by Shandi Boyes
I shake my head. “They are my only pair.” When I saw them into the bottom of my lingerie drawer, I packed them specifically for him. I assumed this type of response would have been instigated after I was freed from the restraints of Global Ten Media, not before.
Not giving me the chance to explain they are his to do with as he pleases, Marcus rocks his hips forward, dragging his engorged knob through my drenched pussy. I mew when the rim of his cock glides over my sensitive clit. Because of my half-seated position, I can see every precise move he makes as he lubes himself with the juices of my climax, hoping it will lessen any friction.
The sexually gratifying visual is interrupted when Marcus fists my hair and yanks my head back. His beaming-with-dominance eyes arrested on me, he sheaths me one glorious inch at a time. The sensation is amazing—unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Not just because his cock is filling every inch of my aching-with-desire pussy, but because he is staring straight at me while doing it, soundlessly advising that the usual D/s rules don’t apply to us. We are not in his playroom; we do not have a signed contract, yet he is still commanding every morsel of me. He truly is a Master—the very best I’ve seen.
He pumps his magnificent cock in and out of me, over and over again. His rough yanks on my hair add to the sweeping sensation rolling across my stomach. It builds to a point every muscle in my body is taut, preparing for imminent release.
“Do you think I would share this?” Marcus grunts between pumps.
I watch a bead of sweat slide down his delicious mocha skin as I shake my head. My response pleases him, sending our leisurely office romp to a mind-hazing fuck. I curl my arms around his suit-covered shoulders as I meet him grind for grind. Knowing he was in such a frenzy to fuck me that we are both still fully clothed heightens the excitement activating every nerve ending in my body. Nothing but the two most intimate parts of our bodies are exposed as he drives me wild with desire. Just the thought of being craved so much makes a reckless wildness scorch my veins. I shudder violently as the first sparks of an orgasm catapult into me.
“I’m close,” I warn, my voice bearing the immense tingling sensation overtaking every inch of my body.
Marcus jerks his hips forward faster, thrusting in and out of me at such an out-of-control speed, his desk jumps along the marble tiles of his office floor. I pant through the sensation of being thoroughly fucked—thoroughly claimed.
Sensing I’m on the verge of losing my battle to stave off my orgasm, Marcus demands, “Eyes.”
He tugs my hair back so roughly, it’s nearly too unbearable to tolerate. It's the final push I needed to freefall over the edge.
“Oh. . .”
I quiver and shake as every muscle in my body rides the intensity of my second earth-shattering climax this morning. My pussy clenches around Marcus’s heavily veined cock, begging for the hotness of his cum to mingle with my climax as I whisper his name on repeat. The silent pleas of my throbbing sex get answered when Marcus hilts me to the very base of his cock before my name comes roaring out of his throat in a grunted moan.
The veins in his neck throb profusely as the heat of his cum lines the walls of my pussy.
“This. . .” He runs his eyes over my face before dropping them to scan my body. “I’d kneel before I’d share this.”
15
“You ready?”
The sultry grin on Marcus’s face amplifies when I run my hand down my dress, smoothing out the crinkles our impromptu romp on his desk caused to the satin material. “I’m not as put-together as I would have liked, but I guess it will have to do,” I reply, my tone hinting more for liveliness than annoyance.
Marcus's lusty eyes drink in my sexually flushed face before he turns them back to the clog of traffic surrounding us. The corners of his mouth curve higher when his tongue delves out to replenish his lips with moisture. Just from the way his eyes darken and the pleats in his trousers flare, I know he can still taste me on his mouth.
I rib him with my elbow, faking annoyance at his response. I’m not annoyed. Not in the slightest. Our time together in his office was so out of this world, my face is still showcasing its gratification two hours later. Even our hour and a half commute in peak-hour traffic couldn't dampen my heated cheeks and lust-crammed eyes. I look like a woman who is sexually sated—and rightfully so.
