“….Elijah Armstrong is a chubby chaser!...”

  My breath catches in my chest and spots swim in front of my eyes.

  And then my screen goes blank.

  I frown and press the space bar a bunch of times.

  But nothing.

  Great. Now I’m going to have to call IT and they’re going to ask me what I was doing when my computer shut down, and I’m going to have to tell them about how I was reading about how fat I was in the comments section of a website that had published a naked pic of me.

  I reach for the phone on my desk to call IT, but before I can dial, my cell phone rings.

  Elijah.

  “Hello?”

  “Abigail.” His voice is dark and somehow sounds even deeper over the phone. A muted panic starts down low in my belly. “I will see you in my office now.”

  “Now’s not a good time,” I say. “I’m calling IT. Something is wrong with my computer and –“

  “Nothing is wrong with your computer, Abigail. Come to my office. Now.”

  The line goes dead.

  I stare at my blank screen incredulously.

  That bastard.

  He must have shut my computer off.

  When I get to his office, I’m in a rage and ready to take it out on him.

  I don’t even bother to greet Addison, and instead just use the touchpad on the wall to gain access to the hallway that leads to Elijah’s office.

  I burst though the door, not bothering to knock.

  He’s on his office phone, the annoyed, impatient look on his face letting me know that it’s a business call. He holds up a finger to me when I walk in. Which just pisses me off more.

  How dare he make me wait, while he cuts off my computer and demands that I leave my desk and come up to see him? What if I was doing something important? I mean, obviously I wasn’t and he knew that, but the only reason he knew that was because he was spying on me.

  Before I can stop myself, I reach over and hit the button on his phone, ending the call.

  Elijah stills, his eyes meeting mine as he reaches over and pushes a button on the phone. I assume he’s calling back whoever it was that I just hung up on, but I’m wrong.

  “Addison,” he says smoothly into the receiver. “When Malcolm Ward calls back, please let him know that something urgent has come up, and I will return his call as soon as I’m able.”

  He replaces the receiver and then leans back in his chair, staring at me.

  I’m not sure if he’s waiting for me to say something, or if he’s choosing his words carefully. Either way, I’m not going to be the one to talk first.

  Instead, I cross my arms over my chest and glare at him.

  I stay quiet, the silence stretching between us.

  Until finally, he speaks.

  “Do you enjoy disobeying me, Ms. Bennett?”

  “I wouldn’t say I enjoy it, exactly.”

  “Then what would you call it?” He’s in complete business mode now, Elijah the commanding billionaire, the boss who’s always in charge, the buttoned-up suit who’s all business.

  “I asked you a question, Miss Bennett.” He’s turned his chair toward me now, and his eyes bore into mine.

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “Good. Think before you answer.”

  “I sometimes find your demands to be unreasonable.”

  “And yet you agreed to my terms.” He’s standing up now, and he buttons his suit coat. His large frame seems to fill the room and his broad shoulders seem to expand before me.

  “Elijah,” I say, feeling some of my anger start to dissipate. “This is ridiculous. I have a right to go online and see what people are saying about me.”

  He pushes a button on a control pad that’s built-in to the side of his desk, and heavy dark blinds start to come down over the windows, a soft humming sound filling the room as they do.

  He walks toward me, stopping short of touching me, but so close I can feel his body heat.

  Suddenly, I’m tired. I just want to collapse against him, to have him take me in his arms, for him to rub my back and tell me that everything is going to be okay.

  “Elijah,” I say, leaning forward and pressing my cheek against his chest. I close my eyes and inhale the clean scent of his cologne. I wait for his arms to encircle me, to pull me in close.

  Instead, his hands land on my shoulders, and he pushes me back, away from him.

  He raises his chin.

  “Take off your shirt, Ms. Bennett.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Do you know me to be a jokester, Ms. Bennett?”

  “Elijah,” I say, and now for some reason my eyes are filling with tears, and I blink them away, frustrated at myself. “Please, I just…I need you to tell me it’s going to be okay.”

  “You should have thought about that before you defied my wishes.”

  “I need to get back to work. People will think –”

  “It’s a little late to worry about what people think, Ms. Bennett. Now we can do this the easy way or the hard way. And trust me when I tell you that you will much prefer the easy way.”

  I close my eyes and take in a shuddering breath.

  My hands shake as I reach up and begin to unbutton my blouse, then untuck it from my grey flared skirt. I pull it off, setting it down on the chair that sits in front of his desk.

  “Pull the cups of your bra down. I want your tits out.”

  I swallow and do as I’m told, thankful he’s at least closed the blinds. I’ve never noticed too much about the building next door, and I’m not sure what kind of businesses are there, but the last thing I need is for some random officer workers to look over here and see what’s going on.

  Although at this point, I supposed it doesn’t matter.

  I’m all over the internet.

  What’s a couple of random office workers seeing me naked?

  The thought is so ridiculous that a small giggle escapes from between my lips.

  Elijah gives me a disapproving look. “Something funny?”

  “No, sir.” I shake my head.

  “Pull your skirt up around your waist.”

