Prologue
JAMES
It had been a really hard, long week. My hands were cramped from typing. My eyes were shot from staring at computer screens. Even my cheeks ached from all the forced smiling.
So when that frustratingly gorgeous young man came into my office shirtless, his smooth chest muscles gleaming with sweat and his loose, low-hanging jeans showing off the V of muscle that led my eyes right to his crotch, I was so ready for him.
Tonight, I was getting lucky.
“You James?” he asked, his husky, deep voice filling my office.
You can call me whatever you want, you cocky little shit, I would have replied, had I any voice left in my fast constricting throat. As long as I’m yours. Call me your bitch. Call me your pet. Call me the scum on your shoes, I don’t care.
He already had his belt off. It was slapped into the palm of his other hand, and when he met my eyes, his sharp, deadly stare held nothing but contempt for me. He was young, slender, lithe as a panther, hard-bodied, and ready to take out his aggression on me.
He was a bossy little fucker, too. And he was going to have his way with me whether I liked it or not.
And I liked it. I deserved to be punished. I wanted to be.
“The fuck you staring at me for?” he spat out.
I brought my head down at once, casting my gaze to the floor. My hands trembled. My thighs quaked. Please punish me, I begged in my mind. Spank me with that hard belt. Own me. Humiliate me. Make me drop to my knees in front of you. Demand that I grovel.
I felt his warmth as he strutted across the office, closing the distance between our bodies, yet still he didn’t touch me. He likely wouldn’t, not unless it was with the other end of that belt in his powerful fist.
“Bend over the desk, bitch.”
I complied, moving to the front of my desk and pressing my palms onto it. I didn’t stick out my ass expectantly like a porn-star showpiece bottom. This was the real world, and I was going to take my punishment like a man.
Y’know. By letting him call me a bitch.
And humiliate me.
And spank me like a bad, bad boy.
“Drop your pants.”
Obeying his every command was so hot, but so was giving him a little lip and seeing what he’d do about it. “Oh, yeah? What if I don’t feel like it?”
He folded the belt and pulled it taut. The crack was so loud, I jumped.
“Shit,” I breathed. “Not too loud or else everyone’s—”
“Gonna hear?” he finished for me in an obnoxious, mocking tone. “What are you afraid of? That all your fellow bankers and customers find out you’re having your precious ass spanked by a cocky motherfucker half your age?”
The next instant, my pants were at my ankles. Whether it was by my doing or his, I didn’t even know.
“You deserve this, you know that?”
I clenched shut my eyes. Sweat dripped down my back. My ass was exposed to the world and about to get a beating from a young, hot, infuriating punk. “I … I know,” I panted.
“You’re going to count them.”
“Count them?”
“One at a time. Every single spank.”
“Yes, sir.” Sir? Really? When did that start?
“When I’m done with you, I’m gonna be a whole fuck lot more than just your ‘sir’.” He leaned in close—really close—then put his plush, wet, arrogant lips right by my ear and hissed, “I’m going to be your god.”
He drew back. I felt the weightlessness of suspense. My whole body clenched up as I anticipated the first powerful swat—the one that would be full of his strength, of his youthful aggression, of his superiority, of his contempt for me.
Give it to me. Spank me. Land that belt over my ass. Don’t make me wait a second longer. Punish me. I need it. I fucking need it.
Instead of the crack of his belt, I heard a faint digital jingle.
“Mr. McKinney!” came a sweet lady’s voice.
My eyes flapped open. I lifted my head off my desk, a sheet of paper coming up with it, stuck to my cheek. The boy with the belt was gone. I was still seated with my pants totally not at my ankles.
I pulled the paper off my face. A list of banking codes.
Fuck. All I did was lay my head down for five minutes, and there came one of those dreams again. What was I? Some horny teenager who couldn’t take a five minute nap without dreaming up some ridiculously embarrassing sexual fantasy?
Damn it, James.
I coughed, sniffed, then fished through the mess of paperwork on my desk for the button to my intercom. My thumb pressed into it. “S-Sorry?” I mumbled, hoarse. “What?”
“Ms. Olive, your two o’clock, is here!”
I wiped a bit of drool off my chin. Ms. Olive. She wanted to set up a savings account for her son. “One … One m-minute,” I choked into the speaker, then clicked it off. My head still spun from the dream—which clearly made me sweat clean through my clothes. I had drifted off so deeply, I was completely convinced it was really happening. My heart still raced. I could picture him holding his belt and glaring at me menacingly—though now, I realized I didn’t know what his face looked like. Every time I blinked, I recognized him less and less.
Then I glanced down at the parting gift my fantasy left me: a throbbing erection that had no chance of subsiding anytime soon.
I leaned back in my chair, exhausted. It was bad enough when you hadn’t had sex in ages and every piece of eye candy you saw was a cock tease. But then your own vivid imagination also had to go and cock tease you when all you wanted was an innocent nap between banking clients.
Pop, buzz, crackle. “Should I send her in, Mister Employee-of-the-Month Personal-Banker?”
I tried shoving my erection between my legs. It popped right back up. I closed my eyes and willed it to go away to no avail. Then I straight-up flicked it with a scowl on my face. No dice.
“Looks like I need another minute, Joyce,” I mumbled into the intercom, then pressed palms into my eyes. I was such a horny, overworked, tired little mess, and luck was never, ever on my side.
Just paperwork, other peoples’ money, and midday erections.
My weekend getaway with the guys couldn’t come fast enough.