Two weeks later

I twist and turn my neck while reaching over my shoulder to knead the aching muscles on my back. God, I’m tired. I stretch in my seat, wincing slightly at the way my body protests in reaction. I’ve been working since eight am, and it’s---

I glance at the digital clock display on the phone’s dock, and my eyes widen.

Nine pm? Sheesh. I’ve been working for over twelve hours, and I haven’t even noticed. Shaking my head, I stand up and shut my laptop close. Time to call it a night, I decide silently. But when I’m halfway to the reception counter, I hear the most awful sound.

Rrrriiiiiiiiing.

My footsteps stall as I debate what to do. Should I pretend I’m already gone?

Rrrriiiiiiiiing.

I gnaw on my lip. It’s already way past my working hours. I’m under no obligation to answer it. Right?

Rrrriiiiiiiiing.

But then a memory drifts back in my mind, and I remember the blistering earful I received the last time I made my boss wait for more than five rings before answering his call.

Rrrriiiiiiiiing.

Shit. That’s number four already, and before I know it, I’ve already dropped my stuff on the floor and I’m running back to my work area. As I make a dive for the phone, its display starts to flash.

Rr---

“Good evening, Mr. Rochester.” I struggle to keep my voice level even as I work hard to catch my breath.

“You sound out of breath.”

The words are spoken briskly, almost brusquely, in a strongly accented British voice. I’m ashamed to admit this, but my toes had curled involuntarily the first time I had heard Mr. Rochester’s voice. Right now, however, I have more pressing concerns---

“Were you about to leave when I called?”

---such as the fact that my boss is too perceptive by half.

Jabbing the loudspeaker button on the screen, I glare at my phone even as I manage to say sweetly, “Not at all, sir.” The gall, to make it sound like it’s my fault I’m leaving. Hasn’t he noticed what time it is?

“You’re lying.”

“No, Mr. Rochester.” I glare harder at my phone.

“Yes.” Mr. Rochester’s pleasant tone comes with a cultured edge. “You are.”

Received pronunciation is what it’s called, an accent so prestigious it’s estimated only 2% of the British population has it.

And most likely than not, I think grumpily, all of them are assholes like Mr. Rochester.

I take a deep breath, but Mr. Rochester beats me to speak, saying curtly, “Enough with this. You’re wasting too much of my time.”

ASSHOLE!

“I need you to send the Marconi report to our Japanese affiliate,” Mr. Rochester goes on briskly. “You know who I’m talking it about?”

“Yes, sir. The report will be in your inbox in two minutes---”

“Make it one.” And the line goes dead.

My teeth grind against each other, and it’s all I can do not to throw my phone against the wall. Gaah! I never knew that another person in this world can make me so mad, but Mr. Rochester simply takes the cake.

“Make it in one,” I mimic sarcastically to myself, and my teeth start gnashing again. But even as I continue cursing him in my mind, I’m also moving towards my seat because asshole or not, it’s Mr. Rochester who pays my bills---

And people who pay the bills always get their way, I think with a sigh while switching my laptop open. Pulling out the report Mr. Rochester’s asked for, I update it with the latest data and click Send thirty-five seconds after.

A moment later, a message pops up over my inbox.

Ha! Take that, Mr. Rochester.

Getting up, I close my laptop – hopefully for the last time – and just as I pick my bag up from the floor, the iPhone I’ve shoved in my back pocket chimes out a message alert – and it’s the special tone I have assigned to my asshole boss.

Seriously?

I reluctantly take my phone out and read his text.

Mr. Rochester: Update on the Marconi report?

Me: Already sent, sir.

Mr. Rochester: Good girl.

I grimace. The former PAs probably had their hearts skipping a beat over that, but I just can’t help feel it’s a little bit condescending. Then again, I’m also the practical sort, and I know the words “good woman” don’t quite have the same ring.

But then, I continue arguing mentally to myself, if he had a male PA, I doubt Mr. Rochester would have told him ‘good boy’ by way of praise.

So whatever way you look at it, he’s being a little sexist---

Mr. Rochester: Inform Maria for me you’re scheduled for overtime bonus, will you?

---but I’ll totally forgive him for that since Mr. Rochester is, in my opinion, the best boss ever.

Me: Understood, sir. Thank you, sir.

No reply follows, but I don’t mind.

Yes, yes, yes!

In the mood to celebrate, I impulsively decide to make a detour towards the kitchen, which is exclusive for the penthouse staff and always has a fully stocked pantry. It’s definitely going to have everything I’d want for a celebratory dinner, I think happily, and even better all of it will be free.

On my way I catch a glimpse of my reflection on the glass walls of the office, and my nose wrinkles, like it always do, when I’m confronted by the reality of my appearance.

Hair – average.

Eyes – average.

Even my body is the same, neither thin nor chubby but just…average.

The thought of what Mr. Rochester would say if he sees me makes my nose wrinkle anew.

Bloody mediocre?

I mentally nod to myself as I enter the kitchen. Yeah, that would probably it. Although I’ve been working for Mr. Rochester for the past half month, my boss and I actually haven’t come face to face yet. In the past two weeks that I’ve been his P.A., Mr. Rochester has only been communicating with me either by phone or email.

Even so---

Why are there moments when I feel like I’ve known him for a long time?

I mull this over as I rifle through the pantry’s contents. Maybe it’s because Mr. Rochester never tiptoes around me? Unlike my previous bosses, who were all perfect gentlemen, our British CEO is so rude there are times he makes me seem nice. He likes calling a spade a spade, never mind if he ends up rubbing other people the wrong way.

I kinda admire him for that, I admit to myself grudgingly, but only when his viciously blunt words aren’t directed at me.

After finally settling on some Japanese crabstick salad and pasta, I pull out my phone to browse my newsfeed on Facebook, and I let out an inelegant snort as I’m once again greeted by an insane number of friend requests.

It’s been like that ever since word’s spread that I’m now Mr. Rochester’s PA, which I think is stupid. What did these women expect me to do, anyway? It’s not like our resident bad boy would ask me for dating advice or something.

After washing up, I make myself a cup of latte and go back to scrolling up on my newsfeed. I take my time perusing photos and status messages but not liking or commenting on anything. It’s just endlessly fascinating to me how people seem not to have any qualms posting everything on Facebook---

I don’t get it, but I do respect it, and it’s another thing I sort of admire. At least they’re putting their selves out there, which is more than I can say for myself. As I take another sip of my latte, an article shared by someone from my old high school catches my eye.

Obvious click bait, I think to myself, snorting over my mug.

But it also works, and so I click.

The link takes me out of Facebook, and a new page starts to load.

What the---

My face warms as a single photo takes up the entire screen of my iPhone, and I realize too late what exposed means.

In the photo, my boss is lying lazily on a bed of white silk sheets, ebony black hair tousled, one arm behind his head, and his sapphire blue eyes smirking at the camera.

I know you’re staring at me, that cocky look in his pretty blues is saying---

I take a quick gulp of coffee as I feel my pulse actually start to stupidly, inexplicably race.

Close the page now, Reed!

Close it!

But I can’t even tear my gaze off the page.

Mr. Rochester’s powerfully muscular body is almost completely naked in the photo, with only his crotch covered by a rumpled silk sheet. If that isn’t bad enough, the sheet is so thin the shape of his cock makes a rather prominent impression---

Shit.

I down the rest of my coffee, but it’s no use, and my throat continues to feel dry. I may be a virgin, but I’ve watched enough sex scenes in my life to know the difference between small and big weenies---

Well, let’s just say that Mr. Rochester’s is not small. Instead, it’s---

It’s---

It’s so…so…monstrously---

Heat suffuses my cheeks, and I mentally catch myself in time. Why the hell am I thinking about my boss’ cock? And did I really just use the word monstrous to describe---

I shake my head hard, literally, but it’s too late. My thoughts have once again gone off tangent, and now there’s no stopping it.

Now, all I can imagine is Mr. Rochester – my boss – and he’s not just naked.

It’s worse than that.

Right now, I can only imagine Mr. Rochester lying over me, naked, mocking blue eyes devouring my body---

“I’m going to fuck you bloody hard now, Ms. Reed.”

My mind has no trouble imagining the sound of his voice either: it’s very much British and – yes, cultured, and when used to say dirty words the combination is devastating.

A moan of embarrassment tries to rush out of my throat as my body clenches with unexpected need.

Oh, to be fucked so bloody hard!

I close my eyes and cover my face, but it’s no use.

I can’t stop fantasizing about him---

Oh, Mr. Rochester!

Imagining how he’d shove his monstrous cock inside of me, tearing me apart---

I feel something ooze out of my folds, soaking my panties, and I jerk. My hands fall away as I gaze down at myself in horror.

Am I…wet?

As soon as the word forms in my mind, I realize I am, extremely so, and the knowledge has my legs automatically pressing together.

Oh my God!

But still the wetness continues to ooze out of me, hot, sticky, and uncontrollable.

This is stupid. Insane. Impossible.

And yet---

My mind is stubborn, and it’s STILL fantasizing about Mr. Rochester fucking me, with his bloody hard cock---

His impossibly, monstrously---

Stop imagining things, Reed!

My fingers tighten and loosen reflexively around the handle of my empty mug as I struggle to control my arousal. Just one stupid photo, I lament to myself, and now I’m horny as hell.

It doesn’t even make sense.

I hadn’t lied to Ms. Fairfax when I told her I’ve been attracted to bad boys. They’ve just never been my type. Never. Other girls no doubt see them differently, but I’ve always thought them shallow and selfish, and more often than not cruel and stupid.

So why is Mr. Rochester making me feel this way – when he’s the virtual king of bad boys?

Only one answer comes to me, and the mere thought of it has me squirming, not out of discomfort…but of arousal.

I’ve never thought I could be this way, but the moist heat still making my insides churn and my pussy ache tells me that what I’m suspecting is embarrassingly true.

