“Bow to you?” I ask, head ringing with confusion. I bow slightly at the waist. “Like that?”

He laughs softly, shaking his head. “On your knees, forehead on the ground. Bow to me like you worship everything I do.”

I stand there staring at him. I can feel my rage starting to grow.

I’ve been sitting in that waiting room since six in the morning. It’s just after noon, and I haven’t had a damn thing to eat, let alone a cup of coffee. Rogers said I could leave that room only to go to the bathroom, and only if it takes less than five minutes. So not only am I basically a prisoner for this guy, but my bathroom breaks are timed, too.

I’m frustrated, but I’ve had worse. I can handle the boredom. I listened to Rogers at least and brought a novel, a big fat romance with lots of sex and excitement. It’ll keep me occupied, even if I’m starving.

But this…

Bowing to him?

I knew he was intense. I didn’t realize he was insane.

“You’re just going to look down my blouse,” I say to him, the words tumbling out before I realize that I’m saying. I try to say it jokingly, but the expression on his face makes me freeze.

It’s pure shock. Like nobody’s ever made a joke to him before.

Slowly, though, the surprise fades away into a smile. “Maybe I will,” he says. “Would you mind?”

“Only if you promise there aren’t any cameras hidden in here.” I give him an innocent little smile. “I don’t perform on camera.”

He laughs again, shaking his head. “No cameras. I promise. And I’m not interested in looking down your blouse.”

“Your loss then,” I say, grinning.

He laughs and crosses his arms. “Are you going to obey me, Miss Cook?”

“Call me Hazel,” I say. “And yes, I’m going to obey.”

“Good.”

He has a funny smile on his face as I slowly get down on my knees. I hate what I’m doing, but at least I talked back a little bit. Sure, I made a crass joke, but still.

It took him by surprise. I like that, and he seemed to like it, too.

Finally, I get down on my knees. He stands and comes around the desk, sitting down on a corner to watch me.

“Forehead to the floor,” he reminds me. “And try smiling while you do it.”

I let out a breath. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Absolutely.”

“I guess I know why the other girls quit.”

“Oh, no, Hazel. This isn’t why they quit.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Really?”

“We’re just starting.” He smirks at me, and I feel a chill run down my spine.

He’s gorgeous. He’s dangerous.

“Enough stalling,” he says before I can think up something clever to come back with. “Bow for me, Hazel.”

I stare at him, pushing back my anger and embarrassment. I lean forward and bend over in half, forehead to the floor, hands flat down in front of me.

I bow to him. I bow to my new master, the asshole billionaire jerkoff dickhead.

I stay in that position for maybe ten seconds. I don’t hear anything. When I finally raise my head, I suddenly sit bolt upright.

There’s a bucket on the floor next to me, along with rubber gloves and a scrub brush. Mason is back at his desk.

He smiles down at me. “The carpet hasn’t been cleaned in a few weeks. Clean it, please.”

I stare at the bucket. “You want me to…?”

“Scrub the carpet. The whole thing. The bucket is filled with vinegar and water, all you have to do is clean.”

I take a breath and blow it out. Of course, I wore my nicest outfit for my first day, and of course I’m scrubbing the damn floor.

“Yes, sir.” I don’t even try to hide my annoyance.

He laughs anyway as I put on the gloves, grab the brush, and get to work.

It’s actually not that bad. He’s quietly typing at his computer as I move across the room, dipping and scrubbing. I don’t soak the carpet, I scrub it just enough to wet it. I can’t really see the dirt I’m getting out, but the water slowly turns a slight brown as I dip and scrub and repeat.

I catch him looking at me as I make progress. His eyes glance over my skin. At one point, I fix my bun and roll up my sleeves, and I catch him staring at my chest, my neck, the skin on my arms.

I let him look. I don’t mind, so long as he keeps his hands to himself.

“How often do you like your floors cleaned?” I ask him as I come closer to his desk.

He glances down at me. “Depends. How much do you hate this?”

“I love it. My forearms are going to be so toned after I’m finished.”

He smiles slightly. “Then once a week. I want your forearms looking perfect.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Besides, you’re a painter, right?”

I nod a little, scrubbing away. “I wonder if my new strong arms are going to affect my technique.”

“I’m sure you’ll adapt.”

“I don’t know. I could be ruining my art for this.”

“I’m sure it’s a huge loss for the world.”

I glare at him. “It really is.”

He grins, cocks his head. “If I ordered you to paint me a picture of this bucket, would you do it?”

“Of course.”

“You’d sell your art out like that?”

I sigh, scrubbing away. “It’s not selling out, and plus, artists have been selling their art to patrons for thousands of years. There’s nothing wrong with making money and art at the same time.”

He nods a little, smile still on his lips. “I agree. All of art history is essentially one long bill of sales.”

“Without money, there’d be no Sistine Chapel. Most of our great works were bought and paid for.”

“Can you be bought and paid for, Hazel?” he asks softly as I get close to his desk.

I look up at him and realize that I’m practically kneeling right at his lap. I look away, blushing. “Probably,” I admit.

“Do you think I have enough?” His words are soft, almost whispered.

“Probably,” I admit again.

He laughs and swivels away from me.

“Get back to work, Hazel.”

I glare at him, but I do what he says. I dip and scrub, dip and scrub, until finally the whole rug is finished.

It took me about an hour. When I’m done, my knees and arms are exhausted. I take off the gloves and get to my feet.

“Finished,” I say.

He glances in my direction like he forgot I was here.

“Not yet,” he says, and stands up. He leaves the room for a second, coming back with another bucket, another set of gloves, and a rag.

“I just did that,” I say.

He stops and cocks his head. “Are you complaining?”

“No, I mean, I’m just saying—”

“Listen to me, Hazel. I won’t tell you to do something unless it’s necessary. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” I say, pushing back my anger and frustration.

“To clean the rug fully, you have to wipe away the excess dirt and vinegar with warm water and a damp rag. This should be easier.” He hands me the bucket and the rag. “Get to work.”

I nod and do what he says. I drop back down and start to scrub.

I’m wet and tired, but I finish the carpet in half the time. I don’t try to talk to him and he doesn’t bother talking to me. He’s engrossed in something on his computer screen, typing every once in a while, but mostly just reading.

I stand up and stretch. My back hurts and my arms are tired. I drop the rag into the bucket.

“Now I’m finished,” I say.

He glances over at me. “Good. Open the windows and leave.”

I hesitate before doing as he asks. A cool fall breeze blows into the room, helping the carpets to dry.

I go to take the buckets but he waves me off. “Leave them. I’ll take care of those.”

I nod once and turn to go.

Before I can leave the room, though, he says my name. A chill runs down my spine. I love the sound of my name on his lips, and that instantly starts to worry me.

I turn back toward him. “Yes, sir.”

“You did well today,” he says, looking at me. “But I won’t always be so easy on you.”

“I look forward to the challenge, sir,” I say, smiling a little.

That makes him grin. “Good. Go home for the day. Tell Rogers I dismissed you.”

I nod, grateful. It’s around two in the afternoon, and I can’t wait to start painting.

I’ve never felt so inspired before in my life. There’s something about being around this man that I find intoxicating, even when he’s silent and commanding me to clean his rug. There’s something erotic and exciting about it. I want to crawl around on the floor for him, let him stare at my ass, let him do whatever he wants with me.

I turn away quickly before I can do something stupid. Before he can see the blush on my cheeks.

I hurry away, wondering how I’m going to resist my new boss, or if I even want to.