Page 12 of Immortal Throne

“You missed a spot.” His gruff voice made me look up.

He stared down at me between his legs, contempt twisting his full lips. He’d removed his jacket and tie and unfastened the top two buttons on his white shirt while I was out. The tanned skin underneath did weird things to my heartbeat.

Maintaining eye contact, I lifted his shoe, still on his foot like he insisted, and ran the cloth along the instep. I hadn’t missed a spot. And right now, I kept myself mentally stimulated by imagining all the ways I could break his face.

“That’s enough,” he said, shifting position. His movement pulled the material of his shirt and revealed an angry red scar on his chest. As if someone had taken a hot poker to him on the weekend, the scar looked like a fresh brand. “I need to make a call.”

“Would you like me to step out?”Please say yes.

“No, I’d like you to hold my coffee.”

I packed up the shoe-cleaning supplies and shuffled back to stand up.

He shook his head, and I froze. What did he want? Why did his lips turn up at the corner like that?

“I need somewhere to place it.” He waved at the ground in front of him.

I leaned to the side to peer around him at the perfectly functional executive desk behind him.

His lips quirked and he leaned forward. “You are my assistant today and I’m compensating you well for it. You will be my coffee table.” He waved at the space in front of him again. “Here.”

There were pivotal moments in my life, moments where I found myself at diverging paths having to make a decision. Did I really want this to be one of my last memories of work? Did I want to let this man use me in such a demeaning way? How much was my pride worth?

The carpet I glared at didn’t provide any answers.

I took a deep breath.

This moment wouldn’t define me. I could walk out now or later, but later meant a fat paycheck. The coffee would probably fall off my back anyway.

He’d probably make me clean it.

I pushed the shoe-cleaning supplies to the side and crawled over, shifting sideways.

“No,” he said.

I glanced up and he twisted his two fingers in the air, motioning for me to turn. I either had to face his groin or give him my ass, and the latter was so not happening. I swiveled around, the short carpet digging into the palms of my hands.

“That’s a good girl,” he purred, looking down at me on my hands and knees between his legs. “Just like that.”

“I’m a woman, not a girl.” Despite my strong words, my heart skipped a beat, and I cursed my own reaction to his comment.

Did I…like his praise?

No.

No, absolutely not.

Last time I checked, I didn’t have a praise kink. Yet, when he said “good girl,” my body shivered with delight.

Please don’t.

“I noticed,” he commented, and I momentarily forgot what I’d said for him to respond that way. My mind raced through the conversation. Right. I wasn’t a girl, and he’d noticed.

I dropped my head so he wouldn’t see my anger and focused on controlling my breath and keeping my back flat. The waistline of my dress pants rubbed against the scar on my hip, but I could maintain this position for a bit.

He didn’t move to take his phone out or place his cherished coffee on his human table. He sat there, breathing, glaring at me through a fiery gaze.

“I wonder if you’d suck my cock if the price was right?” he asked.

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