hasn't found that man. Yet.
The prospect that she might be looking is grim as hell, especially since I know she belongs with me. I just don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to do about it.
My life would be a helluva lot less complicated if she didn't work for me.
I'm still obsessing overthat quandary when Trystan barges into my office after lunch, throwing himself down on the sofa in the corner with a grunted curse.
"Is there a reason you're in my office instead of yours?" I ask, scowling at him.
