Strict (Part One)

by Hannah Ford

  He stills, glances up at me. “Excuse me?”

  “Your attitude,” I say. “Last night. You broke my phone and didn’t apologize, you touched me inappropriately, and you were an all around asshole. Does that kind of attitude get appreciated here?”

  His eyes blaze, that same look he had earlier when I called him sir, the look that reminds me of how he looked at me last night, like he’s a hunter and I’m his prey.

  “Do you think it’s a good idea to counter my assertions that you have a smart mouth and a bad attitude with a smart mouth and a bad attitude?” he asks.

  “No.” I shake my head. “Probably not. But you don’t seem like a man who listens to logic.”

  “I listen to my gut.”

  “And what is your gut telling me about me?”

  “That you’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

  “How do you know what I’m worth?”

  He shrugs. “The micro is the macro, Ms. Cavanaugh. When someone shows you a little bit of who they are, you can extrapolate that to how they’re going to be in the broader sense.”

  “So then I should extrapolate that you’re the kind of person who’s an arrogant douchebag?”

  “Yes.”He’s picking up his briefcase and walking toward the door now, pushing past me, and I catch a scent of him, a clean, masculine scent, and instantly, I feel a pulse between my legs.

  “Sir?” I say, the word out of my mouth again before I can stop it.

  He stops, his hand on the doorknob.

  “Please,” I say, deciding to change tactics. If he’s going to be an asshole, that’s fine, but I really, really, need this internship. If I don’t complete it, I won’t have the credits for my MBA. And it’s too late now to find another internship. They were assigned months ago. I’ll have to go back upstate, with my tail between my legs. Probably back to my parents’ house.

  I have no choice but to beg.

  “I really need this internship,” I say. “If I’d known last night that… ” I trail off, remembering what Gage Stratford told Willow a few moments ago – he doesn’t suffer excuses. “All I’m asking for is a chance to prove myself. If you find my work or my attitude lacking, then you can fire me. I will work hard for you, Mr. Stratford. I will do anything to prove it.”

  A silence settles over us, so heavy and filled with anticipation that I’m sure he’s doing it on purpose just to mess with me.

  When the silence finally breaks, it’s with the sound of him locking the conference room door.

  The click echoes through the empty room and seems to reverberate up my spine.

  “What were you doing at that club last night, Ms. Cavanaugh?”

  “Poppy and Alanna asked me to go. I told you that.”

  He turns, his expression darkening at the mention of my classmates, and I can tell what he’s thinking. “They didn’t recognize you,” I say quickly. “There’s no way. They only saw you from across the room.” I’m, like, eighty percent sure this is true. There’s almost no way Alanna and Poppy realized that Gage Stratford was the man I talked to at Strict last night – otherwise, they would have had some kind of reaction. And they didn’t – in fact, Alanna looked at me curiously when Gage asked me to stay and talk to him. She wouldn’t have looked at me that way if she knew who he was. She would have known why he was asking me to stay.

  “Did you know what kind of club it was, Ms. Cavanaugh?”

  “No.” If I’d known, I never would have gone. Not after what I’ve been through. Of course I don’t mention that, though. I’m never going to mention that. Not to him, not to anyone.

  “Do you understand that actions have consequence, Ms. Cavanaugh?”

  “Yes, of course.” What is this, some kind of philosophy lesson? Whatever. If this is what it takes to keep my job, then I will listen to him impart wisdom on me and pretend that it’s having a profound effect on my life.

  “What happened last night, the way you spoke to me, has a consequence.” He’s taking his jacket off now, placing it carefully over the back of the chair at the other end of the long conference table. I suck in a breath through my teeth at the way his crisp grey dress shirt stretches over his broad shoulders.

  He definitely must have gotten it tailored.

  No one looks that good in a shirt off the rack, do they?

  “Okay,” I say, nodding. “Yes, okay. I’ll do whatever it is you want me to do.” I’ve heard stories about this kind of thing, bosses who put pressure on you, who make you do things that seem outrageous – more work, ridiculous errands at all hours of the night. I can handle that.

  “This job requires you to be in high pressure situations. It requires you to think with a clear head. There are millions, sometimes billions of dollars at stake.”

  “I understand.”

  “You must not allow anything that is or was happening in your personal life to take precedence over the job. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.” I bite my lip again at the sir. Something about him just makes me want to call him sir.

  He’s unbuttoning the sleeves of his shirt now, rolling them up to reveal tanned forearms.

  I swallow watching the cords of muscle flex with his movements. I remember last night, his hand on my bare leg, how tight he squeezed, how he kept me close to him while that woman was spanked onstage.

  The idea should leave me sick.

  But it doesn’t.

  Instead, inexplicably, I find myself wanting his hands back on me, squeezing into my flesh. A dull ache settles between my legs, like a pile of kindling waiting to be ignited.

  “Can you do that, Ms. Cavanaugh? Can you make sure that whatever is happening in your personal life is kept separate from your professional life?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As he talks, he moves closer to me, halving the distance between us, then quartering it, until he’s standing right behind me.

