Chapter 13

13

June

"Thanks, Kelly." My boss nods in my direction without looking at me as I place the bottle of water in his outstretched hand.

"It's June," I mutter, then wonder why I bother. It's been a week since the royal event outing, during which time, he's gone back to calling me by a different name. I thought we were over that. Considering he's allowed me to lick my cum off his foot, and also seen me orgasm it's not like we're strangers. Sure, he made it clear that it'd been a mistake, but couldn't he, at least call, me by my given name? But nope.

He's also limited our interaction to emails, as much as possible. During the day, he's forbidden me to come in, the only exception being to bring him coffee or lunch. During which time, I've tried to catch his eye and failed. He's doing his best to pretend I don't exist—and succeeding, too.

And after his grandfather left yesterday morning, his mood declined even further. He made it clear he was not to be disturbed for anyone, and that included family members. Message received. Instead, I was subjected to a barrage of emails with things to do which kept me busy all of yesterday. When I came in today with his coffee, he was already on a conference call and didn't acknowledge my presence. I lingered for a few seconds, hoping he'd, at least, glance up and look at me with that cerulean gaze of his. When it became clear he wasn't going to, I placed his coffee beside him and left.

He spent the rest of the day offloading various projects for me to lead on. And these weren't simple tasks. They involved intricate negotiations and maneuvering with his senior team, and he put me in charge of it. He knows I can't resist a challenge and that I wouldn't refuse. He's testing me in a different way, and I'm determined to deliver. Just as I have these last few weeks. The more he tests me, the more I'm resolute that I'm going to pass with flying colors. I'm not going to let him down.

Besides, if this is the only way he's going to give me any attention, I'll take it. I know he's making me work for his approval, and that should make me feel pathetic but honestly, it doesn't. I know when he does finally acknowledge me, it's going to feel amazing. It's going to be worth all my hard work.

At least, his grandfather wanting to see him yesterday gave me a legitimate excuse to get his attention, even if it was only for a few seconds and it ended with him telling me off... At least, he noticed me. For a little while there, I was the sole object of his interest, and it felt so good.

He worked non-stop, not even taking a break when I went into his office to drop off his lunch. I left without disturbing him and focused on my own jobs. I made enough progress that I was able to carve out time to search online and identify the adoption search specialist I want to hire. Of course, considering the costs involved, I stopped myself from emailing her. I can't afford her...yet. But perhaps, once I get paid for my second month here... I can set some money aside for her services. Or maybe, I'm simply putting it off. Maybe, I'm delaying. Perhaps, if I really wanted to do it, I'd prioritize this over anything else.

I clicked out of the window, then focused on my to-do list.

When 5 p.m. rolls around, he heads out of the office. He nods at me to follow him, and I jump up at once to obey. I follow him to the gym in the basement of his luxurious condominium in the most sought-after postal code in the city.

I stand to the side, holding his bottle of water. I should hate being reduced to his minion, but I don't. I'm happy he's using me as sees fit. At least, I'm here with him, instead of in the office, and I feel so damn grateful for that. Does that make me less of a feminist? Maybe. But I'm being honest with myself, aren't I? I flick a glance in his direction, and my mouth dries.

He's divested himself of his suit and tie and is now wearing gym shorts. They circle his lean waist and hint at the package tenting the crotch. They also outline every coiled muscle in those powerful thighs and highlight the scars on his left leg. There are more on the left side of his chest that travel up and over his shoulder. The skin is puckered in a fashion similar to that of the scar on his cheek. Not only was his face hurt in what happened, but also his body.

It should revolt me, but his injuries only add to his appeal. That image of him as a marauding warrior injured in battle is cemented in my brain.

I slide my glasses up my nose and take in his naked torso. Whoa! It's better than anything I imagined. I feel...like I'm being granted a special treat. A part of me is sure he doesn't reveal the scars on his body openly, which is why he prefers to book out the entire gym, so he has privacy when he works out. But he‘s sharing that part of himself with me, and I feel so grateful. Then a thought occurs: Is he doing it to compensate me for all the arduous work I put in today? Before I can follow through this line of thinking, he drops down on his palms and toes. He begins to work out, and I'm riveted.

