Dirtiest Lie

by Cleo Peitsche

  It doesn’t matter how much I struggle; Hawthorne is much stronger than I am. Plus, he’s clearly done this before.

  The futility of my situation doesn’t stop me from trying to escape. Hawthorne doesn’t seem to mind, though; he easily maintains control of my body.

  Damn, it feels good to physically oppose him.

  He leans over, washing me in his masculine scent, to retrieve the ruler. “Open your legs,” he says.

  Eying the punishing piece of wood in his hand, I consider my options. “Why?”

  He grins, a flash of perfect white in his face, which is lightly tanned from playing tennis outdoors. “Because I told you to,” he says, and he underscores his point by slapping the ruler’s flat tip across my mound.

  It doesn’t hurt at all. In fact, it’s just a tiny bit of stimulation.

  I open my legs for him. One of the garter belt’s straps gets caught and pops open.

  “Good,” he says, and he leans over to kiss me.

  Instead of a real kiss, I receive a sharp nip. Another one of Hawthorne’s kisses, a type that I forgot to categorize. I mentally add it to the list.

  He rotates the ruler and begins tapping it against my pussy. At first it just feels good, but within thirty seconds, it hurts.

  Really hurts.

  He’s not punishing my clit. It’s my thighs that are taking the brunt of the punishment.

  “Now,” he says, tap, tap, tap, “are you going to behave?”

  “Yes,” I moan. I can’t look away from him. He’s unfairly attractive, which is one of the things about him that drives me crazy. I’m getting used to it, and how unfair that he gets to be effortlessly hot and how that lets him get away with all kinds of crap that an average-looking man would never dare try.

  Like denying women orgasms.

  The taps slow. “Turn over,” he says, only loosening his grip on my wrists by a tiny amount—just enough so that I can flip across his lap.

  Now I’m facedown again. The underwire in the bra is a bit uncomfortable. It wasn’t before.

  He tightens his grip around my wrists, and I moan.

  “You like when we physically control you, don’t you?” he murmurs.

  He slams the ruler across my buttocks so hard that for a moment, I don’t see anything, and in the next breath, what I can see—the edge of the chair, my arms stretched out, the floor, the bookcase in the corner—is blurry with tears.

  “Breathe through it,” he says. “Fill your lungs, then empty them slowly.”

  Which I do. As I inhale, I feel that his cock is completely hard against my expanded ribs. As much as I like this, he probably likes it even more.

  Apparently we’re a couple of perverts, but because he’s the one in charge, the one directing things, I decide that makes him the bigger pervert.

  Slowly, I breathe out, and Hawthorne allows me to slide onto the floor.

  “I have work to do,” he says. “Go under my desk. You’re to keep my cock in your mouth, and it stays there unless you have something to say. Something genuine.”

  “Whatever that means,” I murmur.

  He points, and I crawl under the desk. I have to keep my head bowed, and it’s dark and not exactly comfortable.

  Hawthorne rolls his chair in, and I grab his cock. There’s not much room to maneuver, but I get him into my mouth.

  I can hear the rustle of paper as Hawthorne resumes his work.

  The phone rings. Hawthorne answers it. He’s not even breathing hard, and when I start sucking his cock in earnest, it seems to have no effect on him. At least not above the desk.

  Under the desk, however, what I’m seeing suggests he’s not far from getting off. Now I’m panting as I continue sucking him.

  “Bring them in,” he says. He hangs up and scoots the chair away, leaving me with a mouthful of air. “Go unlock the door,” he tells me.

  “You do it.”

  “And you’d better be fast or you’ll be seen before you can get back under the desk.”

  We glare at each other, then I lurch to my feet and practically run for the door, then dart back.

  Hawthorne is sliding the chair back under the desk just as the door opens.

  I recognize the voice of Eliza, one of the receptionists, as she says, “I didn’t check that they’re complete.” I hear her walking, then it sounds like a folder drops onto the desk. “I think we’re still waiting on recommendations for new hiring.”

  “For Food4Life?”