Monstrous cocks are my weakness.

It’s my fetish, my---

Shit.

A sound has reached my ears, cutting my thoughts off, and I tense and strain my ears---

Shit.

I still hear it, which means I haven’t imagined the sound of a knob turning.

The realization has me automatically reaching for my empty mug like it’s a weapon for self-defense. It’s no pepper spray, but right now anything is better than nothing.

Penthouse access is so strict that entry to it after office hours requires at least 24 hours’ notice. And since I’m the one who grants such access as Mr. Rochester’s PA---

My heartbeat speeds up, and my grip on the mug tightens.

Whoever’s coming in isn’t supposed to be here, I think grimly.

I hear the main doors of the penthouse office start to open.

Shit, shit, shit.

I tiptoe behind the door, knowing that it’s too late to switch off the light in the kitchen and hide in the darkness.

What if it’s a ghost?

What if it’s an intruder?

Ah dammit, I’m not even sure which is better, all I know is---

The sound of footsteps reaches my ears.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

And the sound is coming louder, the footsteps nearer---

Intruders can be hurt, but not ghosts…right?

Even so, it doesn’t hurt to try.

Taking a deep breath, I raise the mug over my head as I bide my time, waiting, waiting---

The kitchen door opens, and whoever – whatever – it is casts a shadow on the ground.

Oh God.

Someone---

Something---

Enters---

I swing hard.

Stunned blue eyes clash with mine, and I pale, gasping, “Mr. Rochester?”

Oh, shit.

I try to control the downward swing of my arm, but it’s too late.

A moment later, we both hear something crack.

And then---

“BLOODY HELL.”

The mug slips out of my grasp and crashes into the floor.

I stare at my boss in stupefied horror, thinking numbly, Bloody hell indeed.

I think I’ve just given my boss cause to sue me for manslaughter.

* * *

When Mr. Rochester emerges out of the E.R. with the coldest-looking expression I’ve ever seen on a human face, I open my mouth immediately to say sorry---

“Later,” my boss snaps.

I shut my mouth. Still rude as ever, but I have to let it go, considering how I’m the reason for the ugly cast covering his right hand.

Outside the hospital, Mr. Rochester’s limousine is already waiting and when he glares at me, I take it as a non-verbal command to get in or die. My teeth start to grind, but I doggedly remind myself being subjected to tantrums is getting better than being sued.

Mr. Rochester takes a seat in front of me, and soon after the limousine starts to move. The silence between us is horrible, and I wonder gloomily if this is the aftermath before a storm, AKA the moment before I get fired.

But…surely Mr. Rochester can’t be that petty?

When I steal a look at my boss, I barely notice how hot and utterly British he is in his pinstriped suit and oxfords. All I can see right now is the hideous cast covering his right hand, and a sick feeling forms in the pit of my stomach as I recall the E.R. doctor saying how Mr. Rochester’s fracture requires two to three weeks of recovery period post surgery, and that’s only assuming no complication arises.

Mr. Rochester shifts slightly in his seat, and my gaze reluctantly moves up. I’m disconcerted and dismayed to find his sapphire eyes studying me, and I sit up self-consciously even as I prepare myself for the worst.

“So…”

Oh God. How can one word be so damn expressive? Is my imagination running wild or do I really detect fury, disdain, and a distinct need to extract revenge in that one word?

I wait for him to say something else, but he only gazes at me with narrow blue eyes that do nothing to keep my heartbeat from escalating.

Oh God, oh God.

What do I do if Mr. Rochester decides to press charges?

Several worst-scenarios occur to me, and I shove my hands under me, sitting on them so I don’t accidentally start pulling my hair.

Whatever happens, Reed, you are going to accept your fate with dignity.

Okay?

But when I hear Mr. Rochester speak again, saying, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to---”

Not okay.

And I hear myself snap, “You can’t blame me for what happened!”

Mr. Rochester stills. “I…can’t?”

I have a feeling I’ve said the wrong word, but I’m too far gone in a haze of anger and panic to pause and think about it. Instead, I hear myself say hotly, “No, you can’t.”

A smile starts to play on Mr. Rochester lips. “Perhaps you’d care to enlighten me, Ms. Reed--”

“Gladly,” I snarl.

“Why do you believe I require your permission to do anything?”

My mouth opens…and closes. He has a point there. Shit. But then Mr. Rochester raises a brow, and the sight infuriates me so, my mouth ends up running away from me again.

“Don’t twist my words,” I snap. “It’s so petty.”

“Petty?” Mr. Rochester echoes very softly.

Shut up now, Reed, my sensible side pleads. Please shut up and stop trying to commit verbal suicide.

But I can’t. I just can’t. There’s something about Mr. Rochester that makes me lose my head---

And so I lift my chin, saying, “Yes. Petty.”

Silence.

And then Mr. Rochester says with a sigh, “Now, you’ve done it.”

I start to tell him I don’t care, but Mr. Rochester shakes his head. “Enough.”

The word is laced with ice, and it startles me into silence.

I watch him cross his legs. It should have made him look gay but somehow Mr. Rochester makes it work. He still looks sophisticated, masculine, and scary as hell.

As the silence between us lengthens, my mind begins to replay all the words I had uttered in the past five minutes---

And the urge to puke comes back with a vengeance.

Wasn’t this exactly what Ms. Fairfax warned me about?

No sass.

And yet---

Numbers suddenly start running through my mind.

The thousands of dollars I still owe on my student loan---

The hundreds of dollars I spend every month for daily expenses---

And all of it will be gone in a blink of an eye, I realize sickly, if this man chooses to fire me.

In front of me, Mr. Rochester’s lips curve in a smile that’s dazzling and terrifying at the same time, and I gulp.

I’m dead. I’m so dead.

Mr. Rochester’s fingers begin to tap on the armrest, and my heart drops to the pit of my stomach.

I just know…I just know…whatever’s going to happen---

“Listen very carefully to me, Ms. Reed.”

And so I do---

“Because the next words I’ll speak will determine the course of your life.”

And so it does.

* * *

“You look horrible,” Virginia, the penthouse receptionist, declares as soon as I come in for work the next day.

“Do I?” I ask uninterestedly while writing my name on the logbook. Virginia’s always hated me for being chosen as Mr. Rochester’s PA, a job she apparently also applied for – and obviously failed to nab. Once in a while, the sting of her failure gets to her, and it’s in those instances she’d try to make these little digs, like now---

“Unfortunately,” she says sweetly, “I’m not lying.”

“Fortunately,” I say just as sweetly as I return the logbook to her, “I don’t care.”

There’s a pause, and then she says stiffly, “Ha.”

And so it ends like always, with Virginia always losing for lack of a proper comeback.

Virginia’s gaze narrows on me as I move on to the second half of our company’s two-step authentication process and I digitally clock in by placing my thumb on the scanner.

“You’re acting strange,” she says suspiciously.

She’s right. Normally, I’d be on a roll by now. In my book, all’s fair in bitch fights and if you start something with me, I’m going to damn well finish it.

Or at least that’s what I do, normally.

But right now, I’m far from feeling normal and it’s all because of---

The door to the CEO’s office suddenly opens, and everyone in the floor shuts up and sort of freezes.

Speak of the devil.

I’m equal parts fascinated and disgusted at Mr. Rochester’s effect on people, but one thing I’m not is surprised. It’s just further proof of my belief how much people who pay the bills can get away with, and I can’t help lifting my chin defiantly when my boss reaches the reception, stopping only a few inches from where I’m standing.

The scent of his aftershave teases my nostrils, and I involuntarily jerk. The telltale reaction causes Mr. Rochester’s blue eyes to glint, and my teeth gnash. Damn him.

A part of me has secretly hoped he’d be less imposing in daylight, but of course these hopes turn out to be foolish. Although Mr. Rochester is still as coldly handsome as ever, there’s something about the way sunlight pools around his feet that makes him seem even…ethereal.

Which is plain unfair, I think grumpily, considering how he’s a devil in disguise.

He inclines his head at me in greeting, murmuring, “Ms. Reed.”

Shit. It doesn’t escape me that I’m the only one he’s deigned to acknowledge – and neither has it escaped anyone else, considering how many eyebrows shot up at the special attention he’s giving me.

The realization has me squirming internally. Maybe other girls like being singled out this way, but not me and definitely not when this particular man is concerned.

But…he’s the one who pays the bills.

And so I swallow back my reservations and general dislike, and I force myself to smile politely. “Mr. Rochester.”

And let it please end with that, I wish fervently.

But of course it doesn’t.

Ever since I’ve started working in the penthouse floor, the one thing I always hear people say is how terrifyingly aloof and moody Mr. Rochester is, with a beast of a temper. I’m sure this is all true, which is why I’m just as sure that when Mr. Rochester’s lips curve into the most devilishly sexy smile…I know he’s doing it just to get a rise out of me.

Damn him.

Jaws drop all around us as the rest of the staff tries to adjust to the reality of our CEO knowing how to do something else besides brood. Some react more viciously – Virginia in particular – and I grit my teeth as I feel women’s gazes shoot daggers at my back.

Like I said, I hate being singled out, especially if it makes people think it’s because I’m special when in reality I’m just being bullied.

I scowl at Mr. Rochester. Glad you’re having fun at my expense.

My boss’ smile becomes even more devastating. I am, thank you.

God, why can’t movies like The Purge be real? Because if it is, I just know who I’m going to kill---

Mr. Rochester makes an imperious gesture in my direction. “I’ve just remembered I need a private word with you, Ms. Reed.”

I open my mouth, intending to make up all kinds of excuses to refuse---

“And in case you’re in doubt,” Mr. Rochester drawls, “it’s not a request.”

Shit. I manage not to choke on my rage as I force out the only acceptable answer. “Yes, Mr. Rochester.”