His biceps bulge. His triceps do that tightening thing where his entire arm seems to be sculpted from stone for a second. He proceeds to pump out a hundred push-ups—I know because I count—before he springs up to his feet and holds out his arm. I slide the bottle of water into his waiting palm again.

He throws his head back and chugs down the contents, then tosses me the empty bottle. Some of the water drips from his chin onto his chest, and I swear, my nipples almost poke their way through the blouse and jacket I'm wearing.

He glances down at my heels and frowns. "That's not safe to wear in the gym." He glares at me, and I can't stop the shiver that runs up my spine. I forgot how gravelly his voice is. How my body reacts to the rich timbre. How my bones seem to dissolve at the dark edge to his tone.

"Stay here," He points a finger at me, then heads to the changing room, returning with a pair of sneakers. He goes down on one knee and holds out his hand, palm face up.

I gape at him. "You can't be serious."

He merely raises his eyebrow at me as if to say, " Of course, I'm serious. Have you ever known a time when I'm not serious? So, do what I say, right fucking now." I understand without him saying the words. How annoying. And how freaky is that?

I place my foot in his palm, then am forced to grab his head and latch onto his hair to support myself. Gosh, the strands are thick and silky, yet also springy. He slides off my stiletto—Ferragamo, since you asked. And yes, I'm wearing the clothes he sent me, only because I do care about the image I project. It has nothing to do with the fact that the footwear is all original brand names and so comfortable to wear. He slides a sock onto my foot, then slips on a sneaker, it fits. He does the same with my other foot.

"How did you have these on hand?" I can't stop myself from asking. The socks are made of very comfy material—not like the ones I purchase at the discount store.

"I had them ordered," he snaps.

I purse my lips. "So, you knew you were going to ask me to come to the gym."

He shoots me a glare. "Yours is not to question why?—"

"But to do or die?" I wriggle my toes in the sneakers. "Paraphrasing Alfred Lord Tennyson, I see. Didn't know you had a secret crush on a dead English poet?"

His glower deepens. Jeez, what crawled up his arse? He's the one who said, I'll only be his employee from now on, and nothing else. I've tried my best to follow his rules. I've been good. I'm doing what he tells me, not that he notices. If anything, he seems even more pissed-off. The man has been an absolute tyrant to me and the rest of his team. So much so, the department leads have approached me individually to say they're pleased they don't have to deal with him.

They're routing all their communication for my boss through me. It puts even more strain on my time.

He rises to his feet, then nods at the refrigerator in the far corner. "Get me another bottle of water."

Guess I've been put in my place .

"Good talk." I spin around and walk over to the recycling bin, dropping the empty bottle before grabbing a full one from the refrigerator and walking back to him.

He's at the push-board bench, pressing weights many times his own. I stand with the fresh bottle of water and a towel, trying not to ogle the way his abs flex, and his shoulder muscles bunch, and his thigh muscles ripple each time he pushes up the weights. Beads of sweat glisten on his torso. One slides down his concave stomach toward his waistband.

I gulp. Feel my own forehead moisten. Is it hot in here? The gym is air-conditioned, but you wouldn't know it, given the way my palms are sweating. I raise the bottle of water and press it to my heated cheek, and I'm not even working out.

I shoot my boss a glance and find his jaw hard, forehead wrinkled as he glares at the weights he's grappling with. The scar on his cheek seems to protrude with the effort.

He looks fierce, like he's fighting a battle or about to start a war. The tendons on his throat pop, and the veins on his forearms stand out in relief. And his biceps… Good god, they're as big as my thighs, and I'm not a skinny person. I love my curves; I love dressing to show them off. Something I'm unable to do with all the office wear he sent me. The blouses are formless enough to mask my curves and are, without fail, high-necked.

"Considering your shopper got my size right for the dress to the event, and my footwear fits perfectly, I don't understand how they messed up with my office wear," I venture.

He lowers the weights into their cradle, then slowly sits up. "A shopper didn't choose them; I did."