The past two weeks have been so unreal, I'm beginning to wonder if my attack in the alleyway did more damage to my brain than first perceived. Most of the time, it feels like I'm in a paradoxical universe, one where nothing but my utter happiness is the primary focus. The only thing keeping me grounded is my contradicting emotions. Like now, I've gone from reveling in the high of orgasmic bliss to being riddled with so many nerves my hands shake. What caused the sudden shift in my composure? Marcus pulling into the driveway of Global Ten Media.
“Are you sure you don’t want to drop me off a block or two over?” I offer, giving him the same suggestion I have five times the past hour. “Someone may recognize your car.”
Marcus pulls his car to the curb, stopping just out of the valet’s eyesight. “Our agreement was I either drive you to Global Ten or Brodie did.” His eyes roam over my flustered cheeks. “I’m glad you didn’t choose the latter as Brodie is a stickler for arriving early. If he had walked in on us, I would have had to fire him.”
I giggle. Although his words could be construed as snappy, his tone doesn’t allude to that. He is carefree Marcus right now, not Master Chains.
“Alright, then lets gets this over with,” I breathe out nervously.
Marcus gives my hand a gentle squeeze before he rolls his vehicle toward the valet. I jump out of my skin when the unexpected shrill of a cell phone buzzes into my ears. The screen in the console of the car displays his call is from Shian, so you can imagine my surprise when he hits the decline button to send her call straight to voicemail. My eyes drift between Marcus and his vibrating glove compartment when the silence rapidly encroaching us is interrupted by another cell phone. This one is connected to his vehicle’s Bluetooth.
“Did you want me to get that?”
“No,” Marcus immediately answers, startling me with his snappish response.
“Okay,” I sigh, stunned by his manic behavior.
When he stops at the front entrance of Global Ten, I swing my eyes to his. “Wish me luck,” I whisper shakily.
“You won’t need it,” Marcus assures me before he leans over to press a kiss on the edge of my mouth. “Call me as soon as you're done, and I’ll come and collect you.” He drops his eyes to the brand-spanking new cell I’m clutching for dear life.
Nodding, I lift it off my thigh to place it in my purse. Its screen automatically illuminates, requesting for a lock code to be entered. My eyes snap to Marcus. He didn’t disclose it required a code when he handed it to me after our tryst in his office this morning.
Spotting my inquiring gaze, he mutters, “It’s the same lock code as your last phone.”
I freeze for a beat before sighing. “I don’t even want to know how you knew what that was,” I grumble under my breath. With two valets rushing to open our doors, I don’t have the time nor the patience to begin that conversation.
“Just dropping off a passenger,” Marcus advises his valet through the crack in his driver’s side window, his door remaining locked.
The sternness of his tone has the valet jumping to his command. “Yes, Sir, not a problem.” He steps away from Marcus’s car with his hands held in front of his body like he is walking away from an attack dog ready to maul him at any moment. I’m glad to see I’m not the only one who snaps to Marcus’s commanding tone.
“Thank you,” I gesture to the valet opening my door.
He dips his broad-brimmed hat, soundlessly welcoming me to Global Ten. I carefully slide out of my seat, wanting to ensure none of the Global Ten Media conglomerates gawking at Marcus’s car in awe catch more than what they bargained for.
Although I could have changed
my risqué undergarments after my exchange with Marcus, I didn’t. When he discovered my lacy underwear was the only pair I owned, he kept them intact, proving he is just as fond of them as I am. It also feels daring wearing the garments he wanted to shred of my body in public. They are a hearty reminder of my sexual preferences, demure with a little hint of naughty, but only for those privileged enough to see it.
The dash of wickedness scorching my veins clears away some of the nerves making me a jittery mess. With my confidence boosted, I step onto the sidewalk of Global Ten with an air of dignity and grace. A handful of men eyeing Marcus’s flashy sports car switch their attention to me. When the heat of their covetous gazes rakes my body, I stray my eyes away. My eyes roll skyward when they chuckle, assuming their inappropriate ogle has made me flustered. It hasn't. I'm just not interested in securing their attention. I’ve already secured the utmost devotion of the one pair of eyes I wanted. I don't need any more.