  So close that if I move even a tiny bit, my back will be against his chest. I can feel the heat radiating off of him, through his shirt and through the material of the blouse I’m wearing, and I curse myself for not wearing a jacket over it. Not that it would have mattered. He’s so close that every one of my nerve endings is on fire.

  “Do you understand that the way you talked to me last night won’t be tolerated here?” His voice is like sandpaper sliding over my skin, rough and raw.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He shifts a tiny bit behind me, moving closer until his chest is against my back. I gasp at the contact, and a tiny little oh escapes from between my lips.

  “Bend over, Ms. Cavanaugh.”

  Shock slides through me at his words, even though on some level, I knew they were coming.

  “What?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

  “Bend over. Onto the desk.”

  He surely can’t be serious? Bend over? My heart is beating so fast that the blood is whooshing through my veins, so hard I can hear it.

  I take in a breath and then, before I can stop myself, I do as he says.

  “Good girl.” The note of approval in his voice gives me some kind of weird pleasure, and I feel myself flush.

  I’m leaned over the desk, arms bent, my elbows bracing me against the wood.

  He places his hand between my shoulder blades, and then his nails rake gently down my back. The ache between my legs intensifies.

  He grabs my waist, his hands so big they make me feel small, and then he moves them lower, down to the hem of my skirt.

  Slowly, so slowly that it’s excruciating, he starts to push my skirt up. When he gets to the bottom of my panties, I panic and start to stand up.

  “Don’t move.” His voice is a growl, and for a moment, I’m afraid that whatever he’s going to do if I disobey him will be much worse than whatever it is he’s doing now.

  I bend back over, and his hands continue their ascent, pushing my skirt up until it’s bunched up around my waist.

  I’m wearing a pair of lacy boy short panties, and I
simultaneously curse myself for not wearing a thong and thank god that I’m not wearing a thong.

  “Hmm,” Gage murmurs as he takes in my panties, and I can’t tell if it’s approval or disappointment. My cheeks burn with humiliation.

  His finger dips into the elastic at the bottom, the back of his knuckle skating over the bare skin right underneath my butt cheek. I suck in a breath and my body tenses up.

  “Relax,” he commands.

  I close my eyes and take another deep breath as he pushes the elastic on my panties up, giving him a better view of my ass.

  “Have you ever been spanked before, Ms. Cavanaugh?”

  “No, sir.” But I want to be. The words echo through my head and I bite my lip to keep from saying them out loud.

  He pauses for a moment, and anticipation fills the air, heavy and crackling with tension.

  And then he slaps my ass.

  The sting of his open palm is accompanied by a sharp cracking sound that fills the room and makes me gasp.

  Before I can register what’s happening, he does it again.

  Then again.

  And again.

  Each time, the pain gets sharper. Each time, I wince. Each time, my eyes fill with more tears and my cheeks burn hotter with shame.

  Each time, the pain is followed by a warmth that spreads over my skin and settles between my legs.

  And each time, my pussy gets wetter.

  By the time he’s done, my panties are clinging to my pussy like a second skin, and I’m afraid he’s going to be able to tell.

  When he’s done, he pulls my skirt back down.

  “You may stand up, Ms. Cavanaugh.”

  I stand up and turn around.

  He’s right there, so close that we’re almost touching.

  He holds his hands up, bent at the elbow, palms facing him.

  As if I know exactly what he’s asking, I reach out automatically and roll his shirtsleeves back down, sliding the crisp fabric down over his muscular forearms.

  There’s a scar on the inside of his left wrist, long and sharp, almost the shape of a dagger, the skin a lighter color there. When he sees me looking, he pulls away sharply and finishes pulling his sleeve down himself.

  He doesn’t thank me.

  Of course he doesn’t thank you, Chloe, Jesus, he just spanked you for God’s sake!

  In fact, he doesn’t say anything.

  Instead, he picks up his suit coat, puts it on, and walks out of the room, leaving the door open behind him.

  Chapter 6

  GAGE

  I stalk to my office, slamming the door behind me so hard that the framed art on the walls shakes. I’m almost disappointed one of the priceless paintings doesn’t fall to its death.

  I was already having a shitty morning, even before she showed up here, because I couldn’t stop thinking about her last night. When she ran out of that club, I went home and tried to distract myself with a cold shower, turning the temperature dial all the way to the right, letting the icy cold stream pelt my muscles until my skin was numb.

  It didn’t work. I jerked off thinking about her, fisting my cock as I imagined her on her knees, my dick choking her, her eyes watering as I pumped into her and came all over her pouty smartass lips.

  Scrolling through my phone through the endless numbers of women who would have been willing to come over and take care of me did nothing. I didn’t want anyone else.

  I wanted her.

  I close my eyes and think about that ass, those lacy boy shorts against creamy flesh. Jesus Christ.

  Focus, Stratford, I tell myself. She’s an intern. If her or one of her spacey friends tell anyone what I’ve done, it will ruin both of us.

  “Willow!” I bark through the speaker on my phone.

  She appears in my doorway as if by magic. “Yes?”

  “Get me an appointment with Temple tonight before the party.” Temple is my boxing instructor. He’s 6’7” and a former professional heavyweight. He will kick the shit out of me until I can’t think of anything else, including Chloe Cavanaugh.

