by Rosie Praks
“Well, you know what, Whitney?” Darcy shot up straight to his full height, his eyes sparkling with intense flames, making Whitney subconsciously step back until she was braced against the wall. “I’m sick of you.”
Whitney blinked, slightly intimidated by the change in Darcy’s behavior.
With so much anger and pain stored in his chest, a thousand curses were on the tip of his tongue, about to be spewed out. “You’re a mean old cow. You keep on pressuring me to work. Do you think I enjoy seeing your old prune-like face here, too?”
Whitney was floored. The issue about their mistaken room was forgotten. At this moment, the most important issue was to retain her right as the superior.
“What did you call me?” She bit back at Darcy, nostrils flaring like a real witch.
“I said you’re a prune-face witch.” Darcy clenched his fists and snarled out his answer. “A wrinkly old prune-face witch.”
“Darcy, you—” Whitney couldn’t bear to hear Darcy insult her looks anymore. Her face grew red, and she puffed out her cheeks. Goddamn, she was mad. She drove straight into Darcy, wrapping her fingers around his throat. “I’ll choke you to death, Darcy. How dare you call me a prune-face witch? I have no wrinkles yet. Only one strand of white hair. I’m not old. I’m not even thirty-five yet, you dork. So shut your big fat mouth, right now.”
“I’m not going to shut up, you witch.” Darcy wheezed his words out, peeling Whitney’s fingers off his throat. Once successful, he shoved her off him with enough force Whitney landed on the bed with a good bounce.
That move wasn’t enough to quench Darcy’s anger, though. He wanted to pour out more hurtful words, to let her know how much he’d endured this trauma since being under her charge.
So Darcy stretched his mouth open and shouted, “You’re old and ugly. Those Coke bottle glasses and that ugly black dress you always wear make you look fifty. But that’s not your worst quality. The worst is you’re a tyrant boss, and I—”
“Shut up. Just shut your big fat mouth. You’re fired, do you hear me, Darcy? You’re fired,” Whitney screeched like a parrot, launching off the bed like a rocket, changing tactics from strangling Darcy’s neck to leaping on top of him, crashing him onto the floor. Putting all her weight on his body, she straddled his back and yanked out his hair.
“Oww. Let my hair go, you witch.” Darcy tried pulling his head back, but that only made Whitney pull harder.
“Say that one more time,” Whitney threatened, “and I’ll fire you for real.”
“You can’t fire me.” Darcy wiggled underneath. “We’re not at work.”
“Then when we get back to work, I’ll fire you. In front of everyone. So take back those words right now. Say I’m not a wrinkly old witch.” Whitney continued to yank Darcy’s hair.
“Ow. Ow. Ow. Get off. Get off me.” Darcy flailed his arms and legs about like a sinking ship.
“Say it first. Say you didn’t mean it. Say I’m not old,” Whitney threatened again.
“I won’t. I’ll repeat it a million times. You’re a witch, Whitney. An old witch with a prune-like face who keeps ties to strangle men.”
“Oh yeah.” Whitney huffed, getting madder by the second. “You say I’m a prune-face witch who uses ties to strangle men. Well, fine. I’ll be a witch for you. I’ll be your witch and strangle you. That’s what you want, right, Darcy?”
Whitney quickly tugged the sash out from around her pajama pants and wrapped it around both of Darcy’s wrists, quickly tying it into a knot. Now Darcy was trapped and wrapped up like a mummy.
Whitney dusted her hands off for a job well done and sat on Darcy’s back again, while Darcy was squirming on the floor like a caterpillar, trying to outmaneuver Whitney. But his quest was unsuccessful. All he could do was yell and wiggle some more.
“Get off me, you witch. You’re heavy like a three-hundred-pound bag of potatoes.”
“Three-hundred-pound bag of potatoes!” Whitney whacked Darcy’s head again. “Stop saying I’m heavy. I’m not. I work out and eat healthy food.”
“But you’re heavy, Whitney. Get off me. Please. Please. You’re breaking my back,” Darcy whimpered, pleading for mercy.
“Oh, so you’re back to calling me Whitney now.” Whitney scoffed. “What happened to calling me the witch?”
