The Dirty Series 1(39)

“You want me to punish you?”

“I wasn’t following instructions.”

He takes in one harsh breath and then I hear the rip of his zipper, a rustle of cloth, and Jax is slamming his cock into me, he’s into the hilt, and I’m throbbing around him, already on the edge of a climax. This is what he does to me, what I want him to do, what I need him to do—

“Harder!” I cry out.

He responds with a slap on the ass, stinging, sharp. “You don’t give the orders here.” I thrust my ass back against him, urging him on, in, deeper, faster.

He doesn’t disappoint.





Chapter Twenty-Seven





Jax



Catherine Schaffer is going to ruin me.

I don’t know what I intended when I came to the Basiqué offices knowing that she was here. A terse discussion, probably, that would alleviate some of the pressurized worry building in my chest.

I saw her fall.

It wasn’t that long ago that I came in early on some instinct, some mystical sign, I don’t fucking know, just in time to catch her before her temple crashed into the sharp, modern corner of Sarzó’s desk. Over that first weekend we spent together I saw how she needed more and more sleep to wake up every time, more and more time to recover, but she refused to acknowledge it. I watched the storm brewing on the horizon and I didn’t give a damn if I got wet.

We haven’t had the discussion yet.

That’s what makes all of this so damn difficult.

Love is one thing. Putting words to that feeling is one thing. Commitment is another, and through all our days of talking about our goddam hometowns and childhood friends, we never got around to giving our relationship a firm title.

And that means—fuck—I have no real right to feel as pissed as I felt when I discovered she left the penthouse and went to work.

At first—and I’ll goddamn admit it—I was in such a state because I thought I’d been pretty clear the day before. It took a good thirty minutes to remind my dumbass self that there’s a line—a huge fucking dividing line—between the games we play in the bedroom and our actual life together.

Fucked up, right? But it’s easy for those lines to blur.

For her, they haven’t.

For me, the things we do are a natural extension of how I live my own life. I am in total control.

And then it hits me again like a sucker punch: I’m not in control. Because if I was, Catherine Schaffer would be long-forgotten by now, another notch in my belt, left behind like the rest of the women I’ve dated in the past.

I’m not in control because I love her too much to let her go.

Of course, she goes anyway.

On top of that, I’m not entirely fucking sure that I’ll be able to turn off how I’ve always been, or that I even want to. It’s served me extremely well in every other aspect of life. It’s why my net worth is one of the highest in the city…not to mention the rest of the goddamn country.

I’m powerful in my own right.

When she walked in, I was ready to be clear with her on my expectations, especially when it comes to her health, because that’s how much she means to me.

But the sway in her hips, the glint in her eyes…

I had to have her.

Teaching her a lesson was only a side benefit, and then that spitfire of a woman went and turned the tables on the entire arrangement.

How could I resist fucking her when she bent over my desk for me, ready to submit to me…but only under her own terms? I don’t think anything’s ever turned me on more in my life.

Now she’s back down the hall, doing god knows what for Sarzó.

I’m about to leave when there’s a knock at my door.

“Mr. Hunter?”

It’s not Cate.

“Come in,” I call, pulling out my leather portfolio. I’ve been sitting at my desk since Cate rearranged her skirt and slipped out the door, the spring in her step not quite compensating for how worn down she still feels…even if she won’t admit it.

The door opens and a curvy woman who can’t be more than five feet tall comes in with timid steps, clutching a stack of papers.

“Mr. Hunter, my name is Lauren, from accounting.”

“Hello, Lauren.”

She takes a deep breath, obviously flustered to be in my presence, which isn’t uncommon. Last week I might have been harsher, more dismissive, but something about Cate has me looking at things differently. At Basiqué, Cate can’t be the only one who’s doing too much. She is, however, the only one who has a billionaire boyfriend to protect her from the worst effects.

Not boyfriend, I remind myself. Not yet.

Lauren’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “There’s a full report in your email, Mr. Hunter, but the department heads wanted me to personally deliver this summary to you.”