"Oh!" A fierce burst of pleasure squeezes my belly. He chose my clothes. I'm wearing the blouse and the skirt that he decided I should wear. My heart seems to descend to the space between my legs. A thick syrupy pleasure invades my veins.

After days when he's barely noticed me, and I was sure I imagined that scene at the royal reception when I almost came on his foot, to have the full focus of his attention is so heady. Too heady. Too much. Shivers grip me. Goosebumps crowd my skin. I'm sure I'm going to self-combust any moment. I need to find a way to keep his attention on me. I manage to bring my emotions under control enough to whine, "But my blouses and my jackets are so loose, they should, technically, be two sizes too big, except the sleeves fit." I glance down at where the edge of my jacket sleeve brushes my wrist. So that's a perfect fit. But the garment droops around my chest. "It's so strange." I push up the spectacles on my nose. "Maybe I should get them tailored, so they fit better?"

"You will do no such thing." His tone rings with such authority, I almost drop to my knees and prostrate myself at his feet. Oh my god, he's looking at me. In fact, he's scowling at me. My heart blooms in my chest. To be the cynosure of his focus is everything.

I squeeze my thighs together then choke out, "Why not? Have you seen how my clothes hang off me?" I have enough presence of mind to gesture to myself.

As expected, his gaze darts down to my chest, and oh god, instantly, my nipples pucker. He slowly raises them to my face, by which time, I'm flushed.

"I look ridiculous," I splutter.

"You look perfect," he says with such finality, I blink.

"The clothes render me shapeless."

"Good."

My jaw drops. "Did you… Did you just say?—"

"You should know by now that I don't do anything without a reason." He rakes his gaze over me from head to toe. Every cell in my body feels like it's about to catch fire.

I've worked so hard to get his approval, and finally, finally he notices me, and more than just as a fuck toy. It's just sinking in that he said I look ‘perfect.' Oh. My. Gosh.

He hasn't complimented me yet for how I've kept myself in control around him, but that will come, too. I'm sure he's going to reward me... If I'm lucky, with another spanking? Or perhaps, I have to go against his wishes for that? I frown. Is this a test? Does he want me to challenge his authority and give him a reason to punish me? Hmm. And while the thought crossed my mind to have my clothes resized, now that I know it wasn't his shopper but he, himself, who chose the clothes, no way, am I going to change anything. I rub my hand over the cloth of my skirt. He notices my movement and his gaze narrows.

In fact, I think I'm going to sleep in them from now on. Considering how loose they are, they'll be comfortable to wear to bed, too. I frown. "I don't get it. Why would you ensure that my clothes don't fit?"

He sighs, the sound meant to convey that I'm slow on the uptake. "You're my employee; you'll do as I say." He goes back to bench pressing.

I shake my head. "I thought you wanted me to be well-dressed. Apparently, you don't care that my clothes are too big for me." Then a thought crosses my mind. "Does this have anything to do with the fact that the clothes I used to wear were a size too small, and that's what you think attracted the attentions of your Finance Director?"

He doesn't reply. But his biceps bulge and his shoulders tense, and it has nothing to do with the massive amount of weight he's pushing. In fact, his movements speed up. That's when I know, I'm right.

"Oh my god, you did it on purpose, so no one could see my figure! You think this will shield me from the eyes of your employees?" I cry.

He continues to bench-press those colossal weights. But his lack of reaction is an answer in itself. My instinct tells me I'm right. Whoa. He cares. He does. No matter how much he insists otherwise, some part of him wants to protect me. Some part of him wants to keep me for himself. It's why he fired his Finance Director and was so pissed off with Connor at the royal reception. It's why he punished me after both those incidents.

I want to do a jig and dance in celebration. I want to confront him with the result of my deduction, but that won't help. He's going to deny it. Worse, he's going to ignore me even more than he normally does. I'm going to have to wait for him to arrive at the conclusion himself. Meanwhile... I'm going to look my fill, at this fine specimen of masculinity.

Since he told me I need to keep to my role as an employee, I've stolen quick glances at him. But now, I stare at him outright.

