I push past him and head to the en-suite bathroom in his office. His easy-going laugh follows me. I don’t know what this new game is, but if I have the opportunity to do something without his hands or presence, I’m all for it.
I get in the smaller, bright room—all white, of course, and shut the door with a slam. For a second I lean back against it and just breathe. I see myself in the mirror. Against the backdrop of this oh so stylish bathroom, standing in my black bra, thong and high heels, with my blonde up-do and pristine makeup, I look like I’m some kind of pin-up model. Or a high-paid prostitute. My arms immediately raise to cover myself and I turn away from the mirror.
But who am I kidding? I came in here with the express directions from my boss to get myself off in eight minutes. Shit, probably more like seven now. My arms drop. Or six.
Screw it. There’s no time for shame or anything else. I just have to get it done. Just push everything else out.
I sit down on the toilet and start touching myself. I’m sure Bryce’s threat to do it for me if I don’t isn’t idle. Bastard.
Then again, how is he going to know if I don’t do it? Apart from if the panties aren’t wet? I mean, I could just drip some sink water on them. I sit up on the toilet lid and look around the bathroom. Are there cameras in here? Dammit.
I look up at the ceiling and in the corners. I don’t see anything. Just smooth white ceiling tiles. There’s not much decoration in here, just those abstract Japanese art prints on the wall and the bamboo shoots in a clear vase. I lean closer. Is there a camera hiding in those pebbles at the base? I can’t tell.
But Gentry Tech is famous for their surveillance technology. I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t have time for this, anyway. I start rubbing at my clit. No doubt the bastard will smell my damn underwear. He’s that tactless. There’s no getting around it.
All right. Think sexy thoughts. Channing Tatum. I wince. Ugh, no. All of the sudden I just imagine him going “S’up?” like some dumb California surfer dude, and it’s a total turn off.
Okay. All right. Think about all the romantic comedies I’ve seen lately. Prince charming type guys. Kissing scenes. I grind at my clit.
Nothing.
Fine then, there were some hot sex scenes from the romance novels I read. The one where the guy was really sweet when he took that girl’s virginity and held her close all night after they made love? I try to recall it as I push my panties up inside myself. But I’m still almost all dry.
Shit. It’s less than five minutes now. I have to get this done. I glare at the door. Dammit. I close my eyes.
My fantasies are my own. They don’t matter.
I squeeze my eyes shut tighter and ignore the darker places my mind has to go to make myself come. Rough hands. The grip of a stranger. Taking what isn’t his. Harsh words. Harsher hands. And God, oh— oh God—
I come out of the bathroom, ignoring the fact that I’m sure my cheeks are flushed. Bryce waits right outside the door. Was he listening? If he was, he didn’t get any thrills there. I was careful not to make a single sound.
But he knows what I was doing. While he was standing right here. And in spite of myself, I feel it. The shame. He doesn’t miss it, what I’m feeling.
He smiles, the shark smile. So maybe that’s what it was about, this little trip down mind-fuck lane. He gets off on my humiliation. He holds the dress out to me and it’s difficult to keep myself from ripping it out of his grasp.
But I don’t. I take it calmly, unzip it and slip it over my head.
“Help with the zipper?”
I don’t say a word as I settle the dress on and then turn my back to him. His knuckles graze my spine as he slides the zipper up. If he notices the chill I get, he doesn’t say anything.
“I’ll be needing that thong now.” He says it calmly.
I’m not surprised. At least he let me put the dress on first. He offers me an arm to steady me so I can take the damn thing off. What a gentleman.
I smile at him as I refuse his arm. Look at that, I’m getting my own array of smiles now. This one I’ll call my sugar-snake smile—it’s all apparent sweetness but with venom underneath. I slip my heels off so I’m not off balance while I pull the thong down my legs as discretely as I can. I ball them up and hand them over to him.
He brings them to his nose and inhales.
I arch an eyebrow at him as I slip my heels back on. “So crass?”
He looks at me with genuine surprise while he sticks the underwear in the inside of his suit coat pocket.
“Watch out for that wicked tongue.” He steps close. For a moment I think he’s reaching forward as if to adjust something on the front of my dress, but then he grabs my breasts and tweaks at my nipples.
I yelp and pull back but he just keeps plucking at them while he talks as if nothing’s amiss.
“There.” He looks down at my breasts in satisfaction. “See that your nipples stay like that. I want them puckered when we walk into the restaurant.”
I’m breathing hard as he turns away.
Damn him. I want to run forward and kick him with the tip of my pointy high heel. For a second there, a second, I felt like I was on an equal footing with him. And then, just like that, he stole it away from me. Put me back in my place.
I follow him but I’m breathing hard, feeling stupidly like I want to cry. But screw that. I bite it back. I’m sure he would get such a kick out of my tears. Humiliation is this guy’s high, after all.
“Don’t forget your tablet,” he calls over his shoulder. “This is a business lunch.” He says it like I’m a moron who’s slacking on the job.
I smooth my hair as I hurry back into my office to grab my tablet and purse. I barely make it to the elevator before it closes. Just as he intended, I’m sure.
Bryce doesn’t speak to me the entire ride over to the restaurant, which is fine by me. We’re in the back of a luxurious town car and he leaves plenty of space between us on the bench. He stares at his phone. I suppose I could be doing the same, trying to keep up on the endless emails that I’m sure are stacking up.
But trying to read in a car makes me nauseous. In addition to the nerves already roiling in my stomach. Dammit. I am not in over my head. I’m not. I can do this. I can handle whatever Bryce throws at me. I have to. No matter what’s going on inside, I resolve to show nothing. I make my face a perfectly pleasant mask while I watch the busy streets.
It’s not a long drive. When the car slows, Bryce only looks up long enough to stare at my chest pointedly. I don’t even bother to wonder if he’s serious about wanting my nipples perky. I pluck at them myself, even twisting them a little. They’re sensitive from his handling of them earlier, and they harden right up.
I don’t meet his eyes, and I’m glad when he opens the door. He gestures for me to step out first.
I give him a disingenuous smile as I slide past him to exit. He follows me and then puts a hand on the small of my back. It immediately puts me on alert, but I don’t pull away. I won’t let him know he’s disconcerting me. It would just feed his ego or whatever head-trip controlling me gives him.
“This way,” he says in my ear, guiding me forward.
I stiffen under his touch and clutch my purse a little tighter.