Behind the Scenes(45)

“Then why did you turn me down the other day?”

My mouth falls open. The three people on the other side of the door probably think I’m receiving a lecture — and potentially getting fired — and my boss is actually expressing his jealousy.

“It’s not because of anyone else,” I say.

“Then what is it?”

“Mr. Mulroney…”

“You don’t have to call me that.”

I swallow hard. “I think I do. You’re my boss.”

He crosses his arms and says nothing.

“This is a highly unusual working relationship,” I say, pulling out my grownup voice. “I gotta tell you. So I think I should do whatever I can to keep some sort of normalcy going.”

“Why would you turn me down?”

He acts as if he didn’t hear any of what I just said.

“Because you’re a womanizer and a pig.”

The second the words leave my mouth, I regret them. They were harsh ones to dole out, and no one deserves to receive them. I bite down on my bottom lip, as if that might reel the sentence back in.

He scoffs. “Why would you say that?”

I straighten my back. All right, here we go. I’ve already started the truth march, so I may as well go the extra mile. “Because on my very first day, I walked into this office and saw you spanking a woman over your desk. And on my second day, you told me I could have the same experience if I chose to. How do you think that makes me feel?” I gesture angrily, the heat rising in my belly. “And then you sit in here and tell Mr. Murakami that you’re a feminist, yet all the while you treat women like they’re toys? Well, excuse me, Mr. Mulroney, if I don’t want to be another one of your play things. I like real relationships. Ones where the people involved get to know each other. Where it’s not just about sex.”

I finish, my chest heaving up and down. There’s more — oh, there’s so much more. I could probably go on for hours if he let me, but I’ve run out of breath and need to gather my senses.

He hasn’t moved at all during my monologue. He remains frozen, his arms crossed and his eyes locked on my face.

Suddenly, he pushes off the table and launches himself at me. His hands grab the sides of my face and bring it to his. His lips are smoother than velvet and sweeter than the forbidden fruit.

And God help me, I want him more than Eve wanted that apple.

I open my lips to his kiss, and his tongue slips into my mouth just the way I dreamed about all weekend long. It runs across the front of my teeth and I sigh, all the air leaving my body in delicious release.

He holds me up, pulling me against him. His arms drop from my face and encircle my waist. Our hips bump together and the pulsing need in me gets stronger.

He breaks his kiss off to trail his lips along my jaw, then down my neck. I shiver from the tender touch. Slowly, his mouth moves back up to hover at my ear.

“I don’t want you seeing anyone else,” he whispers.

My legs quake. I’m putty in his hands. Every part of my body is straining against my clothes, crying to be let out, to be touched by him.

The smallest voice speaks up, urging me to let him know he can’t tell me what to do with my life. But I like his order too much. I like the way his hands are slipping down to encompass my thighs. I like the way his teeth are nipping slightly at my neck.

He means to fuck me right here, probably on his desk.

Just like that other woman. Just like all the ones before her.

I press my palms against his chest and push him off me. Angrily, I wipe his kiss off my mouth.

“I already told you,” I say in a voice that almost cracks. “I’m not a play thing.”

“I know you’re not,” he growls. The look on his face softens. “I know you’re not,” he repeats, this time in a softer tone.

I wait for him to tell me he’ll treat me like something more. He doesn’t say a word.

“Do you know how to be with a woman in any other way?” I ask him.

His eyes widen slightly before falling to the floor.

“You must,” I continue. “Haven’t you had at least one long lasting relationship?”

I’m referring to the fiancée. Or rather, I’m trying to get him to admit to his engagement. He takes a step back and falls against the desk. His hands clutch at the edges of the table and he twists his head to look at the closed blinds.

“You’re driving me crazy, Sydney Andrews.” He sounds tired, and when he looks back at me, I almost explode from the need to throw myself back at him.

“If you want me to leave you alone,” he continues. “I will.”

The words make my body jerk; they’re almost a physical assault.