I take in how his chest heaves and his shoulders swell. The way his biceps bulge, and the way the muscles of his forearms inflate as he pushes up the barbell with a grunt that rolls over my skin and arrows straight to my clit. Goosebumps pepper my forearms. The sweat on my throat dries in the air-conditioning and I shiver.

I feel so lightheaded from his nearness. Maybe I need to take a break from the cloud of testosterone that's pressing down on my shoulders? "I, uh… I'll only be a minute. I just need to, uh, use the little girls' room." I cringe.

Little girls' room? I couldn't come up with a better excuse ?

I turn, and promptly trip on a plate weight, I didn't see. The water bottle in my hand hits the floor, the towel slips from my fingers. I throw out my hands to break my fall and find myself suspended an inch from the floor.

The breath whooshes out of me. Then suddenly, I'm upright, and my feet don't touch the floor because two big broad palms are squeezing my waist. Heat sizzles my back, the scent of sweat and sandalwood teases my nostrils. The fine hair on the back of my neck rises and I realize, it's him. He caught me? But how did he even see me? He was on his back, bench pressing, when my feet brushed against the weight.

"You... You can let me down," I manage to squeak.

His hold on my waist tightens, then he gently lowers me until my feet touch the floor. Only, he hasn't let go of me. Instead, he spins me around to face him. Our gazes meet, and I swear, the world stops.

My heart descends to the space between my legs. The pulse blooms there and travels to my fingertips, my toes, and my scalp, which tightens. Silver sparks light up those blue eyes, turning them into a glacial inferno. The heat from his body is a lasso pulling me toward him. My chest grazes his wall-like torso, and I realize, we're leaning toward each other.

A thousand little hummingbirds whirl their wings in my chest. I raise my head; he lowers his. I draw my gaze down the raised scar bisecting his cheek. Then, because I've wanted to for so long, I raise my hand and graze my fingers over the puckered skin. He pulls back so quickly, I stumble. He doesn't steady me.

He takes a few steps back, then sinks down on the weight bench. I open my mouth to apologize for touching him, when he scrunches up his forehead. "Ah, Melanie, is it?"

I narrow my gaze on him.

He scrunches up his forehead, then his brow clears. He snaps his fingers. "It's Renée." He nods. "Yep, Renée. Get me an energy drink, will you?"

What the—! All those lovely thoughts I had about him disappear with a pop. Genuine anger smolders up my spine. "You've taken this charade far enough, don't you think?" I burst out.

He tilts his head, that look of polite boredom back on his features. But the tips of his ears grow white, and I swallow. I've managed to piss him off. Which is good, right? This way, he has a reason to punish me. To touch me. If I'm lucky, bend me over that bench and wallop my behind. I shudder.

He doesn't move, but there's no mistaking the heightened tension in the air between us. I tamp down on the nervous flutter in my belly and goad him further. "You know my name, so I don't understand why it's so difficult for you to call me by it?"

"Do I?" he drawls.

"My name. Is June," I snap.

He raises his shoulder. "That's what I said."

I curl my fingers into fists at my sides. "No, you didn't."

"Sure, I did." His tone is condescending. He has a smirk on his face, implying I'm the one who doesn't know my own name. Anger squeezes my guts. I grit my teeth. "My name. Is. June, and don't pretend you're not aware. Or you can call me Cleopatra, if that's easier for you to remember."

He blinks slowly.

The fact that he goes still should warn me I've overstepped a line, but the rage eating away at my insides, has me ignoring his reaction. "Actually, I prefer Queen Victoria or how about Duchess?" I nod. "I like the sound of that."

His left eyelid twitches. The tips of his ears turn white. Horror grips me. I've done it. I've pissed him off. Only, he isn't saying anything. He isn't doing anything. He's watching me how a predator watches its prey. He's going to make me regret my outburst. He's going to punish me. Yes! But why hasn't he moved a muscle? He seems to have turned into stone. And the way he's glaring at me, the way he pins me with the weight of his gaze...is too much. My scalp tingles. My skin feels too tight for me.

