I’m going to take great pleasure in watching her bullshit her way through the next several minutes with me given what revelation came to light this morning.
“I do hope your expectations are realistic.” There’s a hint of a laugh injected into her tone like she thinks this is funny.
It’s not.
Not to me.
“Expectations.” I let the word linger. “Tardiness is not tolerated. Excessive lateness will go on your employee record, Miss Miller. And reprimands will be assigned as I see fit.”
“I won’t be late again, sir.”
“Second,” I continue, “Lying is a fire-able offense.”
“Shouldn’t we be going over job duties first?” She almost interrupts me. I can only assume she’s trying to change the subject, knowing full well she lied to get this job.
“You’ll be doing for me the same things you were going to do for Mr. Mutchler.” My fingers form a peak as I await her response. “The duties you said you couldn’t discuss with me.”
I fully expect her to slink back in her seat, exhale loudly, hang her head, and admit that she’s a filthy liar.
“I’d like to tailor this relationship, Mr. Townsend.”
This girl is good.
“Working relationship,” she disclaims. “Tell me exactly what you need from me, and I’ll deliver. That’s the way I operate. I’m grateful for this opportunity, and I’ll do anything in my power to ensure it’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
My mouth curls into a devilish leer. I’ve approached a fork in the road, and I could easily take this in a completely different direction if I were in a tortuous mood today.
She’s lucky I’m not.
“Well, then, we should discuss limits.” I exhale and hide the secret pleasure I receive as I wait for her reaction.
“Limits? Can you be more specific?”
“Hard limits. Soft limits,” I say, teasing her with a trail of breadcrumbs that will eventually lead her to her final destination. “Things you will and won’t do.”
“I can’t imagine there’s much I wouldn’t do.”
God, she sounds like a fucking college graduate at a job interview.
“Don’t tell me what you think I want to hear.” My mouth hardens. “That’s the last thing you should ever do around me, Miss Miller.”
Her eyes snap toward the desk where my hands are clasped hard, my thumb grazing over the curve of my opposite hand. My patience wears thinner by the minute, and if we could fast-forward a bit, I’d be yanking those pearls from around her neck and pressing her against the wall, two seconds from claiming every inch of her nubile body as my own.
But seeing as how she has absolutely no idea what she’s agreed to, taking her pretty pink mouth right now would completely disrupt our dynamic.
“Absolutely.” An agreeable smile accompanies her affirmation.
Bellamy is different. The subtle dominance I’ve injected into our light conversation doesn’t seem to have an effect on her. She’s immune to it. They say if you watch too much violence on T.V. or in the movies, little by little it doesn’t affect you as much.
That’s how she is.
Another man has already dominated her.
Another man has owned her.
A heat sears through my body from head to toe at the thought of her kneeling before another master. I knew from the moment I saw her, Bellamy’s milky white flesh belonged in my grip.
I wanted to be the one to break her in, to own every inch of her succulent physique.
“I spoke to Randy Mutchler this morning,” I said, my impatience searing through me hot and uncontrollable. My fists clench, fighting the urge to bend her over my knee and teach her not to lie to me again.
A white pallor fills her cheeks. “Oh. Y-yes?”
There we go. She’s stammering. I’m cracking her like the thin sheet of ice that wraps around her underhanded intentions.
“He’d never heard of you.”
Her brows arch before they furrow.
Still, she says nothing.
“Isn’t that odd?” I scratch the spot just above my right brow. “He offered you a very important job with secret terms, but he’d never heard of you before.”
Silence.
“You understand that back at the bar, when I offered you this position, you had ascertained that you’d just been hired by Randy Mutchler as his concierge.” My arms fold. “Do you know what a concierge does?”
“They’re like a personal assistant.”
“Yes, Bellamy. That would be the standard definition of a concierge.” I drag in a breath and cock my head. “But if you knew Randy Mutchler, and if you ran in our circles, you’d know that the kinds of concierges we hire are sexually submissive in nature.”