The walk to his office as I follow behind my asshole of a boss is like heading down death’s row, and even worse I feel like I’m collecting enemies with every few seconds that pass. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, as the saying goes, and right now I’m definitely on every woman’s kill list.

I can feel them judging me, scorning me, all of them thinking I’ve somehow connived my way into a “special” place in Mr. Rochester’s life---

Which of course is exactly how Mr. Rochester wants it to be, damn him.

As I step inside of his office, Mr. Rochester says lazily, “Close the door, please.”

Asshole, I can’t help thinking even as I turn around to do as bid. Reaching for the knob, I catch sight of Virginia glaring at me murderously all the way from the reception counter---

Shit. I have a nasty feeling my attendance sheet’s going to suffer after this. I close the door with grimly, feeling like I’m hammering down on the last nail of my own coffin. Turning around, I see Mr. Rochester smirking still, and my temper can no longer take it.

“Congratulations,” I snarl. “You’ve succeeded in ruining my reputation. Everyone thinks I’ve become your mistress overnight now so I hope you’re happy.”

“I didn’t think you were the type to care about what others think.”

“And I don’t, but only when it’s something I’m really guilty about. But this is---”

“Not anyone else’s business except ours, don’t you think?” Mr. Rochester’s broad shoulders move under his perfectly tailored jacket in a dismissive shrug. “Like you, I have never been bothered by other people’s opinions, Ms. Reed. But unlike you, mine isn’t selective. I simply feel that letting yourself affected by how other people see you is a sheer waste of time. Hopefully you’ll come to realize this for yourself as well.”

Before I can tell him that only rich people can afford such “realizations”, Mr. Rochester gestures to one of the leather seats across his desk, saying, “Please sit---”

I raise my chin again, saying proudly, “I prefer---”

Perching himself on the edge of his desk, Mr. Rochester pats his lap, drawling, “Sitting here, perhaps?”

Again, my mouth opens and closes, and my mind has a mini breakdown as I find myself envisioning Mr. Rochester placing me on his lap---

Aaaah.

Fire slithers its way down my body, making every inch of it burn.

Shit.

But no matter how hard I try to fight against it, my body just keeps getting hotter.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

How is it that this man arouses me so easily?

“Well, Ms. Reed?”

“I’ll take a seat,” I mutter.

Mr. Rochester sighs. “A pity.”

Pretending I don’t feel his amused gaze following my every movement, I make my way to the leather seat and plop down ungracefully. In the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Mr. Rochester reach for a pen on his desk and start twirling it between his fingers---

Every movement is picture-perfect, and for some reason I find myself reluctantly enthralled by the sight.

“Now.” Mr. Rochester’s tone is musing. “Where were we?”

Where were we indeed, I wonder vaguely as the movements of his fingers continue to mesmerize me. Will those fingers be just as skillful when they’re caressing a woman’s flesh---

SHIT.

I jerk in my seat, face flaming as the fire in my blood burns hotter. Oh God. Why is it that every little thing Mr. Rochester does is capable of sending my mind to the gutters?

The pen in his fingers suddenly stills.

And then I hear him say, “You’re blushing.”

Shit.

His words are infinitely embarrassing, but there’s something in his voice that’s even more worrying, and I blink in bemusement even as my heart starts to race. I feel like I’ve forgotten something…but what?

Our eyes meet again…and Mr. Rochester starts to smile. “Oh, Ms. Reed.” His voice is filled with mock disappointment. “Have you somehow convinced yourself that last night was a mere whim of mine? Or an empty threat perhaps?”

Oh.

OH.

I’m unable to answer, dismay and shock turning me into a statue in my seat as I realize he’s right. I have made myself forgotten---

But not anymore.

Now, I remember very clearly how Mr. Rochester looked at me when he said, Listen very carefully, Ms. Reed. Because the next words I’ll be speaking will determine the course of your life.

The memory makes me cringe, and the knowledge that the worse is yet to come more so.

* * *

“Earlier, I had a bit of time to myself before the surgery, so I thought I’d make use of it by asking security to send me everything they have on you.”

His voice might be deceptively casual, but I knew a threat when I heard one. Infuriated that he thought I could be so easily intimidated, I lifted my chin, saying proudly, “I have nothing to hide.”

“I’m glad you think that.” Mr. Rochester paused. “But if you’re thinking I’m referring to the fact that you were a runaway in your childhood, it’s not what I’m talking about.”

Since that was exactly what I thought he meant, his words left me annoyingly stumped, and all I could do was glare at him, asking ungraciously, “Then what?”

“Can you truly think of nothing you’d want to hide from me?” Mr. Rochester’s voice is taunting.

“Not a single thing,” I answered coolly.

“Are you certain?”

“Hundred ten percent,” I snapped.

But instead of enraging him – which a part of myself foolishly wanted to happen – Mr. Rochester only smiled. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said softly, “since it means you want me to fuck you that much.”

My jaw dropped. What was he---

And then Mr. Rochester took his phone out, saying, “Security sent me CCTV footage, Ms. Reed. You were in the staff kitchen, enjoying what I assumed was a very late dinner.” Mr. Rochester paused. “But then I looked closely and I realized that it wasn’t the only thing you were enjoying.”

I looked at his phone and saw myself on the screen, staring at his photo, a look of undeniable arousal on my face.

Oh God.

“I was actually prepared to let everything go, Ms. Reed. If you had simply apologized, we could have put the incident behind us and things could have gone back to normal.” Mr. Rochester gazed at me contemplatively. “Sorry. That was all you had to say, Ms. Reed.”

I couldn’t answer right away…because he was right. Why hadn’t just I said ‘sorry’? Why?

“But you didn’t apologize.” Mr. Rochester leaned back against his seat. “Instead you did the opposite. Rather than keeping your mouth shut, you kept provoking me at every turn. It was as if you were begging to be punished---”

“T-that’s insane.” But my voice was faint, and a large part of me was terrified that what he said was true. Hadn’t I been wondering myself why I kept saying and doing the most outrageous things in his presence?

“It was clear enough you wanted me to be furious,” Mr. Rochester went on as if I hadn’t said a word, “but what frankly puzzled me was why. Why would you court trouble so deliberately? I read your background report, so I knew you couldn’t afford to lose the job. I considered the media angle: perhaps you were a paid snoop by the paparazzi, but it didn’t fit your profile---”

“It’s none of that,” I finally blurted out. “And you’re right I’m sorry---”

“Please, Ms. Reed. There’s no need of that.”

I blinked.

Mr. Rochester flashed another smile. “After all, it’s already too late.”

What?

“When I saw the video everything became clear.”

It did?

“This tiny glimpse into your private world was enough to explain everything.” As he spoke, Mr. Rochester glanced down at his phone, and I flinched when I saw him running his thumb down the screen.

Oh God.

My body started trembling almost as if his hands were caressing the real me, and not just a captured image of myself---

SHIT.

How could I be so aroused with just the knowledge that he was watching me stare at his almost-naked photo?

It didn’t make any sense, I thought numbly.

Mr. Rochester chuckled, and when my gaze jerked towards him, he said calmly, “Of course it does.”

My eyes widened. I hadn’t realized that anxiety had me unconsciously speaking my thoughts out loud.

“The photo was the mere trigger, but the desire was there all along.”

His words stunned me, and I said automatically, “No.” I shook my head. “It’s not like that.” And it couldn’t be.

But it was as if he hadn’t heard me.

“It was why you started acting out the moment you saw me,” Mr. Rochester murmured. “You were like a child who wanted my fucking attention---”

“NO.” This time, I cried the word out. “It’s not---”

“It’s exactly like that,” Mr. Rochester crooned, “and you’ll be glad to know that it worked.”

I froze.

“You have my fucking attention.” Mr. Rochester paused. “The question is…what do you want to do about it?”

* * *

“Do you remember everything now?” Mr. Rochester’s words, spoken in a dulcet tone, snap me back to the present, and I nod jerkily in answer, accepting that there’s no point lying.

He knows. Mr. Rochester. Mr. Rochester knows he turns me on.

A tidal wave of sensation threatens to sweep me away, and I find myself gripping the armrests tightly. I wish I could say it’s dread that’s trickling down my spine and making me shiver, but I know it’s not.

It’s something worse – like excitement, or even arousal.

He knows. Mr. Rochester knows.

And as if the realization isn’t enough torture, my mind starts replaying events of last night, forcing me to confront reality.

You have my fucking attention. The question is…what do you want to do about it?

My cheeks flush at the memory, and when I find myself involuntarily searching for Mr. Rochester with my gaze it’s as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking---

Mr. Rochester’s smile is all taunting sexiness, but it’s a complete contrast with his oh-so-polite tone as he prompts, “And your answer, Ms. Reed?”

Arrogant bastard.

God, I hate him.

Jumping unthinkingly to my feet, I bite out, “Nothing. Nothing is going to happen because you’re being completely delusional.”

Mr. Rochester’s smile continues to play on his lips. “Am I?” And then his gaze slowly moves down, lingering on my chest.

I gasp, but he doesn’t look away, and I feel my chest start to rise and fall rapidly. Even worse, I’m horrified to feel my flesh swelling in response behind the cups of my bra, and when my breasts start to ache painfully, I realize too late what it is he’s trying to prove.

I want him. I want him to fuck me. And the bastard knows it, too.

Hopeless frustration consumes me, and I find myself whispering bitterly, “Bastard.” Before I know it I’m already rushing towards him, my hand raised to slap the smirk off his goddamn face---

Mr. Rochester catches my wrist before I can hit him, and even as I gasp in outrage Mr. Rochester goes further, hauling me against him while he reverses our positions---

In a blink of an eye, I’m trapped between his desk and Mr. Rochester’s rock-hard body, his uninjured hand holding both of my wrists captive behind my back.

