“This isn’t the time to let my foot off the gas,” I tell him. “I’ll think about having a life once I’ve made partner.”
“You could still find time to date,” he argues. He’s said it before. I used to worry he was going to try to set me up with one of his umpteen children, but fortunately he has not. “I bet there’s some nice young man in your office, working the same hours you do.”
All I see in my head for a moment is Ben. Ben, who beats me to work most mornings always looking like a million bucks in his perfect fucking suits, that smug smile permanently fixed on his face. Ben, who lives to torture me, who tortured me all weekend in my apartment when he wasn’t even there.
“We’re lawyers, Walter,” I say with a smile. “None of us are nice.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Forget I said anything.”
I go back to the office after dinner. The halls are empty, but there’s a light on in the conference room and, somehow, I know it’s him. I can’t avoid him forever, I tell myself, but I’m walking awfully fast for someone who is theoretically reluctant.
His face is deadly serious as he watches me walk in, his gaze almost palpable. A shiver ghosts over my skin, and my thighs press tight as I try to will away the effect he has on me.
I take a chair and his mouth quirks, as if he just thumbed through every filthy thought I’ve had over the past seventy-two hours and their sheer depravity has left him embarrassed for me.
“How are you?” he asks.
I kick off my heels, placing them on a chair beside me. “What are you doing right now?”
“It’s called conversation, Gemma. You tell me you’re fine, then you ask how I am.”
He needs to shave—I bet it would feel like fine-grit sandpaper between my thighs.
“Do I have to pretend I care about your answer? Because that sounds like a lot of work.”
He holds my gaze. “Fine, then tell me something…have you thought about it? I’ll admit it if you will.”
“You just admitted it already.”
His laughter is low, over-confident, already certain how I’d answer if I was willing to answer. “I’m wondering which part you thought about,” he begins, stretching back in his seat, palms behind his neck, as if he’s lounging at the pool.
Next, he’ll mention my hands in his hair, which hardly implies unwillingness. Or my intake of breath, the way I arched against him seeking more.
I rise to my feet, buoyed by seventy-two hours of pent-up frustration and rage. “Stop.”
“Quitting so soon?” he challenges. “Typical female. Mouthy until the going gets tough. With the way you were—”
I was reaching for my shoes already, but it’s as if my brain has mixed up my intent. I grab only one…and I whip it at him, as hard as I can, realizing after it’s airborne that if that spiky heel hits the wrong thing he could wind up in the hospital—or worse, the heel could snap.
But he catches it, and his eyes gleam—an evil look if I’ve ever seen one. “Thanks,” he says, rising to his feet. “I’ve always wanted one of your shoes.”
And then he turns and walks out of the room.
I stand frozen, astonished by the whole thing. And then it hits me: He has one half of my lucky heels, my irreplaceable seven-hundred-dollar Manolos. What the hell? Why couldn’t I have thrown a book or a stapler, or a microwave like a normal person?
He might break it. He will break it, intentionally. “Ha-ha,” he’ll say, laughing maniacally like the villain he is, “she’ll have to go home barefoot.”
I need that shoe.
Panicked, I grab the other Manolo and run around the table to chase after him. “Wait!”
He goes into his office and shuts the door. “Ben! Please! I’m sorry! Don’t destroy it!”
There is no response, so I grab my phone and text.
Me: Please. I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt my shoe.
I hear the low hum of his laughter from the other side of the door and the distinct sound of scissors. Then there are three dots beneath my text, which means he is replying.
Ben: Beg.
Rage spikes in my chest, but for once in my life common sense overrides it. Those shoes are irreplaceable.
Me: I’m begging. Please give me back my shoe.
Ben: In person.
I try his door, which is now unlocked. He’s sitting behind his desk with a broad grin on his face. He holds my shoe aloft in his left hand, the scissors in his right. “Hello, Miss Shoe,” he says. “Have you met my friend, Mr. Scissors?”
“Don’t,” I plead. “I’m sorry I threw it, okay? I’m sorry.”
He spins the slingback around on his index finger. I want to demand he stop because he might stretch out the delicate suede, but I somehow refrain. “You know what you have to do,” he says.
I squeeze my eyes tight, breathe deeply, and pray for patience. “Please give me my shoe back. I am very sorry I threw it at you.”
“Did you think about our kiss?” he asks.
My jaw grinds. “Is a confession you extorted really the best you can do?”
“I’ll take your refusal to answer as an answer.” He rises and comes to my side of the desk, where he then kneels beside my foot and picks it up in his hand, his thumb sliding slowly over the arch.
Goose bumps break out across the surface of my skin. A small fever starts to spread through my blood.
He slips the shoe on before he takes the other from me and slips that on as well, his hand lingering on my ankle. “You aren’t very good at begging, by the way,” he says, his voice low and rough.
“Maybe you’re not good at making women beg,” I reply, my words husky and full of longing.
“What’s that?” he asks. And then slowly, insistently, his hand slides up my leg. The soft trail of his palm over my skin and the rough purr to his voice make it hard to think. All concern about my shoe is abandoned and now there is only want, a wave of it so strong that I need to grip the desk to keep my bearings under it.
“I said—” I inhale as his palm slides above my knee “—maybe you’re not good at making women beg.”
His hand brushes against my inner thigh and I make no move to stop him.
“You know what I think?” he asks, climbing to his feet just as his hand reaches my thong. He’s never watched my face more carefully than he is at this moment. “I think you get off on fighting with me.”
This is crazy, Gemma. You need to make it stop.
“I think you talk too much,” I whisper.
He holds my eye as his fingers slip under the seam of my thong. “Jesus,” he groans, “you’re so wet.” It’s embarrassing, but before I can pull away, he steps closer, his free hand landing on my hip to hold me in place. “Don’t even think about backing out now,” he says against my ear, and there’s both command and desperation in his voice.
His fingers begin to move—small, delicate circles that have me bracing against his desk, sucking in tiny sips of air. His eyes are on my face, his free hand still spread wide and unrelenting over my hip. It’s almost too intense—the things he is doing to me, the way he watches. My gaze lowers to his clenched jaw, to his chest, rising and falling faster than normal.