  I reach down and grab my skirt, pull it up until it’s bunched around my waist, revealing the lacy red thong I’d chosen to wear this morning.

  I see the desire flare in his eyes, and for a moment, I think he’s going to give into it, that he’s going to grab me and pull me toward me, ravaging my mouth with his.

  Instead, his expression hardens and his jaw ticks.

  “Walk over to the couch.”

  I do it, and then wait for further instructions.

  “Climb onto the couch and get on your knees, back to me.”

  Again, I do as I’m told.

  “Spread your legs.”

  I do it, and now I’m kneeling on the couch, my back to him, my knees spread, my skirt hiked up, giving him a full view of my ass and panty-covered pussy.

  “Pull your panties down, Ms. Bennett, until they’re at your knees.”

  I do it, the material separating from my pussy. I’m already wet, and I hope he can’t tell, but I know he can.

  “Now lean your arms over the back of the couch.”

  I lean over the back of the couch. My nipples brush against the leather, and my arms immediately start to ache from being pressed against the wood.

  I wait for him to touch me, to feel his fingers against my wetness. Instead, there is nothing -- no touch, no sound. Only silence.

  The next thing I hear is Elijah back on the phone.

  “Malcolm,” he says. “Sorry, something came up. I’m ready to go over the figures now.”

  And he starts to talk.

  I lose track of time.

  Two hours?

  Three?

  My arms burn, and my pussy throbs. I don’t dare move, because I’m afraid that if I do, whatever he has planned for me next will be worst.

  We can do this the easy way or the hard way.

  He sits at his desk and makes calls, barking orders, scheduling meetings, going about his day.

  Then, finally, when I feel like I can’t take another minute, he’s behind me.

  “Do you see what happens to bad girls, Ms. Bennett?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I can’t see him, have no idea what he’s doing behind me. It only heightens the tension, the humiliation of how he’s left me here, bra pulled down, my pussy out and wet, waiting.

  He reaches out then and touches me, his finger sliding over my slit.

  “Your cunt is wet, Ms. Bennett.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You like being humiliated, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” My cheeks burn at the way he’s talking to me.

  “I wish I could say I’m sorry I have to do this.” His voice is fading away slightly, and I can tell he’s walking away from me. Back over to his desk, maybe? I hear the sound of a drawer opening, and I shiver and close my eyes. “But I’m not, because it’s what you deserve.”

  He’s back behind me now, and I feel something smooth and hard slide against my backside.

  “Unfortunately, I don’t have anything here to punish you the way I want to. I would have liked to cane you, Ms. Bennett. You’ve never been caned before, have you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I would have enjoyed that greatly. But instead, we’ll have to settle for a ruler.”

  “Sir…” I trail off, not sure what I want to say. A ruler sounds like it will be painful, not to mention humiliating, but I don’t want to voice my concern, because I’m afraid he’ll just make it worse on me.

  I clamp my lips shut.

  He waits a beat for me to finish my thought, and when I don’t, he slaps the ruler against the back of my thighs.

  I suck air in through my teeth, my nails digging into the leather of the couch.

  I was worried a spank on my ass would hurt more than usual because of what we’d done last night, but the soft, untouched flesh of my thighs is even more sensitive.

  Again he spanks me with the ruler, and I know then why he’s chosen my thighs – my ass is already reddened. He’s making it so that it will be almost impossible for me to sit – any place I tried to shift to on a chair will remind me of how bad I’ve been.

  He continues doling out my punishment, back and forth, over and over until I know there will be marks on the back of my legs, red and raw, a stinging reminder of his hold on me.

  Only then does he switch to spanking my ass.

  Again.

  Again.

  Again.

  He isn’t even touching me, but with every strike of the ruler my nipples brush against the leather, and my pussy turns wetter.

  I close my eyes, and lose myself.

  We fall into a rhythm, and it feels as if I’ve left my body, the pain fading at the edges with each slap against my skin until finally all I’m feeling is a drowsy sort of warmth that makes me feel as if I’m in a dream.

  My limbs relax, and finally, Elijah moves and stands behind the couch, right in front of me.

  “Take out my cock,” he growls, and I reach for his pants, pulling out his dick until it bobs in front of my face.

  He grabs my chin and squeezes, holding it tight.

  “Such a pretty little mouth,” he murmurs, slipping a finger over my lips. “Such a pretty little slut.”

  With his free hand he fists his cock, then pushes it against the seam of my lips, forcing them open. “I’m going to use that pretty little mouth of yours,” he says, his voice low and rumbly.

  I stare up at him, and reach for his abdomen, running my hands over the firm ridges of muscle, my nails dragging down over his skin.

  His muscles flex at the touch, and then I wrap my hand around the base of his cock, squeezing gently.

  He groans. “Fuck,” he breathes, and closes his eyes briefly as I begin to stroke him. Then his eyes fly open and he grabs my hands, pressing them down onto the back of the couch.

  “No,” he says. “No touching. I’m going to use your mouth, I’m going to fuck it. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  And then his hips buck forward, and his cock pushes into my mouth in one stroke, so hard, so deep that it hits the back of my throat.