I stare up at him, confused, horrified, but most shamefully of all – I’m also aroused, more so than ever---

And of course the bastard knows this, too. It’s there in his eyes, and even though I know it’s true, the sight still infuriates me, and I mutter under my breath, “This is harassment.”

But Mr. Rochester only chuckles. “Harassment only occurs when someone’s reluctant.” His hips move right after he speaks, and I find myself gasping as the positions of our bodies change---

And just like that his monstrously erect cock is cradled directly between my wet, throbbing folds.

Oh God.

“And you’re not reluctant, are you?”

Biting back a moan at the feel of his cock rubbing against my pussy, I manage to snarl, “Bastard.”

“Yes,” he agrees without hesitation. “I am a bastard. I’ve never pretended to be anything else and yet – you want me anyway, don’t you, Ms. Reed?”

I can only glare at him, knowing that if I speak, my breathless voice will only reveal how true his words is.

“I suggest you do the same,” Mr. Rochester murmurs, “so you can put yourself out of your misery. Be honest, Ms. Reed. Tell me what you want---”

“All I want,” I grate out, “is that you let me go now and stop harras---”

Mr. Rochester doesn’t wait for me to finish. His uninjured hand yanks one of my hands between our bodies---

My words end in a gasp. “What are you---”

Mr. Rochester shoves my hand down.

And I suddenly find myself gripping the pulsing, engorged length of Mr. Rochester’s cock.

Oh God.

A low whimper escapes me, and the sound makes Mr. Rochester’s eyes gleam in cruel satisfaction.

“This, Ms. Reed,” Mr. Rochester says silkily, “is what you really want.” And as if to underscore his words, his hand over mine tightens, and my fingers automatically tighten around his cock as well---

Oh God.

The feel of his enormous cock between my fingers makes my breath hitch in my throat.

“Perhaps you can answer me now, Ms. Reed.”

I watch Mr. Rochester’s hand lift from mine as he speaks. I know it’s my best chance to pull away---

“What do you want from me?”

---but I don’t.

I can’t.

Instead, I watch in horror as my fingers tighten its grip around his cock---

Oh God.

Why can’t I let go?

Over my head I hear Mr. Rochester slowly expel his breath, the sound filled with such languid pleasure I just know---

He loves the way I’m holding his cock and he wants me to know it.

“Say it,” Mr. Rochester whispers.

It’s like being tempted by the devil himself and I squeeze my eyes shut in a desperate, futile attempt on resistance.

“I d-don’t know what you’re talking about---”

Mr. Rochester cuts me off with a laugh, and even the mere sound of it is dreadfully alluring. He really is the devil, I think foolishly.

“Shall I help you out then?” Mr. Rochester suggests under his breath. “Do you want me to say it for you?”

My eyes widen. “No---”

But I’m too late, and the words that I should never have heard are already out.

“What you want, Ms. Reed,” Mr. Rochester croons, “is to do what I want.”

“No!”

“You want me to fuck you. Wherever and whenever I desire---”

“Stop,” I gasp.

“However I desire,” Mr. Rochester goes on ruthlessly. “Rough. Hard. Fast. On the wall. On the floor. On this damn desk this very minute if I want it---”

“No!” And I finally remember to struggle. “Let me go.”

“Not until we’re done---”

“You don’t own me, Mr. Rochester,” I hiss at him.

But the words only make him smirk, and he whispers into my ear, “Not yet.”

Aaaah.

I try to shove him away even as my knees quake, but Mr. Rochester retaliates by grinding his lower body harder against mine---

Oh God.

Desire surges up inside of me, and I can feel my body starting to sag and mold against his powerful length.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

Why do I want him so much?

And again, it’s as if the bastard really is capable of reading my mind as he whispers, “I told you, Ms. Reed. You want me.”

Chaos erupts inside of me at his words. Half of me is lost in despair: it’s so damn terrifying, knowing that this man has such a hold over me. But the other half…oh, that other, more foolish, hopeless half is delirious. It can’t wait to have Mr. Rochester ordering me to do things.

Unspeakable things.

Shameful things.

Things that Mr. Rochester can only do---

Clenching my fists, I force myself to meet Mr. Rochester’s gaze as I ask stiffly, “What now?”

Instead of answering right away, Mr. Rochester raises his uninjured hand to touch my cheek---

I turn my face away sharply, avoiding his touch.

Mr. Rochester chuckles. “Stubborn to the very end, Ms. Reed?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mutter with a shrug and continue doggedly, “You still haven’t mentioned anything---”

“If you’re asking about my plans,” Mr. Rochester interrupts calmly, “they’re relatively straightforward. We’ll start with having you move in with me tonight---”

“Excuse me?” I choke out.

“You won’t have to worry about the logistics.”

“I won’t move in with you!”

“Yes. You will.”

“Or what?” I challenge bitterly. “You’ll blackmail me about the video?”

He blinks. “Of course not.” And his tone is even mildly reproving. “That has never been my style, Ms. Reed, and even if it were I’d have no need to do such a thing with you.” When I continue looking at him with suspicion, Mr. Rochester says with a sigh, “You have an extremely low opinion of me, don’t you, Ms. Reed?”

To my surprise, Mr. Rochester gently pulls away and I automatically take a few steps back to put much needed space between us. I watch him go around his desk and take out a sheet of paper from his drawer.

“For you, Ms. Reed.” Exasperation flashes in Mr. Rochester’s gaze when I glance at the document suspiciously. “Go on and read it. The contract’s primarily drawn out for your benefit.”

Yeah right, I think even as I slowly reach for the document.

It takes me only a few minutes to fully digest what the contract’s about, and when I’ve finally convinced myself I’m not reading anything wrong I turn to him, wary and bewildered. “You really had the video permanently deleted?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re actually going to pay me if it turns out otherwise and the video surfaces and goes public?” In fact “paying” me is quite the understatement; considering the amount stipulated in the contract, he’s practically setting me up for life---

“Yes.”

Mr. Rochester’s mildly voiced reply only leaves me even more confused and suspicious, and I burst out, “Why?” Why would he get rid of the one thing that gives him enormous hold over me?

Mr. Rochester walks towards the door, saying over his shoulder, “First of all, extortion of that type has never been my style. Secondly---” His hand rests on the doorknob and he turns to face me again. “I don’t need it.”

He…doesn’t?

“Because you want me, Ms. Reed. And as long as you want me---” Mr. Rochester’s smile is filled with dangerous promise. “I know you’ll do whatever I want.” I watch Mr. Rochester turn the knob, murmuring politely, “Now, if it’s alright with you, I’ll need you to leave, Ms. Reed. I have a meeting in ten minutes.”

* * *

The rest of the day proceeds like usual, and it’s so damn normal it’s exactly what’s driving me crazy. As I go through the motions of work, I can’t stop thinking about those few minutes I was alone with Mr. Rochester in his office.

Did it really happen?

I can’t help pinching myself at the thought, and a tiny part of me actually expects it won’t hurt---

But it does.

“Ouch.” I let go quickly and grimace at the swollen bit of flesh on my arm. Damn Mr. Rochester. This is his fault, too.

Swinging away from the windows, I turn back to my laptop and resume banging hard on the keyboard, imagining all the while I’m poking Mr. Rochester’s body with a fork.

Damn him. Damn him. Damn him.

But deep inside, I know I’m not really furious with him. My anger is completely self-directed, and every time my masochistic mind replays memories of this morning’s shameful confrontation---

I just hate myself more and more.

He deleted the video, permanently!

You have the contract in your bag to prove it!

So why are you still wasting your time obsessing over him?

A great question, I think darkly, but one I unfortunately have no idea how to answer. Everything’s Mr. Rochester has so far done is nothing like I’ve expected---

He has a video of me that he can use as his leverage, but he ends up getting rid of it.

He could have sued me for his injuries but he chooses to overlook it.

He has the experience – the skills, for heaven’s sake, if tempting women could be considered one – to seduce me into making me believe all sorts of things, but instead he gives me the agonizing truth.

What kind of man does that?

A man like Mr. Rochester, an irritatingly know-it-all voice inside of me mocks, and it’s because he’s like no other that you want him.

The jeering thought makes me bang harder on the keyboard---

“Ms. Reed?” a meek voice interrupts my tantrum.

I swing my seat around, snarling, “What?”

The intern jumps, and I curse in my mind, knowing I’m in danger of being a real bitch. It’s one thing to take my frustration out on deserving targets like Virginia, but that I’d go on a rampage on innocent bystanders, too?

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I’ve just a lot on my plate.”

“O-of course, Ms. Reed.” The intern does her best to sound convincing but the terrified expression on her face is a dead giveaway.

I force a smile, but when the girl looks even more terrified, I wipe the fake smile off my face. Lesson learned: when people are used to your resting-bitch face, it’s just better to stick to it.

I clear my throat. “So what is it that you want?”

“I j-just need you to sign these papers?”

Since the intern sounds like she’s about to cry any second, I say right away, “Sure.” I take a look at the documents before scribbling my signature. When I’m done, I hand it back, asking, “Anything else you---”

But the intern’s already run away.

Right.

I turn to face my laptop again, but I just can’t find the energy to start working again. Out of frustration, I take my iPhone out and log in to a private forum for secretaries and PAs. What I have to say isn’t something I want security to dig out for Mr. Rochester’s benefit.

After clicking on a private message thread, I type, Anyone online?

A reply comes in a moment later.

Sara Crewe: Yo.

Sara is one of my two closest friends from the forum. She works in New York and, in her life-changing quest to get rid of her “old-fashioned” traits, has taken to talking like her vocabulary primarily consists of hip-hop lyrics.

The Little Prince’s Rose: What did you do now?

TLPR, on the other hand, works from Beverly Hills and is a tough cookie on the outside, but a hopeless romantic on the inside. We practically know everything about each other but for the sake of our jobs, we’ve also chosen not to reveal our identities to each other or use any real names in our conversations.