“Call me as soon as you're done, Cleo,” I hear Marcus command just before the passenger door slams shut, trapping the angry rumble of Master Chains in the confines of his car.
Although curious what has caused the sudden shift in Marcus's personality, I give him a quick wave before heading for the large revolving doors of Global Ten Media. My steps are hurried, encouraged by the prospect of new beginnings. The faster I get this over with, the faster the next stage of my life can commence.
As I walk into the foyer of Global Ten Media, my eyes drink it in as if it's the first time I’m seeing it. This place has been the bane of my existence a majority of my past four years, but it's a timeless building that adds to the rich heritage of mid-Manhattan. Its architecturally designed shell successfully conceals its depressing core.
When I weave through the rotating doors, the air violently evicts from my body. There is a large floral shrine sitting to the left of the security desk Richard manned the past six years. Although most of the flowers have wilted under the unnatural setting, the display indicates mourners still regularly visit the shrine. Some flowers are so fresh they look like they arrived straight from the farm.
Although reports of Richard’s death did feature on the local news, the full story of events has never been disclosed. As far as the public is aware, Richard plunged to his death in a freak accident while vacationing in the scenic hamlet of Bronte’s Peak. Not a word has been breathed about the stalking, attempted kidnapping, and murder charges the FBI were planning to charge him with.
Every aspect of Richard’s death has been swept under the rug just as conveniently as Stephen’s murder was ignored. I can’t say I don’t understand the FBI’s hesitation to divulge the entirety of their investigation to the media. If the media caught wind of Marcus’s involvement in either case, they would have a field day. The amount of press following Marcus’s every move is already insufferable, so imagine how bad it would be if they knew of his association with not one but two deaths.
Furthermore, under the circumstances, I don’t believe either Stephen or Richard’s family need to know the gritty details of their downfall. They are grieving, so why not give them a few days of grace before revealing their sons weren’t quite the men they thought they were?
With my mood not as chipper as it was, I scan my employee ID at the security turnstiles, then head for the bank of elevators. For every floor the car climbs, the more butterflies take flight in my stomach. I’m not generally a nervous type of person, but I’ve never done anything like this before. When I gained an internship at Global Ten, I truly thought my every wish had come true. For the first year, it was everything I expected and more. But one mistake was the catalyst of my career, shifting it from a dream position to a nightmare I’d give anything to wake up from.
I chuckle to myself. I know it's just a coincidence that the story I approved on Marcus’s bandmate was partially the cause for my fall from grace, and that Marcus just happens to be giving me the courage I need to swim back to the surface, but some parts of me wonder if it's just a coincidence, or something more significant coming into play?
Before my muddled brain can conclude its ramblings, the elevator dings open on the very top floor of Global Ten: the floor Mr. Carson's office is located on. Breathing out my nerves, I step into the bustling corridor. The vibrant hum of activity feeding the air with vibrancy dulls with every shaky step I take. My hand runs across my cheeks before dropping to my dress, confident I have a large stain the frosted mirror doors of the elevator failed to announce. Otherwise, what other reason would there be for the two dozen pairs of eyes gawking at me?
Unless. . . my inner monologue stops as reality dawns. They aren’t staring at me in shame or disgust. They are eyeing me in awe.
“It’s about time someone stood up to that witch,” Katie from advertising says with a wink as she floats by me.
“Right on, girlfriend, she got what was coming,” mutters Elise from her concealed cubicle on my left, holding her arms in the air like she is preaching to the Lord.
“I’ve watched that footage at least a dozen times,” informs Brad, the lead investigator at New York Daily Express. “It doesn’t matter how many times I see it, it never gets old.”
My steps stop midstride. “They have footage of me slapping Delilah?”
Brad holds his stomach, like his hearty chuckle is literally splitting his insides. “Yes,” he replies with a nod. “If you get the chance, watch it in slow motion. The look that crosses Delilah’s face is priceless, but her grunt. . .” He keeps talking, but I can’t hear anything he is saying through his belly-crunching laughter.
