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And what possessed me to ask her to run? She’s my assistant, who I haven’t paid any attention to until… a few seconds ago. Not until she stumbled over the plate weight—which I left out on the floor—a mistake and a health hazard, which I hadn’t worried about because I hadn’t clocked her presence.
She’s been someone who hovers just out of my line of sight. Someone who's there to fulfill my requests and obey my orders, because dominating women in bed isn’t enough, and I haven’t allowed myself to take a submissive in real life because... Who’d want to stare at my scarred visage hour after hour? It’s why I prefer to never look her in the eye.
That way, I won’t have to recognize the look of disgust in her gaze, or the expression of sympathy that follows it, or the questions which hovered just out of reach. But then she tripped, and I acted without thought. I was on my feet and springing toward her. I don't recall placing my barbell back on the rack or swinging my feet to the ground, but there I was, in front of her, just in time to grab her around her waist and straighten her.
And then she raised those big brown eyes up to meet my gaze, and I was a goner. And when she brushed her fingers down the scar on my cheek, the shock of it felt like someone dropping me in a vat of boiling oil, then dumping cold water on me. No one has touched that scar since I was injured. Not even me.
I hate how I look; hate the evidence of my mistakes. Hate my face. Hate what I’ve become since I left the Marines. I buried my feelings. I swore to never let myself care for anything or anyone again.
And this slip of a woman comes along and rouses emotions I thought I'm no longer capable of feeling. I realize, now, that I want her. I want to push her onto her knees and shove my cock inside her mouth. I want to bend her over and spank her until she begs me for release. I want to defile her and take her every orifice. I want to bury myself in her until I find release.
The intensity of my need punches into my chest like a cannon ball. Worse, something inside me insists I get to know her. To find out all about her. What she likes and hates. What makes her laugh. What she loves to eat and drink and what she likes to do when she isn’t working for me and…
What the hell? Where is this compulsion arising from? Why do I want to find out about her as a person before I fuck her? This… is new. This has never happened to me before. This… is something I will not allow, for it leads to my becoming vulnerable. Something I’ve sworn I’ll never let myself be. It’s why I’m going on the offensive. It’s why I am going to warn her off.
I glare into her face then growl, "Go. Now."
Something in her finally catches on; when I take a step in her direction she turns and bolts toward the exit of the gym.
Adrenaline races through my blood. My heartbeat quickens. Without letting myself think further, I give chase. I jump over the plate weight that tripped her up, then rush past the man on the treadmill near the entrance who tracks my progress with a raised eyebrow. I barrel past him and exit the gym.
I fully expect her to run out of the building but spot her at the elevator. She’s stabbing at the button to call the elevator cage. The car arrives, and the doors open. I sprint toward her and careen to a stop as the elevator doors begin to close on her. I plant my shoulder in the gap between the doors, and they spring back. I step inside, and she gasps, then stumbles back until she hits the back of the carriage. The doors swish shut behind me. I reach over and slap the button for my penthouse, and it begins to rise.
She looks from me to the indicator flashing above my head, back to my face, then glances around the space once before wringing her hands together. I stay silent. So does she. The air between us thrums with tension.
I drag my gaze down her features, taking in the flush on her cheeks, the parted lips, the way her eyelids flutter, how her eyes spark with a tinge of anger. Good. She’s a fighter. Not a surprise, considering how long she's lasted working for me.
She shuffles her feet, and when I still don’t say anything, she tosses her head. "This is stupid. I didn’t do anything wrong. It's you who can’t seem to remember my name. I've corrected you so many times, but you always forget."
"Are you complaining?" I ask with interest.
"No. Yes." She throws up her hands. "Frankly, I don’t care. You can call me by any name you want, as long as you pay my salary on time—" She raises a shoulder. "I shouldn’t care." She says with vehemence, as if she’s trying to convince herself.
"So, it’s fine if I call you July?"
"The name's June," she replies, then grimaces.
"You feel more like a July than a June."
She scowls at me. I’m sure she’s going to tell me off for suggesting that which is why I did it, but she purses her lips and all she says is, "And you’re going to be late for lunch at your grandfather’s."
It’s my turn to grimace. "Do I have to go to that?"
"Arthur’s assistant called up and was insistent you be there.” She sets her jaw.
My grandfather never stops meddling with the lives of his sons and grandsons. His one goal? To see us all settled. He succeeded in alienating his oldest, who cut off all ties with the family. His middle son—a.k.a. my father—died in an accident, but not before Arthur managed to get him married off to my mother. My youngest uncle, Quentin, is the most recent to fall prey to Arthur’s wiles. He ended up marrying the same woman his own son jilted at the altar. A messy situation all around, but one which ended with Quentin getting the girl of his dreams.
"Good segue, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re going to have to accept your punishment."
Her eyes grow huge. "P-punishment?"
"You hit me with the water bottle?—"
"That was a mistake."
"Seemed intentional to me."
She draws in a breath. "Fine. I concede, I did intend to hit you with it, but I didn’t expect it to actually hit you." She pauses before adding under her breath. Besides, you deserved it."