It’s a bit paranoid of us, but in this age of Wikileaks, you just can’t be too safe.

Me: Thank God you guys are online. I’m so pissed. And @TLPR what do you mean what did I do?

The Little Prince’s Rose: Because you’re always the troublemaker among the three of us.

Sara Crewe: Preach.

Me: Am not, and Sara can you please skip the teenage talk just this once? I’m in trouble.

The Little Prince’s Rose: Like I said.

Me: @TLPR shut up.

Sara Crewe: Fine, just this once – and I mean it. If I don’t practice, I get rusty.

Me: Seriously? You need to practice saying yo?

Sara Crewe: Yes.

Me: You’ve got issues, Sara. Real issues. We need to talk about it one day – but not now because I’m calling dibs on today.

The Little Prince’s Rose: So what DID happen?

Me: It’s like this.

I feel my forehead creasing into a scowl as I type the rest of my story, leaving nothing out except for my name and Mr. Rochester’s. While I can never be this honest with anyone else, being quasi-anonymous has a rather liberating effect on me, making both Sara and TLPR privy to many of my innermost thoughts.

Sara Crewe: Is it true though? Were you on the verge of you-know-what just by looking at his photo?

Me: What’s you-know-what? And I’m just asking this because I’m your friend and I want to help you become a modern-day slut.

The Little Prince’s Rose: HAHAHAHA

Sara Crewe: Fine. MASTURBATING. Did your boss’ near-naked photo get you to masturbate? Happy now?

Me: Hey! Don’t be mad. I just don’t want you to get rusty.

Sara Crewe: You haven’t answered my question.

Me: What do you think? Of course not!

Sara Crewe: You’re lying.

The Little Prince’s Rose: She’s lying.

Me: Am not.

The Little Prince’s Rose: We know you, Jane Eyre. So stop jerking us around. What happened next?

Me: Okay fine but for the record – I wasn’t about to masturbate myself last night.

Sara Crewe: Still lying.

The Little Prince’s Rose: Still lying.

Me: Whatever. Anyway, he didn’t use it to blackmail me. Instead he deleted it, and he told me that he doesn’t need any leverage to make me do whatever he wants.

The Little Prince’s Rose: Ooooh. This is getting interesting. Why did he say that?

Me: He says it’s because I want him, and that’s all the power he needs.

Sara Crewe: How cunning! And true!

Me: And now I can’t concentrate on anything. I just keep thinking about it and I hate how it’s affecting me. He’s made me this nasty monster---

Sara Crewe: But you’re always nasty.

Me: I even ended up scaring away an intern for no reason.

The Little Prince’s Rose: You scare people away all the time.

Me: Are you guys on my side or his?

The Little Prince’s Rose: Yours, which is why I need to ask. Why are you chatting with us again? You said you were in trouble but from where I’m sitting I think you’re just sexually frustrated.

I sit up in shock at TLPR’s words.

Sara Crewe: I’m going to have to agree.

I want to bang my head against the desk.

Sara Crewe: Jane? Are you still there?

I close my eyes in despair. It can’t be. It can’t be that what they’re saying is true…and that Mr. Rochester is right. Is all my inner torment simply because…I can’t wait for him to fuck me?

* * *

I make a dash for the reception counter as soon as the clock strikes six and I’m officially off duty. I’m determined to avoid Mr. Rochester at all costs until I get myself together and I’ve thought things through. Even knowing there’s more than a grain of truth in my friends’ words, I just can’t make myself completely accept it---

I mean, come on.

Am I really the kind of girl who would deliberately provoke a man so he’d notice her?

It’s a rhetorical question but the know-it-all voice residing in my head doesn’t seem to care and answers quickly – and slyly.

You’re the kind of girl who’s always been sexually passionate. You’re the kind of girl who’s always known that only a very special man can give you pleasure, and now that you’ve found him---

The elevator doors open before me, and I use it as an excuse to shut my know-it-all inner voice off. I half run towards the revolving doors, just plain eager to put as much distance between everything that can remind me of Mr. Rochester and myself.

But the moment I step out to the street, the first thing I see is a familiar-looking limousine parked by the curb, and standing next to it is an equally familiar-looking chauffeur.

Shit.

I quietly and stealthily try to turn around and take another path, but the old man chooses that moment to glance my way and his expression brightens.

Shit.

He walks quickly towards me, saying, “Ms. Reed, good afternoon.” He tips his cap in a gesture of greeting. “I’m Sam, by the way. I was asked to wait for you.”

I gape. “You have?” And as I hear a couple of gasps from behind, I realize I’m not the only one surprised and that other people working for Mr. Rochester have overheard the chauffeur’s words.

And judging by their expressions, I think gloomily, they know exactly who had asked Sam to wait for me.

Damn him. Damn him. Damn him.

I take a step back. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else. I’m not---”

Sam scratches his head with a frown. “Ms. Mary Jane Reed?”

Shit. My heart falls to my stomach, but I still try to avoid the inevitable, stammering, “Maybe there’s another Mary Jane---”

“Who was with him last night?”

Sam’s perplexed expression tells me he doesn’t mean anything by it, but I still want to strangle him. Behind me, surprise and shock have once again turned into resentment and envy---

Sam opens the door. “Shall we go, Ms. Reed?”

“Sure, why not?” I answer dourly. At this rate, everyone’s already thinking the worst about me and I don’t see any way I can convince people otherwise.

As soon as the limousine gets moving, Sam tells me that we’re heading back to my place.

I perk up. “Really?” So maybe this is just a free ride---

“Mr. Rochester asks that you pack only an overnight bag, Ms. Reed. I’ll personally take care of moving the rest of your belongings to Mr. Rochester’s home.”

Riiiiight. I study Sam calculatingly through the rearview mirror. “What if I tell you I’m being forced to move in with him?”

“I don’t think I quite heard you properly, Ms. Reed.” Sam studiously avoids my gaze as he answers, and a moment later the glass partition separating the driver’s section from the passenger area slides into place.

I guess I have my answer.

When we make it to my place, it only takes me half an hour to pack, but with every minute of it spent asking myself just one question. Why? Why am I letting Mr. Rochester get away with this?

Sam knocks on my front door, and I call out, “Come in.”

The chauffeur opens the door and pokes his head in, saying hesitantly, “Ms. Reed?”

“Yeah?”

“Is there anything I can help you with? I’m afraid Mr. Rochester is feeling a bit impatient and wishes that---”

“Sam?”

“Yes, Ms. Reed?”

“Could you tell your boss something for me?”

“Yes, Ms. Reed.”

“Tell him,” I say sweetly, “to drop dead.”

Sam pales. “I’ll, ah, just wait outside the door, Ms. Reed.”

“Tell him that,” I insist even as the door closes behind him.

“I don’t quite hear you, Ms. Reed.”

And because I can’t help being perverse, I decide impulsively to make myself dinner and force Sam to join me under the threat of causing him more trouble. When I glimpse the older man’s tortured expression, I shake my head in exasperation.

“Relax, Sam. He knows he won’t blame you.”

Sam doesn’t look convinced.

I sigh. “Okay, look at it this way. Your boss has this huge crush on me so trust me when I say I’ll keep him from getting mad at you.” I try not to laugh when I see Sam visibly mulling my words over.

And then the old man starts to smile. “You’re right, Ms. Reed.”

I was, huh?

As Sam dives into his food, he shares with me how there’s this guy who accidentally bumped into his boss at a hotel lobby---

“And Mr. Rochester got him fired an hour later,” Sam exclaims after finishing his second plate of pasta. “That man begged Mr. Rochester for his job back, got down on his knees and all, but the boss was like stone.” Sam shakes his head at the memory. “That’s why I know you’re right---” And he turns to me with a grin. “You’re special, Ms. Reed.” He reaches for the ladle and serves himself another bowl of pumpkin soup. “This is good, by the way.”

I manage a smile. “Have at it.” Good thing he’s got his appetite back, I think numbly, since I just lost mine.

A guy bumps into Mr. Rochester by accident and he gets fired.

So what happens to me, considering I’ve sidelined him with a serious hand injury?

* * *

Mr. Rochester’s place is a sprawling three-story manor hidden behind tall walls. Made entirely of natural stone, the imposing structure has a rather distinctly Tudor feel, and I can’t help but notice how it’s very much a facsimile of Thornfield Hall---

But you’re not going to tell him that or make any kind of Jane Eyre joke, I remind myself swiftly. No point adding fuel to the fire, especially since I now know for a fact Mr. Rochester is indeed a moody son of a bitch---

And petty as hell.

I suspected as much from the start, but even so having it confirmed makes me feel oddly…sad.

The main doors of Mr. Rochester’s home are quite the statement piece, made of heavy oak with quarter-sawn panels. They kind of remind me of dungeon doors, only prettier, and when they finally open, I feel like I’m about to enter my own cage.

“Good evening, Ms. Reed.” The housekeeper lets us in with a warm smile, and as Sam brings in my luggage, which he insists on carrying himself, the beaming middle-aged woman introduces herself as Consuelo.

Her uniform reminds me of those worn by higher-ranking servants in the Victorian age – a white no-frills apron over a dark, high-necked dress – and I blurt out, “Is that your uniform?”

Consuelo’s beaming smile widens. “Si,” she answers eagerly.

I knew it. Mr. Rochester isn’t just petty. He’s also vain as hell. Housekeeping uniforms are just so archaic, not to mention discriminating.

“Do you like it?” Consuelo asks.

Fuck no, I think. Uniforms are just another device rich people use to pander to their own egos, wanting a visible reminder of the class division---

Or at least that’s what I want to say. But for once I manage not to be a bitch and say nicely enough, “It looks the way it’s supposed to be.”

“Gracias,” Consuelo exclaims happily.

Sam bids us goodbye then and Consuelo takes over as she gives me a quick tour of the house.

