And Robert’s hands stay on my hips as he thrusts harder and harder. I’m shaking now as I brace myself against this wall, feeling him, seeing them. One of his hands slides up to my breast, he pinches my nipple before bringing his hand down, between my legs. I’m so wet; he knows that, everyone here knows that. They all want to touch and taste. But this is just for Robert. He touches my clit, moving his finger slowly at first then rapidly, playing with me even as he presses inside of me.
I scream as I come; the sound is too raw and unrestrained to be considered a yell. I feel him come inside of me, filling my body even as he fills my mind with a new sense of dominance, influence, control.
Yes, control. That slippery thing I thought I was losing. Now, in this moment it once again occurs to me that this man who has tried to control me has given me more control than I’ve ever had before. Is it an illusion? Or is it actually real this time?
I set aside the questions as Taci finishes her part of the presentation and I take the stage again, a secret smile on my face.
Today this room filled with an attentive, eager audience is mine to dominate . . .
. . . and I am his.
CHAPTER 5
AT THE END of the meeting the executives have agreed to everything. Implementation will be their responsibility but I’ve set the direction. Robert urges each of them to question me, to give their honest opinions. But I have answers to everything. They’re satisfied.
I know Robert’s about to give me more work, another project, another reason why I’ll be required to report to him but no one will question whether or not I’m deserving.
As I file out with my team, Robert and I don’t touch but there’s something in the look we exchange . . . the pretense is fading away. They can all see that. It doesn’t matter. They know and they can’t do anything about it. Asha trails behind me; I can smell her sense of defeat and it’s invigorating.
I’ve given my team the rest of the day off but I go back to my office where Barbara tells me I’ve been called to the eleventh floor. The CEO, Sam Costin, wants to see me. I don’t hesitate. I know I’m about to be offered a promotion and now I’m ready to accept. I take the elevator up and announce myself to his receptionist, who tells me to wait.
This is the first time I’ve ever had a formal one-on-one meeting with Mr. Costin but I know that he always makes everyone wait. It’s one of the ways he demonstrates his authority. And yet as I lower myself into the brown leather chair in his reception area, I find that the directive unnerves me, brings me down from the heady sense of supremacy I had only a moment ago.
The thought stops me. Supremacy? Was that what I was feeling? I glance over at the receptionist; her hair is tied back in a low ponytail, a black pearl ring clings to her index finger while her hands fly over the keyboard of her computer, her disinterest in me palatable. Do I really think I’m better than this woman? Really? Do I think I deserved more of her attention?
The minutes tick by slowly and as she continues to ignore me I find myself less inclined to believe that I do. I stare down at my own bare hands. I haven’t worn a ring since I gave Dave back the beautiful ruby he gave me. What else had I given away that day? My pragmatism? My modesty? My humility? Am I really ready to part with so much?
“Mr. Costin will see you now,” she says.
The phone hasn’t rung so I can only assume that she’s reading something on her computer screen that lets her know it’s my time. Then again, it isn’t really my time at all. It’s Mr. Costin’s. He may have called the meeting but he is still doing me a favor by keeping it. That’s what I’m meant to feel.
I open the door and step inside. Mr. Costin sits at a mahogany desk; behind him is a wall of windows. I have a view from my office. His is better. His head is bent as he reads some report. I’m treated to a view of his bald spot, not his face.
“Close the door,” he instructs and I quickly do so. He continues to read as I tentatively approach his desk. I consider sitting but think better of it. Instead I stand there and wait for him to greet me . . . and tell me what to do.
At last he looks up. His eyes run up and down my suit, his expression impassive. He’s not an unattractive man. He has high cheekbones and a strong jaw but his eyes are too light, a very pale blue that makes him look perpetually icy, even cruel. “You’ve changed your style,” he says wryly. I have a feeling he’s talking about more than just my clothes.
Uneasily I shift from foot to foot. He leans back, seeming to enjoy my discomfort. Finally he sighs and gestures to a chair.
“Sit.”
It’s the kind of command you give a dog and it shames me that I so quickly obey.