There was no reply from Darcy, only whimpering sounds.
“No reply now, Darcy. No reply.” Whitney whacked Darcy’s head again. This time he offered a howl. “You think I’m nasty, Darcy.” She began again. “You think I’m a mean witch, Darcy. All this time. You think just because I used soft words on you, you think I can’t control you. Well, now I’ll show you my true self.”
Whitney put all her weight on her bottom and pressed hard on Darcy’s back. This time he couldn’t help shouting.
“Ow. Ow. Please. Get off. Get off. My back is breaking. I can hear my lumbar cracking.”
“Then say sorry.” Whitney blackmailed Darcy. “Or else I’ll break all your vertebrae.”
“I’m sorry,” Darcy nimbly squeaked out.
“Louder!”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For calling you a witch.”
“And what else.”
“For saying you’re a three-hundred-pound bag of potatoes.”
“Good. Now that’s a good boy. And make sure you behave that way.” Finally, Whitney got off Darcy’s back, but not before whacking his head one last time just to show she was the superior one. “Now be a good boy and stay here. I’ll go and sort out this room business.”
“No. Don’t go,” Darcy shouted in alarm from the floor.
“You want me to sit on you again?” Whitney leaned in close, pinching Darcy’s nose until he yelped. Now his nose looked like Rudolph the reindeer.
“No,” Darcy said in defeat again.
“Then I’m going,” Whitney announced, ignoring Darcy’s pleas.
Darcy was worried. If Whitney were to tell reception, then they’d know for sure he was a con, using Hunter’s name to get free stuff. He couldn’t let that happen. His reputation was at stake. Plus, he wanted his free stuff. And not until Hunter came back would he be willing to let them know his true identity. So Darcy must stop his boss from reaching reception.
With this thought in mind, Darcy summoned all his power to his legs and wiggled his way up until he was flat on his feet. Making sure he had enough spring power in his feet, he bounced once on the ball of his heels, testing his agility. Once satisfied at the result, he took action.
Darcy leapt forward from his spot, aiming at Whitney’s waist. But before grabbing ahold of his goal, his feet slipped and he fell, in turn pulling Whitney’s pajama pants down instead, making Whitney fall, too. And now Whitney was in her panties.
“Darcy, let go of my pants,” Whitney screeched, tumbling on the floor.
“No. Not until you say you won’t go.” Darcy wiggled his way up her body until he was facing her, his legs wedging between hers. This time, Whitney was at the receiving end because Darcy was on top of her.
“I said let go of my pants,” Whitney screamed again. And when Darcy didn’t let go, she took action into her own hands. She used her fists, legs, knees to punch and kick Darcy.
But Darcy was stronger. In the midst of their battle, the sash around his bonded wrists became loose. To his advantage, he used this sash to trap Whitney, tying her wrists together after pinning her body with his arms and legs.
Now Whitney had no way out. So she used her teeth, biting hard on Darcy’s shoulder. He yelped in pain, recoiled, and rolled off Whitney. Now that she was free, she used her bonded hands to bonk Darcy on the head.
Whitney was satisfied with her result and smirked. But before she could have a second go, Darcy launched forward, a long howling growl escaping his mouth. And together, the two tumbled on the carpeted floor, wrestling and pulling each other’s hair out until they were both exhausted, lying on the floor panting, sweat pouring.
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Whitney was having a hard time trying to catch her breath. And the thought of going for another battle on the floor, yanking and pulling at Darcy’s hair, wasn’t appealing at that moment. So she held up her white flag. “Stop. I’m exhausted. Let’s just call it a truce and let me go.”
But Darcy wasn’t listening. He too was trying to control his breathing. For an entirely different reason. In their moment of struggle, he’d become aroused.
And Whitney became aware of this, too. Especially when that arousal was now pressing on her stomach.
Oh fudge! No. “Darcy, your thingaling. It’s poking me.”
Darcy blinked, his eyes moving south to look at the big budge evident on his pants. “Oh shit.” His gaze bolted back to Whitney.
“What? What is it?” Whitney asked, fear registering in her eyes.
“I… I think I’m aroused.”
