by Tasha Fawkes
I rise and step to the sink and stare at myself in the mirror. A mess of tousled black hair and haunted brown eyes stare back at me. My pale complexion looks even more drained of color than usual, and for some reason my lipstick is smeared.
I rearrange my appearance as best I can. There’s no hope for the rental dress, which I realize now I’m going to have to pay for in full. Shit. I pull the clip from my up-do and shake my hair out, then use the clip to secure my ruined dress in place. Nice, I grimace. The top of my bra is still visible, but this is the best I can do until I could manage to escape downstairs to the coat check. I push my way out of the restroom to find Stewart waiting for me in the hallway.
“Stewart!” I glance around, but Daniel is nowhere in sight. I don’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed by the fact. “Where is Daniel… Mister Stone?”
“He’s waiting for you in your office. He wants to speak to you… alone.” Stewart looks put-out. Did Daniel say something to him? Then again, Stewart is the last person I need to be worrying about right now.
Daniel Stone wants to see me? Alone? In my office? Oh God.
“Stewart, I need you to go.”
Stewart looks ready to protest, until his eyes drops to the fists slowly clenching at my sides. The reality of the situation finally seems to cut through the fog of inebriation he’s been swimming in.
“… all right, Ash.”
“Call a cab,” I say. “I’ll text you tomorrow. Let’s both just hope I still have a job.”
He opens his mouth to say something, and by the look on his face, to apologize for being the cause of this fiasco. I don't care. I shoulder by him and walk slowly toward my office, faltering more and more with each step.
Daniel Stone is waiting for me. In my office. I’m about to be severely reprimanded, I’m sure, if not fired. What must he think of me?
At the thought of Daniel alone in my office, I stop. My hand flies to my mouth. Before Stewart carried me out the door, I left my computer open. I left my manuscript document open.
Oh, shit.
Chapter 4
Daniel
I wait for Ashley Shiels in her office.
The accommodations are small but serviceable. Of the three desks in the room, Ashley's desk has no personal touches. No photos, no knick-knacks, no silly mouse pads. Desktop neatly centered on her desk, its screen dark. Near one side, a laptop open. I take it all in, looking for some indication of the woman’s personality, but find little evidence to lead me to a satisfying conclusion. She keeps her personal life personal, her space tidy and impersonal. An enigma, especially after what I'd just seen in the hallway.
Ashley Shiels. She’s a fixture at Pen and Quill, as dependable professionally as she is beautiful. I have tried on several occasions to speak with her after I’ve exited my office and made my way down the hallway from my large office, but some business matter inevitably called her away. I always thought her restrained, maybe even a little uptight, but that might just be a symptom of my own presence. Most of my employees don’t know how to act around me. I consider Elektra the only exception.
Nothing about Ashley was restrained just moments ago. I’ve barely devoted a single thought to the man that was with her since finding them both sprawled on the floor. It looked like a drunken accident, nothing more illicit than that.
But I could easily make it more illicit. I can't stop thinking about her breasts: those pert, porcelain mounds, with nothing covering them but a pair of arms and an inexpensive bra that looked as easy to tear off her as the dress she wore. I can’t stop reliving the moment I saw her standing there bared before me. It was all I could do to keep from snatching her by the wrists and pulling her arms apart, the man on the floor be damned.
How dare she hide herself from me? I felt the Dom in me rising, and I’ve fought to tamp it down before she meets me in her office, which I know she will.
I do what I usually do in these instances, when work interferes with the pursuit of pleasure: I distract myself. There isn't much to look at here, but Ashley's laptop is open; the green light flashing rhythmically on the side. I tap the space bar and the screen lights up. I pull it toward me without much interest. Maybe I should feel guilty for invading my employee's privacy, but I doubt that a cursory glance at what she’s working on—on her night off to attend the Christmas party, for that matter—will do much harm. I've already seen more of her than she was probably expecting to reveal to me.
A manuscript. I gaze at the familiar formatting. She’s working on her own manuscript. Most everyone around here is secretly working on one, no surprise there. Still, I didn’t expected Ashley to have a book in progress. What else is my scintillating little editorial assistant hiding from me?
"Fuck me," she begged. "Please. Any way you want me. I can't stand this torture any longer."
I lift an eyebrow. Well then.
"You've ruined your stockings," her lover purred as he swept the dark chocolate cascade of hair back from her shoulders. "You're so wet, you're positively dripping. Does my own particular brand of punishment turn you on so much?"
My cock stirs and offers an aggressive twitch at the word punishment. "Just what have you been writing, Ashley?" I murmur as I scroll down the page. I'm an adept speed-reader—I have to be in my line of work—but I want to take my time processing this latest revelation. Evidently, Ashley spends her spare time writing smut, and as for her predilections…
"Maybe you forgot who's boss around here," he growled as he flipped her over and shoved her back against her desk. Her pencil holder toppled and spilled its contents onto the floor, but she couldn't have put a halt to the proceedings now if she wanted to… and like hell she did want to. She let her supervisor thrust himself between her legs. She rocked her hips back against the edge of her desk. His honey-blond hair fell forward over savage green eyes, brimming with hunger for…
"Stewart! Where is Daniel… Mister Stone?"
