Demanding Boss

by Celia Crown

  I want to be more than Emmy’s lover. I want to be her support system and shield her from a fucking arrow.

  What a bizarre night.

  “What happens if you run out of frozen meals?” I dread the answer as she smiles casually.

  What the hell makes her feel so proud?

  “Don’t underestimate my ability to sleep. Hunger means nothing when I can pass out in minutes and sleep like the dead.”

  Sleep like the dead, huh.

  Interesting information I can use later for an illegal idea that just planted itself in my head.

  “How deep?” I ask, intrigued as I drop the wet vegetables onto the cutting board.

  “I slept through the fire alarm at my old place,” she says with a chuckle.

  The knife slices through the vegetables, slamming against the cutting board as I glare at her.

  It was irresponsible of her and stupidly dangerous.

  She laughs as if having an assault weapon fly through her hair didn’t just happen.

  She protests, “In my defense—”

  “You have no excuse for that,” I scold as I resume cutting the vegetables.

  I’m angry, and I have a right to be after hearing that my little girl was in danger in her own home.

  “In my defense,” she gripes adorably. “It was a false alarm. Some kid pulled it as a joke.”

  “If it were real?” I contest.

  “Eh,” she awkwardly croaks. “I wouldn’t have you as my boss, Mr. Vasari.”

  “Don’t call me that.” I pour water into the kettle along with the ingredients to make a one-pot meal.

  “In the privacy of my home, you will call me by my name.”

  She scratches her damp hair from taking a shower. My clothes mock me as they touch her in a way that I desperately want to. She’s graceless in the oversized clothing, but the appeal of my looming ownership of her overcomes the image.

  I made her shower before I allowed her to explore my home. I didn’t want shards of glass to fall on the floor with the risk to her bare feet.

  I didn’t plan this far ahead to have clothes that would fit her in my home. But maybe I had hoped that something like this would happen.

  She can walk around naked if she is comfortable with it, but I prefer that she doesn’t. The frayed control I have over my corrupt debauchery is getting thin.

  If I see a patch of skin that shouldn’t be exposed, I swear I will bite her there.

  “Mr. Vasari,” Emmy says unknowingly.

  “Just ‘Vasari,’” I correct her patiently.

  “But—”

  “My home, my rules.” I insist.

  I put the lid on the pot and set the stove on high to bring it to a boil. Then I will need to put it on medium heat; timing is everything for this dish.

  Emmy is such a beautiful distraction that I will not be surprised if I fail.

  “Say it, little girl,” I purr.

  Defiance shows in her eyes as she narrows them. “Mr. Vasari.”

  “Disobedience will only get you in trouble,” I threaten as I step around the counter.

  She leans away from me as skepticism mars her delicate features. I cup her chin, stroking the fragile bone with deliberate pressure.

  The bruises are gone.

  What a shame.

  I’ll make more. After all, Emmy is incredibly gorgeous when my marks are on her skin.

  She will be radiant when her freshly defiled little hole is dripping with my thick cum after I have fucked her on my fat cock.

  I tip her head to the side before I get too distracted by my fantasy. Her eyes dart around the room, landing on the mounted telescope aimed at the starry sky.

  I bought that for her. It is a state-of-the-art piece of equipment that can reveal things at a great distance.

  “It can take pictures,” I tease, and she’s hooked within seconds.

  She looks pitiful as she snaps her head back to me and chokes, big eyes pleading in desperation.

  “Vasari,” she yelps delightfully.

  Excitement exudes from her as her quivering pink lips smile. Her eagerness is overflowing as I bask in her begging.

  “Please,” she whines. “I won’t touch it. Can I just look through it?”

  “You can tie my hands if you don’t trust me,” she offers naively, unaware of how her offer affects me.

  It’s tempting, but it shouldn't be. I pride myself on having control over my emotions. But Emmy’s existence in my life has created a path straight to my heart.

  “It’s yours to use,” I permit with a sly quirk of my lips.

  Her squeal of happiness accelerates as she lunges across the room. Her little fingers wiggle over the telescope as her head jerks towards me with a pleading gaze.

  I nod; I’ve never seen her happier.

  This purchase was worth the money.

  I leave her playing with the telescope while I check on the simmering food. It’s coming along, but it won’t be ready for another twenty minutes.

  She focuses on peering through the lens as faint noises of awe flow from her. It’s a full moon tonight, and the stars are easily visible.

  “What made you interested in photography?”

  Her shoulders give a startled jerk, and her back straightens as she faces me.

  Emmy hums in thought. “I don’t know, honestly. It brings me peace, but I get excited when I capture the moment in a frame.”

  I understand the feeling. Books are my escape, and the last thing I read at night tends to influence my dreams.

  “I like taking pictures of nature,” she says sweetly. “It’s a magical moment when I don’t have to worry about anything.”

  We don’t have a Central Park like the one in Manhattan. The closest thing to a wooded area is miles away from here.

  I hate knowing Emmy frequents that place by herself, even she goes when it is light outside. If someone snatched her in that wooded area, it would be more difficult to find her than being abducted on a busy street.

  It’s not healthy for me to dwell on negative thoughts.

