Page 3 of Ends of Being

I am, however, beginning to unravel.

If she knew the intense, ruinous thoughts going through my head, she would likely quit her job and move out of the area to escape me. Perhaps even out of the country. She would most certainly change her name and number as well as her postal code.

You see, I may be a bit of a psycho. Sure, I dress conservatively and speak softly, but beneath this boring demeanor is a beast just waiting to be unleashed onto the world. Or, in this case, be unleashed onto one smart-mouthed fucking menace so he can make her shut her fucking mouth for once in her goddamn life.

Sometimes, when she jacks the heat up on her harassment to upper inferno levels, I daydream about shutting her up by shoving my dick so far down her throat that she chokes on it. Denying myself the urge to make this daydream a reality often has me breaking out in sweats. The sheer force of will it takes for me to stop myself from cutting off her sharp-tongued barbs with my hand squeezing her throat and forcing her to her knees is excruciating, and I’m not entirely sure how much longer I can hold the beast at bay.

It doesn’t help that she’s never known when to stop. She has always missed my verbal and nonverbal cues on when enough is enough, and it’s becoming increasingly apparent that she does it on purpose. For some reason, I’m her main form of entertainment in the office, as well as anywhere else I may have the unfortunate luck of running into her. Even if the majority of these random run-ins are engineered by me because I’m a glutton for punishment when it comes to her.

I can’t breathe when she’s in the room with me, busting my balls, but I also can’t breathe when she is away from me for too long since, apparently, having my balls busted on the regular is akin to oxygen.

I’m a fucking madman.

Then, just when I’m close to my wit’s end, she comes meandering into my office, not a care in the world, ready to push my buttons for her own entertainment. She then strategically adjusts her skirt to show as much thigh as possible, unbuttons her blouse a little, and squares her shoulders just right so her tits are pressing against the thin fabric. It’s all I can do to stop myself from leaping over my desk, fisting that silky blouse in my hand, and ripping it to fucking shreds.

Instead, as she goes on about my office being the perfect place for her to take a much-needed break, I fist my hands on my desk and squint at a spot on the wall behind her. I grind my molars together almost violently and feel my eye twitching. I’m so focused on keeping myself together that I don’t notice she’s moved until suddenly, she’s right beside me, her breath dusting my face as she speaks.

“You know what you need to do?”

No, but I’m sure as fuck you’re going to tell me, and I’m also sure it’s going to piss me off.

I glance over at her wearily. “Oh, please, do tell.”

I force the words out through gritted teeth, not that she notices how tightly wound up I am. She’s too busy working out how best to make me want to throw myself off a cliff to be worried that I might actually retaliate for once. And for the love of fuck, do I want to retaliate.

She gives me her condescending, closed-mouth smile, then rolls her eyes at me and says in her most jovial and mocking voice, “You need to turn that frown upside down!”

Now, I groan loudly as I push back from my desk, my hands coming down to slap the tops of my thighs in frustration. I’m nearing the end of my tether, I can feel it being yanked with every word that falls from her pretty little mouth, and I need to do something to get her the fuck out of my office. “Why must you come in here and torment me incessantly? I have work to do; I don’t have time to be your entertainment.”

She gives me a stern look, “You know what they say? All work and no play makes Clark a very dull boy. You should consider breaking out of your shell and letting loose for a change. Maybe then, I wouldn’t feel obligated to shake you up a bit.”

No, she fucking did not. Surely, I misheard her, and she did not just refer to me as a “dull boy.” Dull. Boy.

My eyes meet hers sharply, my voice rough as I whisper, “Oh, Antoinette. You think you know everything about me, but I can assure you—“

“Come on, Clark,” she interrupts, laughing. “You’re not bad boy enough to handle me.”

I blink at her, my brows furrowing as I let her words sink into my psyche, swirling around in the darkness.

I’m not bad boy enough? Me? The quintessential wolf in nice-guy clothing is not bad boy enough to handle little miss sassy pants? Who the fuck does she think she is making baseless assumptions about my bad-boy prowess?

I don’t say anything else; I only stare at her intently. Then the corner of my mouth curves up ever so slightly until my beast smirks at her in anticipation.

Her body trembles ever so slightly, and she laughs again, slowly edging toward the door as she says breathlessly, “Always so serious, Clark.”

Instead of responding to her flippant remark, I keep my eyes on her as she exits the room.

When she spins to strut away, I drop my head in my hands, gripping my hair and giving it a yank before jumping out of my chair and walking swiftly to the door. She’s rounding the corner at the end of the hallway, and I step back out of view just as she turns to look behind her. What I want to do is go barreling down the hall after her, barge into her office, lock the door, then forcefully bend her over her desk and give her ass the blistering it deserves.

That’s only for starters. A slow-mo movie of everything I’ve ever wanted to do to her runs through my mind until I’m a panting, ravenous beast when I sit back behind my desk.

“You’re not bad boy enough to handle me…”

Those words keep repeating in my head, and the more I think about them, the more incensed I become.

I’m not bad boy enough to handle her, huh?

My blood boils in my veins. The beast rattles in my chest.

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