I hear her alarmed voice coming from just outside in the hallway. It’s all I can do to tear my eyes away from the screen and the torrid scene unfolding in my mind—courtesy of Ashley's sizzling-hot words. I have maybe seconds to act before she joins me.
And I do. I tab open Ashley's e-mail, attach the manuscript to my address, and hit Send. Then I close out of the window and shut the laptop, giving it a little nudge with my hand to arrange it the way I found it. There's nothing that can be done about my throbbing erection tucked against my thigh.
I watch the door, making a deal with myself as I wait for her to enter. It's something I'm used to doing, but this time the deal is unusually sweet. If Ashley Shiels walks in here with the front of her dress torn, I intend to do something about it. Something that is decidedly not chivalrous.
She pushes the door open, and I'm disappointed, though not surprised. I knew she was smart enough to engineer a quick fix, and she's managed to salvage the shredded fabric and make herself halfway presentable again in the process.
Pity.
"Miss Shiels." I keep my voice low, though I'm already certain of our privacy. I motion toward the door, and she nods, closing it quietly behind her.
“I…” she begins. Her eyes flicker to her laptop. I see a look of puzzlement. She probably remembers leaving her laptop open, but I allow her to second-guess her own memory.
“Please.” I indicate the chair sitting catty-corner to her desk. She sits without a word. I need her to see me as her superior, now more than ever. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right.” I try to establish eye contact, but it’s difficult when she's obviously determined to look everywhere but directly at me.
“Yes. I’m all right… thank you for asking, Mister Stone.”
Her cheeks flush a deep, fetching rose, and I imagine she’s reliving the moment. I hoped she would. A part of me hopes the way I'm looked at her registered.
“Please. Call me Daniel.”
“I don’t know what you must think of me,” she stutters. "But I’m not… I wasn’
t…”
“That man. Is he your boyfriend?”
“No.”
The refutation is so immediate and flatly spoken that I can’t help snorting with laughter. Her dark lashes sweep against her cheeks as her gaze falls to her lap, and her blush deepens. I've known women who flush all the way down to the tops of their breasts. Is Ashley one of them? Unfortunately, her ingenuity with the dress prevents me from finding out.
"Was he harassing you?"
"He's… no. Stewart's a friend," Ashley replies. "He had a little too much to drink. That's all."
"Then it's a good thing I called a cab for him."
She nods gratefully, the buoyant raven waves of her hair bouncing against her cheeks. There's a thought itching at the back of my mind, but I'll have to wait until I'm home—with her manuscript in my hand—to explore it further.
Just where do you find your inspiration, Ashley?
"I know you have a lot on your plate right now," I continue. "I wanted to take this moment to personally thank you for your work on the Christmas party. I knew we were in good hands when Elektra said she delegated to you."
"It's… it was nothing." She shakes her head, but perks up a little. "Did you get a chance to go to the party?"
"I don't usually enjoy these things."
"Oh."
"Not usually," I emphasize before she has a chance to be disappointed. I want that blush back. I want more than that. I rise from behind her desk, and she quickly pushes out from her chair to follow my lead—like an indentured servant who follows the Master's lead. "But tonight has been… illuminating. You're a hard worker, Miss Shiels."
"Thank you, Mister Stone… Daniel." She struggles with my first name now, but not, I noticed, in front of the drunken 'friend' she left back in the hallway.
"Is there anything else I can assist you with this evening?"
"Not this evening, no. But I'm glad you asked." I move around the desk to stand closer to her. She doesn’t shrink from me—which is a welcome relief from my conversations with some of the other editorial assistants this evening—but I entertain the idea that she feels the heat radiating between us all the same. I'm still hard, but her eyes never so much as glance away from my face. Good. "I might have a special job for you. Nothing that will interfere with your work assisting Elektra… but we don't need to discuss it tonight."
I let my eyes drop, allowing her to feel the full weight of my gaze trained on those already-heavy breasts of hers. I betray nothing: no disproval, no lasciviousness. I want her to recall this moment and wonder at its meaning when she lies alone tonight.
"Come by my office first thing Monday morning, and we'll discuss the details," I say. "Good night, Miss Shiels."
"Good night, Daniel."
She backs out of my way to allow me to pass, and it's all I can do to not crowd her into the deeper shadows of her office and ask her to give me a hand with the aroused state for which she is wholly responsible. Something tells me that Ashley would prefer it if I didn't ask.
I nod, hold her eyes a moment longer, then slip past her and let myself out the door. I contemplate all the ways I'm going to get Ashley Shiels out of my system on the long elevator ride down to the parking garage.
Monday can't come soon enough. In the meantime, I've got a book to read.
Chapter 5
Ashley
I walk into work Monday morning with every expectation of being fired.
I'm going to go about it gracefully, I've decided. I spent all weekend working out how my departure will go. Tory will cry into my commemorative Disney mug that I will graciously gift her, and Elektra will look on with disapproval as I gather my sparse belongings up in the cardboard box that I will soon be living out of.