The seconds stretch. My stomach churns, and my vision narrows. Before I can stop myself, I've closed the distance to the fallen bottle of water. I snatch it up and lob it at him. It hits his forehead and bounces off. It's as if the world stops.

He freezes, then slowly raises his head and stares at me. Those cerulean eyes of his turn almost silver with rage. His nostrils flare, and he rises to his feet. I have to tilt my head back, and further back.

He takes a step forward. I gulp. He scans my features, and a furrow appears between his eyebrows. Then he drapes the towel over his shoulders and prowls toward me. A cloud of heat spools off of his body and slams into my chest. I gasp. I want to turn and run out of there, but my feet are cemented to the floor. He holds my gaze; sparks flare in the depths of his eyes as he bends his knees and peers into mine.

"Run," he snaps.

What does he mean by that? What in the— I try to speak, but all that comes out is a strangled sound. I gape.

"I'll even give you a head start," he drawls.

This is not making any sense. "Excuse me?" I blink rapidly. "What do you mean by that?"

He bares his teeth like he hasn't heard me speak. "You have until I count to five." He jerks his chin toward the doorway. "Go."

Knox

"Go, before I change my mind," I bite out.

She tripped, and for a split second, every cell in my body seemed to freeze. My heart stopped, then started up again. Bile laced my tongue, and I was on my feet and springing toward her. I don't recall placing my barbell back on the rack or swinging my feet to the ground, but there I was, behind her. In time to grab her around her waist and straighten her.

Then she brushed her fingers down the scar on my cheek. The shock of it felt like someone dropped me in a vat of boiling oil, then dumped icy water on me. No one else, other than the doctors attending to me, has touched me there since I was injured.

I hate how I look, hate the evidence of my mistakes. Hate my face. Hate what I've become since I left the Marines. I buried my feelings. I swore to never let myself care for anything or anyone again. And this slip of a woman comes along and rouses emotions I thought myself no longer capable of feeling.

I was holding myself back, but she's responded to my kink with enthusiasm. I will let myself have her in the way I want her. I want to push her onto her knees and shove my cock inside her mouth. I want to bend her over and spank her until she begs me for release. I want to defile her and take every orifice of hers. I want to bury myself in her until I find release.

The intensity of my need punches into my chest like a cannon ball. My heart expands in my ribcage. Worse, something in me insists I get to know her. To find out all about her. What she likes and hates. What makes her laugh. What she loves to eat and drink, and what she likes to do when she isn't working for me, and what the hell?

Where is this compulsion arising from? Why do I want to get to know her as a person? I haven't even fucked her! This…is new. This has never happened to me before. This…is something I cannot allow; it will only lead to my becoming vulnerable. Something I've sworn I'll never let myself be. It's why I'm going on the offensive. It's why I'm going to push her even further. Will she do what I tell her this time? Or will that ensure she'll want nothing to do with me.

I glare into her face. "Run."

Her gaze widens. Her pupils dilate. When I take a step in her direction, she trembles. Fear radiates off of her. It's mixed with anticipation. Her breathing grows choppy. She sidles back.

The hunted.

The prey.

My prey.

The thrill of chasing her. The excitement of toying with her. The delight in finally catching her and doing anything I want to her sets fire to my blood. My muscles bunch in expectation. This...is what makes me feel alive. When I am one with my primal instincts. When I don't have to hide behind the mask I wear for the world. When I can unleash my inner beast. When I can chase my game.

I lower my chin to my chest and growl, "Run."

My mind is an uncaged tiger, planning, anticipating where she'll go. How's she going to try to escape me? Where will you go, little July? I'm going to be many steps ahead of you. You can't out-run me, but you can try. And that will increase the buildup, the tension, the anticipation of how it will be when I catch you. And I am going to catch you. No way, can you escape.

My heartbeat quickens. My fingertips tingle. When you connect with your most primal self, you are also at your most vulnerable. I shove that thought aside, focusing on the expectation, the suspense, the exhilaration of the hunt building inside of me.

She must sense my fervor, for a whine bleeds from her lips, and that turns me on even more. I draw in a sharp breath, smell her arousal, and the animal inside of me breaks through all of my self-imposed barriers. That's when something in her finally catches on. She turns and bolts toward the exit of the gym.