“You’re aroused?” Whitney blinked, fear dissipating, only to be replaced with a mask of confusion. And then… “Oh God. Get off me.” Whitney pushed Darcy’s head off, struggling even more in their tight embrace.
“Stop. Stop struggling,” Darcy puffed out. “You’ll only provoke him.”
“Him?” Whitney blinked again. “Who’s him?”
“Little Johnny,” Darcy hissed, trying to suppress himself from spilling. Dear Lord, all that rubbing was guaranteed to make him spill out in any second.
“Who’s little Johnny?” Whitney drummed.
“My cock.”
The moment that word registered in her mind, she let out screech and shoved Darcy’s head again. “Oh God, Darcy, you disgusting dork. Get off me. Right now.”
“Stop struggling,” Darcy pleaded, holding Whitney still. “You’ll only excite him further.”
“Excite him. You mean he’s aroused because of me?”
“Well, you must have woken him up when we were tumbling on the floor,” Darcy tried explaining with clenched teeth.
“We’re not tumbling now,” Whitney said in a panic. “Tell him to go back to sleep.”
“Okay. Wait a second. Let me concentrate.” Darcy closed his eyes and focused.
Whitney stayed still, silent, underneath Darcy. All she could do was try to breathe evenly, watching Darcy while he closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.
“Well,” Whitney asked after some time, “is he going to sleep yet?”
“Not yet. But I’m trying.”
“Well, try harder, then.”
“I am,” Darcy said through gritted teeth. “But clearly Johnny wants to come out and play.”
“Tell him to play with someone else. I don’t have time to play with him. Now let me go.” Whitney attempted to struggle again but then felt that phallus shape growing even larger against her. She stopped again, breathing even more slowly.
“Darcy, please. Let. Me. Go,” she enunciated slowly, afraid any slight movement would awaken the beast.
“I really can’t, ma’am.”
“Darcy.” Whitney closed her eyes to suppress herself from going mental. “I will say this politely one more time. Please remove your body off me.”
“And then let you go and tell Harley,” Darcy accused, trying to control Johnny as much as possible. But his little brother really had a mind of his own. It just wouldn’t stop throbbing. “I really can’t, Whitney.”
“Darcy, you damn, stupid, submissive assistant. Go take your little Johnny and play with someone else. I’m not in the mood to play with you,” Whitney snapped at Darcy, finally having enough of their absurd situation.
That stupid, submissive assistant remark was the last straw for Darcy. He barked right back. “I’m not a submissive. I’m a dominant, Whitney.”
“You’re a submissive, Darcy, a submissive,” Whitney snapped back. “You’ll always be a submissive. Now get off me.”
“That’s it.” Darcy had enough. He broke loose, kissing Whitney on the lips. Hard. And tonight, he’d prove to her he was far from submissive.
Unleash the dominant beast.
Chapter 10
“What are you doing, Darcy?” Whitney’s eyes flared open when he picked her up and carried her to bed like a bride on their wedding night.
“I’m going to show you I’m no submissive in bed,” Darcy replied with earnest intent.
“No, Darcy. Don’t—”
But it was already too late. Whitney was already dumped on the bed, and Darcy was plunging forward, kissing her mouth again. He tugged at her wrist, pulling the sash tight so Whitney couldn’t interfere in his game of dominance.
“Darcy, please. I’m sorry. Don’t do this,” Whitney begged again, mainly for her sanity, because she knew if Darcy continued in his dominant game, she’d lose her mind.
“Don’t worry. You’ll enjoy this in a minute,” Darcy said, ignoring her pleas.
“I don’t—”
Whitney tried protesting again but was lost when Darcy kissed her, twirling his tongue into her mouth, waking all the sensory fibers within her. Hot, burning flames licked all her particles, electrifying all her senses.
Oh God. It’d been too long, far too long since she last slept with anyone. That feeling she had was now back again. A throbbing need, burning at her core, desperate to take charge and demand to be quenched after so many years of celibacy.
But she was suddenly struck cold when Darcy pulled her underwear off. She panicked. Fear pierced her voice. “Darcy, what are you doing?”
“Showing you I’m no submissive in bed. A submissive has no control. I do, Whitney. And tonight, you’re my submissive, and I’m your master.”