Oh, shit. I forgot the box in my car.
I keep walking, although I can't help slowing my pace as I near my office. I can't help remembering how I found Daniel there the night of the Christmas party. I am absolutely positive that I left my laptop open when Stewart carried me out of the room—and I'm positive that Daniel must have seen my manuscript. Just thinking about that cool gaze of his reading over my hot, illicit fantasies is enough to confirm what I already suspect: by the end of today, I'm going to be out of a job. The fiasco with Stewart might have been forgivable as an accident, but there's nothing accidental about what I wrote in my novel. He's got to think by now that I'm some kind of sexual deviant, and worst of all, there's the chance he recognized some of his own traits, purloined and penned into the character of my male lead.
But I'm still kidding myself. It isn't just 'some' of Daniels' characteristics I used to inform my novel's hero; it’s all of them.
I drop my purse onto my desk, hang my coat on the back of my chair, and look around desperately for something that might occupy my attention. I'm early to work; there were no other cars in the garage.
Daniel doesn't always park his Rolls Royce in the company garage. When I asked the valet posted up at the front entrance of the building if Mister Stone was already in, he answered: "Oh, yes. Mister Stone has been here for an hour at least already."
I'm so fucked.
I take a moment alone in my office to straighten my blouse and smooth my skirt. I compose myself to the best of my ability. I even dig around in my purse for my compact, only to discover the screen lit up on my phone. I glance at it and see a series of text messages from Stewart.
Stewart: Hey, babe. Everything okay?
Stewart: I didn't hear from you all weekend. Figured you were still pissed about the dress.
Stewart: If you need help paying for the damage, you know I'll be good for it in about a month or so.
Stewart: I still want to talk about us. Call me when you can. ;)
No apology about what happened, but I didn’t really expect one. Still, it would be nice if Stewart realizes on his own that my latest radio silence is, and has never been, about the dress. I’m still furious with him for showing up drunk to an event that he knew was important to me. Not only that—I didn't even invite him to begin with! He must have heard about it from Tory.
Well, at least there are no more potentially embarrassing work parties in my future. That's about the only silver lining to all this that I can come up with.
I finally square my shoulders and venture down the hallway to Daniel's office. I knock on the door. I hear a faint 'come in' and enter.
"Shut the door behind you please, and sit down." He gestures to the plush leather chair in front of his massive desk.
I do as he asks. No sooner than I sit down than he gets down to business, but the business he begins to discuss is not what I imagined.
“Your characters are relatable. There's almost something familiar about them."
His words raise every hair on my body. Confirmation. He read my manuscript. My mouth feels dry. My heart pounds violently. Any moment now the other shoe is going to drop. Any moment now. "Yes, well," I stammer. "I try to write characters as if they’re people, since it's people who will be reading and relating to my characters."
I cringe. If this is my elevator pitch, it's already off the cables. I try to summon the right words and start over. "I especially think it's important to make them relatable… or as you put it, familiar… considering… well. Considering."
"Especially considering the subject matter," Daniel offers.
I nod in agreement. What can I say?
"I don't need to tell you that bondage fiction is a niche, Miss Shiels. A very profitable niche, especially for a writer with your talent."
A blush warms my cheeks. I look up at him as he rises from his desk and crosses to look out his floor-to-ceiling window. Of all the words he could have used to describe me, 'talented' is the last one I expected.
"… but it's a niche that suffers from a lack of accessibility," he continues. "I find your manuscript very accessible."
"Thank you." I want to ask him if he's finished reading it all the way through, but I hold my tongue. "I… that means a lot coming from
you."
"I know."
He turns from the window to look me directly in the eyes once more. I force myself to hold his gaze.
"Miss Shiels, I didn't invite you up to my office to compliment you. I want Pen and Quill to publish your book."
My jaw drops. I pull myself together and curtail my emotions. Oh, but it’s so hard. He wants to publish my book? How—he leans against the window and crosses his arms over his chest, studying my reaction with just the hint of a smile.
"Is that a 'yes'?"
I nod.
"You know you aren't beholden to what I want just because I'm the CEO. You may work for me, but what you write is yours and yours alone. All I'm offering you is a platform and the opportunity to publish with the biggest independent company in the country."
"And would you advise me to turn down that opportunity?" I ask him, recovering with admirable confidence, if I do say so myself.
"There's more to my terms. I want to personally represent you."
My heart skips a beat. "But if… say my book is a success." Just thinking it is was exhilarating, let alone saying it out loud. "Say I decide to become an author full-time. You'll lose an editorial assistant."
"I'll lose a damn good one," he agrees. "But hopefully I'll have gained a client. One eager to continue repeating her successes."
"If my book is a success."
"I don't think you understand what you're sitting on, Miss Shiels."
He pushes himself away from the window and walks behind my chair. I try to follow him with my eyes, but wind up facing forward as he pauses directly behind my chair. His hands come to a rest on my shoulders, so close the knuckles of each thumb brush against the skin of my neck. I barely quell an excited shudder.
Is he trying to seduce me? That's what my intrepid heroine would ask, but I can't bring myself to form the question.