  “Yes,” she says.

  That catches my attention. Before I left town, keeping tabs on Food4Life was part of my job. If there’s a problem with the files, it needs to be fixed.

  Hawthorne’s fingers find my head, and he urges me onto his erection.

  “Romeo had them,” Hawthorne says calmly, like his cock isn’t stretching my mouth open, like I can’t feel his steady pulse down my throat. “Ask Tamara to check. Before you go, take care of these documents. Slade needs to sign off on them, then you can send the lot by courier.”

  “Sure thing.”

  I hear footsteps approaching, going around the side of the desk, and my face grows hot with anxiety.

  Hawthorne, though… His shaft pulses eagerly. He leans forward, silently claims another inch, and I stifle my gag reflex.

  Eliza is gathering up the papers, which Hawthorne must have spread across the desktop. I wonder if he did it on purpose so she would be here longer. It wouldn’t be unlike him to go out of his way to make me uncomfortable.

  Because I’m very, very still on his cock, I can appreciate just how thick it is. I was hardly a virgin before meeting my bosses, so I know there’s no correlation between how big a guy is and what he’s got in his pants.

  It makes me appreciate how lucky I am.

  Hawthorne cups the back of my head and urges me deeper onto his shaft.

  I can’t deep-throat someone his size without gagging, and he knows it. Every muscle in my body is locked as I struggle not to choke.

  Hurry, I think. What the hell is taking Eliza so long?

  After an eternity, she walks away, but I don’t hear the door close.

  “That was fun,” Hawthorne says, relaxing his hold on me.

  I ease up on his cock and try to catch my breath. Finally I pull away. “We could use some privacy,” I pant, leaning out enough so that I can see his face.

  “Why? Are you ashamed of what we’re doing?” His piercing blue eyes are focused on me. Too focused.

  “No.”

  He caresses my hair. “I’ll always protect you,” he says. “You have nothing to fear. But I’ll prove it. You’re going to suck me off now, and if anyone walks in here, if anyone knows what’s happening, I’ll sign my fortune over to you,” Hawthorne says matter-of-factly. To my surprise, he stands—legs bent, his upper body braced against the desk.

  If someone walks by…

  “Do you want to orgasm?” Hawthorne asks gently.

  “Yes.”

  “Say it.”

  I lick my lips. “I want to come.”

  “Do you hate me?”

  I shake my head.

  “Look at me.” He reaches down to tip my chin up, and his rich, complex scent teases me. There’s a stillness in his eyes. “Say it again.”

  “No, Hawthorne,” I say. “I don’t hate you.” Nervous, I swallow too soon, cutting the sentence in half.

  “You’re sexy when you’re telling the truth, sexy when you’re truly naked,” he says. “Suck me while you touch yourself.” His order comes out in a quiet growl.

  Immediately I begin stroking a finger over my clit.

  But I’m also sucking him as he demanded.

  I knew he was close to coming, but I’m still surprised when my mouth and throat fill with his salty flood. A moment later, I orgasm as well, my entire body shuddering. I’m making noise, but I can’t help it.

  Hawthorne practically falls back into his chair. I watch as he tucks himself inside his pants.

  Interestin
g training, but I can’t help but be disappointed. What I wanted was to get fucked, hard.

  “Get dressed,” Hawthorne says, standing. “We’re going out.”

  He leaves the office, closing the door behind him.

  Chapter 5

  The clones glue themselves to me at the elevator. If they notice I’m wearing different clothing—the black dress and flat shoes—they keep it to themselves.

  As Hawthorne and I walk through the lobby, our entourage draws stares and whispers.

  I don’t like it any more than I did the first time it happened, on the way up to the office.

  “Where are we going?” I ask as Hawthorne ushers me into a waiting limo.

  “To do something you asked for once,” he says. One of the bodyguards gets in with me. I don’t see where the others go.

  After a moment, Hawthorne also slides in.

  The limo rolls through the city streets, toward the suburbs. As we pass a manicured golf course, I begin to suspect I know where we’re headed.