  “Yes, sir. Is there anything else?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Get River McLeod on the phone.”

  She leaves the room, and I drum my fingers on my desk impatiently. A phone call with River will aid in getting some of my pent-up aggression out.

  “I have Mr. McLeod on line two,” Willow says, her voice echoing through the speakerphone.

  I decide to make him wait a minute or two before picking up, just to be an asshole.

  But the phone buzzes again a few seconds later.

  “Mr. Stratford?”

  “Yes, Willow,” I bark. “I heard you.”

  “No, Mr. Stratford, there’s… there are a couple of policemen here to see you.”

  “What?”

  “They said it’s about Chloe Cavanaugh.”

  Before I have the chance to even contemplate the possibilities of what the hell that means, two uniformed officers are barging into my office, walking right through the door.

  “Excuse me,” I say, standing up from my desk. My tone sounds harsh and rude, which is exactly how I want it to sound. “You have no right to just barge in here.”

  “Actually we do,” one of the cops says. “Is there a Chloe Cavanaugh working here today, Mr. Stratford?”

  “Yes,” I say, rolling my eyes because obviously they already know that. The cops always think they’re so crafty.

  “Can we have a word with her?”

  “What is this in regards to?” I ask briskly, not at all like a man who just spanked his intern inside a conference room.

  One of the cops is glancing around my office, his eyes alighting on the diplomas framed on the walls, the stock certificates of the companies I’ve helped go public, the pictures of me with CEOs and celebrities, the priceless art that costs more than some cars.

  I can tell what he’s thinking. That I’m a rich asshole.

  Instead of trying to dispel this rumor by telling him that my decorator is the one who put up all the shit, I give him a glare. Besides, he’s not wrong. I am a rich asshole.

  “Chloe Cavanaugh’s friends and family are concerned about her. They haven’t heard from her since yesterday. She hasn’t been answering her phone.”

  At that moment, Willow pushes a confused-looking Chloe through the door and into my office.

  “Here she is!” Willow says, as if Chloe is a pop star taking the stage. “Right here, safe and sound.”

  Chloe’s eyes widen when she sees the cops. “What’s going on?”

  “Hi there, Chloe,” the second officer says cheerfully, talking to her like she’s seven. My hands tighten around the edge of my desk. “We were sent here because your family and your friend Grace say they haven’t been able to get in touch with you since last night. Is everything okay?”

  “Oh,” she says. “Yes. I’m sorry, I just… I broke my phone. But I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?” the first officer asks, looking her over for signs of stress. I wonder what he would do if he saw the marks I left on her ass.

  “She’s fine,” I growl. Something about the way he’s looking at her, as if he’s the one who’s in charge of protecting her, has ignited something in me, and it’s taking all my self-control not to throw a punch at this guy.

  The cops ask a few more questions, give me a few suspicious looks, and then allow Willow to lead them to the elevator.

  Chloe starts to follow them out.

  “Ms. Cavanaugh,” I call after her, and she freezes and turns back around. “I assume you will let your friends and family know it’s not acceptable to have law enforcement showing up here and disrupting our work day.”

  “Yes, sir.” She says the words soft and clear, her eyes on mine. She looks unsure of herself, and I have the urge to run to her, put my hands on the back of her neck, fisting her curls and kissing her until she’s breathless.

  No, I tell myself. No more of that.

  “I’m not making ex
cuses,” she says, which means she’s about to make an excuse. “But, there’s… my parents are very overprotective.”

  She swallows and looks like she wants to say something else, but I cut her off.

  “I don’t need explanations, Ms. Cavanaugh. I need it to not happen again.”

  Anger flashes across her face and she says, “If you hadn’t broken my phone, it wouldn’t have happened in the first place.”

  That smart mouth again. My hands are so tight on the edge of my desk now that my knuckles are white. “Go back to work, Ms. Cavanaugh.”

  She leaves, and I sit down, more ready than ever to talk to River. But the lights on my phone are dark. River has hung up, apparently deciding I’d kept him waiting too long.

  “Willow, get River McLeod back on the line,” I growl into the intercom.

  I scroll through my emails while I wait, wondering why I don’t just let Willow go through them and weed out the ones that are pointless.

  Because you’re a control freak.

  Pitches, pitches, people wanting money, a conference call about a new product launch overseas….

  And then one at the bottom of my inbox catches my eye.

  The subject line is simple.

  The Truth About Chloe Cavanaugh.

  It sounds like the name of a suspense novel.

  For a moment, I worry that perhaps it’s from Chloe herself, that she’s turned out to be the kind of stalker who sends you a missive about their entire life.

  But it’s not from her.

  It’s from one of those burner email addresses, the kind you sign up to through some website that guarantees anonymity, which is bullshit if you know the right people.

  Inside the email, there’s a link.

  Before I can consider if it’s a link to a virus that’s going to infect my entire network, I click on it.

  Chapter 7

  CHLOE

  Okay.

  There is no reason to panic.

  That was just… a bad first morning. If, you know, a bad morning is having your boss spank you in an overtly sexual manner which you thoroughly enjoyed and then having the police show up to do a wellness check on you.