  She won’t return to that place without my permission and having my eyes on her.

  I decide to ask, “Do you?”

  “Hmm?” The curious tilt of her head lets stray hair slip to her shoulders.

  I take this opportunity to learn more about her. Being too assertive will scare her away and being too subtle might make her miss my intention.

  “Do you want to stop worrying about things?” I step closer to get a whiff of her sweetness.

  She scoffs spiritedly. “Tell that to my landlord.”

  “Are you not satisfied with your pay?”

  I meticulously calculated the perfect amount to give her that would cover her rent and let her live above her means. But I didn’t want it to be so apparent that her principles would force her to return the bonus pay.

  Emmy shakes her head as a grateful smile appears on her lips. “No, no, I’m pleased. It helps with the medical bills. Mom’s getting a new treatment that is very expensive. But the bonus pay covers the principal cost.”

  “What happened?” I ask with questionable compassion.

  I don’t care about her mother. But I also know it will set off alarms in her head if I don’t express sympathy while talking about an injured woman.

  “A stroke,” she whispers with difficulty. “Then, a coma.”

  Emmy twists her fingers in the silence, emotion running across her face. She is struggling with an internal conflict.

  She makes a foolish choice. “I have to go to her; I don’t want her to be lonely at the hospital.”

  I counter apathetically, “Have you forgotten getting shot at with an arrow?”

  Faking compassion that I don’t feel is exasperating and bothersome. Luckily, she’s taken aback by the reminder of the incident.

  “I can’t change my life just because some prankster decided to practice archery,” she reasons unwaveringly.

  “If it’s not a prankster?�
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  “Life goes on?” she says with a grimace.

  Even she’s not confident in her choice. That is why I want to make her decisions. I will choose what’s best with her safety in mind. And I will be objective without those pesky emotional ties.

  One could argue that I would be biased in my decisions because I would be making them for her.

  I raise a hand to touch her neck gently. “It does, but I can make it better.”

  “How?” she exclaims.

  I have just grasped a weakness of hers, one with a solution I can’t pass up.

  “Be a good girl and stay here; I will take care of your mother’s health.”

  “What?” She gasps, visibly upset.

  Her neck tenses and I apply concentrated pressure to keep her still. The corner of her eye twitches and fear shows in the reddened rims.

  I explain briefly, “She will have around-the-clock help, all medical bills will be paid, and she will have specialized doctors managing her case.”

  Money is not an issue. I earn over seven figures annually from each nightclub, and I own several of them in different locations.

  “What do you get of out this?” she says with frantic hands.

  “You,” I hiss. “I get you.”

  “Want” is the belief that she has the choice to decline my generous offer. I’m not keen on leaving room for things to slip through my fingers if I want them badly enough.

  She’s the reason I bought the under-performing club from that sleazy bastard and turned it into one of the hottest clubs with my high standards.

  She tests uneasily, “What happens if I say ‘no’?”

  I knead the back of her tight neck, working the implied threat into her muscles and imprinting it on her fragile bones. Her breathing is shallow as chills wrack her small body.

  The consequences of the power imbalance between us are beginning to take effect.

  “What do you think I would do to you?” I question as I lean in to feel her shallow breaths.

  “I don’t know,” she abruptly admits.

  She doesn’t know, but her body has a strong sense of what it could be.

  “We’re going to keep it that way,” I reckon for her sake and my sanity.

  It isn’t the first time I have used extreme measures to take possession of something I want.

  I would feel no remorse for saddling Emmy with medical bills and pressuring the hospital to lower her mother’s care standards.

  I’d make her life so miserable that she comes crawling back to me, in tears, and destroyed by regret for making the wrong choice.

  “Good girl,” I praise, content with our agreement.

  I bring my lips to her cold cheek. She squirms against my grip on her neck, and her shuddering puts an evil smile on my face.

  “Be good for me, and you won’t have to worry about getting in trouble,” I tut with a heartless chuckle.

  A broken sound escapes her throat as she sobs drily. “Okay.”

  Truthfully, I wouldn’t bother her mother.

  There are more effective ways to get her to do what I want without risking her hatred if her mother became collateral damage.

  I have no desire to mess with the comatose woman. I’m a bad man, but I don’t need to stoop that low.

  Unless she doesn’t give me a choice, then everything will be fair game.

  “Dinner’s ready. You can sleep later.”

  She shakes her head. “My mom—”

  Her jittery nerves fueled by uncertainty; I want to soothe her now. Her shoulders drop, and tension eases out of her muscles when I trace a pattern on her supple skin.

  “Is safe,” I inject calmly, for now.

  Emmy smiles shakily. “Thank you.”

  I fail to see why she is thanking me.

  Chapter Five

  Emmy

  The luxurious bed allows me to sleep better than my own does. No one can convince me otherwise.

  I would be more comfortable in my bed with the smell of my shampoo and a faint trace of laundry detergent. However, nothing can beat the Egyptian silk sheets with Valeri’s rich scent surrounding me like a smothering embrace.

  I keep burying my nose in his pillows.

  It might be the bed that gave me a fantastic night’s sleep instead of the expensive sheets.