  I once asked Hawthorne to play tennis with me. At the time, he rudely turned me down.

  The limo makes its way up the wide, meandering driveway of a country club and finally comes to a stop.

  As I get out of the vehicle, a car containing the rest of my mute guardian angels pulls up behind us.

  “I hope they’re not planning on following me into the ladies’ locker room,” I grumble.

  “No ladies’ locker room,” Hawthorne says as he takes my hand and tucks it behind his elbow and over his forearm. “I have a private locker room.”

  “That’s… unusual.”

  He shrugs. “I inherited it from an uncle.”

  Yeah, like the added detail makes it less weird. But I don’t say that. I’m still happy, full of post-orgasm warmth.

  The country club isn’t very different from the ones I knew growing up. To me and Layla, they were always a bit boring, a place where old people met to do old people things. Everything is relative, I suppose.

  The private locker room includes four showers, a sauna, and a hot tub in a cheerful room with frosted windows that provide privacy while letting in the light. There are six lockers, three of which are closed. Hawthorne swings open the door of one that wasn’t even shut all the way.

  “These should fit you,” he says, handing me a stack of clothes. They’ve been laundered, but I suspect they’re actually new.

  He takes out another stack of clothing and begins to change.

  I’ve never seen Hawthorne undress before, and I feel a bit like I’m watching a warrior remove his armor.

  At first I’m just curious, but by the time he strips down to his boxers, I’m aroused by his perfect masculine body. I repress a sigh while I wait for him to take off the rest…

  “Is there a problem with those?” he asks, glancing at the clothes.

  I pick up the skirt. “Nope.” I’m pleased to see that in addition to the white tennis skirt and pink shirt, there’s also a sports bra and underwear and quality athletic socks.

  The clothes fit perfectly. Even the sneakers he hands me are comfortable.

  I sweep my hair back into a ponytail. “Ready.”

  Hawthorne is wearing a white shirt and dark shorts. Now that I see him dressed like this, I realize from the development of his muscles that he must play quite seriously.

  My mother got me hooked on tennis, and we bonded over it. I had childish hopes of going pro, and while I was never going to win international tournaments, I could have made a minor career of it. After my parents’ death, my grandfather allowed me to continue working with my coach, but I haven’t stepped onto a court since leaving home.

  Clearly I’m going to lose today, and I don’t know how I feel about that.

  Hawthorne unlocks one of the lockers and takes out a tennis racket. “You can borrow any of mine or pick one out from the shop,” he says. “Your choice.”

  “Let me see?”

  He swings the door wider. He’s got six more in there. I wonder if the other locked doors are hiding similar numbers of rackets.

  Planning to handle them each in turn, I choose one at random. The logo on the racket’s throat takes me by surprise. Icarus. They’re not common, but it’s the only kind my mother ever bought for herself.

  The thought makes my chest suddenly feel heavy. Not like I’m about to cry, but because I just miss her. Because even though I’m grateful to Hawthorne for setting this up, for being so thoughtful, I would give anything, anything, if she were here with me instead.

  “This one,” I say, squeezing the words past the sudden lump in my throat.

  “Excellent choice.” He looks away too quickly, affording me a moment of privacy.

  It saves me the effort of having to deny everything.

  “I’m going to be rusty,” I say as I follow Hawthorne out a back entrance. I can smell chlorine, proof that there’s a pool somewhere in the building. It’s either very far away, or the front entrance and locker rooms are carefully ventilated.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Hawthorne says. “We’re playing doubles.”

  We’re walking down a lovely, tree-lined path. It ends, showing a spread of pristine tennis courts, all of which are occupied.

  But two of the players I recognize.

  Romeo’s size immediately pulls my eye. He and Slade are discussing something and are standing close to each other even though they’re on opposite sides of the net.

  They’re dressed to play. They’re holding rackets. Tennis balls bulge in the pockets of Slade’s shorts.

  But if I could magically erase the tennis courts and rackets, and if I could paint suits over their athletic bodies, they could be in the office. Everyone else on the courts is playing. Playing hard.