The interior of Mr. Rochester’s home is dark and heavy, a reflection of sorts of its owner. The mood, however somber, is also made beautiful by the elegant mix of wood and leather. Its open layout from foyer to living room also adds a certain sense of illustriousness to the home, making it feel like the kind of place you need to mind your Ps and Qs.

Which is just like Mr. Rochester, too, I think, being the tyrannical, manipulative bastard he is.

“Now, I shall take you to your room,” Consuelo says.

And so we go up to the second floor and the room Consuelo takes me is as luxurious as the rest of the home and more spacious than I expect it to be.

“I’m really supposed to stay here?” I ask warily.

“Si, Ms. Reed. I have given it a proper cleaning just this morning, as Mr. Rochester has requested.” Consuelo glances at my luggage. “Do you need my help to unpack---”

“Oh, no, I’m cool.” I manage not to wrinkle my nose at the idea that Mr. Rochester’s habits may have made the housekeeper expect her boss’ guests to be similarly helpless. God. I must have been out of mind to be attracted to someone like him.

“Are you sure, Ms. Reed?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then I shall leave now and let you rest. You must still be tired, after last night’s incident.”

What I’m feeling right now runs more along the lines of wishing her boss to perdition. But since I don’t think she’d want to hear something like it, I say diplomatically, “Something like that.”

When Consuelo leaves, I don’t unpack right away and instead sit at the edge of the bed---

My bed, I correct myself and the realization gives me pause.

Am I really going to stay here – knowing what kind of man Mr. Rochester is?

He may be the hottest-looking man alive, but the time I’ve spent in Sam and Consuelo’s company also tells me he’s the moodiest son of a bitch, petty as hell, vain and tyrannical---

I’m red-faced and fuming by the end of my mental tirade, and before I can think twice of what I’m about to do I’ve already snatched my phone out of my purse.

I press Call on the screen.

Mr. Rochester’s phone starts to ring.

My eyebrows shoot up.

What the hell?

I take the phone away from my ear but I still hear his phone ringing---

I turn towards the direction the sound is coming from, and that’s when my gaze falls on another door. I had assumed earlier it would lead directly to the bathroom but now I realize it’s the doorway to hell.

My God, he’s put us in connecting suites? Marching towards the door, I try the knob, find it locked, and my teeth gnashes. The gall of him, to have the lock on his side! Does he think he’s in danger of being raped?

I start banging on the door.

“Hang on a minute,” I hear Mr. Rochester’s very British voice call out a moment later.

“No,” I yell furiously, “I won’t wait---”

“Very well then.”

The door opens.

And Mr. Rochester is naked---

I let out a shriek. “What the hell?”

Okay, Mr. Rochester isn’t actually completely naked. He has the tiniest towel riding low around his hips, and it does an appalling job at covering his body. I know I should tear my gaze away, like right this very second, but I can’t.

It’s impossible.

Mr. Rochester is just…hard. So ridiculously hard, all over. I mean, how’s that possible? What kind of workout does this man do that every inch is just strewn with muscles?

I try to make my vocal chords work, but they refuse to cooperate. My throat feels so dry and the rest of my body has turned into something I don’t recognize. It’s become feverishly hot and trembling, and the longer I stare at Mr. Rochester, the weaker I feel, made worse by this weird fluttery feeling in my stomach.

“You’re welcome to do more than stare, Ms. Reed.”

The lazily spoken words work like a bucket of cold water and I finally manage to stop ogling him. “Thanks, but no thanks.” It’s such a lame comeback, made even lamer by the croaking sound of my voice. Gah. I want to kill myself right now.

He opens the door wider. “Come in, please.”

I shake my head, saying once more, “No thanks---”

Mr. Rochester smiles. “I insist.” His voice is gently commanding, and although it pisses me off, it also arouses me like no other, and I feel a shameful gush of moisture between my legs.

“Ms. Reed?”

“W-Whatever.” I march ungraciously inside his room. The sound of the door closing behind us almost makes me stumble.

Dear God, I’m alone in Mr. Rochester’s room.

My pulse leaps and my imagination runs wild. I feel like I’ve just stepped into another cage…but instead of feeling terrified, I feel more moisture soaking my panties.

Shit.

I press my legs closer together while looking around me, desperate for a distraction. Mr. Rochester’s room is only a little bigger than my suite but every inch here screams ‘master of the house’. The walls are an alternating pattern of natural stone and quarter-sawn panels, complemented by coffered ceilings and umber-colored velvet curtains.

It suits him, I think vaguely.

Mr. Rochester walks back into my line of view. “How do you find it?”

Heavy on tradition without being oppressive, I answer silently. I like it a lot actually, but I’d rather die than give him any kind of compliment so I just shrug, saying, “It’s okay.”

Mr. Rochester only smirks, and the way he looks at me seems to suggest he knows I’m just being contrary.

Shit.

When he starts coming closer, I force myself to stay still, not wanting him to see how much his proximity is rattling me. In such an enclosed space, the fact that Mr. Rochester is so much taller and larger than I am is inescapable, and the knowledge is excruciating to my senses. I can’t stop thinking of the way Mr. Rochester can easily overpower me if he wants to---

My gaze involuntarily slides to the oversized bed behind him. Even if he’s injured, I know Mr. Rochester’s strength is still enough to throw me on that bed if he wants to. I know he can keep me trapped, his hard body over mine---

“Can you tell me why that is?”

Mr. Rochester snaps me back to the present, and I’m aghast to realize that I had been so lost in a haze of lust I didn’t hear a single word he’s said. Clearing my throat, I ask, “Err, what’s that again?” Forced to look at him as I speak, I’m once again confronted by his near-naked form and I blurt out, “Don’t you want to change into something?”

“Not really,” Mr. Rochester answers, “since I sleep in the nude.”

Oh. Okay. Did he really have to tell me that?

I bite my lip hard.

And how the hell am I going to forget that now?

“Ms. Reed?”

“Uhh yeah?” Nude. He sleeps in the nude. Nude!

“Did my chauffeur tell you I wanted you here as soon as possible?”

Oh. So that’s what he wants to talk about. “He did tell me,” I confirm quickly, “but I told him I couldn’t be rushed.”

He raises a brow. “Is that so?”

I shrug. “I was hungry.”

“As expected,” Mr. Rochester murmurs, “which was why I had Consuelo prepare dinner for us here.”

Oh.

“I waited a good hour for you, Ms. Reed.”

I blinked in surprise, thinking that was awfully nice of him…until I remember how Sam seemed afraid of him and how he made Consuelo wear that awful uniform all year round---

Don’t let yourself fall under his spell, Reed. He’s evil! Evil!

Lifting my chin, I said deridingly, “No one asked you to do so.”

His eyes narrowed. “Somehow, I have a feeling this isn’t you just acting out.”

I clapped my hands, saying sarcastically, “Bravo. You guessed it right!”

Sapphire eyes glinted as he warned softly, “Careful, Ms. Reed.”

“Or what?” I demand even as my heart suffers a curious little twinge of sadness. “You’re going to make some petty threat---”

“If I were truly as petty as you seem to think I am,” Mr. Rochester counters, “you wouldn’t even have a job to go back to---”

“Don’t worry,” I snapped. “I won’t be surprised if you do fire me, just like you did with that poor guy at the hotel lobby---” I manage my mouth shut before I can say more, but it’s too late.

Mr. Rochester’s gaze narrows. “So that’s what this is about.”

“I---”

“And I’m guessing someone’s been telling tale,” Mr. Rochester murmurs silkily. “Sam perhaps?”

“No!” But as soon as I cry the word out, I realize belatedly that I’m just giving myself away.

Shit.

“Maybe it’s time to fire him,” Mr. Rochester says pensively.

I gasp. “You wouldn’t dare!” Or would he?

“Since he can’t keep his mouth shut, it’s worth considering.”

My teeth gnash at the musing tone of his voice. Doesn’t he realize that he’s talking about an old man’s livelihood here?

“And then there’s the fact he’s explicitly gone against my wishes, allowing you to delay your arrival---”

“You know that’s not his fault,” I hiss.

“All I know is that I asked him to do something,” he counters simply, “and he didn’t do it.”

Aaaargh. I can feel my entire body shaking with rage at how cold and unreasonable he’s acting, and I have to clench my fists tightly so I won’t accidentally slap his face. But even so I can’t help whispering furiously, “You’re unbelievable.”

Mr. Rochester only responds with a low laugh, and I grit my teeth, hating the way the taunting sound ripples down my spine like a caress.

And of course the bastard knows it.

It’s all in those sapphire eyes of his---

“Bastard.” I just need to say it.

Instead of answering, Mr. Rochester only turns his back to me.

I watch him walk towards the bed, and when he takes a seat on the edge, the tiny towel dips lower and starts to part.

I quickly force my gaze up, not wanting to see what it can further reveal.

“Come here, Ms. Reed.” All at once the mood in the room changes, and the fury coursing through my blood turns into something else. Equally hot, equally passionate, but one of a different flavor---

Lust.

“Why?” I hear myself ask.

“Why else, Ms. Reed?” Mr. Rochester’s voice is a dark, tempting purr. “You’ve been a naughty little thing, don’t you think?” Sapphire eyes glitter at me, and I dig my nails into my palms as I feel my body responding to his look. “And with naughty little things, something must be done.”

His gaze devours my body, promising me all sorts of wicked things, and I bite back an involuntary moan.

Oh. OH. Oooooooooooh.

“Tell me,” Mr. Rochester invites softly, “what I must do to a naughty little girl like you.”

I shake my head.

“Tell me.”

“I c-can’t.”

“Tell me, Ms. Reed. Tell me or I won’t do it.”

Ah. God.

My breasts ache hard at the threat, nipples poking against the cups of my bra, and my pussy isn’t faring any better. It’s throbbing so madly, and it’s so damn wet my panties are completely drenched---

And I know there can only be one way – one person – to make this torture stop.