Satisfaction pinches my chest. The fact that she does what I ask is so damn gratifying. My pulse booms. Adrenaline crackles at my nerve-endings. Without letting myself think further, I give chase. I jump over the plate weight that tripped her up, then barrel out of the gym and race after her. She runs up the corridor and takes the staircase. Good. Very good. That will lengthen the chase. My gaze snags on how her butt bounces from side to side as she mounts the stairs, and goddam , sweat breaks out on my brow. I want to throw her down and mount her. I want to have her writhing and sobbing and begging under me as I bring her to the edge again and again. To see her tears, and feel her desperation, and sense her absolute need for release feeds the beast inside of me. I increase my speed, catch up with her as she nears the landing. I reach forward and swipe at her.

My fingertips graze her shoulder. She yelps and ups her speed, taking the steps two at a time. I let her pull away, allowing myself to give her an advantage. Feasting on how her plump thighs propel her forward. In fact, I slow down, walk up almost leisurely. You're going to tire yourself out if you go on like this, little prey. And when I catch you, I'm going to get my hands on that sweet, delicious tush and ? —

She reaches the next landing, then grabs the handle of the door below the fire-exit sign, twists it and plows through. The door shuts after her. The sound echoes around the space. What the— She's surprised me again, the little vixen.

I charge up the stairs, pull the door open and hurtle forward. I spot her stabbing the button to call the elevator.

Got you! I'm barely winded, while her panting fills the space. She glances over her shoulder, spots me, and yelps. Then turns and jabs at the button repeatedly. The car arrives, and the doors open. I sprint toward her and careen to a stop as the elevator doors begin to close on her.

I plant my shoulder in the gap between the doors, and they spring back. I step inside, and she gasps, then stumbles back until she hits the back of the carriage. The doors swish shut behind me. I reach over and slap the button for my penthouse, and it begins to rise.

She looks from me to the indicator flashing above my head, then back to my face. She glances around the space once before she wrings her hand together. I stay silent. So does she. The air between us thrums with tension. I drag my gaze down her features, taking in the flush on her cheeks, the parted lips, the way her eyelids flutter, how her eyes spark with a tinge of anger. Good. She's a fighter. She needs to be to work with me.

She shuffles her feet, and when I stay silent, she tosses her head. "This is stupid. I didn't do anything wrong. It was you who didn't remember my name. I have corrected you so many times, but you always forget."

"Are you complaining?" I drawl.

"No. Yes." She throws up her hands. "Frankly, I don't care. You can call me by any name you want, as long as you pay my salary on time—" She raises her shoulder. "I shouldn't care," she says with vehemence, as if she's trying to convince herself.

"So, it's fine if I call you July?"

"The name's June." She grimaces.

"You feel more like a July than a June," I drawl.

She scowls. "That's terrible logic, you know that?"

It makes sense to me. She reminds me of that time of the year when the light is golden, and the sea is clear, and the pool is warm enough to dive in without wearing any clothes and feel the silky water slip over my skin in an erotic caress. Not that I'm going to tell her that. I continue to glare at her, and she looks away.

"You're, uh, going to be late for your dinner meeting."

Nice segue, I'll give her this one. "Doesn't change the fact that you're going to have to accept your punishment."

I caught her. I'm going to punish her.

Her eyes grow huge. "P-punishment?"

"You hit me with the water bottle?—"

"That was a mistake."

"Seemed intentional to me."

She draws in a breath. "Okay, I concede. I did intend to hit you with it, but I didn't expect it to actually hit you, know what I mean? "

"Not really. And it doesn't change the fact that the bottle bounced off my forehead. Ergo, you need to pay for the consequences of your actions."

She laughs nervously. "You're joking."

"Not at all."

And yes, I said I was going to keep things professional between us, but it won't hurt to indulge myself one last time, will it? Just this once, I can allow myself to take pleasure in her need to obey me. This once, I can give in to the need to dominate her.

She swallows again, then squeaks, "And what would this punishment involve?"

I reach over and slap the stop button.