The Wrong Wife (Morally Grey Billionaires #5)(27)

Before I could tell her off, the scent of roses wafted over to me, and my heartbeat had spiked. My pulse rate galloped, and I was unable to do anything but stare as she sashayed over to me with her tablet in her hands and began reading out my day’s appointments.

"What about lunch?" she stops typing into her tablet long enough to ask.

"What about it?"

"Don’t you need time off for lunch?"

"I don’t eat lunch."

"Oh, well, I need an hour off from twelve-forty-five to—"

"Not happening."

"Excuse me?" Her lips twitch as if she’s trying not to smile, and not succeeding. "Did you say—"

"You heard me. Don’t pretend otherwise. We work non-stop in this office."

“That’s illegal; you can’t do that.”

“Tell that to the employees who’re happy to be compensated for working through their lunch hour.”

She sets her jaw. "We’re humans, not machines."

I’m not. I lost my humanity somewhere after I was hit for the hundredth time. You bet, I kept count of it, and returned it with interest. I made sure they saw my face, made sure they knew who had come for them. Made sure they saw my intention in my eyes when I grabbed my captor’s gun and shot him down, along with everyone else in that facility. Then Adam and I ran out of there and— "Uh, Mr. Warren, Sir?"

Her husky voice cuts through the noise in my head. It recedes, leaving behind a calm. How the fuck is that possible? I ran half the night, trying to stop the voices in my head. When that didn’t help, I called Adam who was only too happy to meet up to work out with me at my home gym this morning. By the time I got into work, every muscle in my body hurt, but my mind had not ceased its chatter… Until she called me by the title I asked her to.

Is she even aware of the impact she has on my body?

"Are you okay?" she asks softy.

I turn away and focus on my computer screen. "Get me my coffee, and starting tomorrow, don’t come to my office without it. And you need to collect my suits from the dry cleaners and have them delivered to my apartment, and—"

"Hold on, I’m your assistant, not your housekeeper."

I shoot her a look from under my eyes. "You’re in my debt for the next twelve months. You’ll be anything I want you to be."

Color flushes her cheeks. "This is insane. You’re infringing on all kinds of human resource regulations here, surely, and your team needs to eat. If they take a break, it only increases their productivity. Just because you thrive on working and feed off adrenaline and like to feed on human blood and tears, doesn’t mean the rest of us have to follow the same schedule." She stops, her chest rising and falling. The buttons of the jacket across her bust stretch, and I eye them with interest. Can I make her angry enough that she draws in a breath and one of them might pop, giving me more of an eyeful of her sweet curves, I wonder?

"Hey, my face is up here."

"But my interest lies in what you have below."

She gapes then recovers enough to scoff, "That’s such a sexist thing to say."

I lean back in my chair. "I’m that and much worse, as you’re aware."

"You seem to wear your misogynistic tendencies on your sleeve like you’re proud of it."

I raise a shoulder. "I don’t care either way. Also, save your righteous indignation. The staff are allowed to take an hour off for lunch, just not you."

She stares. "That’s insane."

"Welcome to my world. Now, get gone, I have work to do."

She opens her mouth as if to say something else, then pivots with such force, the device slips from her hand and falls to the floor. She bends, presenting me with the perfect view of her heart-shaped, curvaceous behind. The skirt stretches across the expanse of that gorgeous arse, and I almost come in my pants. A groan swells my throat, and I reach for my bottle of coke and empty it. It only fuels that fire inside of me, so I feel like I’m being consumed by an inferno of need, of lust, of such craving to be buried inside of her that I know I need to do something about this ache, fast.

She wriggles her butt as she straightens, and my balls harden. F-u-c-k, she did that on purpose. She pushes out her chest, then heads for the door, seemingly unaware of the destruction left behind. Before the door snicks shut, I push up from my chair, and stalk into the ensuite toward the sink.

I stare at myself in the mirror, grip the edge of the counter, and undoing my belt and zipper, shove my pants down. My dick springs free. I grab it and squeeze from base to crown, and again. A vein pops at my temple, my cheeks are flushed, and my eyes blaze with a desire I thought I’d never see in them again. I thought they’d beaten every emotion out of me, squeezed every last drop of humanity through my pores, electrocuted the will to sense passion, intensity, fervor, ardor— I was sure I’d never feel halfway human again. But as I take in my reflection and see the life-force pulse through the veins of my throat and my face, and feel it pump through my cock, I know, I’m slowly coming back to life. Thanks to her.

The pressure builds at the base of my spine. I drag my fist up my rigid shaft, squeezing the precum out so it overflows the sides. "Bloody hell," I growl. "Bloody fuck, Penny, I’m going to come."