“You’re going to punish me,” I choke out.

The glitter in his eyes blazes, and my knees literally knock against each other.

“Good girl,” Mr. Rochester whispers.

The words make me want to whimper. Good girl. Two simple words that I should hate but instead make my body melt in wanton heat.

“Now come here.”

And I find myself following him even as I question my sanity.

Why? Why am I following him? Why?

When I step between Mr. Rochester’s thighs, the feel of being this close to him is too much and I tremble harder.

“Now take off your blouse, please.”

I jerk, my eyes flying to him in shock, but Mr. Rochester’s languid expression doesn’t change.

“You heard me.” His pleasant tone makes it like he had simply asked me to hand him the remote control, but oh, those eyes. Those devilish blue eyes that swear to do all these wonderfully wicked things---

Aaaaah.

I shakily reach for the hem of my blouse, but my fingers refuse to move further. I’ve never undressed myself in front of a man and that I’d be doing it now for Mr. Rochester---

“Do it now, Ms. Reed,” Mr. Rochester croons, “because I won’t ask again.”

Ah. God.

It’s that threat again.

Instead of blackmailing me over things that mattered---

He’s making everything my choice.

And it works.

Cool air caresses my skin as the blouse finally falls to the carpeted floor, and I fix my gaze doggedly on his chest, unable to meet his gaze, knowing that there can only be more---

“Now, the bra.”

Aaaah. The mere knowledge that he’ll soon see my bare breasts makes my fingers shake harder, and all the while I can feel myself heating up---

“You’re blushing all over, Ms. Reed.”

Ah God. My fingers become clumsier and I struggle with the back clasp of my bra.

“Say, ‘Please help me, Mr. Rochester.’”

I squeeze my eyes shut. Dare I? Dare I say it? Dare I?

“Say it.”

His voice is still commanding, but it’s the raw desire underlining the words that do the trick.

And so I hear myself whisper, “Please help me, Mr. Rochester.”

A hiss of lust escapes Mr. Rochester’s lips, and I almost whimper, realizing that he wants this as much as I do.

Mr. Rochester moves toward me. “Stand straight.”

I hasten to follow me and fight against a wave of self-consciousness as the new position makes my breasts protrude. When he moves closer I can’t help stiffening---

“Does this excite you, Ms. Reed?”

I bite my lip harder, refusing to answer because I know whatever I say is just going to incriminate me.

His uninjured arm goes around my body, and I draw my breath as the new position causes him to move forward, closer and closer---

His fingers find the clasp at the same time his mouth nuzzles the valley of my breasts.

Oh God. God oh God.

My bra falls to the floor, and I whimper.

A second later and Mr. Rochester’s hand is alternately cupping and palming my right breast---

I cry out.

“I love the way your breast feels, Ms. Reed.”

Aaaaaaaaaaah.

Looking down, I see Mr. Rochester’s head slowly descend, and I can’t help sucking my breath.

Oh God.

His breath starts to fan my nipple.

Oh Gooooooood---

“Such succulent-looking tips,” Mr. Rochester rasps.

My hands clench once more against my sides. It’s the only thing I can do so I don’t grip his hair and just shove my nipple into his mouth.

“Do you want me to suck on them?”

I bite back a cry at what he’s asking. Oh God. Oh God. Why can’t he just do it?

“Do you, Ms. Reed?”

I imagine how it would feel, having his mouth on my breast, his teeth grazing my nipple---

“Yes,” I choke out.

“Good.”

My eyes close.

But several moments have passed, and nothing happens.

When I open my eyes I see Mr. Rochester has straightened.

What the---

“Your punishment, Ms. Reed,” he says pleasantly.

Outrage explodes inside of me as I realize that he intends to leave me unfulfilled. “Bastard!” I raise my hand to slap him---

“Do that,” he warns in the same pleasant voice, “and you’ll have to wait longer for my touch.”

Oh!

“So what’s it to be?”

My fingers clench in the air.

I want to slap him so bad---

But I also know I want him to fuck me more.

Mr. Rochester starts to smirk when he sees me pulling my hand back.

“You’re such an asshole,” I snarl.

“And I’ll keep being one,” Mr. Rochester murmurs, “because it’s exactly how you want me to be.”

The words make me want to scratch his eyes out, but I don’t. There’s this shameful cringing part of me that finds it impossible to deny the truth, and it’s the fact that I hate him for the same reasons I find him irresistible.

And the bastard knows this, I think darkly. The damn bastard knows everything, it seems.

When I start to pick my clothes up, he says, “No.”

I gape at him. “Excuse me?”

“I want to see you leave like that. And tomorrow when I wake you up, I still want to see you without anything covering your breasts.”

“Are you insane? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

But Mr. Rochester only shrugs. “We both know you already know the answer to that.”

“You---”

“Last but not the least, Ms. Reed.” He pauses, his gaze narrowing on me. “You are not to touch yourself or make yourself come tonight. I want that pleasure for myself. Do you understand?”

“Fuck you.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He slides to his feet gracefully and takes my hand. “Let me walk to your room.”

“No, thanks.” I yank my hand out of his hold and stalk back to the connecting door of our suites, all the while feeling his gaze on me. Oh God. I can’t believe I’m doing exactly as he says, walking out of his room with nothing but my pants---

The thought has me wrapping my arms around myself, and the feel of my bare breasts against my skin makes me shudder in a mixture of shame and desire.

Oh God.

Is this how my life is going to be from now on?

* * *

I toss and turn the entire night, troubled by nightmares of both the past and the present. When I do fall asleep, it’s already too late, and it’s only as if I’ve been dozing for mere moments when I feel warm, hard fingers clasp my bare shoulder.

“Rise and shine, Ms. Reed.”

My eyes fly open, and it’s exactly as I wished and feared.

Mr. Rochester looms over me, and when I sit up he moves away. He’s already bathed and dressed for work in a sexy pinstriped suit. He looks so very dashing the way only proper Englishmen seem capable of looking, and he could’ve been the epitome of elegance if not for the ugly cast that covered his right hand.

“You’d make an exquisite sight to wake up to, my dear.”

The term of endearment feels like something a grandfather would say, but with Mr. Rochester and his oh-so-British tone, the endearment feels thrillingly sensual---

Until I realize what said exquisite sight he’s staring at.

“Bastard!” Too late I reach for the covers and clutch them to my naked chest.

Mr. Rochester smiles. “It was good while it lasted.” He gives me a nod, murmuring, “I’ll see you downstairs for breakfast.” As he turns towards the door, he says, “You have thirty minutes.” He pauses. “Don’t make me wait again.”

The door closes behind him.

Asshole. Bastard. Jerk.

But even as I call him all sorts of names, I’m already racing around the room, not wanting to make him wait. If I do, I just know he’s going to make me wait as well---

The icy cold water blasting down my body is both a torment and comfort, relieving the dull, persistent ache of my unfulfilled needs. If last night has taught me anything, then it’s sleeping sexually unsatisfied is hell on earth, and I definitely want it to end.

When I finally make it to the dining room, I’ve at least ten minutes to spare, and I grit my teeth as Mr. Rochester makes a show of checking the gold-plated watch on his wrist. “You’re remarkably early, Ms. Reed.”

“It’s no big deal,” I snap defensively. “I’m not the one to linger in the shower, that’s all.”

“Of course.” Mr. Rochester’s voice is soothing, but the smirking amusement in his sapphire gaze is unmistakable.

Bastard.

“Please have a seat.” He pulls out a chair for me, and I force myself to acquiesce. Returning to his seat, Mr. Rochester offers, “If there’s anything else you’d like Consuelo to prepare---”

I shake my head. “This is like a feast already, thanks.” And I’m not exaggerating. All kinds of breakfast fare are laid out before us, more suitable to feed a party of ten rather than just the two of us.

I take my time choosing my food all the while worrying that Mr. Rochester expects me to a model houseguest and expect me to make small talk. But when my boss continues to prioritize his Wall Street Journal over paying me attention, I find myself relaxing and letting my appetite take over.

It’s only when I’m on my second mountain of bacon that I realize Mr. Rochester has been staring at me for quite some time.

Shit. Feeling guilty and self-conscious, I offer him the last strip of bacon on my plate, which also happens to be the last strip on the table. “Do you want it?” I ask clumsily.

He laughs. “It’s all yours, and I’ll make sure Consuelo prepares more next time.”

I have coffee after while Mr. Rochester has tea, and then we’re off to the office, with Sam once again driving the limousine.

I blink in surprise when Mr. Rochester takes a seat beside me. “Sorry,” I say right away. “I didn’t know you prefer this side.”

But when I start to move to the opposite row of seat, Mr. Rochester shakes his head. “Stay here, Ms. Reed.”

Oooookay. We’re still just a little too close to each other for comfort, so I try inching towards the other end of the seat---

“Why are you trying to get away from me?”

“I’m not.” But I can’t quite meet his gaze as I speak. No way am I going to tell him that it’s because I hate the way he turns me on so easily.

“Look at me please.”

I reluctantly do as he says---

Ah.

This close, I am once again reminded how extraordinarily good-looking my boss is, and I find myself swallowing hard. Is this really the same guy who had demanded last night that I take off my blouse and---

I mentally shake my head.

I am not going to think about that---

“So, Ms. Reed.” Mr. Rochester’s tone is speculative. “Did you touch yourself last night?”

---and so here I am, about to speak of it instead.

“What do you think?” I mutter furiously under my breath.

Amusement flashes in his eyes. “That bad, is it?”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m sure you know,” he murmurs, “I’ve fired people for far less offensive reasons than that.”

The reminder makes my mouth tighten. “Yes. Unfortunately I do.”

“You hate me for it.”

I look him in the eye, saying levelly, “I do.”

“And yet you can’t help wanting me.”