Darcy ended his speech with a proud smirk on his face, a smirk Whitney was itching to smack off his handsome face, if only she could move an inch. But with the sash tied around her, she was wound tighter than rolled ham cooked in the oven for Christmas lunch.
Damn bastard. Wait until I’m free. I’ll strangle you again, she thought.
As if Darcy could hear what Whitney was thinking and perhaps realized he wouldn’t get a second chance at this God-given opportunity, he plunged ahead by crawling to the lips of her core and inserting his finger.
“Darcy,” Whitney yelped, arching her back at the sudden intrusion, a delicious shiver robbing her of her senses again, making her close her eyes and ride the wave of passion.
“Did that feel good?” Darcy asked when he saw her close her eyes, trying to regain her breath. “All my past girlfriends said I have golden fingers. I’ll make you feel good. But tonight, I’ll make you feel better than good. I’ll take you to heaven.”
“Shut up, Darcy.” Whitney gritted her teeth, snapping her eyes open at hearing the word girlfriend and heaven. She didn’t want to hear Darcy talking about his past relationships or taking her to heaven. She was finding it hard enough to keep her senses and sanity intact.
But Darcy didn’t stop with his yapping. He whispered into her ear again. “I want to make love to you, Whitney. Just this one night. To prove I’m no submissive.”
“I don’t care if you’re a dominant or a sub—”
“Shh.” He stopped her again, this time with his finger on her lips. “Let’s go with the flow.” His soft, sensual whisper caressed her eardrum, making those dormant sensations she abandoned a long time ago float back to the surface. “I’ll take you to heaven tonight, Whitney. When was the last time you had pleasure? Tell me.”
Darcy pressed the pad of his finger on the skin of Whitney’s lips, taunting her even more with that digit in her core.
“Go on. Tell me. Don’t be shy.” He urged her on for the answer.
Again, his fingers just wouldn’t stop with the prodding, both on her lips and in her core. It was starting to piss her off big time. And turn on her big time, too.
But oh God, when was it? Three? Five? Ten years ago? When did Johnathan break up with her? He was her first and last man. Between the heartbreak, life, and trying to build up her career, she forgot all about the pleasure of the flesh.
And this pleasure far
exceeded her expectations. She didn’t know Darcy could be this good with his fingers. And she knew if she opened her mouth to reply, she’d moan. And she wouldn’t moan. Not with Darcy, her submissive PA, being responsible for this infliction upon her body.
So she only looked at him. No, glared at him to show he was in big trouble once this play was over between them.
But Darcy wasn’t the least bit intimidated. “You’re not replying. It’s unusual for you not to respond to me. Is it because—” And his finger dug deeper into her, searching for her pleasure spot, until—
“Ahh,” Whitney cried as sounds of pleasure erupted from her lips and ripples of emotion streaked across her face.
Oh God. That was… that was…
Amazing. So bloody amazing. Darcy, her submissive PA had golden fingers indeed.
She wanted to do it again. She wanted Darcy to do it again.
But no, no, it wasn’t right. She didn’t love him. This was only pleasure of the flesh. She wanted love in the equation before enjoying pleasure of the flesh. Wasn’t that why she wasn’t into one-night stands?
So once she collected her sanity, she panted, “Darcy, stop this right now. I warn you. Don’t do it anymore or I’ll bite your finger off. Try poking your finger near my mouth again and I’ll bite it off for real.”
Darcy only laughed, a deep rumple erupting from his chest.
“What the hell are you laughing at?” she snapped, angry that he was enjoying tormenting her. “Shut up and untie me. I mean it. Your childish game is now over.”
“No, Whitney. My game is only beginning. You need to learn to stop snapping at your subordinate, especially me. That was lesson number one. And now it’s lesson number two.”
Darcy smirked mischievously. And pushed farther, this time playing at the petal of her core, searching for that site that made all women squirm. And Whitney did squirm.
Darcy was pleased, so very pleased that he chanted next to her ear like a mantra, as if he wanted her to remember who was dominant tonight. “I’ll take you to heaven, Whitney. I’ll take you to heaven. Let me take you to heaven.”