Chapter One
Quentin
I sat at my desk, pretending to work as the clock ticked away the seconds until noon. I kept asking myself what I was doing. I’d literally worked for the man for a little more than a week, and I was already in too deep.
I knew which mug in the break room was his even though they were all identical. I’d search through them all until I found the one that had the little ink smudge on the handle. I knew exactly how he took his coffee, and had perfected the recipe so that every cup he received was just right. When I’d stopped by the local hardware store and had noticed a paint swatch that matched the exact color his coffee turned with the right amount of cream and sugar, I’d grabbed a couple of copies and had taken them home with me. I had no idea what I was going to do with them, but they were sitting on my nightstand nevertheless.
I could close my eyes and describe his office down to the number of pens in his pen-holder. I could describe the rich musk of his scent that lingered in his office and mixed with the ever-present aroma of paper and leather from the books that lined the walls. I could describe his sharp features and powerful presence to a police sketch artist and have them recreate his likeness down to the little freckle on his chin.
Was I a stalker? I didn’t feel like a stalker, but isn’t that what stalkers said to make themselves feel better? Could I be a stalker if I worked for him?
I dropped my head on my desk and groaned. I was such a fucking stalker.
Mr. Chamberlain is not my Dom. Mr. Chamberlain is not my Dom. Mr. Chamberlain. Is. Not. My. Dom. I repeated to myself three times, but my little trick wasn’t working.
My head was a jumble of mixed emotions. As a service submissive, it was easy for me to separate my need to serve a worthy Dominant with the service I provided in a professional capacity. Mr. Chamberlain, however, made it hard to remember the difference. Instead, my knees threatened to fold every time he walked into the same room as me.
It was official. He had broken me.
Mr. Chamberlain was a perfect storm that battered at my defenses. It was a combination of my physical attraction to him, his natural assertive personality, and how I genuinely thought he was a good man who deserved my service. It didn’t hurt that he was never shy in telling me what he wanted. I liked it a little too much, that he wasn’t the type to ask for things nicely.
When he wanted something done, he commanded and expected it to be done.
For fuck’s sake, I couldn’t even manage to think his first name, let alone use it aloud. The submissive side of me wouldn’t allow myself to disrespect him in that way. In my head, calling him Mr. Chamberlain or sir was the ultimate sign of respect. And yet, I loved that he called me Quentin.
Was that hypocritical of me?
Then again, most vanilla people would call a lot about BDSM hypocritical. Daddies spanked their littles for swearing while cussing like sailors themselves. Sadists made rules for their masochists, knowing they couldn’t follow them all to earn their stripes.
When Mr. Chamberlain called me Quentin, it felt like he was reaffirming the differences in our positions. He was my boss, and I was his secretary. He demanded service, and I served at his leisure. He was all-powerful, and I was his.
“Stop it, Quentin,” I whispered, drowning in my thoughts.
Over the past week, my service to Mr. Chamberlain had morphed into a strange combination of submissive and professional. Bringing him his coffee multiple times a day wasn’t in my job description, but I did it anyway. I loved the way he’d close his eyes and savor the first taste. Wanting to kneel by his side and wait for the smallest command wasn’t in my job description either, but I sure as hell wanted to do that too.
I semi-hated the fact that my desk was outside of his office where I couldn’t anticipate his needs. Okay, I hated it. I flat out hated it. I told myself it was better because I was like a guard, protecting his domain, but I was lying to myself and still fucking hated it.
And as soon as the clock struck noon, I was planning on crossing another boundary I had no right to cross. I couldn’t stand to watch him skip another meal or order another one of those greasy, unhealthy lunches from that awful hole-in-the-wall place down the street. If he wasn’t going to take care of himself, I was going to pick up the slack.
Stalker alert. Stalker alert.
I ignored everything wrong with what I was doing and stood as soon as the clock struck 11:50. If I wanted to get his lunch to him by noon, I needed to start getting it ready. I focused on my task, shoving everything out of the way, including the twisting ball of anxiety rolling around in my stomach.
Entering the break room, I headed straight to the kitchen; pulled down the nice, wooden tray I’d brought from home; and placed it on the counter. Opening the refrigerator, I pulled out the insulated bag that held Mr. Chamberlain’s and my lunch.
Pulling out the larger serving of vegetable soup, I removed the lid from the bowl and placed it in the microwave. I would have preferred a stove and an oven to reheat Mr. Chamberlain’s food, but the break room only contained a microwave. I watched the bowl, removing it as soon as I noticed steam wafting from the surface.
Placing the bowl on the tray, I turned to his thick roast beef sandwich with caramelized onions and gooey cheese. I placed it in the microwave and hoped the toasted bread wouldn’t turn chewy by the time the meat reheated. Taking the sandwich out a few minutes later, I pressed against the bread, surprised to find the texture warm and soft.
Next, I arranged his silverware, napkin, and a moist towelette so he could clean his hands afterward. I debated about what kind of drink to present and settled on a tall glass of iced water. I didn’t want to add another cup of coffee to his day.
Lifting his tray, I turned and slowly walked out of the break room, careful not to spill a single drop and ruin my perfect presentation. I bypassed my desk a few minutes later and headed straight toward his office. Placing his tray on the small table by his door that was more decorative than anything, I raised a hand and knocked.
“Come in,” he said, his strong voice easily traveling through the door.
I took a deep breath and twisted the knob. Turning back to his tray, I lifted it and walked to his desk with my slow, measured gait. I kept my gaze on the food. I hoped that if I didn’t look at him, he couldn’t protest my offering. I moved around his desk and placed the tray on the last remaining space available.
Taking a step back, I folded my hands behind my back and waited for his reaction.
“What’s this?” he said, his voice as soft as I’d ever heard it.
I trembled, not knowing if that was a good or bad thing. “It’s your lunch, sir. A roast beef sandwich topped with caramelized onions and provolone cheese and a bowl of vegetable soup.”
“Thank you, Quentin,” he replied, his tone still so dangerously soft.
“You’re welcome, sir,” I said, darting a glance in his direction. His eyes were on me, a cold, calculating expression on his face. That look did things to me—wicked, heady things that made the thoughts I’d had earlier feel right and reciprocated.
I knew he intimidated most people with that stare, but I was quickly coming to crave it. When he looked at me like that, I knew his attention was focused wholly on me. He wasn’t thinking about his next case or what his plans were for the rest of his day. No, when he looked at me like that, I knew he was dissecting me, getting inside of my head, trying to figure me out from all angles.