  But my bosses? They might as well be at work.

  I wonder if it’s even safe for Romeo to play tennis. With his thick muscles, he’s far better suited for a rugby pitch.

  They’re so engrossed in their conversation that they don’t even notice us.

  “Watch this,” Hawthorne murmurs. He takes a tennis ball from his pocket and swats it with the racket.

  It slams into the net, inches from where Romeo and Slade are standing.

  Without missing a beat, Slade bends and picks it up, and I get an uneasy feeling. I’m used to seeing my bosses in work mode, but usually not quite… like this. Like the rest of the world could fall apart and they wouldn’t notice unless it screwed up a business deal.

  Especially Slade. He’s never so oblivious.

  Both men turn as we get near. Romeo smiles when he sees me. “How was your morning?”

  “Interesting,” I say.

  “No breakthroughs?” Slade asks cheerily. His hazel eyes, mischievous as always, don’t seem to miss a thing. While Hawthorne has the build for tennis, Slade has the look, the aristocratic features and bearing.

  “If by ‘breakthrough’ you mean Hawthorne’s ruler breaking through the skin on my ass,” I say, “then yes.”

  Romeo shoots Hawthorne a look. He returns it steadily, and I watch him grow irritated. “Do you really think I’d break her skin?” he asks.

  “Are we ready to play?” Slade asks, bouncing the ball on the edge of his racket.

  “Just two sets for me,” Romeo says. “I need to make a call later, but I’ll have one of the trainers jump in until I get back.”

  “Romeo—” Hawthorne starts to say.

  “It’s important,” Romeo says. An understanding seems to pass between the men. I wonder if it has something to do with me, with my situation. I hope not. Whatever is going on is most assuredly not good news.

  “Get off my side of the court,” Hawthorne says to Slade.

  “Good luck,” Slade says to me in a conspiratorial tone. He pushes down on the net and steps over it, then shakes his dark hair out of his eyes.

  “She doesn’t need luck,” Hawthorne says. “She’s on my team.”

  “Exactly my point,” Slade says.

  C
hapter 6

  It turns out that Hawthorne is correct.

  Slade is a decent player. He doesn’t make much of an effort, but he knows what he’s doing, and once he identifies that my footwork is… clumsy, he becomes even lazier.

  He’s the kind of player who would have driven my coach crazy. Talented but unmotivated. And he certainly doesn’t take the game seriously.

  Romeo surprises me. It’s not the first time that his agility catches me off guard.

  I’m starting to think that the bison thing is an attempt at fooling his opponents. When I think of a bison, I think of a slow, lumbering animal. Romeo is built like one, with his massive shoulders and his thick, dark hair, though his leg muscles are developed, which balances him.

  There’s nothing clumsy about Romeo.

  Watching my bosses play really turns me on. Of course they’re attractive, fit men, and their athleticism is mesmerizing, but it’s more than that.

  Tennis used to be my life. To be with them on the court, to see how talented they are at a skill that means something to me… It’s hard to explain how and why I should be so affected.

  And Hawthorne…

  Slade’s cryptic Exactly my point soon makes sense. Hawthorne takes the game seriously, and even though he doesn’t yell at me, I suspect that if I were someone else, another man, perhaps, he’d be cursing up a storm.

  He’s a different person when he plays. It’s like all the smoldering frustrations and disappointments that give him his aloof reputation get worked out on the court.

  So even though I’m no longer nimble, and even though my serves are particularly embarrassing, Hawthorne and I are able to hold our own, even if just barely.

  The number of times Hawthorne nearly bowls me over to hit a down-the-middle volley… I lose count. He’s a greedy player, intent on winning. I’m not sure if that surprises me or not. On one hand, I know better than anyone how much he dislikes having his authority challenged. On the other hand, it’s a little shocking to see his competitiveness laid bare.

  To shamelessly desire something is to expose oneself to the possibility of denial and heartbreak. It makes him vulnerable.