Page 151 of Boss of Me
I swallow the whimper that wants to escape my throat.
With his thumb, he rubs my silk panties across my clit, the dewy fabric creating a delicious, tormenting friction.
“Yes,” he purrs silkily, his breath warm against my face. “I think you would, kitten. I think you’d miss this very much.”
I can barely hear his voice over the wild pounding of my heart. It’s frightening how well he knows my body. How he knows just where and how to touch me to make me weak, to make me burn.
Determined to completely unravel me, he pushes my panties to the side and brushes his knuckle against the aching folds of my pussy.
I moan at the sharp spike of pleasure.
“If you really want to leave, I won’t stop you.” His voice is rougher now, darker. “But you don’t want to, do you?”
“No,” I gasp, and rock up against him. “I’m not leaving you.”
Slowly he tilts his head back to look at me from under his thick lashes.
I want him to finish what he started. I want him to make me come, to ease some of the hurt and confusion I’m feeling.
But he doesn’t give me the release I need. Instead he removes his hand from between my legs, pulls down my skirt and calmly smooths it back into place. Then he steps away, leaving me shamefully bereft.
“Go home, Marlowe,” he commands in a low tone.
My face burns and my eyes are smarting.
“Home,” he reiterates, giving me a look of heated warning. “Don’t run and hide at Quinn’s. Go home and wait for me.”
With that, he turns his back on me and walks over to his desk, shifting his attention to more pressing matters.
Lost for words, I leave his office feeling humiliated and subdued. On the drive home, I blast Lesley Gore’s “You Don’t Own Me” on repeat.
When I get to the house, I head straight to my closet and pull out the gorgeous red Jimmy Choo pumps that Gunner referenced earlier. I snap a picture of them and text it to Quinn:Want these?
I don’t expect to hear back from her anytime soon since she’s attending Eric’s show tonight.
But she responds within seconds:Is this a joke?
No, I text back.
Aren’t those a gift from Mr. Moneybags? And you’ve only worn them once, right?
Yes, I type.Since you wear the same size?—
I’m interrupted by her next message:Why are you getting rid of $4k shoes???
Just want to free up some closet space, I lie.
She’s rightfully skeptical:The closet that’s bigger than our whole apartment??? THAT closet?!
I sigh heavily before replying:Do you want the shoes or not?
Her answer is unequivocal:HELL YESSS!!!
Lol. I’ll drop them off tomorrow.
Thank you, fairy godmother!she replies with an avalanche of heart emojis.
Chuckling, I drop my phone on the bench and gaze broodingly at the designer heels I’ve just given away. The small act of rebellion probably won’t matter much in the long run, but it brings me a smidgeon of perverse comfort, and right now, I’ll take all the comfort I can get.