  “Yes, baby,” he grinds out. “Keep your mouth just like that. Deep throat that cock.”

  His hips buck again, the muscles of his six-pack flexing, the head of his cock pressing against the back of my throat.

  I force my throat to relax, to do my best to ignore my gag reflex. My eyes water with the effort, and despite my best efforts to blink hard and make it stop, a tear slips down my cheek.

  This seems to excite him.

  “So pretty when you cry, baby,” he says. “So beautiful with my cock in your mouth and tears running down your face.”

  His pace picks up, and now he’s fucking my mouth so hard that my breasts slap against the couch with each stroke, the forcefulness of his movements shaking my whole body.

  “Fuck,” he growls. “I’m going to come, baby. Close your lips hard around my cock.”

  And then his hand is on the back of my head, pushing me hard against him, forcing me to take his entire cock. My nose pushes into his pubic hair as he unloads down the back of my throat, the warm saltiness hitting me with shot after shot.

  I do my best to keep up with it, to swallow down every last drop, but I end up choking.

  He releases me immediately, and some of his cum drips off my lips.

  My tongue snakes out and licks it up automatically.

  “Jesus,” he groans, and then he’s on the other side of the couch, his hand on the small of my back as he lays me down gently.

  He pulls off my panties and spreads my legs.

  “God, your pussy is so fucking perfect.” His thumb brushes my clit. “Are you ready to come, beautiful?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I feel like maybe I’m going to come as soon as he touches me, but when he lowers his mouth to my pussy, he draws out the pleasure, gently sucking and licking me, his tongue working in slow, feathery strokes.

  He keeps me on the edge of orgasm, but his demeanor has changed. He’s not being dominant or demanding anymore, and he’s not teasing me.

  No, now it’s more like he knows this is what I need, that with every touch, every stroke of his tongue, he’s making the shock of what happened this morning fade away.

  And by the time I finally do orgasm, falling apart beneath him, the waves of pleasure ricocheting through my entire being, it’s like all my anxiety and stress has been washed away.

  And when Elijah pulls me into his arms and kisses my head, he’s somehow made me feel safe.

  Chapter 3

  ABIGAIL

  The next two weeks pass in a blur of routine.

  I throw myself into work, as if working hard is going to erase the feeling I have that everyone is doubting me, that the entire publishing industry is whispering behind my back, gossiping about how I slept my way to the top.

  And there have been whispers – it’s nothing obvious. Everyone at work knows better than that – they know that if they’re caught talking about me, that there’s going to be hell to pay. But there are conversations that seem to be cut short when I walk into the office, glances exchanged between co-workers in the break room, people glancing at their phones and smirking at text messages that I know are about me.

  It’s the same with the agents who are submitting manuscripts to me. They know that to not do it is to possibly invite the wrath of Elijah, and no one wants to risk that. So I’m still getting manuscripts, although there’s a certain coolness in the tone of people’s emails, as if they don’t know what to say so they’re just not saying anything at all.

  So I work hard, working through lunch, staying up late every night reading manuscripts and working on the presentation I need to give to make sure Jessica Chase stays on my list.

  I come up with a bunch of marketing ideas, a splashy campaign that involves romance readers getting involved on social media, along with getting approval to put together another book deal for Jessica, one for a romantic comedy series featuring a family of brothers that I know she’s been wanting to do. I’m going to offer to buy it completely on spec, hoping that the security that I can give to her by making sure she has books coming out for the next few years can offset whatever Lucy is offering her.

  So by the time it’s time to leave for Ryan’s wedding, I’m ready for a vacation.

  “Explain this whole island thing to me again,” I say, watching as Elijah loads our bags into the back of his car – leather suitcases filled with clothes and bathing suits and accessories, the prices of which make me feel completely uncomfortable.

  Hell, even the suitcases are ridiculously expensive, made from designers in Europe that I’ve never heard of, their logos stitched into handcrafted leather that costs thousands of dollars. Thousands of dollars. For a suitcase! You can get one for, like, twenty bucks at any store downtown. When I pointed this out to Elijah, he looked at me like I was speaking another language. (“I’m certain a twenty-dollar suitcase would fall apart after just a few trips, Abigail.” I wanted to point out that most people didn’t take more than a few trips a year, but I didn’t think he would get it.)

  “An island is a piece of land surrounded on all sides by –” he says now.

  “I know what an island is,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I mean what’s the deal with you owning it?”

  “I would think that you of all people would know what it means when I say I own something,” he says, amusement in his voice.

  I roll my eyes again and smile. “I do,” I say. “But I’m not familiar with the logistics of owning an island.”

  “Are you familiar with the logistics of owning a person?” he murmurs into my ear as he pulls me close, wrapping his arms around my waist. His lips tickle my skin, and I feel myself relax against him.

  I love it when he’s like this, relaxed and joking. He’s even dressed down – well, at least for him – in a navy polo shirt and a pair of khaki shorts, his hair still damp from the shower he took right before we left his apartment, sunglasses perched on his head.

 

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