When Brad’s laughter becomes too great, he sits in his chair and swivels to face his desk. The last thing I see while passing his office is him yanking tissues out of a box on his desk to dab the tears trickling from his eyes. He laughed so much he made himself cry.
My eyes lift from the ground when a soft voice greets me, "Hello, Cleo. Mr. Carson is in a meeting. If you'd like to take a seat in the conference room, I'll call you in as soon as he is done."
Emmelyn, Mr. Carson's assistant, gestures her dainty hand to the conference room. Emmelyn has the sultry Latin lover look down to a T. She has black wavy hair that sits just above her tiny waist, voluptuous curves on her hips and chest, and a face that could make grown men cry just by looking at it. Although she is rumored to have been working with Mr. Carson for the past four years, she is new to the Global Ten Media team, so I'm somewhat surprised she knows who I am.
“Would you like a cup of coffee or a glass of tea?” Emmelyn asks when we enter the empty conference room.
“No, thank you.” My stomach is too twisted up to risk the chance of putting anything inside it.
“Okay. Let me know if you change your mind.”
After dipping her chin in farewell, she closes the conference room door and walks to her desk. With the combination of the warm temperature and my jittering nerves, my jacket becomes unnecessary. After undoing the three buttons of my coat, I sling it off my shoulders. My first instinct is to hang it over the back of my chair, but with everything in the room being meticulously placed, my eyes seek a more suitable location to hang it.
Spotting a coat rack in the far corner of the room, I push off my feet. Although my coat isn't as elaborate as the ones hanging on the stand, it's more suitable to hide its tattiness from Mr. Carson. While concealing my jacket amongst the designer ones hanging on the coat rack, from the corner of my eye, a flurry of blonde gathers my attention. Although there is a significant privacy blind separating Mr. Carson's expansive office from the conference room, the air duct blowing warm air into the room is fluttering the blinds so much, sections of Mr. Carson's desk become exposed.
I stray my eyes away, not willing to spy on a man I am planning to scold for invasion of privacy. The only reason my eyes don’t entirely stray away is that the flurry of blonde is much too long to be Mr. Carson’s hair, and the person’s build is also two sizes too small.
Ignoring the little voice inside me
reprimanding me on my double standards, I drift my eyes back to the glass partition. Just as my two-second glance suspected, there is no doubt the flurry of blonde isn't Mr. Carson. If the glossy lock hanging halfway down a pink, dusty-colored blouse isn't convincing enough, the fact Mr. Carson is standing in front of the blonde is another reliable indication.
His hands clasp the top of the blonde’s shoulders as he peers down at her sitting motionless on his desk. I can see his lips are moving, but I’ve never been good at lip reading, so I can’t understand a word he is saying. Their gathering appears intimate, but there is a crackling of tension in the air I can feel from here.
I conceal my body into the nook in the conference room when Mr. Carson’s head suddenly lifts. I suck in deep breaths, praying he hasn’t detected my presence. He hasn’t. He is just securing two tissues from the box on his desk to hand them to the blonde. Shocked their exchange warrants tissues, my utmost devoted attention becomes arrested on the blonde. Considering her body is shuddering like she is crying, it seems like the sensible thing to do.
Even with my morals screaming at me to give them privacy, I can’t tear my eyes away from their exchange. I don’t know if it's my intuition advising me to keep watch, or if my investigative journalism skills have sent my moral compass way off course. No matter what it is, I continue to watch their exchange for the next several minutes, absorbing every move they make. The way Mr. Carson cups the blonde’s jaw in his hand and whispers to her, how he draws her into his chest and holds her firmly when her shuddering deepens, and how he ignores his ringing cell phone and landline on his desk until every shake hindering her body dissipates.
His full attention remains devoted on her until every tiny tremor of her body has been exhausted. Once he has her returned to a somewhat calm composure, he walks her to the door. My heart stops beating when I see the forlorn look on Mr. Carson’s face when he closes the door after his guest exits. He looks truly devastated, like a man who has just had his heart torn out of his chest.