  Either way, I wake up satisfied, and the sleepy haze soothes the soft rustling nearby.

  I pop my head out from under the comforter and crack an eye open.

  Did I awaken in the middle of a fantasy?

  Thick grooved muscles, strong lines tapering to his rippling abs, and the amalgamation of black ink on his massive frame create an intimidating presence.

  He turns with shadowed gray eyes and a disinterested air.

  Vasari removes a white button-down shirt from his spacious walk-in closet. He dresses with practiced ease as he slips his thick arms into the sleeves.

  A shudder freezes my limbs under the warm comforter. Like a deer in the headlights, I hold my breath with renewed fear.

  The thought unsettles me, but not as much as it did a few days ago.

  His aggressive stride threatens my sense of safety, and the thought of him makes me fear the danger he represents.

  He can and will hurt me if I stay here and be his good girl. It’s a condition of the deal we made, not an offer I have the right to decline.

  He made it clear that refusing his proposal would be a grave mistake.

  His cruel perversion shackles my heart, and I don’t want to fight his ravenous attention. I want to drown in greed and keep him for myself. Whether it’s an overnight change or a subtle revelation over time, it is all the same to me.

  I want him, and I know I shouldn’t.

  Deep down, he’s not a good man. He proved that when he gave me the ultimatum.

  Nonetheless, my traitorous heart is naïve, and I’m too weak to see past the red flags.

  It’s unwise to chalk it up to his overbearing demeanor. But my intuition and perception disappeared the day I met him.

  He had me wrapped around his big fingers from the beginning. I just didn’t know it.

  Now I do, and I choose not to fight his immoral fixation on me.

  He could have a beautiful and sophisticated woman. My mind is a train-wreck more often than not, and I don’t know how to present myself in his elegant world.

  We’re not in the same league; I stand out like an ugly duckling in his elite universe.

  I have lacked confidence since the day my father left us.

  My parents didn’t have a big blowout. He just up and left one day and hasn’t returned in over ten years.

  He is a respected man with a successful business now. Maybe his departure is the reason I am uncomfortable around powerful men.

  Particularly Vasari.

  I stupidly fear that he might leave me.

  I don’t even know where we stand. The changes in our relationship are happening too fast. He is still my boss; everything else is up in the air.

  “What’s that look?” his voice asks, startling me.

  His big hand reaches into my hair and absentmindedly drags his fingers down to my neck. His heady scent fills my sinuses as he holds my neck, a looming reminder of his guiding hand.

  He controls me financially, emotionally, and physically.

  Why can’t I fight this satisfaction swirling in my gut?

  Do I like being controlled? What kind of nonsense is this?

  He doesn’t wait for an answer when he says, “I made breakfast for you.”

  I lean back on my elbows, but his hand stays firmly on the junction of my neck and shoulder. The pulse under his stroking finger skips a beat as I glance at the collar of his unbuttoned shirt.

  His muscles swell enticingly, and the ink emphasizes the grooves.

  His finger rests over my pulse, slowly nudging the thin skin. I shudder involuntarily.

  “Thank you,” I whisper obligingly. “And, good morning.”

  He smiles
with empty eyes until delight skates through the stormy grayness. It’s a delayed reaction. It should tell me something about his inability to experience common emotions.

  I wonder how messed up I am to be fond of someone dangerous like Vasari. He exudes corruption.

  “I can’t have breakfast with you,” he says as he drags his hand down to my shoulder and around my arm to sit me up on the bed.

  “I have some business to attend to,” he finishes.

  I croak, “Is it the club?”

  He runs his nail down my arm and slips his fingers between mine, rubbing the tiny scabs on my knuckles.

  “No one is working until after I have the place renovated,” he says with an odd surge of anger in his voice.

  Speaking of that, I should be the angry one. I had an arrow sailing through my hair, and the police were so unconcerned about it.

  Vasari said I shouldn’t hold out hope that they’ll do their job because they have been like this since he bought the club.

  “I don’t want you to worry about it,” he reiterates. “I will take care of you.”

  “How?”

  I need answers.

  His declaration that I am his possession kept me up all night. After the adrenaline wore off, exhaustion finally made me sleep.

  “It’s best if you don’t know,” he says distantly.

  “It’s my life—”

  His fingers coil viciously around my hand as cruelty flares in his glaring eyes. The pain in my fingers forces my hand to yield to his.

  “It’s mine, little girl,” he reckons bitterly. “Everything of yours is mine.”

  A fuse ignites in my mind as Vasari coldly sneers at me. I feel demoralized that he is selfishly disregarding my feelings, and the pain in my hand results in pathetic whimpering.

  “Don’t make me regret playing nice with you,” he notes in a stern voice.

  I nod silently, too frightened to protest.

  He accepts my obedience as he nods at me.

  “After breakfast, you can make yourself at home.” He releases his crushing grip on my fingers to cradle my cold cheek.

  “Stay in the house,” he warns lightly, silently warning me of the consequences by harshly pinching my cheek.

  I nod again with wide eyes. My cheek burns, but I don’t dare blink as he looms over me. I am fully awake now, fending for myself against this inked monstrosity.