I switch back to my all-around answer for safety, saying sweetly, “Fuck you.”

He laughs.

We don’t talk anymore after it, but when we reach the office building and Mr. Rochester insists on helping me out of the limousine, he waits for me to get my feet before bending his head down, whispering to my ear, “I want your panties out of the way when I call you to my office.”

As I sputter in shock, Mr. Rochester doesn’t waste time as he spins me away from the limousine and escort me to the building, his uninjured hand pressed against the small of my back. The sight of us arriving together draws attention from everyone we walk past, and I just know that by the time we make it to the penthouse floor, the entire company would know we’ve arrived at work together.

I should be furious over it, and normally I would be but right now all I can think about is Mr. Rochester’s last words.

When we enter the elevator, our eyes clash---

Are you serious? Are you mad? No fucking way!

Those are the words I should say, but instead I hear myself choke out, “When?” I want to cringe in humiliated defeat as the word slips out. If Mr. Rochester had the slightest doubt of how much he has me wrapped around his finger---

Mr. Rochester’s lips curve ever so slowly. “Today.”

My teeth gnash. He’s deliberately making this hard, the bastard. He knows I want him so badly he can get away with practically anything.

I wait impatiently for the other people to step out, and when we’re alone, I snarl under my breath, “You know what I mean. When today?”

Mr. Rochester smirks. “Exactly.”

Gaaaah. I’d have reached for his throat and strangle him with my bare hands in the next moment, but unfortunately the elevator doors have already parted, and so I’m forced to keep my hands to myself.

Mr. Rochester steps out and inclines his head towards me. “Ms. Reed.” His voice is polite, but the gleam in his sapphire eyes is pure cruel amusement.

Asshole. Bastard. Jerk.

But I can’t take my gaze off him even as he walks away, and I find it near impossible to keep my body from shaking as lust and rage war inside of me. Mr. Rochester has me in the palm of his fucking hand, and the bastard knows it.

* * *

It’s around half past ten when Mr. Rochester’s first round of meetings ends, and I unthinkingly straighten in my seat as I watch the last of his guests leave. Will it happen now? The answer eludes me, and even as I force myself to keep my gaze on my laptop and my fingers to keep moving, I’m excruciatingly aware of the way my breath catches every time I hear a door swing open…just as I’m painfully conscious of the way my stomach cramps with disappointment when I realize the sound isn’t coming from the CEO’s office.

Minutes trickle by, and when I shift restlessly on my seat, I’m suddenly reminded by how bare I am under my skirt. I’ve taken my panties off soon as I’ve placed my stuff on the desk, and it’s been what---

Over two hours of panty-less existence?

The realization makes me swallow hard. It’s only been two days since Mr. Rochester’s literally walked into my life, and yet so much has changed it’s terrifying. How much more can I change? And is it right that I’m changing?

Mr. Rochester comes out at lunch hour, but I manage to keep my head down.

Is it going to happen now?

And yet Mr. Rochester only ends up walking past my desk without a single word---

What the hell?

I hear people start to talk, and my heart clenches when I hear Virginia’s especially loud voice reach me all the way from reception.

That will teach her.

I hear the other women snigger as they agree.

Bitch. I want to scratch all of their eyes out, but even I know my anger is superficial. The person I’m really furious with is him.

It’s half past two when Mr. Rochester walks back into the office, and again he strides past my desk without a word.

I resist the urge to throw my laptop at him.

Whatever.

I’m just over it---

Or so you say, the know-it-all voice inside my head snickers, but we know that’s a lie since you still don’t have your panties on.

Shit.

My inner voice has a point, and it’s all I can do not to throw a tantrum and start slamming my keyboard against the desk.

Damn him. Damn him. Damn him.

Did he ask me to get rid of my panties purely to make fun of me? Is all of this just a game to Mr. Rochester?

I stare murderously at my laptop’s screen. Instead of words and numbers I see my boss’ face, and God I want to slap it so---

My intercom suddenly buzzes, making me jump in my seat.

Shit.

I clutch my chest unconsciously, hating the way my heart so easily changes its reason for beating madly, switching from anger to excitement in a blink of an eye.

After taking a deep breath, I pick up the receiver. “Yes, Mr. Rochester?”

“You took long enough to answer.”

“I---”

“Don’t bother. I’m not interested. Just get in here. Now.” The line goes dead, leaving me gaping at the receiver.

Bastard.

I jump to my feet---

And regret it a second later when I feel my skirt inch up dangerously close to the crack of my ass.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Face flushing, I hastily push my skirt down and look around guiltily, but fortunately no one seems to be facing my way. I force my limbs to work, all the while conscious of how bare my lower half is. I don’t know what I’d do if someone actually ended up finding out I don’t have anything under my skirt.

Kill Mr. Rochester first probably, I think grimly, then myself.

Not bothering to knock on Mr. Rochester’s door, I barge inside my boss’ office and slam the door loudly behind me, uncaring of how it would look to others. Crossing my arms over my chest, I demand coldly, “Do you really think I’m in the mood right now?”

It’s a grand entrance if I say so myself, but I might as well have slunk in like a timid little mouse with all the attention my boss gives me. Mr. Rochester hasn’t even glanced up the entire time I was speaking and instead takes his time putting his papers away. After, he places his pen on the desk before getting to his feet with leisurely grace.

And then he’s walking towards me, his glittering sapphire eyes meeting my gaze---

Ah.

I’ve never had anyone look at me so possessively before, and it leaves me stunned and jittery, but more than anything else it makes me wet---

Oh God.

My legs snap together in an instinctive attempt to stem the wetness threatening to gush past my folds. I feel feverish and cold at the same time – it’s a strange, all-consuming feeling and I start to tremble as Mr. Rochester comes closer and closer---

Oh God. Oh God.

The scent of his aftershave precedes him, tantalizing and teasing, and a tiny gasp escapes me. How can a mere scent be arousing in itself?

I watch Mr. Rochester’s lips curve slowly into a taunting smile. “I can smell how wet you are for me, Ms. Reed.”

His purring voice is just as provoking, and the combination makes my fingers clench against my sides as I hiss, “Bastard.”

But my rage seems only to amuse him. “Dare I hope you’ve been a good girl?”

Before I can even think of a proper retort to his hateful question, Mr. Rochester is already drawing me close, his uninjured hand firmly clasping the side of my hip.

“What---”

And then I feel his hand moving down my side.

I stiffen. “Mr. Rochester---”

His hand goes under my skirt and moves up. In the next second his fingers come into contact with the bare flesh of my pussy.

Whatever else I have to say is completely forgotten as a gasp tears out of me at his touch.

“It’s time for your reward,” Mr. Rochester rasps.

R-reward?

But there’s no chance for me to speak. His fingers have started moving and oh---

Oh God, it’s so, so, so much more than I’ve ever hoped for.

My knees give out, but even as Mr. Rochester releases a low, dark chuckle at the way my body sags against him, his expertly skillful fingers don’t stop moving. Every stroke seems calculated to make me wetter and hotter, and God it’s driving me crazy---

“Please,” I choke out.

“Please what, Ms. Reed?”

“You know.” My fist strikes his chest, but it’s a half-hearted attempt, and whatever impact it should have is completely ruined by the way my body shudders as his fingers start stroking faster over my folds.

So, so fast, I can feel my eyeballs threatening to roll black at the sheer beauty of it.

“Oh God. Please---”

One finger finally slips inside of me, and I whimper.

It’s good. It’s so good. It’s so damn good.

My eyelids drift shut as his finger starts thrusting in and out of me.

So good. So damn good.

Another finger joins in, and I find myself clutching his shirt as I start to feel full.

“You like that, don’t you, my dear?”

I bite my lip hard, not wanting to make his already huge ego even bigger.

When it becomes clear I’m not going to answer, Mr. Rochester’s fingers pause right before my entrance, hovering but not quite penetrating.

Another whimper escapes me.

“Don’t you?”

Bastard. “Yes, damn you.” The words are torn out of my throat as I clutch his shirt more tightly. “I like it---”

And Mr. Rochester rewards me with a third finger.

Aaaaaaah.

The combined width of his fingers force the walls of my pussy to expand and I can’t help moaning as I find myself feeling so deliciously stretched.

God. God. God.

I feel so full of him, and to think these fingers of his are nothing to his massive cock---

The thought has my body jerking, and the gesture works like a cue for Mr. Rochester, with his other arm wrapping carefully around my waist before ushering me closer---

And then he’s ramming his fingers harder and faster into me.

In and out. In and out. In and out.

My head starts to reel, and I let out a cry. “D-don’t stop!”

“Never.” Mr. Rochester’s tone is hard. “Not until you cum all over my fingers.”

Aaaaaah.

And to keep his word, Mr. Rochester starts shoving his fingers relentlessly inside of me in a furiously spiraling cycle of pleasure.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

My body starts to tighten. One moment I’m suspended in the air, suffering from the most exquisite agony. The next moment I know and I’m falling, heavy and weightless at the same time as the most beautiful feeling sweeps over my body.

Wave after wave, my orgasm strikes me. I’m coming so hard I become unaware to everything else. Nothing exists except the pleasure that Mr. Rochester’s still-plunging fingers inside of me---

And I don’t want it to end.

* * *

When the haze of pleasure finally clears from my mind, I come out of it appalled.

Oh God!

What happened to all my talk of not liking bad boys?

Why did I let him fuck me with his fingers just like that?

And why, dear God, have I enjoyed it so much?

A hazy answer tempts me from afar, asking me to chase it, but I can’t. In a blink of an eye, I’ve found myself once again distracted, and it’s entirely his fault, of course. My boss is still holding my body tightly to him, his fingers still plunged in the depths of my pussy---

More questions swirl in my mind.

Does he think I’m a slut?

What do I say?

What do I do?

A knock suddenly sounds on the door, and I jerk---